Applause still echoed in the small square when Marcelo felt a new tug, more insistent, on the sleeve of his doublet. It was Lydia, who now pointed with her tiny paw toward a side street leading away from the square, less crowded and shaded by older buildings.
— "Marcelo, look there!" — she hissed, her voice filled with a sudden excitement that overpowered even her post-feast drowsiness. Her amber eyes, previously half-closed, were now wide open, fixed on something in the distance.
Marcelo followed her direction. Midway down the side street, almost pressed against the soot-blackened brick wall of an alchemical components shop, stood a stall unlike the others. It was simple: just a dark wooden table, worn by time, covered with a deep-blue velvet cloth so dark it seemed to absorb the fading afternoon light. Upon the cloth, a single bronze oil lamp with smoked glass cast a faint, flickering circle of light. Seated behind the table, nearly merging with the shadows, was a man. Or something like one.
He was tall and thin, wrapped in a thick, dark woolen cloak with the hood pulled forward, completely concealing his face in a pit of darkness. His hands—slender and pale as ancient ivory—rested motionless on the velvet. Between them, at the exact center of the circle of light, lay a single object: a small carved wooden box, with no visible lock or hinge. The carvings were intricate, geometric patterns that seemed to shift and rearrange when stared at, like tiny gears in an invisible clock.
No sign, no name, no call to attention. Only the silent presence, the enigmatic box, and the emptiness around the stall, as if passersby unconsciously avoided it, creating a strange bubble of quiet amid the city's bustle.
— "What is that?" — asked Lydia, her voice low, almost a whisper. Her purring had ceased completely, replaced by subtle tension. She straightened on Marcelo's shoulder, her membranous wings folding tightly against her body, alert.
Marcelo frowned. The scene was incongruous. Street stalls were meant for selling, for drawing attention, for haggling. This one was silent. There was something about that box that gave him a strange feeling—an attraction, like approaching a flame knowing it might burn.
— "I don't know, Lydia" — he replied, his voice equally hushed. — "But it doesn't seem... ordinary."
— "Should we take a closer look?" — the little dragon insisted, tugging his sleeve again. — "You've got coins to spare, right? It can't be too expensive..."
This shadowy stall felt like a dissonant chord in a symphony. But Lydia's persistence and his own awakened curiosity spoke louder.
What is he selling? Marcelo thought, then said aloud:
— "Just a little closer" — he agreed, adjusting the velvet pouch containing the crystals into a more secure pocket of his doublet.
He stepped away from the lingering crowd around the street performer and began walking toward the side street, his steps slower and more cautious than before. The noise from the main square quickly faded, replaced by the echo of his own footsteps on the stones and the distant creak of a door. The air here felt colder, thick with the acrid scent of dried herbs and rusted metal wafting from the alchemy shop.
As he neared the shadowy stall, the hooded figure didn't move. It didn't even seem to notice him. The pale hands remained still on the velvet, like sculptures. The only sign of life was the flickering lamplight glinting off the box's intricate carvings. Up close, Marcelo could see the geometric patterns truly seemed to rotate slowly, like tiny mechanisms beneath the wood's surface.
Lydia froze completely on his shoulder. Only her amber eyes, glowing like two coins in the dimness, darted about, studying the box, the vendor, the dark cloth. A slight tremor—not fear, but focused excitement—ran through her small body.
Marcelo stopped about two meters from the table. The silence felt oppressive. He cleared his throat.
— "Good afternoon" — he said, his voice unnaturally loud in the quiet space.
The hooded figure slowly raised its head. The hood was deep, and where a face should have been, there was only denser darkness. What Marcelo saw weren't eyes, but two pinpricks of cold light—tiny and pale like distant, dying stars—fixed on him. A chill ran down his spine.
The pale hands finally moved. With deliberate, almost ritualistic slowness, the right hand glided over the surface of the wooden box. It didn't touch the wood directly but hovered millimeters above the dark surface. Where the slender fingers passed, the geometric carvings glowed faintly with a ghostly blue light, trailing the movement like a wake. The pattern spun faster, emitting a nearly inaudible hum—the sound of tiny gears interlocking.
— "Do you seek something, young Summoner?" — The voice emerging from the darkness beneath the hood wasn't loud but penetrating. It sounded like the rustle of dry leaves in an ancient tomb or the drag of chains over stone. It held no emotion, only a coldness that made Marcelo's neck hairs stand on end.
Lydia let out a muffled squeak, pressing herself against Marcelo's neck.
Marcelo swallowed hard. The chill of the mana crystals in his pocket suddenly felt sharper. He fought the urge to step back.
— "What are you selling?" — he began, forcing his voice steadier than he felt. — "This box? What's its price?"
The pinpricks of light beneath the hood seemed to brighten slightly, shifting from the box to Marcelo.
— "The box is not for sale... but my services concern it. For a single mana crystal, I can sell you what lies inside" — the voice hissed, the hum of invisible gears growing subtly louder. The pale hand continued its hypnotic motion over the wood, the blue light dancing beneath its fingers. — "A treasure, a miracle—what the heart most desires... or what the mind most fears. What you draw from the box depends solely on your fortune..."
— "One crystal?" — Marcelo asked, instinctively touching the pocket holding the lesser mana crystals.
A sound like a dry laugh—or old timber groaning—emerged from the hood's shadows.
— "Yes. Consider it... destiny!" — The voice lingered on the words, as if savoring them.
Destiny? This reeked of a scam. The guy was likely a thief. Marcelo no longer cared. Just one mana crystal. He could earn it back on an easy mission. Today, he'd let curiosity win—even if the prize turned out to be disappointing.
With a swift, almost defiant motion, Marcelo plunged his hand into his doublet's inner pocket, felt the rough velvet of the pouch, and fished out one of the small lesser mana crystals. The stone, dull and uneven, glowed with pale turquoise in his palm before he placed it firmly on the deep-blue velvet beside the pulsing box. Its clink was muffled by the cloth.
— "Take it. One crystal." — said Marcelo, trying to sound indifferent. — "Let's see what miracle or destiny this buys."
The starlike points of light within the hood fixed on the crystal for a moment, as if appraising it. The hum of invisible gears increased almost imperceptibly. The hooded figure's pale hand withdrew from the box's surface. Instead of opening it, however, it slid beneath the velvet tablecloth. When it reappeared, it held an object that hadn't been there before.
It was a mask.
Not a party or theater mask, but an ancient-looking piece. Carved from dark wood, almost black, so dense it seemed to absorb the lamplight. It depicted the serene yet stern face of an elder. The features were deep and precise: wrinkles etched like furrows around hollow, shadowed eyes; a high, furrowed brow; a gaunt, severe face; a thin, aquiline nose; and lips pressed thin in a weary line. There was no beard, only a sharply sculpted, pointed chin. The wood had a dull, time-waxed sheen and exuded a distinct scent of incense.
Lydia stretched her neck, her amber eyes wide with surprise and mild disdain.
— "A... mask?" — she hissed, confused. — "Of an old man? This is the treasure?"
For an instant, a flicker of surprise also passed over the vendor. This mask? Perhaps it really is destiny... he sighed inwardly.
The hooded figure ignored the little dragon's remark. His hand extended the mask toward Marcelo. The movement was slow, almost solemn.
— "Your fortune has been... interesting, young Summoner" — the cavernous voice hissed, its tone inscrutable. — "The Mask of the Forgotten Sage. Keep it. Your destiny... will reveal itself when the need arises..."
In truth, it was merely an ordinary mask, and the vendor was practically bouncing with joy at having sold something so useless. But he masked it well with his pose of a mysterious man. Indeed, he played the role skillfully.
Marcelo took the mask. The wood was colder than the mana crystal and surprisingly heavy for its size. Its surface felt smooth under his fingers, except for the carved furrows and grooves. He felt a faint tremor run through the object—or perhaps it was his own hand. He looked into the hollow, shadowed eyes of the carving. There was a strange intensity there, a sensation of silent observation that unsettled him.
— "Destiny will reveal itself?" — Marcelo repeated.
A rough sound—impossible to define as laughter or a cough—echoed from the shadows.
— "The crystal bought the object, young man. How to use it... or understand it... you will discover!"
The starlike pinpoints of light seemed to flicker with a spark of something that might have been perverse amusement. — "Now, go your way. The transaction is concluded."
Lydia gave an urgent tug on Marcelo's collar.
— "Let's leave, Marcelo" — she hissed, eyeing the mask with distrust. — "This doesn't smell right."
Marcelo silently agreed. The initial fascination with the box and its mystery had evaporated, replaced by an uneasy feeling of having been cheated in a strange way—not by the cost, but by the bizarre nature of the prize. One crystal for an old wooden mask? Yes, it was a scam. A peculiar scam, but a scam nonetheless. He stuffed the mask reluctantly inside his doublet, feeling its cold weight against his chest.
— "Thanks... for the luck" — said Marcelo, his dry tone unable to hide the sarcasm. He turned away without ceremony, feeling the points of light burning into his back once more.
This time, as he moved away from the bubble of silence and back into the bustle of the main square, the relief was lesser. The mask's weight bothered him, physically and mentally. The hooded man's words echoed: *"Your destiny... will reveal itself..."* Nonsense, probably. Theater to impress fools. But the image of the carved elder's empty eyes remained etched in his mind.
— "Well" — he murmured to Lydia, who nestled on his shoulder, still eyeing sidelong where he'd stored the mask. — "At least it wasn't completely boring. And one crystal... we'll get it back. Let's go home. I need rest."
He quickened his pace, eager to leave the city center and the memory of that peculiar transaction behind.
*****
As Marcelo walked away, disappearing into the flow of the crowd with Lydia nestled on his shoulder, the hooded man watched his back for a long moment. When the distance felt safe, a slight tremor ran through his thin shoulders beneath the heavy cloak. Not fear, but contained bewilderment. With nearly imperceptible movements, he tilted the ebony box slightly over the deep-blue velvet. Something heavy rolled inside, thudding dully against the wooden walls. Tilting the box onto the table, he let slide out... another mask.
Identical.
The same dark, near-black wood, absorbing the light. The same stern elder's face, with deep wrinkles around hollow eyes, a furrowed brow, an aquiline nose, thin lips, and a beardless, pointed chin. The same dull sheen and the same distinct scent of incense.
The two starlike points of light within the hood fixed on the new mask now lying beside the box on the velvet. A palpable hesitation hung in the cold air of the side street.
— "Huh?" — A hoarse whisper escaped the shadows, involuntary, shattering the theatrical pose. — "I... I had two of these?"
The bewilderment lasted only an instant. The mysterious vendor shook his head, almost as if scolding himself. No matter. The scam had worked once; it would work again. With a swift, almost careless gesture, he pushed the new mask back under the velvet tablecloth, making it vanish. He straightened up a little, recomposing his aura of inscrutable mystery. The transaction was complete, the crystal secured. The role of vendor of miracles and destinies had to continue. He returned to stillness, the points of light fixed on the emptiness ahead, awaiting the next curious or desperate soul.
Across the small square, the street performer in patched clothes (blood-red, egg-yellow, and sky-blue) finished gathering coins from his worn felt hat. His nimble fingers, accustomed to dexterity, quickly counted the copper and bronze discs. As he did, his eyes—bright and shrewd beneath colorful face powder—rested briefly on the figure of Marcelo vanishing into the distance, the small silhouette of Lydia still visible like an ornament on his shoulder. A wide, genuine smile full of white teeth spread across his face, utterly unlike the performative expression he'd worn during the act.
— "A lovely surprise!" — He chuckled softly, the sound lost in the hubbub. The laughter was warm and full of intimate joy. — "How small this world is, isn't it, friend?"
Without further ceremony, he stuffed the full hat onto his head, spun swiftly and elegantly on the heels of his bicolored, pointed shoes, and plunged into the crowd flowing through the square. In two steps, he seemed to dissolve among the bodies, as if he had never been there.
At the spot where the street performer had stood moments before, the small circle of spectators seemed to awaken from a collective dream. Expressions of enchantment and concentration gave way to vacant, confused stares, then to a slow dawning of bewilderment.
A woman with a shopping basket blinked, looking around.
— "What... what am I doing here?" — she murmured, frowning.
Beside her, a man in a blacksmith's apron scratched his head, staring at the cobblestones as if expecting to find an answer.
— "I don't know..." — he replied, his voice thick with uncertainty.
— "Ah, I'm going home..." — a young woman decided suddenly, turning and walking quickly away as if fleeing an uncomfortable place.
Another man, arms crossed, stared fixedly at the empty space where the performer had been.
— "Eh? What was I even doing?" — he asked no one in particular.
— "Dunno, think I was shopping?" — ventured an elderly woman beside him, adjusting her glasses.
A boy who had been in the front row, eyes wide earlier, looked up at his father.
— "I swear there was a street performer here! Juggling, plates, everything!"
The father shook his head, a crease of confusion marking his brow.
— "Don't be daft, son. How could we miss that? It was empty."
— "I'm sure no one was here," — insisted another nearby man, looking around as if seeking witnesses. — "No hat, nothing."
— "Then why are so many people standing here?" — questioned the bespectacled woman, eyeing the scattered group still lingering, all wearing equally bewildered expressions. — "How strange..."
— "A mass hallucination..." — suggested the blacksmith-aproned man, with the air of someone trying to find a logical explanation for the illogical.
— "Certainly..." — agreed the other man, shaking his head in resignation. The group began to slowly disperse, each going their separate way, carrying with them the vague, unsettling feeling of having lost minutes of their lives to a spectacle that perhaps never existed. The square returned to its normal flow, but a thread of doubt and strangeness lingered in the air, as light as the smell of frying food drifting from the market.