The closer they got to the end of the secret passage, the dimmer the firelight around them became. At the end of the walk, the group was faced with nothing but a wall embedded with huge face masks.
"Sister Grace, there is no way out." Ruth surveyed the somewhat ghastly-looking wall and clung to Evelyn's arm, her voice trembling a little. At the moment, she just wanted to get the hell out of there, and inwardly held onto the hope that she might still be able to ride her horse if they escaped quickly.
Just then, Jew whirled around and rose into the air, athletically nudging a few wall bricks with her feet before landing firmly back on the ground.
There was a muffled thud.
The eerie mask on the wall slowly rotated one hundred and eighty degrees, and its eyes, which had been tightly shut, suddenly snapped open—seemingly gazing backward at the crowd that had arrived.
Grace stepped forward and reached out to tweak the mask's eyes. The entire wall then split down the center, slowly parting like a great stone door.
Evelyn and Ruth were stunned by the sight. After exchanging a glance, they followed the others into the dark "world within the wall".
As soon as everyone entered, the walls groaned shut behind them, the masks sliding back together, rotating into their original positions, their eyes closing once more—as if they had never awakened at all.
Jew pulled out a fire stick from her wide cuffs and blew on it gently before deftly finding a hidden fuse in the faint glow. The moment the fuse caught flame, the dim firelight flared like a shooting star, racing down the grooves carved into the walls. In an instant, the entire room blazed to life, bathed in a flickering golden glow.
Evelyn and Ruth rubbed their eyes, adjusting to the sudden brilliance. When their vision cleared, their jaws dropped in stunned silence.
The weapon racks stood like silent armies, their shadows stretching long across the moss-green bricks. The air hummed with the weight of steel and memory—each blade, each shaft, each glinting edge whispering of battles long past..
East Side – The Reach of War
Here, the long-hafted weapons stood sentinel. A bronze halberd, its edge oxidized to a ghostly verdigris, still radiated a quiet lethality. Nearby, a zhang eight spear stood straight, its polished shaft gleaming under the firelight, the faded red tassel beneath its spearhead stirring faintly in the draft. Against the wall rested heavy axes and polearms, their blades notched with the subtle scars of cleaving—each mark a story of impact, of shattered shields and split helms.
West Side – The Dance of Blades
The realm of close-quarters death. A ring-pommel sword hung in its wooden frame, its scabbard dust-choked but its edge, when drawn even a finger's width, still casting a mirror's gleam. Iron swords lay ranked by type—some slender and fluid, others broad and brutal, their crossguards etched with smiths' sigils or blessings in worn script. In the shadows, hook sets and short halberds tangled like the teeth of some dormant beast.
Center – The Singing Wood
From the beams above, hard bows hung suspended, their curves preserved against time's warp. The strings of lacquered horn bows had gone slack, but the limbs remained unyielding. Beside them, arrow quivers stood like bundled fates: fletching crisp, shafts inscribed with lacquered characters—dates, regiments, the bureaucracy of war. These were not just missiles; they were names waiting to be called.
Against the Wall – The Skin of Warriors
Copper-bound chests held the armory's most intimate relics. A fish-scale cuirass, its plates laced with silk cords, its central mirror polished to blind the foe. A mail hauberk, folded with care, its rings chiming faintly when disturbed. Each suit had embraced a body, had turned blades and borne blows. Now they waited, hollow but hungry, for the next hands to fill them.
The firelight pulsed. No one spoke.
The room was a lung holding breath—a pause between heartbeats. When the war drums sounded again, this place would exhale. And the killing would begin anew.
"Sister Grace, how dare you—" Evelyn's voice trembled as she spoke the priestess's name, her fingers clutching at her skirts.
Her gaze suddenly snapped toward Princess Melody, who sat watching with unsettling calm.
"How can you remain indifferent to this?" Evelyn demanded, her voice rising.
"A foreign priestess hoarding weapons—this is treason against the crown! A threat to all of Masonic country! And yet the royal family trusts her blindly—what madness is this?"
A slow, mocking smile curled at Melody's lips—the expression of someone who had just heard a particularly absurd joke. "Treason?" she repeated softly, almost to herself. "A threat to the country?"
Then she laughed.
It was not the light laughter of amusement, but something raw and uncontainable—laughter that shook her shoulders, that brought tears to her eyes, that bordered on something perilously close to grief.
Evelyn could only stare, stunned. The princess's mirth was unnerving, but worse still was the sorrow beneath it—the way her smile never quite reached her eyes. Were those tears from laughter, or something else? Evelyn couldn't tell.
Melody wiped at her damp cheeks, her breath still uneven.
"Oh, Evelyn." she said, voice thick with something between pity and scorn. "If only you knew how little these weapons mean compared to the real betrayals in this court."
Ruth, sensing Evelyn's rising distress, felt an uncharacteristic surge of courage. Though her hands trembled, she stepped forward—shielding Evelyn behind her in a protective stance she didn't know she possessed.
The room fell deathly silent, save for the crackle of torch flames.
Grace was the first to move. She approached Ruth with deliberate calm, her voice softening. "There's no need to fear." She said, palms open in a gesture of peace. "No harm will come to Evelyn here."
Her gaze drifted across the weapons lining the walls. "Some of these were gathered by Jew during her travels—idle curiosities. But others..." A pause, weighted. "They belonged to the guards who died protecting the late king during the palace mutiny. I preserved them so their sacrifice wouldn't be erased by time."
Evelyn's grip on Ruth's sleeve tightened. "And today? Did you bring us here just to pay respects to the dead?" Skepticism edged her words.
Grace's smile didn't waver. "Not only that." She turned toward a weathered crate, rummaging until she withdrew two lacquered boxes—ornate, out of place among the battle-worn relics.
With deliberate care, she extended them toward Evelyn.
"We came." Grace said, "because these are for you."
Evelyn and Ruth exchanged uncertain glances, the weight of the moment pressing upon them.
"Take them." Melody's voice cut through their hesitation, smooth as honed steel. "Sister Grace doesn't bestow trivial gifts. Whatever these are, you'll find use for them soon enough."
Evelyn hesitated, then finally accepted the boxes. The first revealed a set of aqua-blue nail plates, edged in delicate gold filigree—deceptively elegant. The second held a pair of supple golden wrist gauntlets, their surfaces studded with crimson gemstones that glinted like droplets of blood.
Curious, she pressed one of the nail pieces to her finger—
—and gasped as it fused seamlessly to her nail, refusing to budge.
"It—it won't come off!" Evelyn's voice pitched higher, her wide eyes darting to Grace.
Grace took Evelyn's hand, her touch deliberate. "Now." She murmured, "attack me ,hard. Imagine gouging out my eyes."
Evelyn recoiled. "What?!"
"Trust me, princess Evelyn." Grace's smile was serene. "You won't really harm me. But you must see for yourself what these can do."
Heart pounding, Evelyn shut her eyes and slashed her fingers toward Grace's face—
Ching!
The sound was razor-sharp. Evelyn's eyes flew open.
From each fingertip, a slender blade had sprung forth—wickedly sharp, retracting the moment she relaxed her hand. She tested the mechanism, marveling as the knives extended with a flick of her wrist or a bend of her knuckles, vanishing just as smoothly when she made a fist.
Assured the blades wouldn't harm her, she fastened the remaining nails and slid on the wrist gauntlets. The metal embraced her forearms like a second skin, the gemstones pulsing faintly as if alive.
"This wrist gauntlet must have more to it than just protection." Evelyn mused, running her fingers along the gem-studded surface. Yet she couldn't discern where its mechanisms might lie.
Grace shot a pointed look at Jew, who grinned and snatched up a handful of training lances. Before anyone could react, she launched into the air, her weapon arcing toward Evelyn's torso.
"Ah—!" Evelyn threw up her arms instinctively, bracing for impact—
—but the blow never landed.
A metallic shink echoed through the armory. Evelyn cracked her eyes open to find Jew grinning, the shaft of her lance splintered in two.
Protruding from Evelyn's gauntlet was a sleek, razor-sharp blade, its edge gleaming coldly in the torchlight.
"Wow…" Ruth breathed, her fear dissolving into awe.
Evelyn, however, didn't share her enthusiasm. She stared at the blade retracting back into her wrist guard, her expression wary.
Melody was in wheelchair, pushed towards Evelyn by July.
She traced a finger along the gauntlet's hidden edge, her voice soft but deliberate. "You have a choice, Evelyn. Walk away now and return to your life as if none of this happened—or stay and learn what Grace intends to teach you."
Grace moved closer, her smile gentle but unwavering. "There's no pressure." She assured, resting a hand on Evelyn's shoulder. "Whatever you decide, I'll respect it."
Evelyn met her gaze, searching for answers. "Why bring me here? Why show me these things?"
Grace's eyes held hers. "To give you a chance."
"A chance?"
"A chance to discover who you truly are."
...
Nightfall in the Chamber
The flickering candlelight cast long shadows across the room as Evelyn sat motionless before her vanity. Ruth's fingers worked absently through her hair, braiding and unbraiding the same strand, but Evelyn barely noticed—her gaze was fixed on the book lying open before her.
The day's revelations haunted her.
The stone woman's eyes in the secret passage. The glint of blades in the armory's torchlight. Melody's quiet challenge, Grace's unsettling gifts—
"A chance for you to discover who you truly are."
The words coiled in her mind like smoke, tightening around her chest.
On the sixteenth repetition, Evelyn snapped.
She stood so abruptly the stool clattered to the floor. Before Ruth could react, Evelyn was already at the door, her bare feet silent against the cold stone as she fled into the corridor.
"Princess Evelyn—?!" Ruth's call was muffled by the slam of the door.
But Evelyn didn't stop. She ran—past tapestries fluttering like ghosts—toward the only person who might have answers.
Toward Grace's chambers.
Ruth, her heart pounding, scrambled after her.