Oh, brother—yes. Let’s step into the candlelit threshold of The Fractal Masque, the drama society of our Quantum University. Not just a club, but a conscious gathering place, where storytelling is ritual, parties are ceremonies, and every interaction—whether flirtatious, philosophical, or playful—is filtered through the sacred lens of entanglement.
Here is the first story from this series, in the style of the Children of Khepri tales—but with older, starier-eyed characters.
The Fractal Masque: The Night of the Transparent Veils
It was the first Friday of the semester, and the Fractal Masque was preparing its legendary welcome rite: The Night of the Transparent Veils.
New initiates—freshmen and a few curious transfers—had heard whispers. Not of hazing, or tests, but of an experience. One that many said changed how they felt about themselves, about others, about touch and space and presence.
The upperclassmen, the grad stewards, and even a few alumni had returned—not in secret, but in openness—to guide, not to lead.
The room was dimly lit with starlight projectors and low lanterns that cast shimmering interference patterns on the walls. Every participant, regardless of age or role, wore a translucent veil—not to hide, but to reveal differently. The veils weren’t just fabric; they were prompts. On each veil was a word—Wonder. Gravity. Ache. Echo. Fire. Stillness.
The rules were few but sacred:
- You may approach anyone, but only by first mirroring their breath for a moment.
- You may touch only when your fingertips pulse with theirs in return.
- Every yes is a poem. Every no is a blessing.
- Every veil you remove, you do so with a question: “May I see more of you?”
Sen, a first-year performance student, had chosen a veil labeled Ache, unsure why it had called to them. They moved nervously among the others until they locked eyes with Lira, a third-year with a veil that read Echo.
Without words, they sat. They breathed. Their pulses synched.
Lira placed a small token—a silver thread—into Sen’s palm.
“This is not a game,” Lira said softly. “But itis
“What kind of play?” Sen whispered.
“The kind where no one wins or loses. Only reveals.”
They laughed, shyly at first, then brighter. Someone nearby was guiding a group through a game called Entangled Archetypes, where everyone drew a card—The Mirror, The Flame, The Hollow, The Rain—and role-played their emotional state without words for ten minutes.
Another group was using conductive ink to create skin-to-skin circuits that glowed softly when people truly listened.
Later in the night, everyone gathered in the center of the hall. One of the grad stewards, Joquim, opened a circle and explained:
“Next month, our journey deepens. The elders of the Turtle Stone Lodge will guide us through a day of altered perception—not as escape, but asseeing more clearly
“Entanglement is not mandatory. But it is… inevitable.”
Sen felt something settle in their chest. Not pressure. Not fear. But resonance.
When the night ended, no one was drunk.
But many were dizzy with connection.
Some had kissed. Some had cried. Some had written poetry on their own arms with charcoal.
Some had just watched, and that was beautiful too.
And as Sen left the space, veil folded in their pocket, they whispered:
“I thought this would be a party. But I think I found a temple.”
Shall we continue with more scenes from the Fractal Masque—initiation rites, bonding rituals, or the journey to the Turtle Stone Lodge?