Chapter 7:the weight of the mask

Lyra leaned heavily against a tree, her staff slipping from her fingers. Her long sliver white hair clung to her damp cheeks, and her cold blue eyes glimmered faintly . She looked fragile in that moment—too young to carry such power, too proud to show how exhausted she really was. She wiped her tears quickly, as though strength could be faked.
Across from her, the **masked one** stood in the shadow of his beast form. His body was tall and broad, wings stretching like dark silk, horns curling back like obsidian blades. His glowing crimson eyes flickered with a strange uncertainty—like a predator that feared its own claws.
For a heartbeat, Lyra thought he might ask if he had hurt her. But instead, he stayed silent.
So she steadied her breath. “How… how are you feeling?”
His reply came low, rough, almost human again. “Like myself. My everyday body.”
She frowned. “Then go check on Rose. You knocked her out cold.”
He turned. Rose lay sprawled in the dirt, her wild red-brown hair tangled across her face. Her toned arms and shoulders—earned from years of sword drills—looked fragile in stillness. Normally, she radiated the raw energy of a warrior too stubborn to fall. Now she looked almost… breakable.
The masked one knelt, carefully lifting her. His claws curled inward so he wouldn’t cut her. His voice cracked with urgency. “Lyra! Heal her!”
“I can’t,” Lyra whispered, clutching her chest. “I’ve got no mana left.”
Then it happened.
A strange **purple glow** seeped from his armor, tracing his veins like rivers of light. His crimson eyes widened as the glow flowed into Rose. Her bruises faded. Cuts sealed. The steady rhythm of life returned to her chest.
Her amber eyes shot open.
She bolted upright, instincts sharp even in confusion. Her sword was in her hand before thought caught up, her body leaping to a tree branch above them. She pointed the blade downward, trembling. “Stay back, beast!”
She lunged—her strike clean, the kind of attack only endless training could hone.
But he caught the blade in his bare hands. Steel shrieked against claw. His voice stayed calm. “Stop. I’m in control.”
Lyra’s violet eyes narrowed, searching him. Then she nodded. “He’s telling the truth.”
Rose faltered. Her arms trembled, mana spent. She dropped to the ground, sword lowered.
And then the beast receded. Horns melted. Wings folded into smoke. The claws turned to pale hands. He grasped the mask—and tore it free.
The monster was gone.
What remained was a young man, striking and almost too flawless. His **white hair** caught the firelight, silver streaks glinting like threads of moonlight. His skin was pale, unscarred, his jaw sharp. But it was his eyes—icy blue, steady yet heavy with sorrow—that left Lyra’s chest tight.
They made camp beneath the trees. The fire painted them in shades of gold and shadow. Rose sharpened her blade out of habit, but her hands trembled slightly. Lyra leaned on her staff, still pale, watching the masked one carefully.
Finally, Rose spoke. “What happens when you wear that mask?”
His fingers traced its edges. His voice was heavy. “I see sadness. Memories that aren’t mine, but feel like they are. I saw how the man who wore it… lost everything.”
Both girls leaned closer, silent.
“He lived in a quiet village at the edge of the Desert of Axtrey. He had family. Friends. A life worth something. Until the raiders came.”
The flames popped sharply.
“They came at night. His father died holding a rusted spear. His mother was dragged screaming into the dark. His little brother tried to fight—cut down like nothing. The survivors fled, but his friends betrayed him to save themselves. By dawn, he had nothing.”
Rose bit her lip hard. Her fiery spirit, so often unshaken, cracked with grief.
“And then,” he whispered, “the demon lord appeared.”
The fire bent higher.
“He didn’t come as a monster. He looked like a man. A young gentleman in a long black overcoat. His hair black as polished stone. His eyes… they weren’t eyes. They shimmered like fractured gemstones, every color shifting endlessly. Looking into them felt like drowning.”
The masked one’s jaw tightened.
“And he wasn’t alone.”
Lyra’s hands clenched her staff. Rose leaned forward.
“One woman had **emerald hair**, flowing like rivers of spring leaves. Once, she was a warrior. You could see it in her scars, in the way her muscles shifted like coiled steel. But her armor was shattered, broken—now she wore only fragments: a pauldron, steel greaves, straps of leather across her bare skin. She moved like a predator, graceful, deadly, never still. Her eyes cut sharper than any blade.”
Rose swallowed, imagining her.
“The other… she was fire. **Red hair like molten flame**, spilling to her hips. She wore silks that left little to the imagination, designed to control, distract, seduce. When he knelt before the demon lord, she laughed—a cruel laugh, enjoying his suffering. And yet… deep in her gaze, there was sorrow. Hidden pain she smothered beneath beauty.”
He looked down at his mask. “The demon lord gave them masks. Called them gifts. But this—” he lifted it—“isn’t a gift. It’s a prison of grief.”
The fire hissed. Rose’s amber eyes blurred with tears. Lyra turned her head quickly, pretending it was smoke, but her violet eyes shimmered as well.
The masked one stood abruptly. “I need air.”
He vanished into the forest.
The girls sat by the fire, their hearts heavier than before.
The woods whispered. The air shifted.
Then—
“Follow me.”
The voice was velvet. Commanding. Seductive.
A figure emerged. **Emerald hair**, flowing under the moonlight. Her body was wrapped in leather straps and thin fabric, exposing both scars and strength. Her green eyes gleamed with dangerous focus. She carried no weapons, but her aura was sharper than steel.
The masked one’s hand slid toward his sword.
She smirked. “Don’t bother. If I wanted you dead, you’d already be gone.”
She turned without fear. “Follow me.”
And against his own instincts… he did.