The deeper they moved into Emberfall, the darker it got.

The outer camps gave way to old ruins — crumbling stone tunnels and narrow alleys lit by weak torches. The scent of smoke and sweat hung thick in the air. Mercenaries, thieves, and rebel spies passed by, faces half-hidden, weapons close at hand.

Mirra walked ahead, never slowing, never looking back.

Shina kept close, her nerves tightening with every step.

They turned down a cramped side passage and entered a low-ceilinged chamber crammed with old weapons, crates, and stalls draped in faded banners.

This was no official market. This was the underground — where Vortrex’s desperate came to trade for things no one should possess.

A man with one eye and a dagger strapped to his wrist gave them a nod as they passed.

Shina heard scraps of conversation as they moved through the stalls.

“Another bounty up.”
“High one, too.”
“Black Tear, they’re callin’ him. Outsider. Dark-born.”

She froze at the phrase.

Mirra noticed and snapped her fingers.
“Eyes up. Stay close.”

But Shina’s pulse hammered in her ears.

Black Tear?

She remembered when Mazen cried.
His tears were pure black!

She shoved the thought aside — for now.

Mirra led them to a shadowed alcove in the back where a thin man with ink-black tattoos up his neck waited behind a table piled with old bone trinkets and cracked glass charms.

He smiled, a cruel, knowing thing.

“You looking for a face to borrow?” he rasped.

Mirra nodded.
“We want a mask.”

The man’s grin widened.

“Well now. Lucky you — got two left.”

Shina’s skin prickled.

And for reasons she couldn’t explain, a knot of dread twisted tight in her chest.

The relic dealer slid a worn cloth bundle across the table.

Inside, two masks lay side by side.

Plain, featureless, bone-colored. No eye holes, no mouth, just a faint, eerie shimmer in the air around them. Their surface seemed to ripple like heat on stone.

“Kurozoku masks,” the man said softly. “Worn by old warlocks. Illusion and concealment. Hide your face, your scent, your aura. Make the world see someone else.”

Mirra reached for one.
“How much?”

He smiled.
“Coin’s no good.”

Mirra’s jaw tightened.
“Then what?”

“A favor,” the man said. “One day, one thing. No questions. No refusals.”

Shina stiffened. “Mirra—”

The older woman cut her off with a sharp look.

“You’ll get your mask,” Mirra said quietly. “And you’ll be able to walk this land without getting a knife between your ribs before dawn.”

The dealer held out his hand.

Mirra took it.

The deal was made.

As he wrapped the mask, Shina caught the tail end of a conversation nearby.

“Did you see it? The poster?”

“Clear as day. His face. Some outsider. Carrying the dark.”

“Black Tear,” the other voice spat. “High bounty. Dead or alive.”

A cold rush hit Shina’s chest.

She gripped the table edge, her pulse hammering.

Mirra noticed. “What is it?”

Shina shook her head, swallowing hard.

“Nothing.”

But it wasn’t nothing.

It was a name.
And a face she hadn’t seen yet.

And something in her gut said she had to.

Night settled heavy over the camp.

The fires burned low, throwing flickering shadows against stone and worn tents. Mazen sat alone, turning a scrap of torn cloth in his hands, his thoughts a mess.

He didn’t hear Shadow approach until the man dropped something beside him.

A mask.

Bone-colored, plain, and wrong somehow — like it wasn’t meant to exist in this world.

Mazen looked up.
“What’s this?”

“Your life,” Shadow said. “Or what’s left of it.”

Mazen picked it up. It felt cool, almost too light.

“You wear this, you walk past patrols, mercenaries, bounty hunters. You become someone else. Without it, you’ll be dead before sunrise.”

Mazen’s stomach tightened.

“I didn’t ask for this.”

“No one here did,” Shadow said flatly. “Now listen — the mask won’t just hide your face. It’ll change your presence. Your voice. If you wear it long enough… it’ll change other things too.”

“What things?”

Shadow’s gaze lingered on him a beat too long.

“You’ll see.”

He tossed a bundle of rough clothes at him.

“And a name. You’re not Mazen anymore. From now on — you answer to Mark Arkios.”

Mazen stared at the mask in his lap.

A name that wasn’t his.
A face that wouldn’t be his.

And no way to turn back.

They were halfway back through the underground when Shina saw it.

A tattered parchment nailed to a post beside a stall.

Rough lines, a hasty sketch — but unmistakable.

Sharp gray eyes.
Black hair.
And a single black tear streaking down his cheek.

Her breath caught.

She stepped closer, heart pounding.

THE BLACK TEAR — WANTED: ALIVE OR DEAD
BY ORDER OF KING RHYS III

Mirra caught up, saw her face, and frowned.

“What?”

Shina pointed, her voice raw.
“That’s him.”

Mirra’s gaze slid to the poster.
“Who?”

“Mazen. It’s him.”

Mirra shook her head. “Could be anyone.”

“It’s not. I know it.”

The world tilted for a second.
A rush of fear.
Relief.
And dread.

Alive.
But hunted.
By everyone.

Mirra grabbed her arm.
“You chase this now, you’ll be dead in a week. Wait. Watch. Move smart.”

Shina’s eyes stayed locked on the face.

He was here.

And she wasn’t leaving without him.

Mazen held the mask in his hands one last time.

The camp was quiet. The air sharp with cold.

He slipped it over his face.

A cold rush surged through him. The world shifted. Sounds dulled. Colors darkened. His own heartbeat sounded distant.

He didn’t see his hands as his own anymore.

Just a stranger.

Mark Arkios.

Somewhere, deep in Emberfall, Shina did the same.

In a cramped room above the underground, Mirra handed her the bone-white mask.
“No turning back after this.”

Shina didn’t hesitate.

The mask slipped on smooth. The air around her thickened. The world changed.

And for the first time in days, her fear faded.

A new name whispered in her head.

Nermin.

Somewhere between the two camps, beneath the crimson sky, something old and unseen stirred.

A thread, pulled tight between them.

Neither felt it clearly.
But both paused for a second, masks in place.

As if hearing an echo of a voice they used to know.

And then — the moment passed.

The game had begun.