The wind howled through the broken arches of the abandoned temple, carrying with it the scent of damp stone and rot. Moss crept along the crumbling walls, weaving patterns like veins across pale gray marble. Arin crouched behind a shattered pillar, holding his breath. Somewhere deeper in the ruins, a rat scuttled, sending a spray of dust motes dancing in the afternoon sun. He had been told a hundred times that no one should venture here, that the old ruins were cursed, that curiosity would be punished. But curiosity, as always, had a louder voice than caution.
His fingers brushed against the rough stone, trailing over the faded carvings that depicted armored figures and twisted beasts locked in eternal battle. The images seemed to shift when he blinked, the faces of the warriors dark and hollow, their eyes accusing him of trespassing. A chill ran down his spine. "It's just stone," he muttered under his breath, though his voice sounded small in the cavernous space.
Arin's gaze fell to the ground, where a patch of black glimmer caught the sunlight. It was a mask—obsidian, glossy, with an eerie smoothness that seemed unnatural. He froze. The air around it felt heavier, charged, as though the ruins themselves were holding their breath. His hand twitched, reaching, reluctant yet compelled.
The moment his fingers made contact, a whisper brushed against his mind. Soft. Almost imperceptible. "Do you see me?"
Arin jerked back. The sound wasn't spoken aloud, yet it felt real. His heart thumped. "Who's there?" he asked, voice trembling. Only silence answered. He looked at the mask again. The shadows inside the eyeholes seemed to shimmer, like a black liquid shifting and alive. Every instinct screamed at him to leave it alone, to run back to the sunlit fields of his village. But a deeper, darker curiosity rooted him in place.
Slowly, almost reverently, he lifted the mask. As he held it closer, he felt a subtle warmth, undeniable yet, spreading from its surface through his fingers. The whispers came again, this time more insistent. "Put me on. See what you could become."
Arin stumbled backward, dropping the mask into the dust. He pressed his hands to his face, breathing hard. What am I thinking? he chastised himself. It's just a mask. Just a piece of old stone. There's nothing in it but… nothing. And yet, something in him ached to touch it again. The air around him vibrated faintly, like the pulse of a heartbeat, slow and steady.
"Arin?" A voice cut through his thoughts. Lyra. He had forgotten how long he had been crouched there, lost in fascination. Her face appeared at the edge of the archway, eyes wide. "I told you not to come this far," she scolded softly, but there was a note of fear in her voice. "It's dangerous."
"I… I found something," Arin said, pointing to the mask. The object gleamed innocently in the sunlight, but the shadows it cast seemed alive. Lyra stepped closer, her boots crunching over loose stones. She reached out hesitantly. "It's… beautiful," she whispered. "But I feel… wrongness around it." Her fingers hovered above the mask but did not touch it.
Arin's chest tightened. The whispers rose again, urgent now, almost pleading. "Take me. Know me. We are one." The words clawed at his mind, slick and intoxicating. He had never heard anything like it before—power and promise wrapped in a single, suffocating sensation. His hand moved almost of its own accord.
"Arin, no!" Lyra's warning pierced the haze of fascination. But he was already raising the mask toward his face. The moment it settled over his features, the world shifted.
A low hum filled his ears, vibrating through his skull. Darkness pooled behind his eyelids, yet he could see—everything. Every detail of the ruins sharpened, the dust particles glittering like tiny stars. Shadows moved independently, stretching and twitching. And beneath it all, a voice—rich, resonant, ancient—echoed in his mind. "At last… the Herald awakens."
Arin staggered back, clutching the mask as if it were suddenly a part of him. The whispers became words, distinct and deliberate. They spoke of forgotten battles, gods betrayed, and heroes erased from memory. The mask promised strength, survival, vengeance—but there was a shadowy cost. The hunger within it was palpable, a gnawing emptiness that wanted to consume and transform him.
Lyra reached for him again, grabbing his arm. "Arin… snap out of it! This isn't just a mask—it's dangerous!"
"I… I can feel it," Arin whispered, voice trembling. "It's… alive." His eyes were wide, pupils dilated as the mask seemed to fuse with his vision, his thoughts. "It wants me."
"You need to let it go!" Lyra's voice was desperate, but he could barely hear her. The whispers drowned everything else. Power, the thrill of being more than just a boy from a forgotten village, coursed through him. For a moment, he was no longer afraid. The mask promised he could change everything—save people, strike down threats, be more than human.
But the shadows in the ruins seemed to lean closer, almost watching, almost waiting. A sudden gust of wind blew through the broken roof, rattling loose stones. The mask slipped slightly, and Arin felt a pang of… wrongness. This is a warning. The whispers hissed, disappointed, impatient. "Do not fear. Fear is weakness. Embrace me."
Arin stumbled back, ripping the mask from his face. His breathing was ragged. The world had returned to normal, but the echo of the voice lingered in his mind. He dropped the mask, staring at it as if it were an animal ready to pounce. His hands shook. Lyra took a cautious step forward.
"You can't take it with us," she said firmly. "It's not meant for anyone. Not you, not me, not anyone."
"I…" Arin's voice faltered. He wanted to agree. He wanted to throw it into the ruins and walk away forever. But when he looked at it again, the obsidian surface seemed to glimmer with a knowing light, inviting him back. "You cannot resist. We are bound."
He shook his head, stepping away. Yet a part of him already knew—he would return. He had glimpsed power beyond his imagination, a force that could protect, destroy, and shape the world. The first seed of temptation had been planted, and it would not be so easily uprooted.
Lyra grabbed his hand, dragging him toward the exit. "Come on. Enough ruins for one day. You're acting crazy."
Arin followed, but his eyes kept flicking back to the mask. A cold certainty settled in his chest: the mask had chosen him. And now, whether he wanted it or not, his life would never be the same.
The ruins fell behind them, silent and foreboding. Yet, Arin could feel the faint hum of the obsidian mask echoing in his mind, whispering secrets, promising power, and waiting for the moment he would yield to it fully.