Chapter 27: The Mask that Smiled
The wind carried a strange scent as they climbed out of the Rift—like ash and metal, tinged with something older. The sky was stained with morning, but none of them felt the warmth of sunrise.
Wale looked over the jagged expanse behind them, the broken remnants of mirrors strewn like bones over a battlefield. Though the Mirrorheart was gone, he still felt it—like the phantom pain of a severed limb. Its voice no longer echoed, but its silence was almost worse.
Chris walked beside him, her armor dulled by dust and blood. "We've broken the core. Shouldn't that feel like victory?"
"It should," Wale replied. "But it doesn't."
Grey brought up the rear, sharpening his blade out of habit rather than need. "Because monsters don't die easy. Not the ones inside."
They crested a ridge, and there, in the distance, was the city of Vairent—a shining bastion that stood untouched by war, unaware of what slumbered just beneath the world's skin.
Wale narrowed his eyes. "That's where we go next."
Chris glanced at him. "The capital?"
"No," he said, voice low. "The cathedral beneath it. There's something waiting for us there."
They reached Vairent by dusk.
The city was alive—unbothered, beautiful, arrogant. Towering spires pierced the orange sky. Market bells chimed. Streetlights flickered on in elegant rhythm.
It felt wrong to walk among people laughing.
None of them could forget the things they had seen in the Rift—the memories unearthed, the truths revealed. Chris gripped her cloak tighter. Grey kept a hand on his weapon. Wale walked as if in a daze.
They passed performers in masks near the plaza—dancers who moved like liquid flame, their faces painted in grins.
Wale stopped.
One of the masks turned to look at him.
No eyes.
Just silver glass.
They hurried through the square.
At the heart of the city stood the Grand Cathedral—an enormous structure of ivory stone and stained glass. It had stood for centuries, untouched by time or siege. The common people saw it as holy.
Wale saw it for what it was: a tomb.
Inside, vaulted ceilings arched high above, held aloft by statues of forgotten saints. The air was thick with incense and something older. Beneath the cathedral, through a sealed stairwell long hidden behind a choir chamber, was a passage untouched for years.
They broke the seal.
And descended into the dark.
The underground passage was colder than expected. The stone walls were lined with rusted sconces, long-dead torches still clinging to their ancient posts. As they walked, echoes began to multiply. Not just footsteps—but whispers, chants, laughter.
Wale stopped before a heavy door carved with a familiar sigil: a mask with a cracked smile.
Grey frowned. "What is this place?"
Chris ran her fingers over the carvings. "A sanctuary?"
"No," Wale said, pushing the door open. "A prison."
They stepped into the Chamber of Faces.
Hundreds of masks lined the walls—some painted, some bone-white, others made of silver so polished they reflected perfectly.
Each one stared.
Each one watched.
Chris turned slowly. "What... are these?"
Wale's voice was quiet. "Failures. These are all versions of me. Pieces cast off before I could become whole."
Grey scoffed. "You have a collection?"
"No," Wale replied. "They have me."
A tremor shook the room.
And a single mask lifted from the wall, floating into the center of the chamber. It was smooth, blank—save for a single crack running through one eye.
It spoke without moving.
"You wear me still, Wale."
"You never stopped."
Chris raised her shield. "Is this another monster?"
"No," Wale said, eyes narrowing. "This is the first one."
The mask twisted in the air.
"Before you ever found the Mirror... you put me on to hide your guilt. I gave you purpose. You gave me power."
"Do you really think breaking reflections changed what you are?"
Wale stepped forward, unflinching. "You're a lie I told myself."
"And I am the one who believed it."
The mask began to glow—and from the walls, the other masks joined it, forming a swirling halo of faces, all smiling. All him.
Chris shouted, "They're moving!"
Grey stepped in front of Wale. "Get back!"
But the masks weren't attacking.
They were watching.
One stepped forward—wearing Wale's face. Then another. And another.
Each one represented a path not taken.
A Wale who had joined the Mirror willingly.
A Wale who had killed Grey and Chris.
A Wale who had become a god.
"You see now," the cracked mask said. "You are not the hero of this story."
"I never was," Wale replied.
"Then why pretend?"
Wale took a breath.
"Because even lies can build something worth protecting. And I won't let you take that from me."
The masks howled.
The chamber exploded in psychic pressure—visions surged through them all.
Chris dropped to her knees, hearing children scream in her ears.
Grey saw his sister burning again, unable to reach her.
Wale saw himself—sitting on a throne of corpses, smiling.
But he didn't flinch.
He walked through the storm, reached the cracked mask, and touched it.
"Enough," he whispered. "You're not in control anymore."
The masks shattered.
All at once.
Silence returned to the chamber.
Chris gasped, eyes wet.
Grey wiped sweat from his brow.
And Wale stood alone.
The last mask lay at his feet, broken in half.
He picked it up, stared at it, then tucked it into his cloak.
"Why keep it?" Chris asked.
"To remember who I could've been," Wale answered. "So I never become him."
Grey exhaled. "So... was that the last of them?"
Wale looked ahead—past the chamber, to the final hallway leading into darkness.
"No," he said. "The last wears no mask."