The god stood where the world broke.
A place beyond maps. Beyond memory. A land forgotten even by time.
The sky above him did not change. The stars held still, as if they feared to move. The ground beneath his feet was white stone veined with gold, cracked from old wars and older sorcery. The wind did not blow. Nothing dared disturb him.
His name was once Callian.
But that name had been burned from every tongue, every book, every song.
Now, he was simply The Mask.
He touched the surface of the mirror again. It rippled like water, revealing Elowen's face—smeared with ash and shadow, her eyes beginning to glow with the fire of blood-remembered pain.
"She walks," he whispered, voice soft as silk over broken glass. "She wakes."
He turned.
Behind him, a circle of beings stood in silence. Cloaked in feathers, wrapped in mist, armored in bone. The God-Fallen. Once human. Now something else.
"She has taken the flame," one said. Its voice echoed in two tones—one male, one female.
"She remembers the cradle," said another.
"Should we act?" asked a third. "Should we erase her now?"
The Mask lifted a single finger.
"Not yet."
He stepped into the circle, the gold of his robe catching the still-light like fire. His mask was blank—no eyes, no mouth. Just smooth, expressionless gold. But behind it burned a mind that had once torn open the sky.
"She will come to me. She must. It is written in the blood that cursed her. In the dream that sleeps inside her bones."
"But if she learns who she is?" a voice whispered. "If she awakens the old name?"
"Then let her," said The Mask.
His hand closed into a fist.
"I want her strong when she kneels."
Back in the forest, Elowen walked without direction.
She didn't need one.
The ground led her. The trees parted for her. The wind sang her name.
Her skin still stung from the shard of memory the hollow tree had given her. Her hands glowed faintly now—even in the dim forest light—as if the marks upon them were breathing.
But her heart was not steady.
Each new vision brought a deeper ache. The more she remembered, the heavier she felt—like she was wearing armor no one could see.
"I'm not ready," she whispered aloud.
"You were born ready."
The voice was beside her—but when she turned, there was no one.
Just a shadow on the tree.
A tall, thin figure made of smoke and feather.
It did not move. It did not blink.
It only stared.
Elowen took a step back.
The figure bowed.
Then faded into mist.
That night, Elowen dreamed again.
This time, she was not in a cradle.
She was in a hall of fire.
The walls were mirrors—each showing a version of her: smiling, dying, running, burning, kneeling. In the center of the room stood a throne made of stone and bone, its surface cracked with age.
Upon it sat The Mask.
He raised a hand.
And in her dream, she could not breathe.
He did not speak.
But somehow—she heard him.
"Come, child of the Stillwoods.
Come and claim your throne.
Come and bleed for your name."
She woke with a scream.
But this time… she wasn't alone.
A boy stood at the edge of her camp. Barefoot, pale, with eyes too old for his young face. His hands were stained with something dark—ink or blood, she couldn't tell.
"Elowen," he said.
"How do you know my name?" she asked, rising to her feet.
"I was sent by the tree," he said. "The hollow one."
She narrowed her eyes. "What are you?"
He smiled, sadly.
"I'm like you," he whispered. "Broken. Remembering."
Then he turned and walked into the trees.
"Follow me.
The forest isn't done with you yet."