The mask landed on the wooden table with a muted clatter, the sound echoing faintly off stone walls bathed in flickering orange torchlight. The chamber was circular, its high ceilings lost in shadow, the stale scent of old incense and wet limestone clinging to the air. Heavy drapes lined the alcoves, muffling the ambient hum of Underground life just beyond. In the center, beneath the glow of a single hovering mana-lamp, the mask sat like an accusation, daring anyone to speak first.
A single, deliberate sound that carved through the quiet like a blade.
The room had gone still. Eyes followed it as if it might explode.
And it almost did. Not literally, of course—but something in the air changed, and even Derrilium's usual cool demeanor flinched.
The Revered One reached for it with slow fingers. She didn't touch it immediately. She stared, as though afraid of what it might reveal the moment her skin made contact.
