The village of Elowyn's Rest sat nestled beside a silver stream, surrounded by golden fields and sleepy pines. The kind of place untouched by the horrors of the wider world—where rumors of monsters were just that: distant tales.
Xerces walked its cobbled path under a low sun, his new illusion barely holding together.
He looked human—on the surface. His skin pale, his face sharp and gaunt but passable. But every step felt unnatural. His body didn't sweat. His breath didn't fog in the morning chill. His heartbeat? Nonexistent.
Still, no one noticed.
Yet.
He kept his hood low and manner cold. Speak little. Blink often. Nod. Look unsure, even if you are not. He repeated these lessons over and over like a prayer.
And then—
"Hey, stranger!"
He stiffened. Too stiff.
A girl jogged up the path, smiling as if the world hadn't known sorrow.
She had autumn-red hair tied into a braid, a freckled face bright with curiosity, and a small basket of flowers in hand. Her cloak was patchy and mended, but clean. Simple boots, a linen blouse. Not noble, not poor—just alive.
"You're new," she said, stopping a few feet away. "You've got that… lost look. Are you lost?"
Xerces had fought gnolls, stared down vampires, and bartered with cursed mirrors.
He had no idea how to answer.
"I… suppose I am," he said slowly, forcing a blink. His voice rasped slightly—he cleared it. "Just… passing through."
The girl raised an eyebrow. "Passing through where? The only place past here is a cliffside and a whole lotta hawks."
He struggled to smile. It felt like rearranging bones. "Then perhaps I've passed through the wrong place."
She laughed—actually laughed—and handed him a flower from her basket. "Well, you've passed into the right one now. I'm Mira. You?"
He hesitated.
"…Cerric."
It was the first name that came to mind. A name from a dead knight's memory in his fractured soul-core.
"Well, Cerric," she said, stepping beside him. "Let me show you around before your legs carry you into the hawks' nests."
And just like that, they were walking together.
She showed him the smithy, the mill, the humble temple. She waved at everyone, introducing him like a stray cat she'd adopted on impulse. He nodded politely. Spoke as little as he could. Mimicked breathing, even faked a cough when dust caught in his throat.
But the strain grew.
His Phantom Mask trembled at the edges—mana draining slowly, the illusion threatening to slip.
And worse—Mira kept looking at him. Not just politely, but deeply. Studying him. As if trying to solve a puzzle she didn't realize was dangerous.
"You talk like you're from a hundred years ago," she said suddenly as they passed under a tree. "It's kinda charming. Kinda weird."
He faltered.
Think. Think.
"I was raised by… monks," he said. "They were, ah, traditional."
Mira narrowed her eyes, then smirked. "Well, you've got the haunted stare down. You'll fit in just fine."
They paused near the river, where willows bowed toward the water. She sat on a low stone wall, basket in her lap.
Xerces remained standing, watching the water.
"You've seen terrible things," Mira said quietly.
His bones chilled.
"You wear it," she added. "In how you watch people. Like you're waiting for them to hurt you."
He turned to her, surprised.
For a moment, he forgot the mask. Forgot the act.
"I've seen worse than hurt," he said, voice low.
Mira didn't ask. She just sat there, watching the river, letting silence stretch comfortably between them.
Kindness. Unassuming. Unafraid.
It rattled him more than the vampires ever had.
He turned away before the illusion cracked again.
"I should go," he said. "Thank you… for the flower."
She looked up, eyes glinting with curiosity. "Will you be around tomorrow?"
He hesitated.
"…Maybe."
She smiled and stood. "Then maybe I'll see you."
She walked off, humming gently, her red braid swaying.
Xerces remained by the river until dusk.
His mana was almost gone. His core ached from holding the mask.
But something inside him ached deeper.
She had seen something in him—not what he was, but who he might have been.
And she hadn't flinched.
The village of Elowyn's Rest sat nestled beside a silver stream, surrounded by golden fields and sleepy pines. The kind of place untouched by the horrors of the wider world—where rumors of monsters were just that: distant tales.
Xerces walked its cobbled path under a low sun, his new illusion barely holding together.
He looked human—on the surface. His skin pale, his face sharp and gaunt but passable. But every step felt unnatural. His body didn't sweat. His breath didn't fog in the morning chill. His heartbeat? Nonexistent.
Still, no one noticed.
Yet.
He kept his hood low and manner cold. Speak little. Blink often. Nod. Look unsure, even if you are not. He repeated these lessons over and over like a prayer.
And then—
"Hey, stranger!"
He stiffened. Too stiff.
A girl jogged up the path, smiling as if the world hadn't known sorrow.
She had autumn-red hair tied into a braid, a freckled face bright with curiosity, and a small basket of flowers in hand. Her cloak was patchy and mended, but clean. Simple boots, a linen blouse. Not noble, not poor—just alive.
"You're new," she said, stopping a few feet away. "You've got that… lost look. Are you lost?"
Xerces had fought gnolls, stared down vampires, and bartered with cursed mirrors.
He had no idea how to answer.
"I… suppose I am," he said slowly, forcing a blink. His voice rasped slightly—he cleared it. "Just… passing through."
The girl raised an eyebrow. "Passing through where? The only place past here is a cliffside and a whole lotta hawks."
He struggled to smile. It felt like rearranging bones. "Then perhaps I've passed through the wrong place."
She laughed—actually laughed—and handed him a flower from her basket. "Well, you've passed into the right one now. I'm Mira. You?"
He hesitated.
"…Cerric."
It was the first name that came to mind. A name from a dead knight's memory in his fractured soul-core.
"Well, Cerric," she said, stepping beside him. "Let me show you around before your legs carry you into the hawks' nests."
And just like that, they were walking together.
She showed him the smithy, the mill, the humble temple. She waved at everyone, introducing him like a stray cat she'd adopted on impulse. He nodded politely. Spoke as little as he could. Mimicked breathing, even faked a cough when dust caught in his throat.
But the strain grew.
His Phantom Mask trembled at the edges—mana draining slowly, the illusion threatening to slip.
And worse—Mira kept looking at him. Not just politely, but deeply. Studying him. As if trying to solve a puzzle she didn't realize was dangerous.
"You talk like you're from a hundred years ago," she said suddenly as they passed under a tree. "It's kinda charming. Kinda weird."
He faltered.
Think. Think.
"I was raised by… monks," he said. "They were, ah, traditional."
Mira narrowed her eyes, then smirked. "Well, you've got the haunted stare down. You'll fit in just fine."
They paused near the river, where willows bowed toward the water. She sat on a low stone wall, basket in her lap.
Xerces remained standing, watching the water.
"You've seen terrible things," Mira said quietly.
His bones chilled.
"You wear it," she added. "In how you watch people. Like you're waiting for them to hurt you."
He turned to her, surprised.
For a moment, he forgot the mask. Forgot the act.
"I've seen worse than hurt," he said, voice low.
Mira didn't ask. She just sat there, watching the river, letting silence stretch comfortably between them.
Kindness. Unassuming. Unafraid.
It rattled him more than the vampires ever had.
He turned away before the illusion cracked again.
"I should go," he said. "Thank you… for the flower."
She looked up, eyes glinting with curiosity. "Will you be around tomorrow?"
He hesitated.
"…Maybe."
She smiled and stood. "Then maybe I'll see you."
She walked off, humming gently, her red braid swaying.
Xerces remained by the river until dusk.
His mana was almost gone. His core ached from holding the mask.
But something inside him ached deeper.
She had seen something in him—not what he was, but who he might have been.
And she hadn't flinched.