Masks Off

As I lay in bed that night, I can’t sleep. The echo of Roderick’s words still coils in my chest like a parasite, the image of his slitted eyes creeping over me every time I close my eyes. The village hasn’t been the same since his speech, and for my despair, the change was for the better. People walk taller, smile wider, talk of a future that suddenly feels attainable. But all of it rings hollow to me, as if they are only parroting the script he proclaimed at the square.

By midday, I hear the rumors that have spread like wild fire: Lord Roderick is preparing to heal the Choken.

The announcement alone is enough to split my heart in two. Neighbors who had shut themselves away for months stumble into the streets. Mothers cling to their children, whispering prayers. Men who once carried nothing but defeat in their eyes straighten their backs. It’s like someone breathed life into the village, like the simple hope is enough to make everything better. But I know, I know deep inside of me that whatever this is, can’t be anything good.

Dalylah finds me before I can disappear into the library. She’s glowing. Her eyes sparkle in a way that makes my stomach twist.

“Aya! Did you hear?” Her hand grips mine so tightly it almost hurts, her happiness at having her mentor here making her earlier sourness towards me disappear. “Lord Roderick will do what no one else has managed. He’s going to save them, and not just stop the process like whatever you did! He is actually going to revert a Choken.”

I open my mouth, but nothing comes out. Revert a Choken…? But… Didn’t Dalylah herself say that this was impossible? And didn’t my golden barrier stop any from even forming in the village? Something smells fishy here, but she doesn’t wait for my reply. “You have to come. You must see it with your own eyes. This is history, Aya. This is what true strength looks like.”

Her faith burns so bright that for a second I want to believe her. I want to believe that someone could simply sweep away the Choken’s suffering with a touch, that miracles are possible in this broken world.

But the unease crawling beneath my skin tells me otherwise.

When evening falls, the square is already packed. Families huddle together, holding lanterns, children perched on shoulders to see. The golden barrier above us glows faintly, reflecting in their wide eyes like the promise of salvation itself.

I stand near the edge, close enough to witness, far enough to vanish if I need to.

When Lord Roderick steps onto the platform, the noise dies instantly, as though even the crickets outside the village have learned reverence.

He lifts a hand, and the Choken is dragged forward, bound by magic light chains that his entourage are maintaining. Its limbs twitch like a marionette tangled in its own strings, the black hole of ink turning fast at it’s core, almost as if the creature itself is afraid of what’s gonna happen. An middle aged woman, probably a relative of the once human Choken, sobs, clutching the edge of the platform, whispering prayers to whatever God will listen.

Roderick’s voice rolls across the crowd, steady and precise.

“Do not fear, people of Lysteria. The broken are not doomed. Under the gaze of the True, the Pure, the Unfailing… Nothing weak endures. Nothing flawed remains.”

Light blossoms in his palm. Not warm light, not the forgiving kind. It is a cold, blinding gold, sharp enough to cut. He presses it against the Choken’s chest, and the square exhales as one. The twitching stops. The paper retreat like ink washed clean. It forms again the shape of a young man, barely more than a boy, ink acting as glue when mixed with Roderick’s light magic. His face smooths, blank as new parchment. He blinks, his eyes far away, as the light chains are broken.

The crowd around me erupts. Tears stream down faces, neighbors embrace, some fall to their knees. The relative - probably his mother - clings to the boy, calling his name through sobs. And then she meets his eyes.

And he looks at her. Polite. Empty. He tilts his head in perfect imitation of humanity, but there’s nothing behind it. His lips curve into a shallow smile, but his voice is flat, hollow.

“I am… Well. Whole. Thank you, Lord.”

The mother freezes. Her hands slip from his shoulders. “Honey…?” She asks, and although I can’t hear what she says because of the crowd rejoicing, I can see her lips moving. “Kin, do you know me?” she whispers. The boy just blinks, then repeats.

“I am well. Thank you, Lord.”

Something tears inside me. I bite down on my own tongue until I taste copper, anything to stop the scream that wants to claw its way out.

Dalylah, standing near the platform, wipes her cheeks, confused. I can see she finds the interaction as strange as I do, but as she looks at Roderick, the doubt seems to vanish from her eyes. She looks at him like he has rewritten the laws of the world with a breath. To her, this is salvation. Proof that miracles are real.

But all I see is mutilation dressed as mercy.

The boy doesn’t recognize his mother. He doesn’t remember his own name. His face is smooth, his movements obedient, his soul stripped away. Not a son. Not a neighbor. Not a life reclaimed.

A tool. A function. A husk wrapped in the illusion of healing.

The people chant Roderick’s name, their voices rolling like thunder. Dalylah glows under the sound, even joins the crowd.

But I? I feel sick.

“They’re not alive,” I whisper to myself, voice drowned by the roar of the crowd. “They only… Function.”

The square empties slowly, laughter and songs echoing into the night as if the village has been reborn. The mother is taken away by Roderick’s guards, weeping the loss of her son, and the shell left behind is directed away by Roderick himself as he leaves for the tavern. I linger at the edge, unable to move. The boy’s hollow smile still burns in my mind, colder than any nightmare.

I should leave. I should vanish back into my sanctum and lock the world out. But my feet betray me, carrying me through the winding alleys until I find myself before the tavern. Through the open shutters, a golden glow spills out.

He’s there. Alone.

Lord Roderick sits at a table, posture regal even in solitude, as if the very air bends to accommodate him. His hands are folded neatly, lips moving in low prayer, the same words I caught before. True. Pure. Unfailing.

Something inside me snaps. I step inside, rage boiling in my guts, the words spilling before I can stop them.

“You’re not saving them.” His prayer halts. He doesn’t flinch, doesn’t look startled. He only lifts his head slowly, eyes catching mine in the dim light. Calm. Serene. Too serene. I don’t let that stop me. “You’re erasing who they were.” My voice shakes, but I don’t care. “You strip their memories, their emotions… Everything that once made them human. That’s not salvation. That’s murder disguised as hope.”

For a long moment, silence stretches between us. Then, his lips curve into the faintest, most deliberate smile.

“They were broken.” He says, voice even, as if explaining the obvious to a child. “And the world has no need for broken, failed things.”

The words hit harder than any blade.

“You… you think you’re a savior?” I demand. “You’re nothing but a -”

“A Chosen.” His voice cuts through mine, smooth as glass. “I am the hand of the God of Success. It would do you well to measure your words in my presence.” His voice is cold as his glare, before his expression shifts, as if talking to a little kid who misbehaved. “The only path for this world is forward, child. The only path for this world is perfection. Anything less is weakness. And weakness deserves no place in this world.”

My breath stutters. Success. The word tastes poisonous now, twisting in my chest.

He leans back slightly, studying me as though peeling away layers of flesh and bone. “Do you understand what that means? Every failure, every flaw, every imperfection… All must be erased. Purified. Not punished. Not pitied. Erased. For the True, the Pure, the Unfailing tolerates nothing but excellence.”

The air thickens until I can barely draw breath. My hands tremble at my sides, nails digging into my palms.

His eyes soften, as if he is the holder of Truth talking to an uneducated disciple. “And you, child…” His voice lowers, intimate, like the brush of a knife against the throat. “You carry far too many flaws. Cracks that cannot be sealed. Shadows that no discipline will cleanse.”

I can’t move. Can’t speak. Every instinct screams to run, but my feet remain nailed to the ground.

He tilts his head, almost gentle. “Be careful, little one. You’re standing on the edge of something vast. And when the True looks your way… It might not be merciful.”

His words linger, heavy as iron, and I realize I’m holding my breath. Something about him feels… Stretched thin, his perfection fading slightly, as if the mask he wears is starting to slip.

Then he smiles.

It is a terrible thing, that smile. The corners of his lips curl too far, going almost to his ears. The light catches on teeth that aren’t teeth at all but fangs - sharp, predatory, impossible to mistake - in rows and rows that no human should have. My stomach twists violently, bile rising in my throat.

Behind him, the lamplight doesn’t behave the way it should. The flame is steady, but his shadow slides across the wall like spilled ink, twitching and writhing on its own accord, reaching further and further, as though it wants me. The limbs on his shadow grow longer, with joints where bones should be, bending at awkward angles. I can almost hear the whispers of many mouths from the heads that also appear on his shadow.

When he speaks again, the sound nearly buckles my knees. His voice echoes, doubled, like all mouths I saw speak in unison. Only one sounds human - the others are deeper, darker, older than words.

“You already know, don’t you?” He says, each syllable deliberate, dripping with certainty. His eyes narrow, pupils thinning into vertical slits that glow faintly in the dim light. He takes a slow step toward me, and I feel the room shrinking, collapsing, forcing me to face him. “The True does not fail. And I am the proof of that. I am perfection.”

The words crash into me like a verdict. My chest tightens, every instinct screaming to run, but I can’t move. I can only stare. And in that terrible, unshakable moment, the truth brands itself into me. He isn’t just a Chosen. He isn’t even human - not anymore.

Lord Roderick is the Demon Lord.

The spell breaks, and I stumble back with a strangled gasp. My hands fumble against the door frame, pushing it open. Then I’m moving, running as fast as I can, even if I don’t remember deciding to do it to begin with. The night air slams into me, sharp and cold, but it isn’t enough to clear the ringing in my ears. My heart hammers like it’s trying to tear itself free from my chest, my throat burning with fear.

Behind me, through the thin shutters of the tavern, I hear him again. Calm. Serene. Praying. The same words he spoke before, but now stripped bare of their glamour: ritualistic, cold, inhuman. Erase the blemishes. Strip away the weakness. Let only the flawless remain.

I force myself to keep moving, down the darkened street, away from that voice.

If the God of Success creates empty shells and calls them perfect… Then maybe Failure is the only thing left that still makes us human.

I clutch at the thought like a lifeline as I vanish into the night, trembling. But that last image refuses to leave me: Roderick, kneeling in devotion, lips moving in prayer, eyes half-lidded, tranquil. He looks holy, divine, untouchable.

And yet I know.

I’ve seen what hides beneath.

And I can never unsee it.