Morning came muted. The fog did not lift; it thickened, curling between the rafters of the counting-house as if the building itself were exhaling secrets. I woke to the sound of shuffling below, footsteps on warped boards. Seraphine was already at the window, iron arm raised, her other hand steady on the sill. Her jaw was tense, eyes narrowed into the mist.
"Crowds," she murmured. "Too quiet. They're not rioting, not praying. Just watching."
I dragged myself upright, ribs aching with the toll of marrow lost. My throat was raw, every attempt at speech sandpaper across glass. The Ledger vibrated against me, opening before I could stop it:
Phenomenon Emerging: Mask Interval.
Effect: Citizens assume masks to hide silence. True faces wither.
Directive: Identify masquerade. Balance may fracture.
I limped to the window. Below, in the square, dozens of figures stood in the mist. They wore crude masks fashioned from wood, cloth, even butcher paper. Some were blank. Others painted with wide smiles or gaping mouths. None spoke. None moved. They only watched the counting-house.
Seraphine's iron arm clicked, pistons steaming. "They're waiting for something."
"They're waiting for me," I rasped.
The Ledger's ink scrawled furiously:
Witnesses infected by silence. Interval cultivates a new saint.
Warning: Mask may choose a bearer.
A chill crept through me. The city was staging again. Silence was not absence—it was rehearsal.
We descended carefully. The square greeted us with stillness. The masked figures shifted as one, parting to create a path down the fog-shrouded street. At the far end, a shape waited—taller, cloaked in black cloth that dragged across the stones. Its mask was porcelain, flawless, without eyeholes. A blank saint. A False Saint in the making.
Seraphine raised her arm, steam venting. "Say the word, and I'll break it."
The Ledger burned against my ribs. A line etched across its page:
Directive: Observe. Not strike.
I hissed. "We can't—"
Before I could finish, the masked crowd pressed their palms together, not in prayer but in imitation. They swayed, murmuring wordless hums that filled the square like the rustle of dry reeds. The blank saint raised its arms. Threads of fog coiled around it, shaping into banners, into wings. It was gathering stories, belief, weaving silence into form.
The Ledger's script flared:
Options:
Confess into silence—risk identity collapse.Burn candle-mark—scatter masks. Cost: Two marrow beats.Spine of Iron—hold interval until collapse. Cost: Bone fracture.
My bones screamed at the choices. Seraphine looked at me, her eyes hard. "If you don't choose, it'll choose for you."
The blank mask tilted its head toward me. From its featureless face came a whisper, my own voice returned whole and unbroken: "Varrow. Remove your mask."
I staggered. The crowd pressed closer, wooden masks creaking. Their silence demanded answer. I had none. My throat bled air and ash.
The Ledger throbbed, hot enough to sear. I lifted it high, candle-mark flaring weakly. "Not mine," I croaked. "Yours."
Light burst outward, fragile yet sharp. The masks cracked, splintering across faces. Some shattered entirely, revealing gaunt, hollow-eyed citizens gasping their own breath again. Others clung tighter, fusing to skin with black threads. Screams broke the silence. The blank saint staggered, porcelain face fissuring. From the crack spilled not light but ink, thick and endless.
The Ledger inked its judgment:
Balance Partial. Interval disrupted. Mask remains.
The blank saint dissolved into fog, leaving only its broken mask on the stones. The citizens scattered, some clawing at their faces to rip free, others fleeing deeper into the mist. Silence clung still, but the rehearsal had failed—for now.
Seraphine stepped to my side, iron arm steaming, her gaze locked on the cracked porcelain. "You stopped it," she said. Then, quieter: "Or delayed it."
I bent, picking up the mask. Its porcelain surface was cold, damp, etched with faint lines of ink. I held it up, and the Ledger pulsed violently, rejecting it. The mask throbbed in my palm, as though eager to find a face.
I dropped it. It shattered against the cobblestones, dissolving into fog.
The Ledger scrawled faintly:
Curtain trembles. Next act waits.
I staggered, the candle-mark nearly extinguished. Seraphine caught my arm, steadying me once more. "The city's not rehearsing anymore," she said grimly. "It's staging a play. And you, Varrow—you're trapped in the lead role."
—End of Chapter 29—