Chapter 13: The Price of Power
The village square had become a battlefield, though not in the way Tara had imagined. The figures that had emerged from the shadows moved with a terrifying precision, their eyes glowing with an unholy light. They were not there to negotiate, not there to talk. They had come for the mask, and they would stop at nothing to claim it.
Tara's heart pounded in her chest as she watched the dark figures advancing. Emrick had rallied the villagers, but many were still hiding, too afraid to step into the open. A few brave souls had armed themselves with makeshift weapons—shovels, sickles, and even pitchforks—but the odds were not in their favor. The villagers were no match for the dark powers Lyra's followers wielded.
Tara's hand instinctively tightened around the mask at her waist. The power it contained was real, and it was growing stronger. She could feel it vibrating against her skin, as though it recognized the impending danger. It was as though the mask was waiting for her to make a choice—again.
"Emrick!" Tara called, her voice rising above the chaos. She had to get the villagers together, find a way to fight back. "We need to hold them off. Buy us time!"
Emrick, already at the front, turned and nodded grimly. "Tara, if we're going to do this, we need to be smart. We can't take them head-on." His voice was urgent, but there was an edge to it—an undercurrent of something else. "The villagers need to stay hidden. We'll try to draw them away."
Tara nodded, her mind already racing. The darkness was closing in, but there was no turning back now. The mask pulsed against her, urging her to act, but she held back. She couldn't let it take over. Not yet.
"Get to the watchtower!" Tara ordered, trying to project authority. "If we can get a vantage point, we can at least see their movements."
The villagers scattered, rushing toward the stone watchtower that overlooked the village. Tara and Emrick led the charge, but she couldn't shake the nagging feeling that they were too late—that this battle was already lost.
As they reached the base of the watchtower, Tara glanced over her shoulder. The dark figures were closing in, their steps unnervingly synchronized. They weren't just attacking the village—they were hunting her, searching for her and the mask.
"Up the tower!" Tara shouted, pushing Emrick ahead. But even as she spoke, she knew the watchtower would only buy them a few moments. Lyra's followers weren't just after the mask—they were after her. And they knew exactly where she was.
The group ascended the stone steps of the tower, their footsteps echoing in the silence. Tara climbed faster than the others, her heart in her throat, her thoughts consumed by the power she held. It was almost as if the mask was calling to her, whispering promises of strength, of dominion. The very thing she feared the most.
As she reached the top, she looked out over the village. The dark figures were now in the square, their movements eerie and deliberate. Their leader, Lyra, stood at the center, her eyes scanning the surroundings like a predator searching for its prey.
Tara gripped the edge of the tower, her breath coming in short bursts. She could feel the air growing thick with an unnatural energy. The villagers were hiding, but the dark figures were methodical. They would find them soon. She had to act—and act quickly.
"They're closing in," Emrick said, joining her at the tower's edge. His voice was tight with fear. "What do we do now?"
Tara hesitated. She wanted to run, wanted to escape, but she knew that the mask—the power she carried—was the key to everything. It was what they wanted. It was what she feared. But if it could give her the strength to protect the village, then maybe it was time to stop running.
"Get everyone to the back gate," Tara said, her voice firm. "If we can't fight them off, we'll need to make sure they can escape."
"Escape?" Emrick echoed, his brows furrowing. "You're not seriously thinking of—"
"I have no choice," Tara cut him off. "If we're going to survive this, I have to use the mask. I have to use its power."
The words tasted bitter on her tongue, but there was no time to second-guess herself. She turned away from the tower's edge and reached for the mask. As her fingers touched the cold surface, a surge of energy shot through her body, and the world around her seemed to warp. The mask pulsed with life, as though it had been waiting for this moment.
Tara could feel it now—the laughter, the chaos, the madness that it held in its depths. It was overwhelming, all-encompassing. But with it came something else: a cold, piercing clarity. She could hear voices, distant whispers, ancient and powerful, calling her to embrace the storm.
And she was tempted.
But as she stood there, mask in hand, her thoughts returned to the villagers—those who trusted her, those who had placed their hope in her. She couldn't let them fall victim to this power, couldn't let them be consumed by the very chaos they had fought so hard to escape.
With a deep breath, Tara closed her eyes. She knew what she had to do. This power wasn't hers to wield, not yet. Not until she was ready.
"Not yet," she whispered to the mask, her fingers tracing its edges. "I won't give in to you."
But just as she prepared to turn away, something within her shifted. There was a dark presence in the air, an unfamiliar force that rippled through the ground beneath her feet. A cold wind swept through the tower, and Tara's eyes snapped open.
Lyra had sensed it too.
The dark figures had stopped moving. Lyra's voice rose above the silence, calm and commanding. "Tara," she called, her voice echoing through the square. "You think you can hide from me? You think you can reject what is rightfully yours?"
Tara clenched her fists around the mask, feeling its power surge against her resolve. The moment of indecision had passed. She couldn't outrun this darkness. And she couldn't protect Harrowhill without embracing the very force she feared.
"I'll stop you," Tara said through gritted teeth, her voice steady despite the storm raging within her. "I will stop you, even if I have to destroy the mask itself."
Lyra's laughter floated on the wind, distant but chilling. "You cannot destroy what is destined to be yours."
Tara knew then that she had no choice but to face Lyra—and whatever gods the mask had awoken.
The battle for Harrowhill was only beginning. And the price of power, she realized, would be steeper than she ever imagined.