Chapter Eight: Masks in the Crowd
The music started softly.
Too softly to notice at first. Just a thread of sound woven between voices, carts, and clinking coin. Aerin only caught it because the hum in their chest shifted—tuning itself, like a string pulled tight.
They stopped walking.
Kerris didn't. He took three more steps before realizing Aerin wasn't beside him anymore.
"Oh no," he muttered, turning back. "That's the look again. What is it now? Are the barrels whispering secrets?"
"Do you hear that?" Aerin asked.
Kerris tilted his head. "Hear what?"
Maelra's expression hardened. "We need to move."
But it was already too late.
The music grew.
Not louder—closer. It slid into the gaps between heartbeats, between thoughts. A single voice joined it, then another, harmonizing without effort. The sound didn't demand attention. It invited it.
People slowed.
Smiles softened. Arguments dissolved mid-sentence. A vendor who'd been shouting moments ago blinked, then laughed as if embarrassed to have ever been angry at all.
Aerin's chest tightened.
"Something's wrong," Kerris said, rubbing his arms. "Why do I suddenly feel like apologizing to everyone I've ever met?"
"That's not you," Maelra said sharply.
At the center of the square, a small group had formed—no stage, no announcement. Just figures standing close together, faces half-hidden behind pale masks etched with delicate lines.
The Veilbound Choir.
They sang without opening their mouths.
The sound moved through breath and posture, through shared rhythm. Emotions bled outward like spilled ink—contentment, relief, devotion. The crowd leaned in unconsciously, bodies angling toward the source.
Aerin felt it press against them.
Warm. Persuasive.
Rest, it whispered.
Let go.
You're tired.
Their knees buckled slightly.
Maelra's stone hand slammed into the ground.
The impact rang dull and heavy, like a bell struck underwater. The hum in the air stuttered.
"Focus," Maelra growled. "Feel what's yours."
Aerin clenched their fists. The warmth receded—but didn't vanish.
Kerris wasn't so lucky.
He smiled.
A wide, easy smile that didn't belong on his face.
"Oh," he breathed. "Oh, this is nice. I don't feel scared anymore."
Maelra swore.
Kerris took a step toward the singers.
"No," Aerin said, grabbing his sleeve.
He shook them off gently. "It's okay. Don't you feel it? Like… everything's going to work out."
Aerin felt it too.
That was the problem.
The song swelled, and with it, the crowd's devotion sharpened. People clasped hands. Some wept softly. Others dropped to their knees, overwhelmed by sudden gratitude they couldn't name.
One of the masked singers turned their head—just enough for Aerin to see the eyes behind the porcelain.
Sharp. Focused.
Watching.
The singer raised a hand.
The emotion shifted.
Joy curdled into resolve.
The crowd straightened. Murmurs rippled outward.
"We should listen," someone said.
"They're helping us," said another.
Aerin's pulse roared in their ears.
"They're steering them," Aerin whispered.
"Yes," Maelra said grimly. "Living-Echo work. Emotional resonance. Subtle."
Kerris laughed softly. "Why wouldn't we trust them? They make everything feel… lighter."
Maelra grabbed him hard. "That's the cost."
The singer's hand closed into a fist.
The song cut off.
Silence crashed down like a snapped string.
People blinked. Looked around. Confusion rippled through the square as emotions drained away, leaving an ache behind.
The singers were already dispersing, masks vanishing beneath cloaks, faces melting back into the crowd.
One lingered.
They stepped close to Aerin, voice low and calm.
"You should be careful," the singer said. "You feel too loudly."
Aerin met their gaze. "So do you."
A pause.
Then the singer smiled beneath the mask. "Yes. That's how we help."
They were gone.
Kerris sagged, color draining from his face. "I feel… empty."
Maelra steadied him. "That's withdrawal."
Aerin's hands shook.
"People didn't choose that," Aerin said. "They didn't even know it was happening."
"No," Maelra agreed. "That's why it works."
Aerin looked at the crowd—already returning to normal, already forgetting the way their feelings had been borrowed and bent.
The hum beneath the ground stirred uneasily.
Masks in the open.
Songs without sound.
Peace that wasn't earned.
Aerin swallowed.
"Is this what they call mercy?" they asked.
Maelra's voice was hard as stone. "Only if you don't ask who's paying."