[Trigger warning: contains fictional slurs, institutional discrimination]
"—What makes you? You?"
The voice wasn't just heard. It vibrated through the skull, like it had crawled inside the head to whisper there.
"What's holding you back? Your weakness? Your failures? Your own rotten bones?"
Each word thudded, heavy, like a heartbeat in the dark.
"What do you fear?" the voice asked, soft now — almost kind. "God? Other people? Authority?"
The tone twisted, cruel and sweet.
"Or is it power?"
Something dripped nearby. Water? Blood? The smell was metallic, wrong.
The restraints bit into skin with every shallow breath, warm with sweat. The blindfold pressed too tight, turning the world into red-black shapes.
"Why do you act at all?" the voice hissed suddenly, close — right by the ear. "Why take a step forward? Why fight, why run? Why even breathe?"
"It hurts! It hurts!" The cry split the air, raw and animal.
A laugh slithered through the dark, almost playful. "But I haven't even touched you."
"My brain—my brain—!"
The scream came again, but the sound felt wrong, like it came from someone else's mouth, someone else's throat. The walls swallowed the noise, twisted it, threw it back distorted.
"Go on," the voice said, as if amused. "Scream louder. Let them all hear what you are."
A dragging sound — slow, scraping footsteps circling closer, closer.
"Now, I'll be leaving you."
A pause. The breathing right beside them.
"Fare you well."
"No! Wait—where are you going? At least untie me! At least—"
The rest choked off as the footsteps retreated.
The door shut.
And the silence that followed wasn't empty — it was watching.
✦✦✦
Somewhere in the kingdom of Veyrath.
The mountains loomed like sleeping giants beneath a gray, brooding sky. Low clouds crawled along the peaks, smothering the light and turning the world to shades of iron and ash. Wind howled through the cliffs, carrying the damp scent of wet stone and pine.
A masked woman stood at the very edge of a cliff, cloak snapping violently around her legs. Behind her, a small mountain village sat quiet and still, its narrow streets empty, smoke from its chimneys ripped away by the wind before it could rise.
She didn't turn to look at it. Instead, her gaze was fixed outward, toward the sheer drop before her, where the land vanished into mist and the sound of rushing wind swallowed all else.
"This kingdom is too big to be called a kingdom," she murmured, a sigh escaping her lips.
"A land where snow-capped peaks guard the north, rolling down into valleys and river plains that seem to go on forever, feeding millions. To the west, deserts sprawl under an unforgiving sun, their dunes shifting like restless beasts, while the east brims with emerald forests and wetlands teeming with rare life. At the center lie rugged plateaus and ancient hills, heavy with ore and history, and the south softens into tropical coasts, fringed by gold beaches and warm seas.
This is no mere kingdom — it is a world unto itself."
Soft footsteps approached from behind, light but deliberate. Another masked woman emerged from the mist, her cloak trailing against the damp stone.
"Appreciating the kingdom of Karrok, are we?" she said, voice amused but quiet — like someone tossing a stone into deep water to see how far the ripples go.
The first woman didn't turn immediately. Her gloved fingers tightened slightly against the edge of the cliff.
"If the Crags hear you say that," she replied at last, her tone calm but edged, "you'll be executed."
A faint laugh escaped the newcomer — not loud, not mocking, but enough to feel like shared mischief.
"Lucky for me, the Crags seem to like me," she said, stepping closer until she stood just at the edge of the drop.
The word hung between them like a blade. Karrok — the name outsiders spat like venom, a slur for Veyrath and its people. And Crags — what the lowlands called the mountain folk, always in mockery. But here, in Veyrath itself, the word cut both ways: insult in some mouths, respect in others.
"So, why are we infiltrating this kingdom if we already have spies here, Thrynn?"
Thrynn didn't answer right away. The wind caught the edge of her cloak as she stood near the cliff, her mask angled toward the gray horizon.
"Do you think standing here will give you answers, Mivara?"
"No," Mivara said with a small shrug, her voice dry, "but walls have ears, you know."
"You're right," Thrynn admitted, finally stepping closer to the edge and looking down into the misty drop below.
"How do the Crags even live up here?" she muttered.
"My question exactly," Mivara said, joining her at the edge.
Thrynn's voice dropped lower, thoughtful but carrying a sharp undertone. "Our communication lines are a mess. The spies here have been living in Veyrath for generations now — marrying, settling, raising families. They still send reports, yes, and those reports are accurate…" She paused, the wind filling the silence. "…but something feels off."
Mivara turned her head slightly, eyes narrowing behind her mask. "Off how?"
"They're too perfect. Too clean. Every message looks like it was written for someone else to read."
A flicker of unease passed through Mivara's posture. "You think they've gone native?"
"I think," Thrynn said carefully, "that living here changes people. And when loyalty shifts quietly, you only notice after it's too late."
The silence between them grew heavier, broken only by the wind sweeping over the cliffside.
Finally, Mivara groaned dramatically, forcing the tension to break. "Well, mystery solved. I'm starving after that climb. Let's go eat before you start suspecting me too."
Thrynn gave a sharp, humorless snort before turning away from the cliff's edge.
"Fine. Let's get back to the village before your tummy tantrum turns into a full rebellion," she said, her chuckle low and quick.
"Yes," Mivara replied without shame, already falling into step beside her.
They disappeared into the fog together, their cloaks swallowed by the gray mist until the cliff stood empty once more.
✦✦✦
They ducked through the low doorway and into warmth like a hand closing around a cold one. The tavern smelled of roasted root vegetables, beef, and peat smoke — honest, simple food that seemed to wash the cliff's wind right off your shoulders. Lanterns swung from rough-hewn beams, throwing a honeyed light across faces lined with sun and salt; children darted between tables, squealing with a kind of fearless hunger only villages know.
A woman behind the counter looked up, blinked at the odd sight of two masked travelers, then smiled in a way that put nothing on trial. "Come in, sit by the hearth," she said, voice soft but firm, as if hospitality were a rule, not a favor. Her hands moved with the ease of someone who handled bowls by the thousand; she set a steaming pot on the long communal table so its steam could be shared like a benediction.
They took the offered benches. The timber was warm from bodies that had sat there all day; the hearth's crackle bent the chill from their cloaks. A small boy sidled up and, without asking, shoved a crust of bread across to Mivara. She accepted it with a half-grin, tearing off a piece and offering the rest back in a quick, practiced courtesy. Thrynn dropped her hood, only to keep her mask; the movement relaxed something in her shoulders. "Best barley broth in the crags," she muttered, sounding almost reverent.
The proprietor ladled thick stew into bowls and placed one before them with the blunt dignity of someone who feeds people without needing their names. "Eat up," she said. "Storms coming tonight. You'll need your strength." Around them, a few villagers glanced up — not prying, only curious — then returned to their own spoons and stories. Kindness here wasn't loud. It was a steady thing, the way a roof keeps out rain.
As they ate, warmth spreading from bowl to bone, Mivara let out a contented huff. "You were right," she told Thrynn between mouthfuls. "Better than the cliff." Thrynn snorted softly, but her eyes were softer than the mask allowed. Outside, fog pressed at the windows; inside, for a moment, the world narrowed to broth, bread, and the small miracle of being welcomed.