The first pop was soft.
Almost like a knuckle cracking in the silence.
Harun felt it before he heard it.
The Mask warmed against his cheek, its bronze surface pulsing faintly, as if some hidden heartbeat had woken inside it.
His palm stayed pressed over Jori's ribs, counting shallow rises, shallow falls.
But his eyes were already fixed upward—
toward the barrel slumped against the sagging wall.
A sharper crack.
Splinters leapt from the rim.
Black seep bubbled beneath the wax, swelling like a blister about to burst.
The smell reached him next—sweet rot mixed with wet grain, cloying enough to choke, but sharpened at the edges with something that had teeth.
Finn whimpered, clutching Maera's skirt.
She kept her knife high, white-knuckled, though her hands trembled.
The foreman—Kars, or whatever Mask he wore—stood rigid, ledger jammed tight to his chest.
The commander didn't move his pistol from Harun, but his stance had shifted, weight bent just enough to keep one eye on the leaking barrel.
"Sir," Tallen whispered.
He held Jori close, desperate.
"He's still breathing. Please—"
The commander cut him with a glare.
"You lost the right to speak when you lowered your weapon. Do your duty."
Harun's voice came rough but steady.
"If you fire in this room, the lid breaks. You give it air."
"Air it already has," the commander spat.
Neck cords stretched like ropes.
"This ends now."
The Mask surged, heat flooding Harun's skull.
Ash and iron scraped his tongue.
Truth: Not yet. Wait. Let it want.
He swallowed the urge down.
Nodded instead to Finn.
"More steam. As much as you can."
The boy dashed to the stove, arms flailing thin as sticks.
Water hissed when it struck the iron pot, white vapour gushing into the room.
The grey bead on the floor quivered.
Rolled.
Met the salt and recoiled with a sharper hiss—like pain.
"See?" Harun said. His eyes never left the commander.
"Salt. Heat. Breath. That holds it. Not bullets."
The commander's pistol wavered, but he stepped closer anyway.
The Mask seared.
"Stay," Harun said.
The word dropped into the air like a stone into water.
The crawling thing in the rafters froze, limbs stiff as nailed boards.
The whole room hushed.
Even Neve's wet cough broke off into silence.
Only the groan of the waterwheel beat steady outside, heavy as a giant's heart.
Then the wax seal ruptured.
The barrel lid cracked in two and fell with a sound like bone on stone.
Black liquid spilled.
It didn't splash.
It crawled.
Thick and slow, but alive.
It rolled, coiled, then twined itself into rising threads.
From that knot, something dragged itself upright.
It once had the shape of a man.
Bones pressing sharp under skin, the colour of ashes.
Jaw unhinged, lips tearing until the mouth was too broad.
Rows of teeth sprouted jagged, crooked, and countless.
Its head jerked toward the children.
Breath, heat, life—it smelled them.
The Mask burned, whispering into Harun's skull.
Truth: The Eighth never dies.
The Vine strangles but cannot choke.
Hunger always returns.
Jori rattled a gasp.
Maera clutched him close.
"Please," she begged. "Please."
The commander's pistol came level again.
"Stand aside, relic-bearer. This is Bureau matter."
The black thing lurched.
Arms stretched too long, fingers ending in hooked thorns.
It struck the salt.
The hiss shrieked louder than the waterwheel.
"Do not shoot," Harun said.
The Mask pulled the words into iron.
The commander froze.
His finger tightened but didn't squeeze.
The creature slammed both fists onto the boards.
Salt burned bright.
Wood cracked outward in spiderweb lines.
Finn screamed.
Maera shoved the younger ones behind her skirts.
"Move her back," Harun barked.
Together, they shifted Neve to the wall.
"High, keep her upright, cloth wet."
He rose. His bad leg burned, nearly buckled, but he set it firm.
The chisel in his fist felt heavier, as if iron itself wanted to change.
"Stay," he commanded.
The creature twitched—froze—then turned its face toward him.
Mouth hanging open, black threads stretched between teeth.
Truth: It hears. It knows you.
The Mask seared white-hot.
Another voice pressed into Harun's throat, demanding.
"You don't control this," he whispered back.
Whether to the Mask or the creature, he wasn't sure.
The commander didn't hear. He steadied his pistol.
The barrel split again—straight down its spine.
The sound was canvas torn apart.
Darkness spilled out once more.
A second figure rose from it.
Now two.
Grey bodies. Gaping mouths.
Both are turning toward the children.
The floor whined beneath their weight.
The waterwheel chugged slowly outside.
Everything ticked to its beat.
The Mask hissed fire.
Truth: Rule them.
Harun tightened his grip on the chisel.
The boards cracked.
Salt hissed.
And the battle began.