Dawn broke over Blackglass like a blunt blade.
 The fog was everywhere—dense, still, unnatural.
 It didn’t fall from the sky to bring rain.
 It came to erase.

The streets were empty.
 The windows shut.
 Even the clocks seemed to tick more slowly.

Somewhere, high in the grey sky, a crow cawed.

In its beak, it carried a theater mask.

Edrick walked alone through the lower district, between crumbling walls and crooked signs.
 The previous night had emptied him—but hadn’t softened him.

Anger and fear had carved a silent channel through his ribs.

He reached a building that looked like an architectural corpse:
 The Weaver’s Shop.

An old blind woman, with skin like porcelain and fingers like threads, welcomed him without turning.

“You smell like ashes… and lies,” she said, caressing the air.
 “But they’re not yours.”

Edrick sat without speaking.

Then asked:

“What is… the Fracture?”

The Weaver didn’t smile.

She recited, like an old lament learned by heart:

“When two eyes look in opposite directions,
 the heart breaks.
 And the echo… becomes voice.”

Meanwhile, Lira had returned to a place she wanted to forget.

An empty house.
 Old.
 Her childhood home.

The floorboards groaned beneath her steps. Time hadn’t repaired anything.

Beneath a loose plank, she found what she was—feared—looking for.

A small, hand-carved mask.
 Made for a child’s face.

Three symbols etched on its forehead:
 A key.
 A closed eye.
 A broken heart.

Her hands shook.

“Maybe I’m the crack,” she whispered.
 “Or maybe… I’m the lock.”

A sound behind her.

A voice.

Male. Gentle.
 Terrifying.

“Welcome back, Mask Thirteen.”

From the fog, a man emerged.
 Draped in a black-and-white feathered cloak.

His mask resembled a bird of prey.
 Eyes yellow like a predator’s, glowing without light.

He bowed with theatrical grace.

“I am Gray Crow. Messenger of the Curtain.”

Lira drew her dagger.

“Are you one of his?”

The Crow chuckled softly.
 “Not one. The first.
 But also the last.
 The Son wishes to speak to you.”

“I have no ears for him anymore.”

“But you still have a role, Mask Thirteen.
 And you left the play… unfinished.”

With a gesture, he vanished into the fog.

On the floor, he left behind a black envelope.

Lira opened it slowly.

Inside, a letter folded like a stage script.

“Act IX – The Separation”
 Scene One: The Lie
 Scene Two: The Cry
 Scene Three: The Choice

At the bottom: two blank miniature canvases.

Unsigned.

She placed them on the table.

Watched.

They began to paint themselves.

One with Edrick’s face.

The other… with hers.

Miles away, Edrick received an identical envelope.

He didn’t open it.

He simply said to the wind:

“So begins Act Nine.”

And deep down, he already knew—

This was the beginning of distance.

And the stage… wanted them apart.