The moment Nyx's voice echoed in her mind, Iris moved.
Thalen barely had time to catch her wrist before she stormed up the garden path.
"We don't even know where he is—"
"I do," she snapped. "The seed told me. And so did Nyx."
He didn't question it. Maybe because her eyes glowed faintly now, or because the watch in her palm ticked in rhythm with her heartbeat. Either way, he drew his sword and fell in beside her.
They traveled quickly through the Garden of Night's outer paths, slipping between pools of moonlight and thorn-shadow. Every step forward pulled them deeper into enemy ground.
"I know where he's keeping Nyx," Iris said. "It's not a prison. It's… an altar."
Thalen's jaw tightened. "He's going to open the seal."
"Yes. And Nyx is the key."
The path ended at a cliffside, where the Veil shimmered like a torn curtain. Beyond it, a fragment of Faerun floated alone—an island of black stone suspended in the void.
At its center: a spire shaped like a mask.
"That's his lair," Thalen muttered. "The Masked Spire."
The watch ticked faster.
They crossed the Veil's tear in silence, the air thin and heavy. The spire loomed, carved from black stone veined with silver, its surface covered in thousands of masks—faces of joy, grief, fury, fear. Some were fae. Some human. Some… not either.
Inside, a single staircase spiraled downward, lit by ghostly torches that burned without smoke.
Every few steps, Iris felt a flicker of something else—a memory that wasn't hers.
A boy with pale hair, hiding behind a mask too big for his face. A crown handed to another. A promise whispered in the dark.
The Lord of Masks' voice came from nowhere and everywhere:
"Do you know why I wear it?"
They kept walking, weapons ready.
"Because I learned, long ago, that faces are fragile things. Easy to break. Easier to take."
The staircase ended in a cavern.
Nyx hung at the center, bound in silver threads that glowed faintly against the darkness. Beneath him, a sigil pulsed—an interlocking pattern of constellations that shifted slowly, as though the stars themselves were moving.
The Lord of Masks stood at its edge.
Up close, his mask wasn't polished. It was cracked, weathered, like something worn for centuries. In the dim light, Iris thought she saw a faint glow beneath it—skin marked with the same shifting constellations she'd seen on Nyx's back.
He didn't look surprised to see them.
"I was wondering when you'd come," he said. "Nephew. Seer."
Thalen's sword gleamed. "Let him go."
The Lord tilted his head. "You still don't understand, do you? This isn't about killing him. It's about freeing all of us."
Iris stepped forward. "Freeing us from what?"
"The lie," the Lord said softly. "The First Binding. The prison your precious Thorn Queen calls 'balance.' The Astral One is not our enemy—it's our origin."
His voice deepened. "Once, before the Courts, before the Veil, we were infinite. We could walk the threads of time. Shape the stars. But they feared that power. So they tore it from us, bound it, and gave us rules. Seasons. Courts. Death."
Iris shook her head. "And you want to bring it back? Even if it destroys everything?"
"Everything they built, yes."
Thalen stepped closer. "You betrayed your Court. You betrayed me."
The Lord didn't flinch. "I protected you. The Queen would have used you as she used me—as she used the Seers. A pawn to keep the prison sealed."
He turned to Iris. "You've felt it, haven't you? The moments when time bends around you. That is the truth of what we were. That is what they stole."
Iris swallowed. "And Nyx?"
The Lord's tone softened. "The perfect key. Not born of the Courts, but touched by all of them. He has walked where no one else could survive—the Astral Fold. The mark on his back isn't a curse. It's an invitation."
Nyx coughed weakly. "Don't… listen to him."
The Lord ignored him and stepped onto the sigil. The starlight shifted, threads of power reaching upward toward Nyx.
The watch in Iris's hand ticked violently.
She made her choice.
She ran forward, tossing the black seed the Thorn Queen had given her into the center of the sigil.
It hit the stone and exploded into a snarl of living thorns—black and burning with moonfire. They lashed out, cutting through the threads binding Nyx.
The Lord staggered back, but his laugh echoed through the chamber.
"You think thorns can hold me?" he said, tearing them away with a sweep of his hand.
"No," Iris said, catching Nyx as he fell. "But they can buy me time."
Thalen lunged at his uncle. The clash of blade against masked hand rang like a bell. Sparks—no, stars—flew from each strike.
Iris dragged Nyx toward the stair, the watch glowing brighter with every step. The sigil behind them flickered and warped, the Veil above shuddering as if something on the other side was pressing against it.
The Lord of Masks' voice followed them.
"You can't stop it, Seer! The Astral One will walk again! And when it does, you'll see I was right!"
They reached the stair. The Veil tore wider above, starlight spilling into the spire like water through a crack.
Nyx's hand gripped her arm. His voice was hoarse. "Iris… it's not over."
She knew.
And she knew they were running out of time.