Legend XXXVIII – The Circle of Sparkling Masks

More about Legend XXXVIII – The Circle of Sparkling Masks

Deep beneath the mirror of a still, forgotten sea lay the city of Ilyrath, its streets trodden for centuries only by currents. Once, it was a place filled with music, a place where poets sang their voices in marble halls and merchants filled their markets with lantern light. But on that night when the moon momentarily went out, Ilyrath, too, went out. The people vanished without a trace, and only the walls remained, overgrown with algae, embraced by sand as if by a deep sleep. But this was only half the truth, for every night a soft whisper rose from the golden ruins, as delicate as the breath of a memory. It was the Circle of Sparkling Masks, the last echo of those souls who had once inhabited the city. When the sea grew dark and the water above the rooftops seemed to smolder like sluggish, black glass, they began to glow: masks of jade, amber, crystal, obsidian, and mother-of-pearl. Each floated where a person had once stood. Each bore a pattern that glowed from within like a secret thought. And each mask contained a lost soul, trapped in an endless moment between memory and oblivion. No one knew who they were anymore. Only their light spoke of them, but no one was there to hear. One evening, however, when the current was unusually warm and a star fell, touching the sea like a tear, a wandering chronicler entered the sunken city. He was called Nurimar, but his story was not his alone; he carried the legends of all places with him, in a book of waterproof leather that never grew heavier, no matter how many stories seeped into it. When he reached Ilyrath, he felt a chill that came not from the sea, but from the silence of the city. And in that silence, a shimmer suddenly arose, so gentle yet so intense that he held his breath. The masks awoke. One by one. A circle of light formed around the old singers' hall, that hall whose roof had been made of turquoise glass panels. But now the masks floated where the choir had once stood, their glow tracing patterns on the walls that recalled forgotten dances. Nurimar stepped closer, and though no voice spoke, he saw stories in the sparkling lines: a mother waiting for her child; a sculptor who loved the sea; a young scholar who believed words could save the world; a dancer who never tired. All these lives glowed around him, each moment frozen in the mask, each longing preserved within it like a drop of amber that never runs dry. But then Nurimar noticed something that made him shudder: the masks seemed not only to show what had been—they expected something from him. Its light flickered as if each soul had stirred, and in the center of the circle, the chronicler saw a mask unlike the others. It was made of a material that shone like moonlight, as if formed from memory itself. And it was empty.