The road to Elaris was lined with broken faces.
Stone masks half-buried in the mud stared up at them — some weeping, some grinning, some hollow-eyed. Each bore a mark etched into the forehead: a single smiling crescent.
Mira walked in silence, clutching her lantern tighter. "They say Elaris was founded by a god who couldn't bear his own reflection," she murmured. "So he ordered every man and woman to wear a mask, so the world would never look him in the eye again."
The Fool said nothing. But something in his chest burned at her words. A memory trying to wake.
By dusk, the city appeared — tall spires of marble and brass, shimmering behind a veil of perpetual mist. The gates were guarded by monks in white porcelain masks, each carved with the same serene smile.
"State your purpose," one intoned.
Mira bowed. "We seek the archives. Knowledge of the forgotten gods."
The monks exchanged a glance. Their smiles did not move, but the Fool felt them judging him — as if the air itself knew his face, even beneath shadow.
"The archives are closed to pilgrims," said the guard. "Only truthseekers may enter."
The Fool reached into the mud, lifted one of the fallen stone masks, and pressed it to his face. It fit perfectly — too perfectly. The guard hesitated, as if seeing something ancient behind the porcelain.
Then he stepped aside.
"Enter, seeker of masks. But beware: in Elaris, every truth has a price."
Inside, the city breathed.Banners rippled from high balconies, each painted with phrases of devotion:
"Truth is a mirror.""The lie is its reflection."
The streets teemed with veiled scholars, traders selling false relics, children wearing paper smiles. Yet no one's real face was visible.
Mira whispered, "It's like the whole city's pretending not to exist."
They found shelter in an abandoned chapel near the inner wall. Dust hung thick in the air, and old scriptures littered the floor.
As night fell, the Fool's vision began to twist — candles flickered into faces, the walls breathed. His reflection in the cracked mirror moved half a second too late.
And then, behind him, the shadows bent.
A whisper cut through the silence:
"Found you."
The Divine Hunter stepped through the mirror like a blade through silk — armor black as drowned glass, a halo of burning silver behind his head. In his hand, a sword that glowed with unbearable truth.
Mira froze. The Fool rose, mask gleaming in candlelight.
"Lorian," the Hunter said, voice low and sharp. "God of Lies. The heavens command your unmaking."
The Fool tilted his head. Slowly, he raised a single finger to his lips — a silent shh.
The Hunter hesitated — just for a moment.
And in that moment, the Fool laughed.A soft, broken, perfect laugh.
The city lights outside flickered and dimmed. Every mask in Elaris turned toward the chapel.
And somewhere in the heavens, truth itself shivered.