Illusion

"I think we're under an illusion."

Cypher's stomach twisted. The golden wheat fields, the distant laughter of children, the warm, familiar presence of old man Vik—it was all wrong. Like a dream stretched too thin, moments away from tearing at the seams.

Then, a sound pierced through the illusion.

A grating, metallic screech. The sound of wheels scraping against stone. It came from the cobbled road near the house, cutting through the idyllic setting like a blade against silk.

Cypher's gaze snapped toward the noise.

Nothing.

The road lay empty. And yet, the sound continued—growing louder, closer. Something was approaching under the veil of an illusion.

The wind shifted, and for the first time, Cypher noticed the way the wheat swayed—not with the natural rhythm of the breeze but in erratic, jerking movements, like unseen hands pulling at the stalks. The sky overhead, once a warm blue, now held a tinge of something sickly, as if rot had seeped into the clouds themselves.

His breath came sharp. "What are you waiting for? Break it!" he snapped at Elie.

If this was an illusion, then they were completely exposed. For all he knew, an enemy's blade was already at his throat.

Elie swallowed hard and clutched the Dreamcatcher. Without hesitation, he dug his fingers into its center, gripping the single gemstone embedded within.

Then, with a sharp tug—he ripped it free.

The world distorted and then shattered, tearing down the illusion and swiftly revealing what was beneath.

The golden wheat fields collapsed into writhing patches of crimson grass, swaying like grasping fingers. The once-pristine farmhouse rotted in an instant—its white walls blackened, its wooden beams sagging as if something heavy pressed down on them. Thick, tar-like sludge oozed from its cracks, dripping onto the porch in slow, viscous streams. The air reeked of yellow damp mold and decay, a putrid scent that clung to the throat.

The children didn't play in the field like before but instead danced together under the pale sky.

Their laughter twisted into something hollow, mechanical. Their small bodies jerked unnaturally, moving like marionettes on invisible strings. Their faces were replaced by masks - smooth and porcelain white, frozen in wide, lifeless grins. Now that the illusion had been shattered, Cypher confirmed his suspicions.They were not children, but Puppets.

Then, finally, the source of the noise revealed itself.

A carriage rolled down the road, drawn by no horses.

It was impossibly grand, its deep violet frame polished to a mirror sheen, reflecting the distorted sky above. Gold filigree curled along its surface, forming intricate patterns that shifted when observed for too long, as if reshaping themselves with every blink. Embedded within the frame, emeralds and sapphires glowed faintly, like watchful eyes.

The road beneath it cracked with each turn of the wheels, cobblestones crumbling to dust as the jagged silver edges scraped against them, sending up sparks with every slow movement. The surrounding grass recoiled from its presence, bending away as if repelled by an unseen force.

A driver sat atop it.

Still and Unmoving.

He wore a deep violet Victorian coat embroidered with gold and emerald thread. A chain of gold adorned his lapel, catching the dim light. But his face?

Their was none. It had been replaced by a mask.

A Venetian Victorian mask, smooth and white, with elegant gold filigree curling along its surface. Unlike the children's crude expressions, this one bore a permanent, painted smile that rested pristine and untouched.

Yet behind the empty eye sockets, there was nothing. No flesh. No soul. Just an endless void that swallowed all light.

Cypher's breath turned shallow. He stepped back, his boots sinking slightly into the thick, black sludge seeping from the house. He barely noticed.

It wasn't the children in the field that made his hands tremble.

It wasn't the carriage, nor its driver.

It was the presence inside the carriage that rltruly made his heart stop.

A crushing, suffocating force pressed against his mind, clawing at the edges of his thoughts. A sickening wrongness, more monstrous than even the yellow titan in the black sea.

Beside him, Elie's breath came fast and uneven. Without hesitation, he drew a dagger, holding it before him with shaking hands.

"Cypher, I—"

The farmhouse door groaned.

Slowly, it swung open, revealing nothing but thick, black smoke. It slithered out in curling tendrils, writhing like living things, dragging themselves across the warped wooden floor. The porch groaned beneath its weight, as if the house itself resented its presence.

Then, from the darkness, Vik stepped forward.

Or at least, what had once been Vik.

Gone was the gentle old farmer. In his place stood a priest clad in flowing yellow robes, the fabric draping over his body like funeral cloth. His hood hung low, casting deep shadows over his face—but Cypher could still see his grin.

Wide and joyful like he had come upon a fortuitous encounter.

Vik moved with an eerie, deliberate grace, his fingers tracing idly along the wooden porch railing, leaving streaks of blackened rot in their wake. The boards beneath his touch wilted, buckling under his heavy weight. Then, with a snicker, he turned to the carriage driver.

"Servant of Corydon," he said, his voice thick with reverence. He spread his spimdley thin arms wide and bowed. "I have called you to provide a wonderful gift for your master."

Cypher stiffened.

The driver's head tilted, the motion slow and unnatural. Then, he spoke—his voice ethereal but strained like that of a dying man in agonizing pain.

"Why… why not Hastur?"

Vik frowned. He glanced down at the holy text sitting on the table, clearly having been touched by Cypher.

"The great Lord Hastur is not so easily reached," Vik mused, shaking his head. "So I offer these two as a gesture of goodwill. May they find their purpose in the Masquerade."

The driver tilted his head.

Even as the two conversed, Cypher could not do anything to fight back. He felt a force around him emanating from within the carriage.

The crushing weight bore down on him, suffocating, as if the very air had turned to lead. His soul power buckled under an unseen force. It was as though reality itself had shackled him, increasing gravity tenfold. Even with his control, using soul power felt impossible.

His fingers twitched, forming bullets of sand at his fingertips—only for them to crumble before they could take shape.

The white sand faded into mist, dissipating in the wind.

A chuckle.

"Silly boy," Vik cooed, stepping closer, his fingers trailing lightly across Cypher's cheek. "You cannot begin to fathom the presence of a demon god."

Despite the oldonster being so close, Cypher could still not make a move. Literally, his body would not take action under the mysterious force. His bones creaked as he resisted and yet it made no difference.

Viks nails pressed into his flesh, drawing a thin line of blood.

"But don't worry," Vik murmured. "If you tell Lord Jester how you got into the 'Well'… he'll treat you better than most.."

Cypher exhaled through his nose, tasting iron.

"Fuck… you."

Vik's grin widened.

The driver raised a hand. A pulse of soul power spread outward, and the carriage door creaked open.

And from within—

Laughter.

A chorus of voices, fractured and discordant. Laughter that did not belong to the living. The rhythmic tapping of shoes echoed within, accompanied by golden light spilling from the carriage's interior, obscuring what lay beyond.

And beneath it all, the wail of violins and pianos, playing a song no sane man should ever hear.

The driver straightened. His voice carried weight, each syllable pressing down on reality itself.

"Corydon will see you now."

Without turning, he reached into his coat and withdrew a crystal glowing with eerie blue light. It hovered from his hand before drifting toward Vik's waiting palm.

"Compensation has been granted. Your business with the master is concluded."

"I thank your master deaply. I'll take my leave immediately."

Vik clasped the crystal with unhidden glee, bowing deeply before stepping back into his house. The door slammed shut behind him.

Cypher and Elie were alone with the driver.

Then, their limbs betrayed them.

Like the Pied Piper's fruitless tune, they were drawn in, step by agonizing step. Eliies bones shattered and cracked painfully as he resisted his own movements and yet, it made no difference.

Soon, they were slowly forced towards the carriage against their own will.