Chapter 20: The Mask We Wear
The rain fell like needles across the broken city of Falmsreach.
Ash still danced in the air from the previous bombing—a choking, silent snow. Buildings once proud now stood half-eaten by fire. Glass shimmered in every street corner. The war, in its cruelty, hadn't spared the soul of the city; it had buried it under rubble and smoke.
Herzl walked through the wreckage, his coat heavy with mud, the scent of ash clinging to his breath. He had seen many ruined places, but none like Falmsreach. This one had once been a sanctuary. A place where music played and children laughed. Now the only music was the creak of twisted steel, and the only laughter was a madman's echo through ruined walls.
Beside him, Grim said nothing. He hadn't spoken since they left the Garden of Eyes three days ago. His shoulders seemed heavier now, like the world had finally started crushing him in earnest.
They found shelter in a shattered cathedral. The stained glass, once depicting saints and heroes, now resembled bleeding ghosts. As they entered, the silence swallowed them.
Herzl looked up toward the broken altar, where a statue of Saint Virell remained half intact. The statue wore a cracked golden mask—half of it chipped, the other half still polished and smiling.
"Do you believe people wear masks, Grim?" Herzl asked softly.
Grim, leaning against a crumbled pew, finally looked up. His eyes weren't just tired—they were haunted.
"Everyone does," he replied. "Especially the ones who believe they don't."
Herzl knelt before the statue, brushing soot from its base. "When I was a boy, I thought wearing a mask was cowardice. Pretending to be brave. Pretending not to cry. Pretending to be strong when I was anything but."
Grim turned his gaze toward the shattered roof.
"Sometimes it is cowardice," he said. "But sometimes… it's protection. You can't survive a war with your heart open."
Herzl frowned. "So we close it?"
"We hide it," Grim corrected. "We bury who we are so we can kill who they are."
A long silence passed between them.
Then, Herzl asked, "And what happens when the war ends?"
Grim let out a tired laugh—one void of humor.
"We forget how to take the mask off."
Herzl rose and walked toward a small shard of mirror on the floor. He stared into it. Dirt smeared his face. A thin scar now traced under his right eye. He barely recognized the reflection. The boy who once dreamed of flight, of music and peace—he was gone.
"I'm becoming something else, Grim."
Grim nodded slowly. "We all are."
Suddenly, the ground trembled.
A pulse of Inn-energy surged underfoot—like a heartbeat from deep below. Herzl's hand shot to his blade. Grim moved toward the entrance.
From outside, a Republic transport plane flew overhead—black as tar, its engines roaring like dragons. The sky turned red as a second wave followed. Bombs fell—guided not just by technology, but by manipulated Inn. A new hybrid—where war and sorcery merged with precision.
"They're testing a new doctrine," Grim muttered. "This isn't destruction. This is a message."
The cathedral shook with the impact.
Dust filled the air as the walls groaned. A support beam snapped. Herzl grabbed Grim and pulled him behind the altar just as the western wall caved in.
"They want us to feel this," Herzl whispered.
"No," Grim said. "They want us to become like them."
As the dust settled, Herzl stared at the shattered mask of Saint Virell, now lying at his feet.
The mask was broken. But the face beneath?
Still smiled.