Story 1166: Masks in the Market

The Market of Witherstone was a place that only appeared when the fog clung too tightly to the cobblestones, and the bells of the dead rang in reverse. No map led to it. No one remembered walking in. But once inside, the stalls whispered, and the wares watched you back.

Clara Veil had wandered through many forgotten alleys in her time—drawn to places others couldn’t see. Her blood ran with something not quite human, and it stirred tonight as she stepped into the market’s shifting lanes.

The stalls were arranged like crooked teeth. Smoke coiled above canvas tents dyed in shades of mourning. Lanterns flickered not with flame, but with captured sighs. No coin changed hands here—only secrets, promises, and pieces of the self.

And everywhere she turned, there were masks.

Dozens. Hundreds. Hanging from strings, nailed to stall posts, resting on velvet cloth. Bone masks. Plague masks. Ones made of bark, wax, flesh. All unlabeled. All staring.