Chapter 171: Masks

The training field at Arven Academy teemed with voices, steel, and heavy breathing.

Training swords clashed with dry cracks, spears slashed through the air, and instructors shouted orders that echoed through the stone bleachers. It was the rookies’ day—clumsy, anxious, full of energy and mistakes—exactly as Damon remembered being… or pretending to be.

He sat on the highest steps, away from the direct noise, elbows resting on his knees, his gaze lost in the organized chaos below.

A boy stumbled while attempting a spin.

Another nearly hit his own teammate.

Damon sighed.

“…it’s going to be a complicated night.”

The sentence came out low, almost swallowed by the wind, more to himself than to anyone else. He ran a hand over his face, rubbing his eyes, feeling that strange weariness that didn’t come from his body—it came from his mind. Too much planning. Too many secrets. A full moon lurking. — Complicated why?

The voice came from beside him, soft and sharp at the same time.

Damon wasn’t startled.

But he hadn’t expected it either.

He turned his face slowly.

Morgana Arven was sitting beside him, as if she’d always been there.

Impeccable posture, legs crossed, elbows elegantly resting on her knees. The Academy uniform seemed tailor-made for her—and probably was. Her eyes followed the training below with moderate interest, but it was clear that her real attention was on him.

“You have this curious habit” she continued “of talking to yourself when you think no one’s listening.”

Damon let out a short, tired laugh.

“Old habit.”

“Dangerous” she corrected, giving him a sideways glance. “That’s usually how people give themselves away.”

He tilted his head, feigning nonchalance.

“Then I’m glad it was just you.”

Morgana raised an eyebrow.

“That’s not always an advantage, Damon.”

He looked back at the field.

“Let’s just say I’m… kind of tired,” he sighed again. “And the night doesn’t promise to be peaceful.”

She watched him silently for a few seconds, analyzing every micro-expression, as if disassembling an invisible gear.

“Curious,” she said finally. “You don’t look tired like someone who’s overtrained.”

“And how do I look, then?”

“Like someone who doesn’t sleep.”

He chuckled softly.

“You guessed it.”

Morgana rested her chin on her hand.

“Nightmares?”

“Trouble falling asleep.”

“Guilt?”

“Always.”

She smiled slightly, pleased with the answer.

“I imagine it must be difficult indeed.”

Damon frowned.

“Difficult…?”

She turned her face to him, her eyes gleaming with something dangerously close to amusement.

“Sleep well, I mean,” she paused strategically. “Especially when you have two wives.”

The world didn’t stop.

But Damon was sure his heart skipped a beat.

“…what did you say?”

He turned his whole body to face her, a nervous laugh escaping before he could control it.

“Two what?”

Morgana maintained a perfectly calm expression.

“Wives,” she repeated, as if talking about the weather.

He blinked.

Once.

Twice.

“Right,” he said, running a hand through his hair. “Before this gets any weirder… how do you know this?”

She watched him, clearly savoring the moment.

“Do you really think something like this would stay a secret inside Arven?”

“I… didn’t announce anything.”

“It wasn’t necessary.” Morgana crossed her legs more firmly. “People see. They comment. They connect the dots. Especially when two surreally beautiful women appear out of nowhere, and live with someone like you. Well, Harven also told me that the council of Arven’s knights was really interesting when you said those things.”

Damon opened his mouth.

Closed it.

“That’s… recent.”

“And even so, I’m disappointed.”

His eyes widened slightly.

“Disappointed?”

She turned closer to him, her tone now lower, almost intimate.

“Yes. In only finding out now.” She tilted her head. “After you almost seduced me in that awkward dance at the ball.”

Damon choked on his own breath.

“That wasn’t—”

“An attempt?” she finished. “It was. Poorly executed, but… there was intention.”

He rubbed his face, laughing awkwardly. — I was improvising.

“I noticed.”

“And you… seemed to be having fun.”

Morgana smiled.

A slow smile.

“I had fun.”

Silence.

The instructors’ shouts echoed in the background, but there, in that small space between the two, it seemed like a bubble.

“So,” Damon resumed, trying to regain some control, “are you mad at me?”

She thought for a moment.

“Mad, no,” she finally said. “Just intrigued.”

“That’s usually worse.”

“It usually is.”

She stood up, straightening her uniform, and looked at the field again.

“Two wives…” she murmured. “Who would have thought.”

Damon followed her gaze.

“It wasn’t planned.”

“The best mix-ups never are.”

She started to walk away, but stopped after two steps.

“Damon?”

“Hm?”

She looked over her shoulder.

“Next time you try to seduce someone with a dance…” a slight smile appeared. “try not to look so surprised when it works.”

And then she left, leaving him sitting there, exhausted, confused…

Night fell over Arven like a heavy veil.

The city lights were gradually appearing, magic lanterns lighting up one by one, golden windows gleaming like watchful eyes. Somewhere in the distance, bells marked the changing of the guard’s shift. For most, it was just another night.

For Damon, it was the beginning of something that couldn’t go wrong.

He stood in the center of the room, his back to the open window, the curtain swaying gently in the cool breeze. He wore dark clothes, too simple for a nobleman, too good for a common commoner—the exact kind of anonymity he needed.

In front of him, Aria and Ester.

Aria sat on the edge of the table, swinging her legs with restless energy, her eyes shining with expectation. Ester remained leaning against the wall, arms crossed, a serious, calculating expression, as if she were drawing an invisible map in her head.

Damon took a deep breath.

“Alright,” he began. “We need to get this straight before we leave.” Aria tilted her head.

“You sound serious when you talk like that.”

“Because you are.”

Ester opened her eyes slowly.

“Arven’s black market isn’t a place for improvisation,” she said. “If something gets out of control, there won’t be guards, laws, or important names to protect us.”

“I know,” Damon replied. “But we’re not going in blind either.”

He took the letter from his inside coat pocket and placed it on the table. The paper looked darker in the night light, the broken horn symbol almost pulsing.

“The entry letter,” he continued, “apparently allows companions. Up to two, from what I could decipher from the secondary seal.”

Aria smiled, satisfied.

“Great. That way you won’t mess things up on your own.”

“I never mess things up on my own,” he retorted.

“That’s exactly the problem,” Ester replied immediately.

Damon sighed.

“You’re coming with me.”

Aria clapped once.

“Obviously.”

Ester raised an eyebrow.

“Not out of curiosity” she corrected. “We’re going to make sure you come back in one piece… and that you don’t get scammed.”

“Scammed?” Damon gave a half-smile. “Me?”

“Yes. You” she replied dryly. “You have a talent for attracting chaos.”

Aria laughed.

“And dangerous women.”

Damon ignored her.

“Our objective is simple” he continued. “To get in, observe, find out exactly what’s being auctioned in Lot D-13, who’s involved and…” he paused. “If it’s something too big, we don’t have the money to bid.”

“Then you’ll steal” Aria finished casually.

“Or be very quick” Damon replied. “Information is also worth its weight in gold.”

Ester nodded slowly.

“I agree. No impulsive purchases. No drawing attention.”

Aria slid off the table and went to a trunk leaning against the shelf. She knelt down, opened the lid, and began rummaging through the contents.

“I’ve thought about that,” she said, without looking at them.

“Thought about what?” Damon asked.

She didn’t answer immediately.

Instead, she took something out of the trunk and stood up.

Three masks.

She held them carefully, almost proudly.

“I thought about the entrance.”

Damon narrowed his eyes.

“Masks?”

“Black market,” Aria replied, as if it were obvious. “Fake identities. Symbols. Appearance matters as much as money down there.”

Ester approached, examining the objects.

“They’re… well-made.”

Aria smiled, pleased with the comment.

“I know.”

She handed the first mask to Ester.

It was as white as bone, smooth, too elegant to be innocent. The eyes were narrow, slightly slanted downwards, and thin bluish veins ran across the surface, like cracks in ice. Two small, curved horns emerged from the sides of the forehead, discreet, almost aristocratic.

Ester held it for a moment, in silence.

“This suits me perfectly,” she murmured.

“It was the idea,” Aria replied.

Then Aria turned to Damon.

And then handed him his.

The mask was completely black.

Not an ordinary black—it was deep, opaque, like the absence of light. The shape clearly resembled a goat’s head, elongated, imposing. The eyes were hollow at aggressive angles, outlined by red symbols that looked like they were drawn with dried blood.

Two demonic horns rose from the forehead, long, curved upwards, solid, imposing.

It wasn’t discreet.

It was a statement. Damon stared.

For a few seconds that were far too long.

Then he slowly raised his gaze to Aria.

“…where did you buy that?”

She blinked.

And smiled.

“I made it.”

The silence that followed was thick.

Ester turned her face slowly to Aria.

“You… made it?”

“Yes,” she replied proudly. “With treated leather, artificial bones, alchemical pigments, and a simple concealment enchantment. Nothing fancy.”

“Nothing fancy,” Damon repeated, still staring at the mask.

“I wanted something that suited you,” Aria continued. “Something that said ’don’t touch me,’ but also ’maybe touch me if you’re brave enough.’”

Ester sighed deeply.

“That definitely draws attention.”

“That’s the point,” Aria replied. “Down there, those who try to be invisible become prey. Those who seem dangerous… are avoided.”

Damon turned the mask over in his hands, feeling its weight, its texture.

“This seems… too symbolic.”

Aria tilted her head.

“You don’t like it?”

He hesitated.

“It’s not that.”

He placed the mask on the table.

“It’s just that…” he paused. “It seems like you see me in a specific way.”

She shrugged.

“I see who you are when you’re not pretending.”

Ester cleared her throat.

“Technically,” she said, “this mask creates a perfect narrative. An eccentric, dangerous buyer with a taste for… questionable things.”

“Questionable,” Damon repeated.

“Yes,” Ester continued. “And that explains why someone like you would be interested in a lot classified as ’unclassifiable’.”

Damon closed his eyes for a moment.

“You thought of everything, didn’t you?”

Aria smiled broadly.

“Always.”

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