Chapter 15: Echoes of the Future
The wind howled through the broken streets of Harrowhill as Tara stood at the center of the ruins, her body still trembling from the last confrontation. The mask pulsed faintly at her side, its power now simmering just beneath the surface, waiting for the next moment to erupt. She could feel it, feel them, the gods, growing nearer with every breath she took.
The villagers had managed to escape, thanks to Emrick's quick thinking, but now Tara was left alone in the aftermath. Alone, but not truly. The mask was always with her. Always watching.
She could still hear the echoes of Lyra's words in her mind: The gods will rise, Tara. And when they do, you will not be enough to stop them.
It was a threat, but it also felt like a promise—one that was beginning to manifest in ways she couldn't ignore. The air was heavy, charged with the kind of energy that spoke of something ancient and unyielding. Tara knew it wasn't just the villagers who were at risk now—it was the entire world.
Tara's knees buckled, and she sank to the ground, her hand instinctively pressing against the cold stone of the tower's remnants for support. Her breath came in sharp, painful gasps, as if the very weight of the mask was crushing her.
"I can't do this," she whispered, her voice breaking. "I can't face them. Not alone."
But as the words left her lips, a voice rose from within her—a voice that wasn't her own, but the voice of the mask itself. It whispered promises of strength, of power, of control over everything that had happened, everything that was coming. It told her she could stop them, change the world, reshape it as she saw fit.
But at what cost?
Tara clutched her chest as the pressure within her grew, an invisible hand tightening around her heart. The gods that Lyra had spoken of were coming, but so too was something far darker—a force that had waited in the wings for eons, ready to feed on the chaos that Tara had unwittingly unleashed.
A flicker of movement in the distance caught her attention, and Tara's gaze snapped upward. She had no time to lose. The village was still vulnerable, and Emrick was out there with the others, trying to regroup and find safety. She couldn't let them down again.
Pushing herself to her feet, Tara forced herself to breathe, to focus. She would have to face whatever came next. She couldn't hide from her fate anymore. Not when the world was hanging by a thread.
The mask still pulsed at her side, and though she could feel its power, she resisted the urge to put it on. She couldn't rely on it completely. Not yet. She needed to find another way.
With shaky hands, Tara retrieved the small, worn book she'd found hidden in the library weeks ago—the one that had detailed the ancient history of the mask and its creators. She hadn't had time to fully read it, but now she understood why it had been left for her to find. The book held the key to the mask's origin, and maybe—just maybe—it could help her understand how to destroy it.
She moved quickly, flipping through the pages, her eyes scanning for anything that could offer guidance. As the wind picked up, the pages fluttered, and a certain passage caught her attention, one that made her blood run cold.
"To control the mask is to submit to the will of the gods. To wield its power is to forsake your soul. Only one who knows the truth of the gods can hope to survive them, but even then, the cost is steep."
Tara's mind raced. She understood the words, but she didn't understand how they could help her. She wasn't ready to be consumed by the gods' will. She couldn't allow it.
Suddenly, the ground beneath her feet trembled, and a deep, rumbling sound echoed through the village. Tara's heart skipped a beat as the sky above darkened. The gods were rising. She could feel it in her bones.
The wind was stronger now, almost a gale, pulling at her clothes, pushing her back. The air seemed to crackle with energy, and she could hear voices—distant at first, but growing louder. Whispers. Screams. Laughter. All jumbled together, coming from the very earth beneath her.
Tara... Tara...
She gasped as the whisper grew louder, more distinct. It was the voice of the mask, speaking to her again. But this time, it was different. It wasn't calling her to embrace its power. No, this time, it felt almost... pleading.
"What do you want from me?" Tara asked, her voice trembling. She was so close to the edge, so close to surrendering.
But the answer that came wasn't from the mask—it was from somewhere else. Somewhere deeper.
"I want you to remember."
Tara's mind exploded with images—visions of a time long past. She saw herself, not as a girl of Harrowhill, but as someone else. Someone ancient. Her form was different, her appearance changed, but the feeling was the same: she had once been part of something much larger than herself. A vessel. A chosen one.
But there was more. A darkness lingered in those visions, a shadow that followed her every step, waiting for the moment to reclaim her. The mask had always been hers—had always called to her across the ages, across lifetimes.
"No..." Tara gasped, backing away. "This can't be real."
But the visions didn't stop. She saw herself—her ancient self—embracing the power, accepting the mask, and falling to the gods' will. It was her fate. Her curse.
And yet, there was another vision—a sliver of light in the darkness. A moment of defiance. Tara saw herself standing against the gods, against the mask's power, her will strong enough to push them back.
"You are not your past," the voice whispered, soothing and gentle. "You are the one who will end the cycle."
Tara blinked, trying to clear the fog from her mind. The visions were fading now, the weight of the mask pressing against her chest as if it, too, was feeling the pull of the truth.
She understood now. She wasn't just a victim of fate. She wasn't meant to surrender to the gods, to let them destroy everything. She could break the cycle. She could change her destiny.
With newfound resolve, Tara turned away from the book and faced the horizon. The storm was coming, the gods were rising—but she would stand her ground. She would stop them.
And no matter what it cost her, she would never let herself become their servant again.
She wasn't just the God of Joke. She was the one who would rewrite the story.
The real battle was only just beginning.