The city of Baelin hums with life around me, but it all feels wrong.
I move through the crowded market district, my boots worn and dusty, part of the illusion clicking against the wooden planks that make up this section of platform. The construction is impressive even up close: thick timber beams supporting entire neighborhoods, stone foundations carved directly into the canyon wall, everything reinforced and interlocked with the kind of engineering that takes generations to perfect.
Around me, civilians go about their daily business. Vendors hawk their wares from stalls built into alcoves in the rock face. Children chase each other across the bridges, their laughter echoing off stone. A blacksmith's hammer rings out from somewhere below, the sound carrying up from the canyon depths.
Normal. Everything looks completely, perfectly normal.
And if not for the fact my current headache is a living, breathing thing that is a rhythmic throb that syncs perfectly with my heartbeat, driving spikes of white-hot agony deep into my prefrontal cortex. I would almost be enjoying myself.
The Fearmonger is active has been for hours keeping my emotions suppressed so I can focus entirely on the task at hand. The world is greyscale around me, every detail sharp and hyperfocused. But on top of that baseline enhancement, I'm layering my Veilshaper power.
Making people see something that isn't there.
Instead of Ayato Daath, the young, violet-eyed, clearly marked as Awakened they see a middle-aged construction worker. Someone unremarkable. Weathered skin, calloused hands, the kind of face you'd forget the moment you looked away. Exactly the kind of person who could wander through Baelin gathering information without drawing attention.
But maintaining that illusion is agony.
It's not like when I weave illusions in combat. In battle, I let my hatred run rampant, let the Fearmonger's power fuel the creation of nightmares and deceptions. That comes naturally, flowing from the wolf constellation in my soul sea like water from a spring.
This is different. This requires control.
I have to actively spread my power outward, injecting the false image into the minds of everyone around me. Not just creating a visual illusion, but making their brains accept it as reality. Making them see the construction worker, hear his voice when I speak, remember him as just another face in the crowd.
And without fully understanding the potential of my Veilshaper power without having explored that Möbius strip constellation thoroughly it comes at a severe cost.
My head pounds. A dull, throbbing pain that started as a minor annoyance and has built into something approaching migraine territory. Each person I pass requires a micro-adjustment to the illusion, a small expenditure of mental energy to maintain the deception.
And I'm exhausted my thoughts feel sluggish despite the enhanced processing. When I finally release this illusion, I'm going to regret it. I can feel it. The backlash is building, and the debt that will come due will be even worse than what I'm already feeling.
But I need information. And this is the only way to get it without alerting the entire city to Helix's presence.
So I push through the pain and keep walking.
The city of Baelin is breathtakingly complex. Above me, the canyon walls stretch up toward a narrow ribbon of blue sky, dotted with jutting balconies, hanging gardens, and winding staircases cut straight into the rock. Below me, the abyss drops away into shadowy depths, crossed by dozens of other bridges. The air smells of woodsmoke, roasting meats, damp moss, and the sharp tang of high-altitude ozone. It is a marvel of engineering.
I've been moving through the city for over an hour now, stopping at various stalls, striking up casual conversations with vendors and customers. Asking innocent questions. Probing for information about Midnight Rose, about the Federation presence, about anything that might help us plan our assault.
And I've found nothing.
Which is the problem.
Not "nothing useful" I mean literally nothing. No information at all. No acknowledgment that anything unusual is happening in or around Baelin.
And it's making my paranoia skyrocket.
I approach another stall, this one selling woven baskets. The vendor is a woman in her forties, her hands stained with dye from the reeds she uses. She smiles as I examine her wares, the expression warm and genuine.
"Looking for anything specific?" she asks, her voice carrying the local accent—softer consonants, slightly drawn-out vowels.
"Just browsing," I say, making my illusion-voice sound older, rougher. "Nice work, though. Your own craft?"
"All of it," she says with obvious pride. "Been weaving since I was a girl."
I pick up a basket, turning it over in my hands. The craftsmanship is excellent—tight weave, sturdy construction. "Business good these days?"
"Can't complain. Food's got to go somewhere, and baskets don't make themselves."
I nod, setting the basket down. Then, casually: "You know I've heard there's been some trouble on the roads lately. Have there been any raiders around these parts?"
She frowns slightly. "Raiders? No, nothing like that. Roads are safe as they've ever been."
"Really? Because I could've sworn I saw..." I pause, watching her face carefully. "Federation soldiers camped down in the farmlands when I came through."
Her expression goes blank. Completely blank. For just a moment, there's nothing there—no confusion, no surprise, no recognition. Just... emptiness.
Then she blinks and smiles again. "Were you interested in the basket? I can do three for the price of two if you're buying bulk."
Like I never said anything about soldiers. Like the last ten seconds of conversation simply didn't happen.
I feel a chill despite the Fearmonger's suppression. "The Federation soldiers," I press. "In the village below. You must have seen them?"
Another blank look. Then: "I'm sorry, what were we talking about?"
I step back from the stall, making my excuses, and move on.
This was the fifth person i've talked to so far and everytime it's the same thing. Normal and casual questions and everything fine. Then I mention the Federation, or the war, or anything related to what's actually happening in the world outside Baelin.
And they... forget. Their brains simply skip over it. Like the information can't stick. Like reality itself is being rewritten in real-time to exclude those facts.
There is no tension in the air. There are no rationing lines, no nervous glances at the city guards, no fear of the Inquisition or the Federation.
They are all entirely, inexplicably oblivious to the war that is tearing the continent apart.
Earlier, I had stopped at a tavern. I bought a pint of ale, nursing it while trying to eavesdrop on the local gossip. When the barkeep came around, I casually slipped into character, grumbling about the 'foreign soldiers' down in the plains trampling the good farmland.
The barkeep had stopped wiping the counter. He had looked at me, his eyes going completely blank, devoid of all thought or recognition. "Foreign soldiers, friend? I don't know what you mean. The harvest is looking fine this year." And then he had turned around and started polishing a mug, humming a tune, the topic completely erased from his mind.
I had tried it twice more with a passing merchant and a guard. The exact same result. A momentary lapse, a blank stare, and a seamless, jarring pivot to a mundane topic, acting as if I had never spoken the words.
I rub the back of my neck, fighting a wave of exhaustion.
I navigate across one of the bridges a narrow suspension affair that sways gently underfoot and find myself on a different platform. This one is more residential, with houses built in tiers climbing up the canyon wall. Laundry hangs from lines stretched between buildings. A cat lounges on a windowsill, watching me with disinterested green eyes.
I spot an old man sitting on a bench outside what looks like a bakery. Steam rises from the chimney, carrying the smell of fresh bread. He's elderly maybe in his seventies with a weathered face and hands marked by decades of work.
Perfect.
I approach, forcing my illusion-body to move with the slight stiffness of middle age. "Morning," I say.
He looks up and nods. "Morning to you."
"Smells good," I gesture toward the bakery. "You the baker?"
"That I am. Forty years now." He says it with the quiet pride of someone who's mastered their craft. "You want some bread?"
"Sure." I fish out some Imperial coins from my pocket real currency that Caldera gave me for exactly this purpose. "What's fresh?"
"Everything. Just pulled the morning batch from the oven." He stands with a slight groan and shuffles into the shop. Returns a moment later with a round loaf, still warm, wrapped in cloth. "Two silver."
I hand him the coins and take the bread. The heat seeps through the cloth, pleasant against my palms. "Thanks!"
I tear off a piece and eat it. It's excellent—crusty outside, soft inside, with a slightly nutty flavor. "Damn good bread."
He grins, pleased. "Family recipe. My grandmother taught me."
I lean against the wall of his bakery, projecting casualness. "Been here your whole life?"
"Born and raised. Never had cause to leave."
"Even with the war on?" I watch his face carefully.
A slight furrow appears between his eyebrows. "There's always some war. It's a long way from here. Doesn't touch bother us much."
I push a little further. "I mean, with the Federation soldiers and all. Must be strange having them so close."
The old man frowns. "What soldiers?"
Here we go.
"The ones camped in the farmlands," I say, keeping my tone conversational. "Down in the village at the base of the canyon. Saw them on my way in. Must be fifty, sixty of them at least."
He looks at me like I'm speaking a foreign language. "You're mistaken, friend. There's no soldiers down there. Just farmers doing their work."
"I'm not mistaken," I insist, dropping some of the casual act. "Federation troops all camped out proudly flying their eagle banners. Full military encampment. How can you not..."
The old man laughs. Actually laughs, like I've made a joke. "You must've seen something else. Maybe the harvest workers? They camp out during busy season."
"No," I say firmly. "Federation. Military. Soldiers."
I watch his eyes carefully. For just a moment—just a fraction of a second—something flickers there. Something that might be recognition. Or fear. Or both.
Then he blinks.
And it's gone.
He looks at me with polite confusion. "Did you want more bread? I've got rye if you prefer something heartier."
Like I never mentioned soldiers. Like the last thirty seconds of conversation were erased from his memory. I focus on the old man, straining my awareness, looking for any sign of external influence. Any threads of power wrapped around him, forcing him to forget, to ignore, to rewrite reality.
Nothing.
No threads. No foreign influence. No sign that anyone's power is actively working on him.
And that's almost worse. Because it means whatever's affecting him affecting everyone in this city it's either so subtle I can't detect it, or it's not active manipulation at all.
I step back from the bakery, offering a weak smile. "Thanks for the bread."
The old man nods, already turning away, already forgetting me.
I move down the platform, my mind racing despite the pounding headache.
The civilians are innocent. How could we claim them to be guilty in any meaningful sense. If their memories are being altered, if they literally can't perceive the truth of what's happening around them...
And more importantly what does it mean for our mission?
According to Imperial intelligence, Teleb's mark of power is some form of Metal Manipulation. That's what he's known for. That's what makes him dangerous the ability to control metal, to turn weapons against their wielders, to reshape armor mid-combat. This is beyond that, what type of monsters did that man recruit into his band of terrorists.
I need to contact Caldera and I need to report this immediately.
I move into a narrow alley between two buildings, finding a spot where I'm relatively isolated. My hand goes to the communication amulet that, ready to activate it.
And that's when I hear it.
The sound of something cutting through air. Fast. Deadly.
Every instinct I have—enhanced by the Fearmonger, honed by months of training and combat—screams danger.
I launch myself backward without thinking. Pure reaction, muscles moving before conscious thought catches up.
The arrow hits the stone where I was standing a fraction of a second ago.
Except "arrow" is generous. This thing is the size of a horse. A massive projectile of dark metal, as thick around as my torso, with a wickedly barbed head that shatters the stone platform on impact. Chunks of rock explode outward, peppering my face with debris.
I spin, hand going to my sword, eyes tracking the trajectory back to its source.
There.
On the roof of the building to my left. A figure in black armor that seems to drink in light, making them difficult to focus on despite my enhanced vision. The armor has an odd sheen to it.
A pink robe flows from their shoulders, the fabric moving in a wind that doesn't seem to touch anything else. The color is jarring against the black armor vibrant, almost aggressive in its brightness.
And the mask.
It's a full-face plate of polished obsidian, seamless and cold. There are no eye slits, no mouth—just a smooth, curved expanse of black glass that should be impossible to see through.
But I know they're looking at me. Can feel their gaze like a physical weight.
The surface of the mask is etched with silver intricate patterns of thorns that crawl upward from the throat, winding tightly around the temples in a design that's both beautiful and threatening. At the very center of the forehead, a single rose is embossed. The detail is incredible—each petal rendered with such realism that they look like they could be plucked from the mask. Like they could unfurl and bloom.
As I stare up at the figure, the obsidian surface catches the light, acting as a perfect, dark mirror.
I can see my reflection in the mask.
Not the illusion I'm projecting not the middle-aged construction worker.
Me. My real self.
Ayato Daath, My violet eyes alight with hate narrowed in anger and calculation
I drop the illusion immediately. No point maintaining it now. The mental strain releases like a snapped rope, and I feel the backlash hit—a wave of exhaustion and pain that nearly buckles my knees.
But I stay standing through sheer will. Hand on my sword. Eyes locked on the figure.
They cock their head. A slow, deliberate movement almost like they're amused.
The massive bow in their hands and it is massive, easily seven feet long remains drawn. Another arrow another horse-sized projectile is already nocked and aimed at my chest.
"Well," I say, my voice coming out annoyed. "That's unfortunate."
The figure doesn't respond. Doesn't move except for that slow head tilt.
Just stands there. Watching. Waiting.
The rose embossed on their mask seems to shimmer in my greyscale vision, the silver thorns writhing like living things.
And I realize, with cold certainty, that I've just found Midnight Rose.
Or they've found me.