Alec left the Hollow Market with the black vellum tucked inside his coat and the paper mask folded neatly in his pocket.
The veil hadn't fully sealed behind him.
He could feel it now—a pressure behind reality, like glass that might crack if he pushed too hard.
He'd taken the first step.
And the path ahead had no map.
Only whispers.
-------------
The black vellum unfolded in his hand without command, revealing no text, no markings. Just darkness—so deep it made his eyes ache.
Then, one word appeared in pale ink, written in a language he hadn't learned, but somehow knew.
"Listen."
And he did.
He held his breath. Closed his eyes.
And the city changed.
-------------
Wyrmere's sounds faded. The rush of trains, the clatter of carts, the low growl of furnaces—gone.
Instead, he heard voices. Not loud. Not clear.
But present.
They drifted from cracks in the brickwork, from the mouths of broken statues, from puddles reflecting skies that didn't exist.
They said no words.
Only directions.
His feet moved on their own.
-----------
Alec wandered deeper into the industrial wastelands north of Wyrmere's heart—where factories had burned, fallen, and been swallowed by time.
Here, the city forgot itself.
And so did the people.
Half-built houses stood abandoned. Iron chimneys leaned like gravestones. Machines long dead rested in cradles of rust and moss.
And in the center of it all, a gate of thorns stood where no road led.
It wasn't made of metal. It was made of shadow.
It pulsed when Alec drew near, as though it sensed his blood.
He raised the vellum.
It crumbled into ash.
And the gate opened.
------------
On the other side was The Whispered Path.
A corridor of twilight, lined with mirrors that showed not reflections—but moments.
A woman crying over a child wrapped in silk.
A masked man writing names in blood.
A boy—Alec?—staring into a burning sea.
Each mirror flickered as he passed, drawing at his thoughts.
One stopped him.
It showed his mother.
Alive.
Smiling.
Reaching out.
"Alec," the reflection said.
"You're not her," he whispered.
The smile twisted.
"But I remember her better than you do."
He turned away.
And the mirror shattered silently.
-------------
The path narrowed.
At its end stood a pedestal. Upon it rested the Second Mask.
It was not made of paper.
It was made of bone.
Smoothed, bleached, and carved with seven runes—each pulsing softly.
Alec reached for it—
And the air screamed.
------------
From the walls, dozens of arms reached out.
Pale. Long. Fingertips inked with ancient scripture.
They clawed, pulled, whispered in tongues that made his skin crawl.
"Stay. Forget. Rest."
He grabbed the mask.
The world broke.
------------
He fell—through space, through memory, through light.
And landed back in the archives beneath Wyrmere.
Alone.
The Second Mask in his hand.
Its runes still glowing.
------------
This time, the message was carved directly into the vault wall:
"Two worn. Five remain. When the seventh shatters, so will the sky."
Alec sat down, breathing hard.
The Whispered Path was gone.
But the Veil had opened wider.
And he was still walking it.