Chapter Three: The Masks of Rookmere
The road narrowed where the trees leaned closest, as if whispering secrets to each other about the two girls beneath them. Elara walked ahead, hood up and spine tense, eyes scanning the curve of the path for movement. Behind her, Mira narrated her footsteps aloud.
"One. Two. Three. This is how I die—tripping on a cursed rock while monologuing."
Elara sighed. "Wouldn't be the worst end. Quiet, at least."
"Wow. The cold shoulder and sarcasm in one package. You're like a whole winter storm, aren't you?"
Elara didn't respond, though a flicker of amusement tugged at the corner of her lips. Mira had a way of talking like she was defying silence itself. No fear of the dark. No caution when their surroundings creaked with unseen things.
The path eventually opened.
And there it was—Rookmere.
Nestled in a shallow valley, the village looked like a painting left out in the rain. Everything was a little too slanted, a little too quiet. The roofs were shingled in blackwood tiles, slick with recent rain. Tall iron lampposts curled like vines, their glass eyes blinking faintly with green light. Fog lingered in the alleys like something waiting.
A crow croaked above them. Mira looked up. "Friendly fellow. I'll name him Edgar."
Elara didn't smile. Her senses prickled the closer they stepped toward the village's gate—if one could call it that. It was a twisted arch of dead ivy and bone-white wood, carved with names she didn't recognize. The words pulsed faintly, runes like bruises across bleached bark.
Welcome to Rookmere. Leave grief outside. Masks are required.
Mira leaned closer. "Masks?"
Just then, an old man approached from the nearest house, sweeping what appeared to be ash from his doorstep. He wore a porcelain mask—half smiling, half scowling. His eyes were tired.
"You're unmasked," he rasped. "That's not permitted."
Elara stepped forward, hand near the knife at her hip. "We're travelers. Passing through."
"No one passes through Rookmere," the man said. "You're either hidden, or haunted."
He gestured to a basket by the door filled with mismatched masks: some painted with flowers, others cracked with age. Mira plucked one that resembled a fox, chipped at the snout.
"Stylish. Makes me look like a trickster god."
Elara hesitated before taking a plain mask—bone white, unmarked. It fit her face too well, like it had waited for her.
They were allowed to enter after that. The man nodded, murmured something about "the festival," and disappeared into his crooked little home.
The deeper they went into the village, the stranger it became.
Masked villagers moved in silence, communicating only with gestures or glances. Children in tiny masks played hopscotch using stones carved with teeth. Windows had no glass—only black veils hanging like funeral shrouds. Chimes of bone and brass hung from every corner, whispering eerily in the breeze.
"What festival did that man mention?" Elara asked, her voice low.
Mira shrugged. "Let's ask the least creepy person here. Oh wait. That's no one."
As night approached, they found a tavern of sorts—The Crooked Tune, its door slanted and buzzing with faint candlelight. Inside, the atmosphere was dim, filled with the faint scent of lavender, woodsmoke, and something coppery beneath it.
No one spoke.
Not until an old woman behind the counter said softly, "Two rooms. Or one?"
Elara eyed Mira.
"One," Mira said quickly, "but only because I'm not dying alone. If something eats me in the dark, I want it to be your fault."
The woman didn't blink. She handed over a rusted key and a basket with bread and strange purple cheese. "Eat before the bell," she whispered. "And choose your festival masks wisely."
"Right. Totally normal."
That night, Elara lay on the lumpy mattress while Mira sat cross-legged, eating cheese and tossing crumbs at a mouse in the corner.
"Ever wonder if we're dead already?" Mira said. "Like… maybe we got eaten by some shadow thing outside Hollowtree and this is just afterlife purgatory."
Elara stared at the ceiling. "You think purgatory includes purple cheese?"
"Purple's the color of royalty. Maybe this is gourmet ghost food."
Elara's hand twitched slightly toward her pendant, hidden under her tunic. She hadn't dreamed since they entered the valley—and that felt wrong. Her dreams were her compass. Without them, she felt untethered.
A chime rang outside. Soft, trembling. One note.
It was followed by footsteps. Many. All moving at once.
Mira moved to the window and peeled back the veil.
"Elara," she whispered. "They're all coming out. Everyone."
The villagers had gathered in the square—dozens of masked figures, moving in slow unison, forming a circle around a massive effigy built from bones, sticks, and black lace.
It resembled a king.
But not the king.
This one wore a crown made of broken mirrors, and from its hollow chest grew a twisted vine of red flowers.
"They're… bowing to it," Mira murmured.
No. Not bowing. Weeping.
Elara clenched her fists as a voice—many voices, whispering in unison—filled the air like distant wind.
"The Griefless must fall.
The Maskless must fade.
All sorrows are sacred.
The Hollow King remains."
They left early the next morning.
Villagers didn't stop them. A child placed a dead flower in Elara's palm as they passed. Mira carried a handful of stones she'd taken from the tavern fireplace.
"They're warm," she said. "Like they're alive."
"We don't take anything from this place," Elara said sharply.
But Mira looked behind them, toward the veiled windows and the crooked roofs.
"They weren't worshiping the Thorn King," she said finally. "They were mourning someone else."
Elara walked faster.
End of Chapter Three
(Next: Chapter Four – The Vanishing in Varn's Hollow)
(Shorter chapter from here on, I want to get to five without dying 😔)