Claire stood outside the Merchant's Guild, the Winter Devil's mask clutched tightly in her hands. The morning sun glinted off its obsidian surface, but the warmth felt hollow. Leon's final moments haunted her—the way his calloused hands had pressed the mask into hers, his voice fraying like worn thread. "Find Arthur," he'd whispered. No explanation. No warning. Just the mask, and the echo of his laughter as he ruffled her hair one last time.
She pushed open the guild door, her boots sticking to the ale-slick floor. The hall buzzed with merchants haggling over spices and guards boasting over tankards. A clerk nearly collided with her, muttering curses as he juggled scrolls. Claire sidestepped, her golden eyes scanning the chaos. Leon would've loved this mess, she thought bitterly.
The receptionist—a sharp-eyed woman with ink-stained fingers—glanced up. "State your business."
Claire slid the mask onto the counter. The woman paled. "Gods above. The Winter Devil's mark." She stood abruptly, knocking over a vial of ink. "Wait here. The Guild Master will see you."
Claire slumped into a creaky wooden chair, wiping ink off her sleeve. Great. Now I look like a scribe's nightmare.
Arthur Blackthorn: Skepticism and Secrets
The Guild Master's office reeked of cedar oil and old secrets. Arthur Blackthorn—a wiry man with a scar slicing through his stubble—leaned back in his chair, eyes narrowing at the mask. "That relic belongs to a dead man. Where's Leon?"
Claire's throat tightened. "Gone. Someone killed him. I don't… I don't know who."
Arthur's gaze sharpened. "You don't know?"
"No," Claire snapped, her left eye flickering violet. "He died protecting me. But the killer didn't even see me. Just… him."
Arthur drummed his fingers on the desk. "Leon was a fool. A sentimental fool." His voice softened, almost imperceptibly. "But he loved you. That much is clear."
Claire's nails dug into her palms. Love didn't stop the blade.
Arthur stood, gesturing to a rusted iron door. "Prove you're more than his weakness."
Trial of Echoes: Shadows and Sarcasm
The chamber beyond was pitch-black, the air thick with the scent of burnt parchment. Arthur's voice echoed as the door clanged shut. "Survive the echoes, or join your grandfather in oblivion."
Claire's blessing ignited—her eye casting a violet glow over walls etched with crumbling runes. Shadows pooled at her feet, twisting into humanoid figures. Not Phantoms. Not Executioners. Just… ghosts.
First Wave: Dance of the Marionette
The first shadow lunged. Claire's body moved before she could think—a dagger materializing in her hand, parrying the strike with lethal grace. She pivoted, a spear forming mid-spin to impale a second attacker.
I'm not doing this, she realized, panic rising. Her blessing had hijacked her limbs, turning her into a puppet of violence. Her mind screamed to stop, but her body danced—flawless, relentless.
A shadow blade nicked her arm. "Ow! Who taught you to fight—a feral cat?" she muttered, though her mouth stayed shut.
Third Wave: Cracks in the Mask
By the fifth attacker, her strikes faltered. Weapons flickered like dying candles. A shadow sword grazed her thigh, pain jolting her back into control.
"Pathetic," Arthur's voice taunted. "Leon's heir can't even hold a blade?"
Claire staggered, blood dripping onto the stones. "I'm—not—his—heir," she spat, though the mask burned in her pocket.
The Author's laugh slithered into her skull: "Bored, bored! Sing the song, little puppet! Or should I summon a mime?"
"Shut up," Claire growled, slamming her palm to the floor. "Descend, gate guardian—burn their souls in black flames! First Grim Spirit: Cirrabus!"
The air split with a howl. A three-headed hound wreathed in violet fire erupted, incinerating the shadows. The spirit's growl shook the chamber, but the summoning tore through Claire like a serrated knife. Her vision blurred, knees buckled.
Note to self: Grim Spirits are not cuddly.
Aftermath: Questions and Quiet Fury
When the flames faded, Arthur stared at her, his disdain tempered by grudging respect. "A Grim Spirit… and a blessing even the angels would fear." He tossed her a vial of murky liquid. "Drink. Leon's blood runs in you, but you're untrained. A liability."
Claire gulped the potion, gagging. "Tastes like rat soup."
Arthur's lips twitched—almost a smile. "The mask isn't a toy. It's a target. Someone killed Leon for it. They'll come for you next."
Claire met his gaze, her violet eye smoldering. "Let them. I'll carve my answers from their bones."
Arthur snorted. "Bold words for a girl who fainted summoning a dog."
"Three-headed dog," Claire corrected, wobbling to her feet.
"Rest," Arthur said, his tone softer. "Tomorrow, you learn what that mask truly means."
As she limped out, the Author's voice chirped: "Cute show! Next time, add fireworks. I'm dying of boredom over here."
Claire flipped off the ceiling.