Chapter 34 – The Mask That Drinks in Silence
Part 1: Ashern
The city of Ziraka rose from red stone and desert wind.
Built into the crags of a canyon wall, its streets were narrow and angular, layered with cloth-draped roofs and crooked stairways. Dust painted everything a muted brown. Voices echoed through sandstone tunnels like ghosts too tired to whisper secrets.
It was the kind of place people came to disappear.
Perfect.
Ashern arrived just after noon.
No banners. No sword strapped across his back. No mention of who he'd once been.
Just a worn coat, travel dust on his boots, and a face no one had seen before.
[System: Veil of Echoed Flesh – Active]Disguise Stability: 100%Identity: Ashern (Registered)Passive Perception Deflection: +40%
"You are the silence between rumors."
He passed the outer checkpoint without a second glance. Guards watched him with the same suspicion they gave every traveler—just enough to remember the shape, not the face.
A few adventurers lounged near the southern guildhall, flashing their tags, bragging about mutated sand wyrms and border skirmishes.
Ashern walked past.
He had no use for guilds.
Not here.
His face had been burned into the rumors of Almaarad. Even if they didn't know his name, even if they hadn't seen him… the story of a burning church and a shadowy killer was beginning to spread.
Joining a guild meant registration. Registration meant risk.
So he kept walking.
The tavern found him more than he found it.
It was tucked beneath a leaning stairwell in the old market sector. A warped wooden sign hung by two rusted chains, its paint flaking and sun-bleached.
The Red Lantern
Inside: dim lighting, smoke-stained ceilings, and half a dozen tables spaced wide enough that no one could overhear anyone else.
Perfect.
The bartender was old, slouched, and wore a leather apron stained with age. He glanced up from wiping a mug.
"You want a room or a drink?"
Ashern stepped forward. "Neither."
"Then you're in the wrong place."
"I'm looking for work."
That made the man pause.
He eyed Ashern's hands. Callused, but not fresh. Watched the way he stood—centered, quiet, not tense but ready.
"You don't move like a beggar," the barkeep muttered. "But you don't talk like a sellsword either."
"I listen."
The bartender huffed. "You listen, do you? What, you gonna spy on my customers?"
"No. I'll serve them."
Another pause. Then the old man smirked.
"Barback job's yours if you want it. Guy before you went missing. Pay's low. You keep quiet, work fast, and don't spill anything, and maybe you stay."
Ashern nodded once.
The man tossed him a rag and gestured toward a crate of dirty mugs.
"You break anything, I charge you. You overhear anything, you didn't. Got it?"
"Understood."
And just like that, the city swallowed him.
By sunset, Ashern was behind the bar.
He moved like smoke—present, but unnoticeable. Cleaning glasses, pouring drinks, collecting coin, and keeping his eyes open.
And Ziraka spoke.
Even when its people didn't mean to.
A merchant complained about rising Church taxes—said another priest had moved into the cathedral and tripled the offering fee.
A group of soldiers mentioned a Church "inquiry team" coming down from the capital soon."Another ghost hunt," one of them laughed. "Some guy burned down a holy site in Almaarad. Crazy bastard."
No one knew a name. Just a shape.
A coat.
A silent killer.
Ashern smiled, just barely.
They were chasing a ghost.
And he was already two cities ahead.