The manor was eerily quiet as the evening drew near, its towering stone walls looming like silent sentinels in the dimming light. The air was thick with anticipation, but also with an unsettling stillness, as if the world itself was holding its breath. The grand family banquet was mere hours away, yet Seraphina could not shake the gnawing feeling that something was terribly wrong.
She wandered through the hallways, her steps soft against the worn stone floor, until she arrived at the altar room. There, towering in the center, stood the statue of the family's patron saint, a figure carved from ancient stone, once revered by generations long past. But now, the statue seemed... different. The air around it was thick, as if it pulsed with a silent, malignant energy.
As she stepped closer, her heart skipped a beat. Black, viscous liquid was dripping from the statue's outstretched hands. It fell in slow, deliberate drops, each one splattering on the stone floor with a sickening sound. The liquid glistened like oil, but there was something in its motion—something unnatural. It moved almost too slowly, as though reluctant to meet the ground.
She reached out instinctively, but her hand froze just inches from the liquid. A soft whisper—barely audible—suddenly brushed past her ear.
"Seraphina..."
The voice was familiar, yet it sent a chill down her spine. It was Elias.
"Do not touch it," Elias's voice came again, louder this time, filled with warning. He emerged from the shadows, his face pale, his eyes dark with concern. His expression was serious—too serious for a mere family gathering.
"The bronze mask," he continued, his voice dropping to a whisper, "it whispers in the shadows... It has always been there, watching. But now... now it speaks of something far worse."
Seraphina turned to look at him, confusion flickering in her gaze. Elias was not one to speak in such riddles. His eyes were wide, filled with a fear she had rarely seen in him.
"What do you mean, Elias?" she asked, her voice trembling slightly, as she glanced back at the dripping statue. "What is this?"
Before Elias could answer, something caught her eye—a shimmer in the black liquid. She stepped closer, her heart racing, drawn to it as if it were calling her. As the liquid dripped, it began to crystallize, forming intricate patterns on the cold stone floor. Tiny, delicate petals bloomed from the dripping substance, each one a perfect ice crystal, its edges sharp and flawless.
But inside each petal—each crystalline layer—something else lay hidden. Tiny gears, no larger than the head of a pin, were embedded within the flower's heart. They whirred softly, turning with a dissonant, metallic grind that made Seraphina's skin crawl. The sound was like nails scraping against glass—sharp, unbearable.
Her breath caught in her throat. The gears seemed to shift, almost of their own accord, moving with an eerie precision. And with each turn, a faint inscription on the gears became visible—written in a script that seemed to writhe and twist before her eyes.
"Iteration 43."
The words sent a shock through Seraphina's body. She knew that phrase. She had seen it before—in the journals her mother had hidden from her, in the whispers of forgotten ancestors who spoke of things better left untouched. Iteration 43. The thought echoed through her mind, but she couldn't grasp its full meaning—only that it was connected to something far beyond her understanding.
A sudden shift in the air made her flinch. Elias's hand grasped her arm tightly, pulling her away from the altar, his face pale with fear.
"Seraphina, we have to leave. Now," he urged, his grip firm. "You don't understand. This is not just an omen. This is a message."
Before she could respond, a soft, unmistakable sound reached her ears—the faintest whisper, just below the threshold of hearing, like the rustling of a thousand forgotten voices. It came from the shadows of the room.
The mask. It's calling to you.
Seraphina's eyes widened as she turned toward the corner of the room, where the faint outline of the bronze mask hung in the darkness. Its features were distorted, as though the years of neglect had twisted its form, and yet, there was an undeniable presence to it—something that felt like an eternal watchful gaze.
And then, the whisper came again, clearer this time. "Come closer."
Seraphina's heart pounded in her chest as Elias's grip tightened, his warning only growing more urgent. But it was too late. The mask's voice had already taken root in her mind, its influence creeping into her thoughts like a shadow.
She pulled away from Elias, her eyes fixed on the mask. It was as though something deep within her stirred, something ancient and forgotten, urging her to step forward, to answer its call.
But a deeper part of her—the part that still clung to reason—screamed at her to run, to turn away. But the gears... Iteration 43... The words echoed in her mind, louder than the whispers of the mask.
She took a tentative step forward.