<p>Drifting between reality and the shifting veils of the unseen, the Harlequins are an enigma—dancers, warriors, and jesters whose existence is both a performance and a prophecy. No two accounts of them are ever the same; to some, they are nothing more than myth, figures glimpsed at the edges of vision before vanishing like stage smoke. To others, they are death incarnate, descending upon battlefields with impossible agility, cutting through armies with the grace of a practiced pirouette. They belong to no nation, no empire, no master but the performance itself—an eternal cycle of scripted fate and unscripted carnage. Their Masques traverse the worlds, emerging from hidden pathways within the folds of reality, their glittering diamond-patched garb marking them as both absurd and terrifying. Behind their porcelain masks, no emotions can be read, only the lingering suggestion of a smile, as if the universe itself were a joke only they truly understand. Some whisper that they serve a deeper purpose, that their performances are not merely plays but warnings, their movements spelling out the echoes of history yet to unfold. Others claim that the joke has always been on the rest of the universe—that the Harlequins alone know how the story truly ends, and that, when the final act is upon them, they will dance through the ashes, laughing still.</p>

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