Veil of crimson shadows

The journey through Ravenmoor was an exercise in tension. The Iron Quarter faded behind them as Caleb and Theo navigated the labyrinth of cobblestone streets and crumbling buildings. The city had always felt oppressive, but tonight it seemed alive, each shadow shifting as if watching, each alley a threat.

Theo walked a step behind Caleb, his hand never straying far from the knife he kept hidden in his belt.

"Who exactly are we going to see?" Theo finally asked, breaking the silence.

"A man named Elias Vane," Caleb replied, his voice low.

Theo frowned. "Elias Vane? The guy who used to run with the Black Lanterns? I thought he was dead."

Caleb gave a grim smile. "So did I. But if anyone knows what this mask is, it's him. He was obsessed with old artifacts, the kind that shouldn't exist."

Theo muttered something under his breath but didn't argue. The Black Lanterns were a notorious criminal syndicate, and Elias Vane had been one of their most dangerous members before he disappeared years ago. If he was still alive, finding him would be no small task.

They turned a corner and found themselves in the East Wards, where the air reeked of rot and stagnant water. This part of the city was a graveyard of ambition, a place where hope came to die.

Caleb stopped in front of a dilapidated tavern called The Hollow Star. Its sign hung crooked, the paint peeling, and the faint sound of drunken voices spilled out from inside.

"This is where he used to drink," Caleb said, pushing the door open.

Inside, the tavern was dimly lit, the air thick with the stench of sweat and ale. A handful of patrons sat scattered at rickety tables, their faces obscured by shadows. Caleb scanned the room, his eyes landing on a man sitting in the far corner.

Elias Vane.

Or at least, what was left of him. The years had not been kind. His once-imposing frame was now gaunt, his hair streaked with gray, and his eyes hollow. He looked up as Caleb approached, a flicker of recognition crossing his face.

"Caleb Dorne," Elias rasped, his voice like gravel. "Never thought I'd see you again."

"Didn't think I'd need to find you," Caleb replied, sliding into the seat across from him. Theo remained standing, his hand resting on the hilt of his knife.

Elias's gaze shifted to Theo, then back to Caleb. "You look like a man with trouble on his heels."

"You don't know the half of it," Caleb said, pulling the mask from his coat and setting it on the table.

The room seemed to grow colder as the mask's obsidian surface caught the dim light. Elias stiffened, his expression shifting from curiosity to fear.

"Where did you get that?" he whispered.

"It found me," Caleb said. "And now it won't let me go. I need answers, Elias. What is this thing?"

Elias hesitated, his hands trembling as he reached out but stopped short of touching the mask.

"They call it the Mask of Midnight," he said. "A relic of the old world, forged in darkness. It's not just an artifact it's alive. And it doesn't grant power, Caleb. It takes."

"Takes what?" Theo asked, his voice tight.

"Your will, your soul, your sanity," Elias said, his eyes locking onto Caleb's. "The mask doesn't just bind itself to its wearer. It consumes them. The more you use its power, the more it claims you. Until there's nothing left but the mask."

Caleb felt a chill run down his spine. "How do I get rid of it?"

Elias shook his head. "You don't. Once the mask chooses you, there's no escape. The only way to stop it is to destroy it."

"And how do I do that?" Caleb pressed.

Elias leaned back, a bitter smile on his lips. "You don't. Many have tried. None have succeeded."

A crash from behind them shattered the moment. The tavern door slammed open, and three figures entered, their faces obscured by black hoods. They moved with purpose, their eyes scanning the room until they landed on Caleb.

Theo swore under his breath. "Friends of yours?"

Caleb stood, his hand going to the knife at his side. "Not likely."

The lead figure stepped forward, pulling back his hood to reveal a scarred face and cold, calculating eyes.

"Caleb Dorne," he said, his voice dripping with malice. "You've been chosen. Surrender the mask, and we'll make your end quick."

"Guess that makes you the generous type," Caleb shot back, his grip tightening on his knife.

The man smirked. "Not generous. Practical."

The tension snapped like a bowstring as the man lunged. Caleb barely had time to react, the mask in his hand flaring to life as he raised it instinctively. A surge of power erupted from the obsidian surface, throwing the attackers back and sending the tavern into chaos.

As the dust settled, Caleb stared at the mask, its crimson carvings glowing faintly.

"You've made your choice, Caleb Dorne," the mask's voice echoed in his mind.

And Caleb knew, deep down, that there was no turning back.