Days passed before they reached it—the City of Masks.
Its walls loomed high and gray, lined with cold-eyed sentinels whose faces were hidden behind lacquered expressions. Masks of stone joy, painted rage, frozen sorrow. Each one carefully carved, each one a lie.
Inside, the streets teemed with bodies, a sea of colorless cloaks and sculpted smiles. No true faces. No raw grief. No laughter unchained. Only hollow performances worn like armor.
Caelen stumbled through it, one step at a time.
The moment they crossed the gate, his curse flared—hard and fast—like a dam breaking. Emotions surged at him from every direction. Not open sorrow or anger, but something worse: suppression. Shame. Choked-back fear. Grief swallowed so deep it had turned to poison.
It crashed into him like a flood.
He clutched his chest, staggering.
"Elira," he gasped, voice tight. "It's—too much."
She caught his arm, her grip like iron."This place isn't safe for you," she muttered, dragging him off the main road. "They're hiding everything. You feel it all... but none of it shows."
"It's suffocating," he whispered, every heartbeat a pounding echo of repressed agony.
They made it to an inn tucked between two narrow alleys. The innkeeper wore a painted mask of perpetual glee—wide eyes and a smile so bright it bordered on grotesque. He welcomed them with cheerful words and dead eyes.
They were given a room. Elira locked the door behind them.
Caelen collapsed the moment they were alone, trembling hands buried in his hair. His body shook with the effort of holding back the tide. The city's pain was buried, yes—but not gone. It roared inside him like a beast trying to escape its cage.
Elira knelt beside him, grounding him with her voice.
"Focus on me," she said, her hand firm on his arm. "You know my pain. Use it."
He reached for her with his curse, desperate. Her sorrow was familiar, sharp—but honest. It gave him something real to anchor to in a city made of masks. Slowly, his breath steadied.
"Why do they live like this?" he asked, voice hoarse. "Why hide it all?"
"Because here, truth is danger," she said. "They wear their lies like armor. In the City of Masks, the one who shows their heart... bleeds first."
Caelen nodded, though the thought chilled him. How could a city survive like this? Where even grief was too risky to show?
That night, sleep didn't come easily.
When it did, it brought no comfort. His dreams were a parade of twisted smiles and weeping eyes hidden behind painted joy. Children laughing as their hearts broke. Lovers screaming silently behind grinning masks.
By morning, Caelen was pale and hollow-eyed, the curse still roaring beneath his skin. He could barely stand, but there was no time to rest. Something in the air had shifted—pressure, anticipation. Like the city was holding its breath.
Outside, a crowd had gathered in the square, murmuring around a raised platform. A woman stood at its center, cloaked in white, her mask pure and unmarked. Her voice rang out clear and loud.
"The Heart of the Dying Age walks among us!" she cried. "The one who bears the sorrow of the world! The Ashbound is here!"
Caelen froze.
The crowd turned toward her, faces lifting like flowers toward light—masked faces, every one of them. But behind the carved expressions, Caelen felt it: a flood of emotion surging like a tidal wave. Hope. Fear. Desperation. Dread.
Elira grabbed his hand, her voice low and urgent."We're leaving. Now."
But it was already too late.
The woman extended a hand, her voice rising to a crescendo.
"There!" she declared, pointing straight at them. "The Ashbound! Marked by fire and pain!"
A hush swept through the crowd—and then, a storm.
Dozens of masked faces turned as one. Beneath their masks, emotions erupted. Screams of grief long buried. Hope so raw it felt like knives. Desperation so deep it stole the breath from Caelen's lungs.
It all hit him at once.
His knees buckled. The curse surged out of control. The weight of their hidden suffering crashed into him like a mountain falling from the sky. The world spun sideways. He couldn't breathe.
Elira shouted his name, but it was distant. Fading.
Darkness swallowed him whole.