Some truths are better left buried.Some doors, never opened.But the mask does not care for caution—only revelation.
The city breathed in twilight silence—no horns, no sirens, no life. Just that unnerving stillness that made your skin itch. High above the world, Asher Blackwood stood on the ledge of a forgotten rooftop, the kind of place only the desperate or the broken ever found themselves. Tonight, he was both.
He stared down at the thing in his hand—the mask. That cursed, beautiful, maddening mask. Smooth, obsidian-black, etched with veins of gold that pulsed faintly like it had a heartbeat of its own. The same artifact that had appeared in his dreams like a phantom, whispering truths his waking mind couldn't bear.
He hadn't dared wear it—not until now.
Every night, it called to him louder. Every time he touched it, he saw flickers of memories that couldn't be his. But felt like they were. This wasn't just about power anymore. It was about identity. About truth.
And Asher wasn't sure if he was ready for it.
A voice, soft and cool, broke the tension. "Are you going to put it on, or keep fondling it like a love letter from an ex you swore you deleted?"
Asher didn't look back. "You always show up when I'm about to do something stupid."
From the shadows emerged the woman—her. No name. No past. Just smirks and riddles and eyes too sharp to belong to someone who claimed to be on his side. Cloaked in black, her figure cut through the air like a blade. The wind didn't dare rustle her coat.
"Maybe I like watching you wrestle with yourself," she said with a hint of amusement. "There's poetry in it."
He turned his gaze back to the city. The skyline sprawled like a dying constellation. "What happens if I put it on?"
"You remember," she said simply. "And then you decide what that means."
Asher exhaled slowly. "And if I don't like what I see?"
"Then you become what you fear."
Her words echoed in the pit of his stomach like a warning etched in stone.
She stepped closer, her voice quieting. "This isn't just about you anymore. You're standing at the hinge point of something much bigger. Your bloodline. Your gift. The wars your ancestors started—and the one you were born to end."
His breath caught. "What do you know about my family?"
She smiled, lips thin and sad. "Enough to know the world was safer when you didn't know who you really were."
And then, like mist, she was gone.
Asher stared at the mask. It was time.
His fingers trembled as he raised it to his face. The moment it touched his skin, the world shuddered.
His vision dimmed, then flared. The city disappeared. Sound died. Time broke.
He was no longer Asher.
He was someone else. Somewhere else.
Smoke. Screams. Blood on stone floors. A blade in his hand. A woman sobbing as fire consumed a cathedral of glass. A throne room drenched in shadows. A voice—his own—but twisted, venomous: "Burn the name. Let it be ash."
Flashes. Too many. Too fast. His mind couldn't hold them all.
He saw himself as a child—alone in the rain, clutching a blade half his size. He saw the mask, worn by another. By him. Again and again.
And in every memory, one thing was clear:
He had worn this mask before.
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Emotional Fallout – Facing the Mirror
Asher tore the mask off and collapsed, gasping. The rooftop came rushing back in pieces. His heart thundered in his chest. Sweat poured from his temples like rain. He blinked rapidly, but his eyes could no longer focus. Everything looked… wrong. Dimmer. Heavier.
His fingers trembled as he held the mask at arm's length.
The images wouldn't stop.
A name—his real name—danced at the edge of his memory like a cruel joke. Forgotten. Forbidden.
He felt the weight of legacy pressing down on him now. Like chains of smoke and steel around his neck. He wasn't just some gifted outcast. He was descended from something ancient—terrible.
And the mask?
It wasn't just a relic.
It was a key.
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The Darkness That Watches
Asher stumbled back to his feet, every limb aching. But before he could gather himself, a pulse shuddered through the rooftop—like a heartbeat made of shadow.
He wasn't alone anymore.
From the far end of the rooftop, the air twisted, folded—and a figure emerged. Tall. Robed in silence. A mask just like his… but different. Cracked. Leaking black mist like spilled ink.
Its eyes glowed the same sickly gold as his visions.
The figure didn't speak. It didn't need to.
Asher could feel it: this was no enemy.
This was… a mirror.
He drew his blade, even though part of him knew it wouldn't matter.
The figure raised its hand.
The rooftop trembled.
The city lights below snuffed out.
And the mask in Asher's hands whispered: "He remembers you."
[End of Chapter 18]
Next Chapter Preview:Chapter 19 – The Weight of TruthStill shaken by the revelations brought forth by the mask, Asher is hunted by shadows—some that wish to kill him, and some that only want him to remember. In the darkness between the past and the present, he'll face the ghosts of who he was… and who he could become.