Chapter 6 - Return to Caldor

"Silence after the theatre... is often more violent than applause."

The steps creaked under his feet.

Ashen kept his eyes fixed on the horizon, hood pulled over his face.

Behind him, the Academy was nothing more than a distant silhouette, swallowed by the mist.

He did not look back.

His fingers brushed the mask hanging at his belt.

Not the Fool's.

The one he had chosen.

Not to hide.

But to move forward.

The road to Caldor was silent.

And that was just fine.

A few days later - Forest of Obara

- "So it's him...?"

The young messenger stepped back.

The hooded figure hadn't spoken, but his gaze was enough.

- "A-Ashen Sareth? The mage... I mean... the boy from the tournament?"

Ashen raised an eyebrow.

- "Are you afraid?"

- "No! Well, yes. But not... really... I just have to..."

The boy handed him a sealed scroll.

- "A summons. From the High Council. They want your... presence."

Ashen took the message, looked at it, then crumpled it.

- "Tell them I'm dead."

- "D-dead?!"

- "Yes. Tell them the Fool is dead. But that he had time to laugh one last time."

Two days later - Caldor Tower

The sky was ink-black.

The old tower stood, solitary, at the edge of the mountains.

Ashen stopped before the oak door. He breathed in softly.

Why am I nervous?

He raised his hand to knock.

But the door opened first.

- "Took you long enough."

Caldor's voice was dry. No surprise. No warmth. But no hostility either.

Ashen lowered his hood.

- "I bought time."

- "Or lost pieces?"

- "Maybe both."

A silence.

Then Caldor turned on his heel.

- "Come in."

Interior - Tower Study

Ashen slumped into one of the worn armchairs.

Caldor stared at him from across the desk, hands clasped.

- "Want some tea?"

- "No. Just... a few hours without fighting."

- "You're not on a battlefield anymore."

Ashen gave a faint smile.

- "Hard to believe that still exists."

Another silence settled.

Then Caldor broke the tension:

- "You faced Maelrath. You made him tremble. You showed the Court a world they preferred to ignore."

- "So what? He's still king. They're all still alive. And me..."

He pointed to his chest.

- "Me, I don't even know if I breathe like a human anymore."

Caldor raised an eyebrow.

- "You came back here. That means you're not dead yet."

- "Maybe. Or maybe I'm just... too stubborn."

Later - Tower Workshop

An old chest waited in the center of the room.

Ashen eyed it warily.

- "What is it?"

- "Your next mask."

Ashen grimaced.

- "I've already given enough."

- "This one doesn't lie. It reveals."

He opened the lid.

Inside, a simple black mask, etched with fine silver runes. No iron. No chains. Just silence.

Ashen reached out.

- "You knew I'd come back."

- "No. But I bet against the world."

He touched the wood of the mask. A shiver ran down his arm.

- "It's... alive."

- "It recognizes you."

Ashen lifted it. Stared at it for a moment.

Then asked:

- "And now?"

Caldor answered without hesitation:

- "Now, you ask yourself if you want to disappear again... or begin to exist differently."

Ashen held the mask close.

- "I'm going to... walk a bit. Just to see how it feels."

- "You know the peace won't last."

- "I know. But at least... I want to walk without chains."

Dawn - In front of the tower

Caldor followed Ashen to the door.

- "You're not staying?"

- "Not yet. There's too much ash in me. And it burns my feet."

- "Where are you going?"

Ashen shrugged.

- "Where the laughter has gone silent. Where ghosts haven't yet learned to scream."

Caldor threw him a satchel.

- "You'll need this. A few vials. And a map."

Ashen caught it mid-air.

- "Thanks."

- "Don't thank me. Come back alive. That'll be enough."

One last look.

Then Ashen descended the steps, slowly.

The mask hung at his belt, like a promise.

"Sometimes you have to cross the desert to learn how to burn without disappearing."

Forest of Lorn - Seven days later

The wind carried the smell of wet moss and dead branches.

Ashen had been walking alone for a week. His coat was covered in dust, his boots soaked in cold water, and yet, his steps never slowed.

Each night, he slept little.

Each morning, he woke with the same dream:

A throne.

A laugh.

A strangled scream.

And each time, he rose with a whisper:

- "Not yet."

By a makeshift fire, he wrote.

Not spells.

Not plans.

Simple words. Notes.

"Day 7 - The trees here don't sing.

But I heard a child cry in the silence.

Maybe it was me."

He set down the quill.

Then looked up.

Someone was approaching.

A remote crossroads - a few hours later

The group of travelers stopped dead.

- "Are you following us?" said the leader, a dark-bearded man, short sword at his hip.

Ashen stopped at a safe distance.

- "No. I'm walking."

- "Since when does a guy in black who's been behind us for two kilometers just 'walk'?"

Ashen didn't answer.

Another man drew a dagger.

- "What are you? A scout? An assassin? Umbra?!"

Ashen sighed.

- "I'm tired. And you're yelling at me. If you keep doing that..."

He slowly raised his eyes.

- "...I'll have to listen to my old instincts."

Silence fell instantly.

Then the woman at the center of the group stepped back.

- "It's him... I recognize him. He was in the kingdom's announcements. The shadow from the tournament. The..."

- "Shh."

Ashen shrugged.

- "Whatever you heard. I'm neither a threat nor a hero. Just a memory that walks."

He walked around them.

No one tried to stop him.

Abandoned village of Thirhal - later that evening

The houses were empty. The roofs collapsed.

Dead magic floated in the air, like frozen dust.

Ashen pushed open the door of a ruined church.

Inside, a faded fresco.

Eyeless faces.

He sat on a rotten bench.

How many places like this have I passed by without seeing?

How many silent deaths?

He closed his eyes.

And suddenly... he felt it.

A presence. A vibration in the air.

Someone was watching him.

- "Show yourself."

No answer.

Then... a crack.

A young boy appeared. Thirteen years old. Hollow eyes. A thin frame.

A stick too big for him in his hand.

- "I saw you... in the flames."

- "Flames often lie."

- "Not this time. They said... you were coming back."

Ashen stared at him.

- "You live here?"

- "Not really. I hide."

- "From who?"

- "Those who make children disappear."

Ashen stood up slowly.

His fists had already clenched.

- "How many?"

- "Three. They took the others. I ran."

A silence. Long. Sharp.

Ashen closed his eyes.

Then said:

- "Show me where."

Night - Raiders' camp, lower valley

They laughed. Drank. Shivered in their dirty pelts.

They never saw the shadow pass between the trees.

They didn't hear the mask fall onto the face.

They didn't feel the fire... until it burned their throats.

A scream.

A second.

And then, silence.

Ashen came out of the camp covered in soot.

The children were there. Tied up.

He cut the ropes. One by one.

A little girl grabbed his hand.

- "Are you a knight?"

Ashen hesitated.

- "No."

- "A mage?"

He shook his head.

Then, softly, he replied:

- "I'm just someone... who remembers."

Dawn - Obregath Hill

He watched the still distant flames of the kingdom.

His mask at his belt.

His cloak eaten by ash.

The boy - the one from the village - stood by his side.

- "Where are you going now?"

Ashen replied:

- "Where the ashes still walk."

The boy frowned.

- "What does that mean?"

He smiled.

- "It means I'm alive. And I haven't finished burning."

"As long as their name exists, they are not truly dead."

A bare plain, at grey dawn

The wind blew low.

Ashen walked alone, again.

But this time, he was not silent.

He whispered names.

One by one.

- "Nira..."

- "Elven..."

- "Tharn..."

Children.

Shadows.

Faces he had seen only once, bound, with empty eyes.

He didn't know why he remembered their names.

But he refused to forget them.

Each step carved another into his memory.

I'm not a justice-bringer.

I'm just a witness... who knows how to punish.

Afternoon - By a black lake

The boy with hollow eyes - Malen - still walked with him.

Ashen hadn't chased him away.

He hadn't invited him either.

But he was there.

And that was enough.

- "Are you going to keep doing this?" asked the child while playing with a stone.

- "Doing what?"

- "Saving people. Killing monsters. Walking without sleep."

Ashen shrugged.

- "The world is vast. And it doesn't heal on its own."

- "You know you don't look nice?"

He stopped, blinked.

Then laughed, briefly.

- "That's because I'm not."

- "Then what are you?"

Ashen turned toward him, and answered:

- "I'm what's left of everything we let rot."

Malen stood still, mouth slightly open.

Then murmured:

- "You're weird."

- "Thank you."

Evening - Cave of the Dead Stag, near the Sarnal Rift

A fire crackled softly.

Ashen was writing again in his notebook.

Not spells.

Names.

Again.

He added:

Day 14 - Three more children. Taken from Rhel. Tortured for minor rituals.

Bodies burned. But I remembered their faces.

I don't let them pass without an echo.

Malen approached.

- "What are you doing with that notebook?"

- "Giving them back what was stolen. A name."

- "You're going to avenge them?"

Ashen stared at him for a long time.

- "Not yet. First, I call them. Then... I make them heard."

- "To the gods?"

- "No. To the guilty."

A few days later - Black Market of Naretheim

Ashen entered alone.

The city was rotten to the core.

And it smelled like perfume smeared over dead flesh.

Here, everything was sold.

Weapons.

Forbidden spells.

Children.

He passed the stalls without a word.

No attack. No magic.

But wherever he laid his eyes, the merchants looked away.

Until a name rang through the air:

- "Ashen Valemyr."

He froze.

A hooded figure awaited at the end of the alley.

- "At last. We meet again."

- "You know my real name."

- "Everyone ends up knowing the names of the dead... especially when they return."

Ashen stepped forward.

- "Who are you?"

- "A friend. Of a memory."

He pulled out a scroll. Threw it at his feet.

- "A list. Those who profited from the Academy. From Maelrath. From you."

Ashen picked it up.

Silence.

Then:

- "Why give it to me?"

- "Because you're the only one who can make it bleed."

Night - Back at the cave

Ashen laid the scroll down in front of Malen.

- "What's that?" asked the boy.

- "Targets."

- "You're going to kill them?"

Ashen took a long breath.

- "I'm going to make them carry the names they tried to erase."

He handed Malen a piece of black chalk.

- "Write them with me."

- "Me?"

- "Yes. You're the only survivor of Thirhal. It's your right."

Malen hesitated. Then took the chalk.

And together, they began to write the names of the children on the walls of the cave.

One by one.

Each, a prayer.

Each, an invisible blade.

And deep in the night...

memory bled softly.

"When silence becomes a scream, you need masks not to collapse."

Dawn - Cave of Names

The chalk was worn down.

The wall was covered.

Dozens of names, clumsily traced by hands too young.

Malen slept curled up in a corner, face turned toward the wall.

Ashen, meanwhile, didn't sleep.

He stared at the last name written.

Lioran Valemyr

A brother.

A brother who had never raised a hand.

But who had watched.

And who had laughed.

Ashen clenched his teeth.

I didn't come back to kill them all.

But I will not let any mask stay clean.

Morning - Forest of Cenlor

The sounds of the city were nothing more than a murmur.

Ashen walked with a purpose.

One name in mind.

The first.

Lady Sirelle Varn.

Member of the Council.

Former accomplice of the king.

Known for her "purification cabinets."

Places where children who hindered noble lineages were erased.

He had seen her once, in the throne room.

She had applauded.

She too.

Varn Estate - Eastern District of Miragost

A ball evening.

Laughter.

Sparkling dresses.

Ashen entered unseen.

He wore his mask.

Not the Fool's.

The Shadow's.

The guards didn't react.

They didn't have time.

The first collapsed without a sound.

The second... tried to scream. In vain.

And then he was there.

In the main hall.

The music stopped abruptly.

Lady Sirelle turned around.

- "Who are you to interrupt..."

She stopped.

He stood at the center.

Obsidian mask.

Cloak of ash.

A murmur spread among the guests.

- "The Fool..."

- "No... that's a legend..."

Ashen spoke calmly.

- "I came to claim a name."

Lady Sirelle turned pale.

- "W-what do you want?"

He pulled out a scroll.

Unrolled it.

- "Nira. Seven years old. Black hair. Disappeared from your winter boarding school eight years ago."

- "I-I don't know what you're talking about..."

- "Lioran. Eight years old. Consumed by mental cleansing spells."

She stepped back.

- "You... you're insane."

- "Yes. And very lucid."

He moved forward.

The guests stepped aside.

The silence grew heavy.

- "You made them disappear. I make them loud again."

A hiss. A black glow.

A spell. But no death.

Lady Sirelle dropped to her knees, a burning mark on her skin: a name magically engraved.

Nira.

- "Each night, this name will burn in your flesh. Until your last breath."

She screamed.

He turned to the crowd.

- "You remember me. But now... remember them."

And he vanished into the shadows.

---

Two days later - Cave

Malen was waiting, wide-eyed.

- "You did it?"

Ashen sat down, exhausted.

- "Not enough. But yes. One name marked. One pain returned."

Malen moved closer.

- "Will you do it for all of them?"

- "Until they learn that the dead don't forget."

He opened his notebook.

Added a line:

Sirelle Varn - MARKED.

Then, he took out a box.

Inside... five new masks.

- "What are those?"

Ashen answered simply:

- "Faces. Roles. Tools. One for every way to speak truth."

Malen held out his hand.

- "Can I have one?"

- "You know what that means?"

- "I was there. I saw. I haven't forgotten."

Ashen looked at him for a long time.

Then nodded.

And handed him a white mask, featureless, smooth as ash.

- "Then be the echo. I'll be the voice."

"When truth becomes poison, lies wear white gloves."

High City of Meridan - Glassmakers' District

Masks were everywhere.

Theatre masks. Court masks.

Masks of politeness and poison.

Ashen watched them all from a dusty balcony, dressed in grey.

Malen, sitting beside him, still held the white mask in hand.

- "Are we really going? To the Arch Ball?"

Ashen slowly nodded.

- "All the lies are there. The living... and the dead that dress them up."

- "And we're going to do what?"

- "Rip off a face."

Nightfall - Palace of the Silver Arch

Inside shone like a dying star.

Nobles waltzed between ivory columns.

Enchanted chandeliers floated above the tables.

Laughing voices, falsely drunk, filled the room.

Ashen entered like a breath of air.

No crash.

No scream.

Just one step after another.

His mask was black tonight. Interlaced with mute runes.

His cloak, edged with tarnished silver.

No one stopped him.

Because everyone thought they recognized him... without ever daring to ask the question.

That's the true power of a mask.

At the center of the ball, a man sat on a blue velvet chair.

Lord Severin of Marholt.

Former High Advisor to the King.

Current patron of state orphanages.

And yet, you made one in five disappear...

Ashen approached. Slowly.

An empty cup in hand.

- "Lord Severin."

The old man looked up, amused.

- "Oh? That mask... What is your role tonight?"

- "The one who doesn't play anymore."

- "Hm. Then you're the only one."

Ashen gave a slight bow.

- "May I offer a toast?"

- "I never refuse a tribute."

Ashen raised the empty cup.

- "To those who remember names."

He turned it over. Empty.

A soft laugh came from the right.

Guests had turned.

Severin frowned.

- "Is this supposed to be funny?"

- "No. It's supposed to be a reminder."

Ashen stood tall.

- "I remember a boy. Twelve years old. Mixed blood. Given to the institution of Vaer. Branded. Silenced. Then disappeared."

The noble turned pale.

- "I never..."

- "I'm not accusing you. I'm stating facts."

A black rune appeared in the air, floating, slowly spinning above Ashen.

A single word:

"Varlan."

Severin stepped back.

- "You... can't..."

- "The name can."

Ashen raised his hand. A pale light slipped from his palm, gliding like a shadow.

It touched Severin.

And on his skin... a name burned through the silk.

Varlan.

The old man screamed.

The music stopped.

The entire room backed away.

Malen appeared from behind a column, his white mask still in hand.

Ashen spoke to all:

- "This ball... is a stage. But every stage deserves a mirror."

He turned slowly.

- "Look at yourselves. Count the names you've forgotten. The children. The missing. The ones you called 'necessary losses.'"

A silence. Frozen. Cold.

- "I'm not here to kill you. I'm here so you never forget."

He pointed at Severin, now on his knees, still screaming.

- "He will live. But he will carry Varlan. Until he dies. And every night, he'll dream of him."

He bowed.

- "Thank you for the ball."

And vanished into the shadows.

---

A few hours later - Rooftops of Meridan

Malen laughed softly.

- "You know I saw you tremble?"

Ashen leaned against a chimney.

- "Yes. I'm not a god."

- "But they think you are."

- "Let them think. Fear sometimes does the work justice can't."

Malen looked up at the stars.

- "It's true... we don't kill monsters. We make them look over their shoulder."

Ashen gave a faint smile.

- "And one day, they'll fall. Not by the sword... but under the weight of every name they stole."