The smell of fresh bread mixed with the distant stench of coal smoke as Michael wandered through one of Edenbrau’s side streets. Stone buildings pressed close together, their windows open to the air and laundry fluttered between second-story balconies like flags.

  At a corner stall, two older women argued loudly in front of a grizzled baker with flour-stained arms.

  “You raised the price again?” One of them snapped. She wore a patched shawl and clutched a thin coin pouch in both hands. “It was forty-five Cens last week!”

  “And wheat cost half as much two weeks ago” The baker grumbled, not even looking up from his crate. “Don’t blame me. Blame the grain merchants”

  The second woman clicked her tongue.

  “Everything's going up—bread, salt, even lamp oil. Next they'll charge us to breathe”

  “They already do” The first muttered, digging through her pouch. “City tax, temple tithe, and if you want proper food you better pray a Thaler grows legs. I swear a couple years ago you could feed your entire family with a couple of Cens but now?”

  The baker finally stood up straight, holding up a wrapped bundle of bread.

  “One loaf. Fifty Cens. Take it or leave it”

  The first woman reluctantly handed over two small copper coins, her expression so pained it looked like she was giving up her life savings.

  Michael watched quietly from a few steps away. Not out of judgment—just curiosity. This was the first time he had the chance to see how the common folk in this city lived. He found it much more fascinating than the boring banquet that was still ongoing back in the imperial palace.

  He adjusted the hood of his cloak and continued down the street.

  “Now, is this the turn?”

  As he rounded the corner of a building, he realized that he lost track of his whereabouts. It was his first time exploring the city after all.

  A man passed by, wearing a thicker coat, carrying a bag filled with firewood on his back. A common sight considering the nearing winter and lowering temperatures.

  Michael stepped into view, keeping his tone even.

  “Excuse me. Could you point me towards the temple of Lokareth?”

  The man glanced up warily. His eyes swept over Michael’s cloak, his half-hidden face and the way he carried himself.

  It was clear he was not a local and was a bit suspicious but he also did not seem like much of a threat either.

  “You mean the Grand Temple of Saint Valerien?” He asked cautiously.

  Michael nodded.

  “Yes. That’s the one”

  The man shifted the firewood on his back.

  “Keep heading down this road until you reach the fountain square. From there, turn right—you’ll see the spire which sits right next to the temple. Can’t miss it”

  He hesitated for a moment, then added:

  “If you are hoping to attend the mass you should hurry. I believe it has already begun some time ago as far as I am aware. Though I am not a believer of God Lokareth so I might be wrong”

  Michael offered a faint smile.

  “Thank you”

  The man gave a short nod, then continued on his way.

  Michael lingered for a moment, glancing toward the direction he had been given. He could already see the tip of a stone spire rising in the distance—sharp and imposing against the grey clouds.

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  “Saint Valerien, huh?” He muttered.

  The name sounded familiar. Probably something he half-heard during one of the many lectures he was forced to attend.

  “Anyway, let’s get this over with” Michael said so and began to follow the directions he received from the man.

  It did not take long for him to arrive in front of the large temple. It was grand and it was nothing short of the cathedrals Michael was familiar with in his past life. Its doors were open wide, welcoming anyone willing to listen to Lokareth’s teachings.

  He entered and did not cause any disturbance. The seated crowd was too focused on the man in front. The elderly figure standing behind an ornate lectern, draped in ceremonial robes of black and gold. His voice carried through the stone chamber with a calm and measured tone.

  Michael has found his target—the bishop of Lokareth in Edenbrau—Cornelius Cassareth.

  He did not go straight to confront him though and instead took a seat in the far back, pulling down his hood and making himself comfortable. It looked like he was lucky enough to just have made it in time to hear the sermon.

  “Many who first hear of Lokareth feel doubt. God of masks? Deceit?” Cornelius began. “However when one listens to his teachings one can only feel admiration and enlightenment”

  He paused, scanning the crowd with his gaze and smiling upon locking eyes with a certain someone.

  “Nothing more explains the nature of Lokareth than the story of Zeeduin and the three masks…”

  ***

  Zeeduin, a man in his thirties, knelt before a self-made shrine. A mask rested in the center, flanked by two lit candles—one golden, one black.

  “He who seeks light within darkness, and exposes darkness within the light…”

  His hands were clasped in prayer.

  “I beg of you—Lokareth—heed my call!”

  The shrine trembled. The flames burst high, then changed.

  The golden candle now burned with black fire—consuming light.

  The black candle shimmered with golden flame—banishing darkness.

  Opposites, brought into perfect balance.

  “Zeeduin, my faithful follower, why do you call upon my name?”

  The voice echoed in his mind—soft, balanced, and terrifying.

  “I seek your wisdom” Zeeduin replied, his tone low and reverent. “I’ve begun to doubt my wife, Erika. She is distant. Her eyes linger where they shouldn’t. Her smile... it feels rehearsed”

  “Then I shall grant you the power to see past the Three Masks” Lokareth said. “You will know the truth”

  The shrine settled. The candles returned to their natural flame, but something inside Zeeduin shifted.

  That night, as Erika slept, he approached her. Her beauty was unchanged… but instead of her face, he saw a mask.

  A mask with a gentle and respectful smile.

  “This is the Mask of the World” Lokareth whispered. “What she shows the world—her public truth. But one cannot know a soul by this mask alone”

  Zeeduin, desperate to know more, reached to remove it.

  Beneath it was another mask—bright and loving, eyes crinkled with joy.

  “This is the Mask of Familiarity. What she shows to friends and family. A deeper truth—but still a mask”

  “So she does love me” Zeeduin muttered, hopeful.

  Yet doubt crept in again. “There’s still one more…”

  He reached for the final mask—then froze as Lokareth’s voice echoed in his mind.

  “What lies beneath was never meant for your eyes. It may disappoint you. Are you certain?”

  Zeeduin nodded. He needed to know the truth no matter how ugly.

  He removed the second mask—revealing the third.

  This mask had a frown, an expression of pain and resentment.

  “This is the Mask of the Self” Said Lokareth. “What one hides even from their beloved. Her true thoughts, stripped of performance. All that she fears, all that she doubts”

  “So… she hates me?” Zeeduin’s voice cracked.

  “Oh, my faithful child…” Lokareth's voice was full of compassion. “Did you forget my teachings? All you saw were masks. Each carries truth—and each carries falsehood. Why don’t you try removing even this final mask?”

  Zeeduin’s hands trembled. He lifted the last mask only to uncover that his wife was never asleep to begin with. She smiled gently at him.

  “Zeeduin my beloved” Erika spoke. “Not once have I stopped loving you. It’s because of my own doubts that I feared losing you and unknowingly pushed you away myself. I am so sorry, my dear”

  “Erika…” Zeeduin whispered.

  They embraced, tears falling—not from sorrow, but from relief. They finally understood each other. Their worries and their love unmasked at last.

  “Each soul wears these three masks” Lokareth said. “Mask of the World, Familiarity, and of Self. Each tells one truth and one lie but only by seeing past them can two souls understand each other. I revealed these masks for you, Zeeduin—but know this: anyone can see beyond them. All it takes is patience… and will”

  ***

  Michael sat motionless in the back pew. The crowd was enraptured, some even cried after hearing the story. Cornelius’s voice was like honey, thick with warmth and passion.

  But Michael understood enough about people to know that those who preach of masks... often wear the best ones.

  ‘Let’s see what your next sermon reveals, bishop Cassareth. I just hope it won’t be as boring as this one’ He thought.