Chapter 16: Myths of Carcera
The sun had long since set behind the jagged spires of Carcera, casting the city in its usual shroud of twilight. But in the lower districts—where the streets twisted like vines and lanterns swung lazily in the wind—the city was most alive. Here, myths were born not in books, but in smoke-filled taverns, whispered beneath hoods, or passed from mother to child like protective charms.
Loki and Selena sat in one such tavern, tucked into a shadowed corner that overlooked a room full of laughter, pipe smoke, and the metallic scent of spilled ale. Disguised as wandering scholars, they sipped from mismatched mugs and listened. It was not their words that mattered here, but the words of others.
At a nearby table, a large man with a faded crimson scarf waved his hand theatrically. "The Dumornays? They're not men anymore—they're relics. I heard Magnus hasn't aged in a decade. Man made a deal with the Veiled God, the one that lives beneath the catacombs."
The woman seated across from him scoffed. "You're daft. He doesn't need gods. The Dumornays control death because they fear nothing. You think the mask going missing rattled him? Ha. If anything, he planned it."
"Planned it?" another patron leaned in. "You think Magnus would risk something so powerful on purpose?"
"You don't understand," the woman replied, lowering her voice. "Nothing happens in Carcera unless the ruling families allow it. That trickster—Loki, they say—it's not a coincidence he got it. That's a message."
Selena kept her expression neutral, but her fingers tensed around her mug.
Loki smirked, sipping his drink with a flourish. "Well," he whispered under his breath, "nice to be recognized."
Outside the tavern, the night was thick with mist, rolling in from the harbor like a ghost seeking an audience. Loki and Selena slipped through alleyways, away from the chatter of drunks and merchants, into quieter streets.
"It's strange, isn't it?" Loki said, glancing up at the flickering lanterns. "How the people down here know more about the ruling families than the nobles themselves do."
Selena's gaze was fixed ahead. "Myths aren't about facts. They're how people survive. They make sense of the madness, give shape to fear."
He chuckled. "So what myth would they make of us, you think?"
She stopped and looked at him, expression unreadable. "That depends on how this ends."
High above the city, in the elegant sprawl of the Dumornay estate, Magnus stood in front of an intricate tapestry. It depicted the founding of Carcera: four figures—hooded, masked, cloaked in storm and fire—holding court above a trembling city. Nerissa approached, her footsteps silent.
"Word from the taverns," she said quietly. "Your name is on every tongue. Some believe you let the mask go."
Magnus didn't turn. "And some believe lightning is the breath of the Shaper. Belief is a weapon, Nerissa."
She paused. "And Loki?"
"He's playing his role. The trickster must always think he leads the dance."
"And when he learns the dance was choreographed from the start?"
"Then he'll understand his place in the story."
Meanwhile, in the underground halls of the Aldrens, Kael walked alongside his mother. Murals of shadow beasts and cloaked blades stretched along the stone walls.
"They think Magnus planned this," Kael said. "They're giving him too much credit."
Maris glanced at him. "Are they?"
Kael frowned. "If we don't act soon, the city will believe the Dumornays control even chaos itself. That makes them invincible."
Maris stopped, placing a hand on his shoulder. "Then make them bleed in the dark. But not a moment too soon. Remember, Kael—the Night Stalker teaches patience."
Further still, at the DeLuin estate, a storm crackled in a chamber carved into the cliffside. Lyra DeLuin stood in the center, her arms extended as bolts of electricity danced across her fingers.
Her father, Fendris, observed from behind a glass partition. "The city believes Magnus is untouchable," he said, more to himself than to Lyra. "That's a dangerous myth."
Lyra opened her eyes, which sparked faintly. "Then we should remind them that storms don't ask permission to arrive."
Fendris gave a rare smile. "Not yet. But soon. Let the Mask stir them deeper. Let them all believe it was taken by accident."
Back in the woods beyond Carcera, Loki and Selena set up camp. The firelight cast long shadows, flickering across their faces.
Selena laid out her notes, recalculating paths and possibilities. Loki watched her from across the fire, eyes glinting.
"They're all moving now," he said quietly. "The Veyrons with their whispers. The Aldrens in shadow. The DeLuins wrapped in thunder."
Selena didn't look up. "And us?"
Loki smiled. "We're the storm they didn't expect."
She finally met his gaze. "You don't believe in fate, do you?"
He leaned back, folding his arms behind his head. "I believe in misdirection. Which, sometimes, looks a lot like fate."
The fire crackled between them, a flickering heart in the cold woods. Around them, the winds of Carcera stirred, and far above, the ruling families watched with eyes veiled in prophecy and design.
Nothing in Carcera was ever as it seemed.