The rest of the day passed in a hum of clinking mugs, half-told stories, and smoke curling from the kitchen hearth.
Calen wiped down tables, served drinks, and listened.
[Recording Audio... Filtering Voices]
Two men hunched over their ales near the back.
"…Another lad disappeared this week. Bright young man from the Sable Empire…"
"That makes it the sixth one... You don't think they have a hand in this, right?"
"If by they you mean those Crimson Veil bastards, then yeah…"
"Those filthy bloodsuckers just can't go die in peace, can they? Their leader Veldimort has to be stopped."
"Stopped? That scary bastard is immune to divine-type skills."
Calen blinked slowly.
[Veldimort – Divine Resistance Confirmed]
[Threat Assessment: Elevated]
Another table. A trio of mercenaries, two young ladies at least fifteen years old and one gruff man, nursed chipped mugs, speaking in hushed tones.
"The academy opens again this year, huh?"
"What was it, two months from now?"
"Yeah. They say anyone with the skills can apply. The academy covers costs."
"They must be panicking. What with the looming war... and the Marionette Court."
"Shh! Don't say that name here!"
Calen's HUD pinged faintly.
[Name Match – Marionette Court – Occult]
[Public Knowledge: Limited / Fear-based]
He filed it away and continued with his work.
~~~
The rest of the day passed uneventfully. Calen wiped tables, did the dishes, scrubbed the floors. Eventually, he returned to his attic room above the tavern.
A single candle flickered on the windowsill, its flame painting the walls in lazy orange.
Outside, the stars scattered like glass dust over the night sky.
Echo's voice stirred. "So what now?"
"I don't... know."
"I suggest we check out that academy those mercenaries talked about."
"Yeah. That would be best."
"I'll set a reminder..."
Calen didn't answer. He sat there in the silence, staring at nothing.
And so the day ended. Quiet. Still.
The kind of calm that always came before the storm.
~~~
Somewhere else...
Where the sun dared not intrude, five masked figures sat around an obsidian table.
Each mask carved from different truths.
A plague doctor, face long and beaked, cloaked in black.
A faceless mask, smooth and featureless. Like water frozen mid-thought.
A tiger, fangs bared in a permanent snarl.
A skeleton, teeth fixed in eternal laughter.
And at the head of the table…
A jester mask. Its smile was crooked and obscene, as if it had once laughed at the death of a god... and never stopped.
The figure behind it lounged with his boots kicked up on the edge of the table, fingers laced behind his head like he was bored at an opera.
The air bent slightly around him, like gravity forgot how to behave.
No one spoke.
The pressure was unbearable.
Then...
"Sooo... Any interesting events?" The voice was light. Playful. Mocking. Each syllable dipped in honey and poison.
The one in the plague doctor mask leaned forward, hazel-brown hair spilling out from beneath the hood.
"There've been vampire sightings near Sable. And… werewolves. At the same time."
The jester's head tilted, just slightly. Behind the mask, one eye gleamed violet—a strange, deep purple that shimmered like oil.
"Oho~ The mosquitos and mutts decided to throw a party? How rude of them not to invite me."
"And what of her?" he asked, his voice suddenly sharp. Cold.
The faceless one responded. "Still no trace. She vanished like a ghost."
The tiger mask interrupted, clearly annoyed. "Wait. I almost forgot, when I was scouting the Twilight Empire's southern border, I saw something... weird."
A pause.
The jester's mask tilted again. "Weird, you say?"
"A boy. Entered a small town called Ludan. Looked human... but he had snow-white hair, hazel eyes, and faint blue veins."
The air went still.
The jester leaned forward now, boots dropping to the floor with a thunk.
"…Say that again."
"White hair. Hazel eyes. Blue veins."
Silence. The kind that trembled.
The skeleton whispered, voice raspy. "Tinkari?"
"Looks like it," the tiger replied. "And you know what that means."
The jester chuckled. A sound like windchimes in a graveyard.
"Connected to her… or maybe a gift she left behind?" He sighed dramatically, spinning a silver coin between his fingers.
"Fate really does love a dramatic entrance."
The others said nothing.
The jester leaned back again, arms folding behind his head.
"Guess I'll have to pay little Ludan a visit. Tug on a few strings. Give fate a nudge."
The skeleton finally asked, "So what is the next move?"
The jester went quiet. Then, softly, like a whisper through silk -
"Patience, my friend. The strongest pieces are always played last."
He reached for his mask with two fingers, tapping the cheek once.
"After all... the puppet never sees the puppeteer until the strings are already around its throat."