The rifle barrel dug into Harun's skull.
Cold. Certain. A command given shape.
"Move," the young guard whispered.
His voice was thin. Too thin for the weapon he carried.
Harun kept his palms raised.
Chest steady. Breath measured.
The square shimmered with lantern heat.
Every sound cut sharp—boots on stone, iron rattling, the boy's low whine inside the cage.
The commander didn't look up.
Grey coat neat, scar in his brow, jaw set like ledgers mattered more than men.
"Bring him closer," he said. "Let the Mask see."
The hoop-man obeyed.
The bowl slid nearer the cage.
Its liquid moved wrong—slow as tar, shining sweet, stinging Harun's throat.
The boy clawed the bars.
Cracked lips. Bleeding.
Eyes hollowed out by hunger.
The Mask burned faintly against Harun's cheek.
Truth: If he drinks, he learns hunger.
If he starves, he knows death.
Harun's mouth was dry.
"What's the third truth?"
Truth: There isn't one you like.
The boy's nails scraped iron.
The bowl tilted closer.
Harun shifted a heel.
The rifle jammed harder into his back.
"Don't," Harun whispered.
"If I twitch, you fire. If you fire, your hands will never steady when you need them most."
The guard flinched.
Silence stretched.
The Mask breathed.
Threads lit across the square—routes, outcomes. None clean.
The commander finally turned.
Eyes swept Harun, unimpressed. Measuring grain, not a man.
"Name?"
Harun stayed silent.
"Fine," the commander said. "Then watch. We follow the page."
The handler lowered the bowl.
Steam rose, curling through the bars, coaxing.
The Mask pressed hot.
Truth: Widen the world until there's room for another answer.
Harun's hand dipped.
Satchel's drawstring cut his knuckle.
The guard hissed. "What are you doing—"
Salt.
The cooper's jar.
The cooper's death.
Harun's gut twisted as he flung it.
White arc.
Grains hissing on stone.
The slick recoiled.
Harun threw again. A third scatter.
A crescent of salt glowed between cage and bowl.
"Stop him!" the commander barked.
But no guard crossed the line.
They felt it too.
The stone was heavier where salt lay.
The boy lunged.
Teeth snapped air. Eyes rolled white.
The Mask surged.
Truth: Do not let him cross.
The circle shimmered faintly.
Liquid hissed, slid sideways as if blocked by a wall.
The boy slammed forward—thrown back.
He sobbed. Not human.
The square froze.
The commander broke it.
"Powder tricks," he spat. "Won't last."
Harun said nothing.
Sweat trickled. Breath burned.
The handler shifted uneasily. "Sir, the lines—"
"Contain him!" the commander snapped.
"Net his wrists. Stick in his teeth. Don't let him touch skin."
The hoop-man limped closer, thigh bleeding.
He jammed a wedge into the boy's mouth.
The boy bit down. Foam at his lips.
Mesh unfurled.
Arms thrashed, bones cracking on bars.
Harun's satchel sagged near empty.
Three throws left.
He crouched. Flung more salt.
Grain hissed. Slick pressed—failed.
The Mask leaned close.
Truth: If he drinks, you lose.
If he starves, you lose.
Harun's stomach turned.
"What's left?"
Truth: Choice.
The commander swung his pistol toward Harun.
"Relic-bearer. Walk into that circle. End this.
Or I'll make the boy your mirror."
Harun's eyes flicked to the rifle at his back.
The young guard—Tallen—is trembling.
His finger hovered.
But his eyes were far away.
The Mask whispered.
Truth: He has a son who coughs blood at night.
Harun's chest clenched.
He turned a fraction.
"If you fire," he murmured,
"Your hands will shake.
Your boy won't see next week."
Sweat dripped down Tallen's face.
"Shut up," he grunted.
"You want him alive?"
"Quiet!"
However, the crack was present..
Hesitance. The weight every parent carried.
The commander barked, "Tallen! End it!"
The boy in the cage screeched.
Bars rattled. Pins shook loose.
One clattered to stone.
The frame wailed.
The circle flickered.
Harun threw the last of his salt.
A desperate arc.
Dust hissed. Held—barely.
Satchel empty.
The commander cursed.
Pistol levelled.
The Mask flared hot, a furnace.
Threads tangled—Harun dead, boy changed, Tallen firing then breaking under guilt.
No clean end.
Truth: Mercy is a sword. You never keep it clean.
The boy lunged.
The wedge splintered.
The mouth opened too wide. Hunger shrieked.
The circle buckled.
Harun ground his boot into it.
Grains sparked white.
His calf burned.
He met the boy's eyes.
"Name," he gasped. "Tell me your name."
The boy blinked. Not black. Not yet.
"Lio," he rasped.
Harun's throat closed.
He whispered it back. "Lio. Stay."
The Mask drank the word.
Power bent.
For one heartbeat, the reaching slowed.
The commander snarled. "Shoot him!"
Tallen's rifle shook.
His mouth opened.
"I… can't."
The commander swung his pistol toward him instead.
The cage groaned. Another pin snapped free.
The circle wavered.
Harun felt it break beneath his boot.
Truth: Choose.
And the square held its breath.