Beneath the Grove's shifting canopy, a fissure opened—not in the ground, but in perspective.
It did not crack the soil.
It split a gaze.
For in a hidden alcove called the Mirror Fold—where stories once glimpsed the author looking back—a mask began to peel. It had no eyes, no mouth. Just a smooth surface, lacquered with authority.
It was the Authorial Mask.
Not a person. A persona.
The one who claimed credit without care. Who trimmed subplots into silhouettes. Who declared canon with a closed hand. Worn by many, passed between editors, directors, gatekeepers—those who believed shaping a world gave them dominion over its breath.
But the Grove had changed.
Now, the mask cracked.
Because something had awakened in the narrative current: not a rebel, not a reader, not even a Witness—
But an Unmasker.
Their name was Nore.
No title. No domain. Just a role they had taken upon themselves:
To confront the tyrannies of authorship unshared.