The Masked Legacy

As Thorne and Darius stepped out of the forge, the crisp evening air of Ironhold embraced them. The faint scent of smelted iron lingered around the courtyard, mingling with the earthy aroma of fresh grass and distant rain. Shadows stretched long across the cobblestone paths, cast by the golden glow of torches mounted on the palace walls. The distant sound of hammers striking metal echoed through the fief, a rhythmic reminder of the heart of Ironhold's craftsmanship.

Thorne's gaze, even without sight, instinctively turned toward a familiar presence. His sister, Lara, stood at the edge of the courtyard, her figure small yet vibrant against the grand backdrop of the palace. The moment their eyes—or rather, his blindfold—connected, she sprinted towards him. Her soft footsteps on the stone path grew louder, and in an instant, she was in his arms.

"Thorne!" she cried, her voice a mixture of relief and overwhelming emotion. She clung to him tightly, her body trembling, and Thorne could feel the raw intensity of her feelings as if they were his own. Her sobs were muffled against his chest, her tears warm and damp on his tunic.

"I was so worried…" she managed to whisper through her tears, her voice breaking.

Thorne closed his eyes, pressing his face into her hair, inhaling the familiar scent of lavender oil that their mother used to favor. The sensation grounded him, anchoring him back to the reality of home. After a moment, he whispered, his voice low and full of regret,

"I'm sorry for making you worry, Lara. I was… held up."

Thorne noticed their father, Darius, quietly slipping away, a rare smile on his usually stern face. Thorne knew his father well enough to understand—he was probably heading off to set plans in motion now that Thorne had returned. Darius had always been a man of action.

Lara pulled back slightly, her eyes searching his face, even though she knew he couldn't meet her gaze.

"I sent word to Kaesa," she said, sniffling but managing a smile.

"She came back a few days ago. You missed her final rite of liberation." Her eyes sparkled with excitement.

 "It was marvelous! It felt like the gods themselves came down to bless her mask."

Thorne's lips curled into a small, proud smile.

"I wouldn't expect anything less from Kaesa. She's always been relentless."

He could imagine the scene vividly: Kaesa, standing tall and confident, the fire in her eyes reflecting the divine light of her newfound power. She had always been ambitious, driven by a force few could match. He never doubted that she would succeed.

As Lara continued to chatter about Kaesa's triumph, Thorne's heart swelled with a familiar warmth. Despite everything that had changed in the past two weeks—the danger, the isolation, the grueling trials of the Garden—Lara was still the same. Her spirit was unchanged, a beacon of light in his world of darkness. He reached out, cupping her cheeks in his hands, his thumbs gently wiping away the lingering tears.

"It's good to see you, Lara," he said, his voice thick with emotion.

She nodded, her eyes glistening, and her smile softened.

 "You too, Thorne. I missed you."

He could feel the depth of her words, the weight of everything unspoken. She looped her arm through his, and they began to walk together, her voice filling the silence as she updated him on everything he had missed. The soft glow of lanterns lined the palace hallways, their light flickering gently, casting dancing shadows on the stone walls. The air was filled with the quiet hum of life—servants moving swiftly but silently, the distant laughter of guards sharing stories, the faint rustle of leaves in the courtyard.

As they walked, Lara's words painted vivid images in Thorne's mind. He learned about the other Maskless who had returned from the Garden. Some had succeeded, like him; others hadn't.

Leol's name came up—a quiet boy Thorne had known only in passing.

"Leol didn't make it back," Lara said softly, her voice heavy with sorrow.

"He... didn't deserve that."

Thorne's heart clenched. He hadn't known Leol well, but he remembered his quiet kindness—the fact that he never joined in the mockery or judgment Thorne often faced. That alone had made him a good person in Thorne's eyes. "The Garden spares no one," Thorne murmured. "We all knew the risks."

Lara nodded, her eyes distant. "They tell us that from the moment we're old enough to understand. We're given the choice to live as mundanes, to stay safe. But for most of us… that's not really a choice, is it?"

Thorne didn't answer. They both knew the truth. Living as a mundane in their world meant a life of obscurity and lower status. It was safer, perhaps, but for many, it was no life at all. The promise of power, of honor, of legacy—it was worth the risk.

As they passed through the grand hallways of the Palace of Ironhold, the occasional bow and salute from maids and guards punctuated their journey. Thorne acknowledged each with a respectful nod, though he sensed the glances they exchanged—curiosity, admiration, perhaps a hint of respect. His reputation had grown, it seemed, even in his absence.

Lara's voice filled the silence between them, her stories weaving a tapestry of life in Ironhold. She spoke of new alliances being forged, of old rivalries simmering beneath the surface, of the subtle shifts in power that Thorne had missed.

It was unavoidable, now that there were now maskless who had already had their masked blessed, The Veiled they were called.

Now there would be several shifts in power alliances and even rivalries springing up, the Veiled afterall were the future of the families.

As they approached the courtyard, the evening sky stretched wide above them, painted in hues of deep blue and crimson. The cool breeze carried the scent of blooming night flowers, and the distant sound of ceremonial drums echoed from the village beyond the palace walls.

Thorne look forward to the disturbance this new generation of Veiled would bring with them, a grin splitting his lips.