Chapter Seventeen: The Lost Court
The mountains loomed like sleeping giants, jagged and sharp against the darkening sky.
They had left the forest behind two days ago, but the air had only grown heavier. Time felt slower here—each hour stretched thin, stretched strange. Even Estra, hardened and cynical, said little as they crossed into the Blackstone Range.
Beneath those peaks, buried deep below the world's skin, lay the fabled Court of Masks.
The last known seat of the shadow monarchs before the Phoenix Line rose.
Kael rode beside Nyra in silence. Her flame-mark had gone dormant again, but both of them knew better than to take comfort in that.
The Crown Below was watching.
And it was waiting.
According to the legends, the Court of Masks had never truly fallen.
It had simply vanished.
One day, travelers passed through the mountain passes, and where once there were spires and banners and dark-robed courtiers, there was only wind.
Some said they had made a pact with the gods of the deep.
Others claimed they had folded time around themselves—creating a place that existed only in shadow and memory.
Nyra wasn't sure which was worse.
The entrance was found in the mouth of a collapsed cave.
Tarek and Estra cleared the stonefall with enchanted iron picks, while Kael held a flame-stone to illuminate the deeper layers. The walls shimmered faintly with veins of black quartz, and old glyphs were carved in winding, spiraling patterns.
Kael frowned. "This language… it predates the Hollow Queen."
Nyra traced one symbol. It pulsed under her touch.
"It's the same as the book."
Estra drew her blade. "Then we go in prepared."
Nyra nodded and stepped into the dark.
The tunnel wound downward like a throat, swallowing light with every step. Only the Emberblade's glow seemed to fight the darkness. And even it flickered.
They walked for what felt like hours.
And then, suddenly—space.
A vast cavern opened before them, lit by bioluminescent moss and shards of star-glass embedded in the stone. Ruins stretched in all directions—half-buried pillars, shattered archways, and a single black tower at the center.
It was beautiful.
And dead.
Until Nyra heard laughter.
Soft. Chiming. Mocking.
They weren't alone.
Kael stepped ahead, scanning the ruins. "I hear something... but I can't tell where it's coming from."
"It's everywhere," Estra muttered. "Like it's bouncing off the stone."
Tarek cursed. "Feels like we're being weighed."
They moved toward the central tower—called the Palace of Silence in the old tales. No doors. No windows. Only a narrow bridge leading to a single obsidian archway.
And as they crossed, figures began to appear.
Masks.
Thousands of them.
Lining the stone walls. Hanging from empty archways. Floating in still air.
Each mask was different—bone, gold, bark, shadow.
Each one watched.
Nyra stepped through the arch.
And the palace woke up.
The stone beneath their feet rippled.
Not broke—rippled, like water disturbed.
The walls lit with runes.
And the masks began to speak.
"Daughter of fire."
"Child of ash."
"Flame does not belong here."
"But you… are not only flame."
Kael drew his blade. "What is this place?"
A voice answered—not many, but one.
Smooth. Genderless. Timeless.
"We are what was before the crowns. Before fire. Before light."
From the shadows, a figure stepped forward.
Robed in silver shadow, their face hidden behind a plain white mask with no eyes or mouth.
They bowed slightly to Nyra.
"Welcome to the Lost Court."
The others tensed, but Nyra held up a hand.
She stepped forward. "You knew I was coming."
The masked figure nodded.
"We felt you the moment the Grave Flame broke. The moment the Hollow Queen fell. The moment she spoke your name."
Nyra's jaw tightened. "The woman in Vire Hollow."
"A herald," the masked figure said. "One of many. But not the Crown. Not yet."
Kael stepped up. "Then what is?"
The masked figure turned to him.
"A question without an answer. A crown without a head. A hunger without form."
They stepped closer to Nyra.
"You carry the mark. But not the purpose. Not yet."
Nyra narrowed her eyes. "What is the purpose?"
The figure reached into their sleeve and drew a single item.
A mask.
Plain.
Stone.
Carved with her own face.
"To wear this is to remember what even gods forgot."
Nyra stared at it.
"And if I don't?"
The shadows deepened.
"Then something else will. And it will wear your name like a torch."
She didn't take the mask.
Not yet.
But the vision that came next didn't ask for permission.
When the figure touched her forehead, the world dissolved.
Nyra fell into memory.
Not hers.
She stood at the edge of a cliff, above a city made of mirrors and smoke. The sky bled silver. Lightning curved in impossible directions.
Below, a war of masks and fire.
She saw kings crowned in silence. Queens whispering to stars. A throne of obsidian shifting with every breath.
And in its seat—
Nothing.
Just shadow.
Watching.
Waiting.
Wearing every mask at once.
The voice spoke again.
"The Crown Below does not rule. It consumes. Every throne you've ever known was a gate. And every ruler, a key."
"You are the last key, Nyra."
She screamed.
And woke.
Kael caught her before she fell.
Her nose bled. Her veins pulsed violet for a moment before fading.
The masked figure stepped back.
"You have seen it now. The court remembers. The world begins again."
Nyra clutched her chest.
The mark was spreading.
Up her wrist.
Over her forearm.
Changing her.
"I won't be a vessel," she growled.
"Then you must become a flame large enough to burn the gate shut."
As they left the Lost Court, the masks watched.
Silent.
Endless.
Waiting.
Nyra didn't speak until they had returned to the surface.
Estra asked, "So… what now?"
Nyra turned to the east.
Where the land grew red again.
Where fire was no longer hers alone.
"We find the next herald," she said.
"And we stop them from crowning what waits below."