Episode 3
The Masks We Wear
A blaring horn jolts a boy awake.
A purple hue pulses across his ceiling. The scar tissue around his left eye clenches against the light, twitching as he forces it open. He throws off the covers and bolts for the balcony.
Outside, a beam splits the sky in two.
He rakes his shaggy white hair back—more habit than hope—revealing the eye beneath. He extends a trembling finger, tracing the beam’s fading arc.
A quick calculation. A sharp inhale.
“…Fuck,” he mutters. “Twonson.”
The beam fades—but leaves a stain on the sky.
His scarred eye flares with pressure. He palms the fascia, trying to ease it. It slackens under the heat.
Below, the cliff reflects the glow down into the sleeping city.
Streets erupt with motion. Thousands flood them, faces turned skyward, chasing the omen.
The plasma trail vanishes. Its memory remains.
Flashes of light.
Screams, silenced.
Promises—broken.
Then, another sound—
A low, warbling hum.
The tone slices deeper than the horn—beneath skin, beneath fear itself.
It vibrates through his bones.
When the hum finally fades, it leaves only silence—
—until the castle rouses.
Footsteps thunder. Orders shouted. Doors slam.
Ottè flings open the wardrobe.
A crisp uniform hangs inside—pressed, unused.
He pulls it down and dresses quickly.
A heavy knock rattles the chamber door.
He snatches a mythite pendant from its hook and closes his fist around it.
“Ottè! Hurry!”
A burly voice from the hall.
“Last one to the war room rides the lame Sagrè!”
“Hold your tongue,” Ottè snaps. “This isn’t a game, Yaku. Not tonight.”
“…Yes, sir.” A pause. “I’m just… excited it’s finally happening.”
“Excited?”
Ottè wrenches the door open.
Yaku straightens, startled by the glare.
“Every time a beam lights the sky,” Ottè says, “it’s a massacre.”
“I—I know. I’m sorry…”
A small girl slips into view and quietly takes Yaku’s hand, pulling him away.
Ottè doesn’t follow.
He exhales—slow, shallow.
Runs a hand through his hair, dragging it back over his left eye.
The pendant presses into his palm. He opens his hand.
Blood.
He hadn’t realized how tightly he’d been holding it.
He fastens it around his neck.
Wipes his palm. Refocuses.
Then moves.
The castle corridors stretch before him—vaulted, echoing.
Soldiers pause as he passes, raising their hands in salute.
He doesn’t return the gesture.
At the end of the hall, twin guards stand before a pair of ornate double doors.
They salute. He nods once.
He exhales.
Then enters.
The war room glows with low crystalline light.
At its center: a long gemstone table, its surface etched with a raised map of the continent.
Five chairs surround it. Four are filled.
Ottè moves toward the head seat, passing a porcelain-skinned woman with long black hair.
She shifts to watch him—eyes soft, but sharp beneath the calm.
He nods. She returns it.
He sits.
“Let’s begin.”
The commander rises.
Medals glint across his chest—but his face buckles slightly beneath their weight.
Lines tighten around his mouth. His voice remains level.
“You all saw the beam.
Southwest. Two hundred miles.
The Roshi Forest.
More specifically—”
He gestures to a glowing emerald slab inset into the map.
“—the village of Twonson.”
“Twonson?!”
Lunashi rises from her chair, eyes wide.
“Lunashi,” Ottè says—calm, but cutting. “Compose yourself.”
She falters. Sinks back down.
“Sorry, sir… It’s just—Hetoma was stationed there.”
Yaku places a quiet hand on her back. Says nothing.
The commander nods.
“Yes. Keeper Hetoma was stationed there.”
He swallows once, jaw clenched.
“Expect the worst.”
Silence holds.
Then he straightens, shoulders locking into place.
“It’s been eight long years since the last sighting.
You’ve trained for this. Bled for this.
This is your moment.”
His gaze moves across the table—Lunashi, rigid with fury. Yaku. Sable. Then Ottè.
“Let’s finish what they started.
Let’s vanquish the Cataclysm!”
No cheers follow.
Just the scrape of chairs and the low clatter of gear as everyone rises.
“Dismissed.”
Chairs push back. The mission begins.
Yaku hovers near Lunashi as they rise. Her eyes stay fixed on the map, unmoving.
Sable lingers behind, her steps quiet.
The commander adjusts his collar, then glances at Ottè.
“The Grand Arbiter wishes to see you.
On the balcony. Alone.”
He nods once to the guards at the door, then exits.
Ottè doesn’t move.
Sable approaches—her hand light on his shoulder.
He looks up. Her gaze holds his—steady, unreadable, but not unkind.
“I’m sure he just wants to wish you luck,” she says softly.
Ottè leans forward, fingers curled against the table’s etched surface.
He rises slowly.
“I’ll meet you and the others at the stables.”
She watches him for a moment longer. A strand of dark hair slips loose. She brushes it behind her ear.
Then she turns. Her footsteps are the only sound as she calls out for Lunashi.
Ottè remains still.
He focuses on his open palm. It trembles.
He tightens it into a fist. Breathes.
Then turns toward the balcony.
Night air flows in—cold, clean, uninviting.
The two moons bathe the world in silver. One full. One dark. Both gazing.
Faint planetary rings arc under them—green and blue bands streaked with spectral slivers.
They shimmer like disappointment.
Stars glitter like shattered glass scattered across the sky.
He catches a chill.
A lone figure stands at the railing, draped in a heavy fur cloak. He does not turn.
“Your Grandness,” Ottè says, voice steady. Practiced.
He drops to one knee, head bowed.
Footsteps approach—measured, soft, unhurried.
A hand lands on his shoulder. It’s firm. Heavier than Sable’s. Colder.
“Stand, son,” the Grand Arbiter says—calm, almost fond.
“You know how I feel about formality.”
Ottè rises.
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“How are you feeling?” the man asks, adjusting the folds of his cloak.
Ottè moves to the edge beside him, gaze fixed on the far horizon.
A faint shimmer of smoke threads across the sky.
“Eager to finish this,” Ottè says. “But… terrified.”
The Arbiter exhales—a quiet breath, precise.
He lifts the crown from his brow and sets it on the stone railing.
A jagged ring of mythite and mastery. It catches the starlight, fracturing it—scattering color like spilled glass.
Ottè watches it gleam.
Something sharp in its beauty. Something cruel.
“That fear is natural,” the Arbiter says.
“This is the day I promised you. And you’re ready. All of you.”
He bends. Lifts a small wooden box from beside his boots.
The cloak slips slightly from one shoulder.
“I have something for you.”
He opens the box with care and slides it toward Ottè.
Inside: a rapier.
Mastercrafted. Mythite.
Veins of silver and violet streak its surface—thin bolts of frozen lightning.
It hums, just beneath the metal.
“This is one of my most sacred relics,” the Arbiter says, fingers brushing the guard.
“It marked the day the people chose me—adopted me—as Grand Arbiter.”
Static sparks beneath his touch.
Ottè’s breath shortens.
He takes a step back. Bows low.
“Your Grandness, I… I can’t accept this.”
“You can. And you will.”
The man lifts the blade and holds it out—measured. Ritual.
“The world is harsher than it was after the first Cataclysm. Viler.
I’ve done everything I can to protect it from that scourge.”
He meets Ottè’s gaze—unblinking.
“This sword will help you strike down those who would destroy it.
Now. Wield it.”
Ottè reaches.
His fingers brush the hilt.
The blade flares. Sparks arc.
Lightning dances up his arm. His hair rises.
His scar burns.
“…Thank you,” he whispers. “For everything.”
“You’re welcome, son.”
The blade’s glow reflects across the Arbiter’s face—fully lit for the first time in years.
Chestnut hair. Weathered features.
A narrow scar slices from nose to cheek.
Its origin: whispered speculation among the Champions.
The Arbiter smiles— it stretches deep across his face.
Ottè sees the man’s eyes drift to his own scar. Otté lowers his gaze. Bows again—settling back into his role.
“One last instruction,” the Arbiter says.
“Kill the Cataclysm. Bring me any conspirator.”
“Yes, Your Grandness,” Ottè replies, voice buried in obedience.
The moment hangs. Then breaks.
“Go,” the Arbiter says. “Finish this.”
Ottè turns. Walks back into the war room.
Behind him, he hears the grind of metal—
It rings—humming hypnotically.
Then silence, as the crown hushes upon his mentor’s hair.
The city goes silent.
As Ottè passes the table, he absentmindedly brushes his hair back over his left eye.
The blade at his side hums softly.
His eyes linger on the map—on Twonson.
Then he leaves.
In the hallway, he studies the sword.
Lightning dances to his fingertips.
He sheathes the weapon quickly.
He’s seen this blade before—always in the Arbiter’s grip.
Always as judgment.
His mind races.
The first time he saw that blade. That man.
The day of the capital’s fall.
Back then, the Arbiter’s face had been softer.
Calm in the chaos.
A light in the dark.
But now?
That light has dimmed.
Maybe it was the weight of the world.
Maybe it was solitude.
Or maybe—he had always looked like this.
And Ottè had only just begun to see clearly.
The Champions are the only family the man allows himself.
And still…
Son never felt like the right word.
Still, Ottè could never deny what the man had done for him.
What he’d given.
This mission… this moment…
Everything rides on it.
On him.
He reaches the stable.
Three shadows wait—eyes catching the moonlight: Lunashi. Sable. Yaku.
“What did he want?” Lunashi asks.
Ottè’s voice is hollow.
“He gave me the rapier.”
Yaku’s jaw drops.
“Fables be damned!? The sparky one?!”
Ottè’s disapproval is quiet, but sharp.
Yaku shrinks.
“Sorry, sir.”
“Are the Sagrè ready?” Ottè asks.
Sable steps forward, smoothing the tension.
“Yes, sir. I prepared yours myself.”
Ottè nods once.
“Then let this be the beginning… of the end.”
He takes the reins of his Sagrè—
A massive winged beast with a neck of storm-grey feathers and a whip of crimson tail plumes.
Its bare legs flex. Kneel.
He climbs on.
The others mount up beside him.
The stable’s far wall opens—revealing a launch platform angled into the sky.
One by one, they leap.
Wings unfurl.
Wind roars.
A thunderous cheer erupts from below.
They glide over the lower city.
Ottè watches as they pass the colosseum built into the cliffside.
Ahead: the forest. The scar.
The Cataclysm.
They soar toward it—
cutting the sky like arrows loosed from legend.
Yaku’s mount lags behind the others.
Meanwhile, later that morning…
At the center of Twonson’s ruin, a girl lies sprawled across the scorched glass, basking in the sunrise.
The crater beneath her refuses to crack.
“Such a beautiful sight, isn’t it?” Seka coos—voice feather-soft, almost motherly.
Behind her, something gurgles—wet and awful.
She lifts an arm with lazy grace, brushing her cheek with the back of her hand, savoring the heat as it blooms across her freckled skin.
Her wild red hair fans around her—ash-dusted, tangled, still smoldering at the edges.
“The morning’s first light…” she sighs, “…always seems to wrap me in this strange little peace.”
The gagging gets louder. Desperate now.
“Such a damn pity this is how the day began,” she murmurs, placing a hand over her heart with a practiced grace.
Thud.
Something heavy crashes beside her, cracking the crater’s glassy floor.
A wet cough sprays her face with blood. She doesn’t flinch.
Instead, she turns her head slowly—eyeing the man collapsed beside her.
Pale. Twitching. Soaked in crimson. One hand clutching the torn edge of his throat.
“Too bad for you,” she adds sweetly, rising to her feet with the same calm detachment.
Then, her voice shifts—low, venomous.
“You sick fuck.”
She spits.
She brushes thick strands of scarlet hair from her face and shakes the soot from her arms.
Behind her, the man spasms again—gasping, clawing at nothing.
“You should’ve just chosen blood,” she says, voice mocking now. “Not that I’d have gone easy on scum like you.”
She tilts her head, almost wistfully. “Fables be damned.”
She watches the life slip from his eyes.
Then leans in, crouching close. Whispers:
“Even if you’d won… you’d have been extremely disappointed. Trust me.”
She lingers just a beat—something solemn behind the eyes—
before a morning breeze and birdsong drift across the wreckage, soft as a feather falling.
She exhales.
Then turns toward a katana planted in the earth nearby.
Its grip catches the light—gleaming like a secret.
“…No way,” she mutters. “That’s—Grim? Ah, shit.”
Without ceremony, she unfastens the battered blade at her side and tosses it into the gravel.
In one smooth motion, she slides the new weapon into her belt.
Her gaze sweeps the crater.
A jagged line slices through the heart of the blast site—an unnatural cleave, untouched by the chaos around it.
The edges still burn with heat.
Shattered bones. Charred steel. Glass warped into cruel shapes.
The smoke clings to her skin. She grimaces.
“Yep… definitely Cataclysm.”
She steps forward, slow and deliberate. “Heart-shaped—but rough this time. Struggling to beat, huh?”
She crouches near a mangled skeleton, its armor fused to bone.
Squinting, she traces the scorched insignia burned into its chestplate.
“A Keeper?”
She tilts her head. “Guess I’ve got you to thank for the sword.”
She stands and follows a trail—footprints burned into glass.
She mimics each one, deliberately stomping through them, shattering the impressions beneath her slippered feet.
They lead south, to the crater’s lip.
She stops.
“This is where it ends…” she murmurs. “He dropped to his knees. Someone was with him.”
Something half-buried in the gravel catches her eye. A blackened lump.
She kneels, lifts it, taps it to her tongue.
Blood.
A jolt spikes down her spine.
“…Fable blood.”
She spits.
She lowers to the ground, fingers skimming the crater’s rim, reading the patterns in the ash.
“Something massive laid here… a mount?”
Her fingers trace the divots. “No… no tracks.”
A shimmer catches her eye—just beneath the soot.
She plucks it free.
A tuft of fur. Soft. Fine.
It shifts in the light—cobalt to green, flickering in and out of sight.
“What the Fables are you…?”
Far ahead, down the road—another glint. That same shimmer.
She smiles faintly.
Tucks the fur behind her ear.
Cracks her neck.
“Well then… south it is.”
She takes one step.
Then—
a blast of sound behind her. A voice, ragged with fury:
“HEY, you thieving bitch!”
“Lunashi!” Yaku shouts, voice knotted with panic. “Not the plan!!”
“Lunashi.” Ottè’s voice cuts sharper—commanding, unyielding.
Seka sighs.
Arms swing behind her head, fingers laced with lazy precision.
She pivots slowly—mockingly—to face the noise.
Her gaze lands on the four sagré, their riders storming in, dust and tempo rising.
“Oh, great…” she mutters flatly. “Just what I needed.”
“Give that sword back!” Lunashi barks, already mid-dismount.
Her sagré vocalizes low and steady—its rhythm syncing with her stomping boots.
“It belonged to my friend. It’s owed to me!”
She storms forward.
Yaku scrambles after her, voice cracking with urgency.
A second sagré chirps deeper, layering the rhythm.
Seka smirks.
“That’s funny. Well—tell your friend I said thanks.”
“Oh, get Myth’d!” Lunashi howls, lunging.
Yaku catches her mid-air—arms wrapping her wild frame.
She thrashes violently, elbows and knees flying like shrapnel.
Seka mocks.
Yaku resists.
Lunashi persists.
In the haze behind them, Ottè and Sable dismount.
Ottè mutters under his breath, then leans in close to whisper something to Sable before they split.
She kneels beside the frozen corpse. He paces, scanning the wreckage, jaw tight with calculation.
“Oh, aren’t you a clever bitch!” Lunashi shrieks, still flailing. Her fury defies gravity.
“Lun—na—shi, plea—se!” Yaku wheezes, absorbing a knee to the ribs.
Ottè stops pacing. A low breath. Then he calls out:
“We invoke the Code.”
Everything halts. Even the wind seems to freeze.
Only the sagré continue—slowing, softening.
Lunashi goes still.
Yaku’s grip loosens. He exhales relief.
Seka’s eyes narrow.
“You follow Grim’s Code?…” she scoffs, genuinely thrown.
“Blood or death?” Sable asks, already striding forward—confident and calm.
Seka shrugs.
“Luckily for you, I try to limit myself to one kill a day.
So—blood it is.”
Lunashi scoffs.
Yaku flinches. Ready to restrain again.
This is routine.
The stare-down begins.
Seka. Sable. Motionless.
Each waiting for the other to blink.
Ottè resumes pacing, eyes drifting to the duel.
Yaku rests a hand gently on Lunashi’s shoulder.
She growls and shrugs it off.
Seka’s eyes flick.
Sable moves.
Steel flashes down—
—but Seka spins back, the blade whispering past.
She counters hard, elbow to arm, and Sable stumbles. Her sword slips—
—only for her to snatch it with her off-hand mid-fall.
In the same motion, she draws a dagger with the other.
Back to back.
Seka flips overhead—twisting, airborne.
Sable turns with her.
Blades clash in arcs of steel and fire.
The air hisses with each swing.
Then—impact.
Sable catches her mid-flight. Drives her down.
Seka hits the ground hard—breath gone.
Sable slashes.
Blood blossoms from Seka’s leg—deep, fast, red.
“I’ll be taking that sword now,” Sable says coldly.
Drip.
Then another,
And another, in a rhythmic repetition.
Seka… smiles.
“AHHHHahha! You cheating bitch!” Lunashi breaks, screeching.
Sable stiffens. Her neck is warm. Her fingers reach—blood. Then sting.
“Don’t worry, sweet thing,” Seka coos—voice honeyed and sharp.
“Just a tiny scratch.”
She sits up and grasps her ankle tightly.
Her mythite blade clicks back into its sheath.
Sable stares, stunned.
Lunashi thrashes, screeching.
Yaku is barely holding her together.
“Enough!” Ottè calls. “The Code is satisfied.”
Lunashi collapses in Yaku’s arms, boiling with rage.
Ottè moves past Sable, lightly brushing her hand.
She nods, stung.
“Unconventional moves,” he says, eyes on Seka now.
“This ain’t the city,” she mutters, tearing her sleeve into a bandage.
“Anything goes out here.”
“You must be a child of the Cataclysm too… left to pick at the scraps of a broken world,” Ottè says dryly.
Seka barks a laugh.
“What would you know about the world with your little mythite spoon hanging out your mouth?”
He shrugs.
“Your dagger says you know too.”
Seka turns her back.
“Look, if we’re done with the ‘poor me, I’m more myth’d up, pity party’ shit, I’ll be on my way.”
Then—
Silence.
The sagré stop singing.
Eyes sharpen. The haze shifts.
The sagré freeze.
Their throats still. Their rhythm dies.
A hush falls across the crater—
unnatural. Ominous.
Then—
crack—
The treeline splits.
Crack—
The treeline splits.
Shadows spill out—snarling, steel drawn.
Bounty bandits. Armed and reckless.
Teeth bared like starved dogs.
No words.
No warning.
Just—
Chaos.
Lunashi slips from Yaku’s grip like a flame breaking free of its wick.
Her mythite spikes are already drawn.
She sprints—
A blur of wild limbs and bloodlust.
She launches herself into the nearest man, wraps her legs around his waist, and brings him crashing down.
Her scream rips through the fog—feral, unhinged, beautiful in its rage.
Then she stabs.
Again.
And again.
Each strike a drumbeat. A purge. A promise.
Yaku vaults into the air behind her.
His gauntlet ignites—umber light boiling along its seams.
He crashes into another man, fist-first—
Crack!
The body flattens against a tree.
Bark explodes.
Leaves fall like dying stars.
Another enemy lunges.
Yaku pivots, grabs the man by the leg—
—and hurls him into the sky.
A vanishing scream trailing behind like a comet.
Sable’s tulwar flashes in a wide arc, the strap wrapped tight around her wrist.
The blade glows—
A pulse of delayed white fire.
She twirls—
A cyclone of limbs and steel.
The arc rips through two charging foes, sending them skyward, limbs flailing.
They never touch the ground.
She follows—
Slicing through the air in rhythmic flourishes.
Every spin leaves a trail—
Blood.
Bile.
Balance broken.
A dance of carnage.
Seka just… watches.
Frozen.
Eyes wide.
Mouth parted.
Breathing shallow.
She’s not afraid—
She’s entranced.
Ottè doesn’t watch the fight.
He studies her.
Then—movement behind him.
He turns.
Draws.
Crack.
Lightning explodes from his rapier, severing the final bandit mid-swing.
The flash blinds.
The body folds backward in electric convulsion.
And then—
From above—
SPLAT.
The body Yaku had hurled returns.
Hits the center of the glass crater like a meteor.
Shards fly in every direction—
Jagged. Gleaming. Merciless.
Silence.
A breathless, heavy silence.
“Well…” Seka breathes, lips twitching.
“That was… unconventional.”
But Lunashi—
Lunashi’s still at it.
Still on top of the first corpse.
Still stabbing.
Over and over.
Her shoulders heave. Her breath wheezes. Her eyes roll white with rage.
The body beneath her no longer resembles a person.
It’s pulp.
“You should probably leave before she turns her attention to you,” Ottè mutters, sheathing his blade with calm precision.
His hair, still lifted from the lightning’s charge, settles down in weightless, perfect strands.
Seka arches a brow.
“Thanks for the entertainment, lovey.”
She dips into an exaggerated bow, a flourish of fingers as if waving to a crowd—
and limps off into the haze.
Her wounded ankle paints red petals with every step.
Ottè watches her disappear.
Sees the limp she tries to hide.
Takes note.
Sable steps up beside him.
Her breath is even, but her face unreadable.
She dabs her neck with a cloth—slow, methodical.
“You alright?” Ottè asks, eyes still tracking Seka’s trail.
“I am.”
“Was it done?”
A beat.
Then, without looking at him—
“Yeah. That cut’ll never heal.”
Ottè exhales, and for a moment, his shoulders fall.
Relief.
But then—
Guilt creeps in behind it.
Quiet. Familiar.
“I’m sorry,” he says, voice rough. “We need to be more careful.”
“She was holding back,” Sable replies, gaze still fixed ahead.
“She may be insufferable… but she’s not wrong. This isn’t the city.”
“I know. I just… I didn’t see another way.”
He pauses.
His voice thins.
“We gave up too much to be here. To fall to some bandit bitch? No…”
Their foreheads meet.
No words—just contact.
Stillness. After the storm.
Yaku calls through the quiet—casual, but strained.
“Lunashi’s gonna lose it when she realizes you let that girl walk,”
Ottè leans away from Sable, eyes fixed on the fading haze where Seka vanished.
“She’s a walking corpse,” he says. “She just doesn’t know it yet.”
A pause.
Then, softer—
“She needs to be patient.”
As if summoned—
Lunashi appears.
Panting.
Dripping.
Eyes wild. Blood caked beneath her nails.
The mythite spikes still pulse in her grip—refusing to cool.
She doesn’t speak.
Just stares at the trail Seka left behind.
The others brace.
For the scream.
The tantrum.
The sprint.
But none of it comes.
Instead—
She smiles.
Slow.
Sinister.
Satisfied.
