Allen Solmere stepped from the relative chaos of the common gathering into a world that seemed to be crafted from the echoes of his own repressed despair. The path before him, once a familiar corridor of the Tower's sprawling structure, had dissolved into something altogether different—a realm that felt simultaneously ancient and intimately personal.
Here, the air was thick and cool as if exhaling the memories of centuries past. It carried a heavy, almost metallic tang with an undercurrent of rotting leaves—remnants of nature reclaiming a cold, unyielding structure. In the distance, dim light flickered intermittently through a haze, casting uneven shadows that danced along the cracked pavement. Allen's steps felt reluctant, as if each footfall stirred up emotions he'd long buried.
The ground itself had transformed under his feet. Where there had once been hard stone, now lay a rich, dark earth that felt alive—soft, almost pulsing beneath his boots. Thin tendrils of ivy and wild roots broke through the surface in chaotic clusters, intertwining with the natural debris. Small patches of moss clung to the uneven terrain, their muted greens contrasting against the deep, earthen browns. And there, amid the darkness, a startling sight: delicate white wildflowers sprouted in isolation, their petals luminescent, yet tinged with a sickly shade that hinted at corruption. Each blossom quivered as if shivering under an unseen, sorrowful weight.
As Allen moved forward, the environment began to reveal its true nature. Tower-like trees, twisted and barren, formed natural arches overhead, their gnarled branches interlocking to create a canopy of shadow. Suspended from these branches, like trophies of a long-forgotten ritual, hung countless masks. They were varied in design—some ornate and golden with elegant curves; others crudely made of weathered wood, their features contorted into eternal grimaces or hollow stares. Every mask bore an uncanny semblance to the human visage, yet something was off: the eyes seemed empty, and their smiles were static, frozen in a grimace of forced joy or sorrow. They swung gently in the nonexistent breeze, as though stirred by memories rather than wind.
A persistent, low hum filled the air—a sound that might once have been music if it were not so laden with melancholy. It seemed to emanate from the very ground, resonating in Allen's bones and tugging at the edges of his awareness. Every now and then, the hum would be punctuated by a soft, almost imperceptible whisper, as if the garden itself were speaking in a language older than time. The words were lost, but the tone was clear—an invitation, a warning, or perhaps both.
Allen's heart pounded in his chest as he absorbed the atmosphere. This wasn't merely a physical space; it was a reflection of his inner self—the isolation, the bitter loneliness, and the growing, unsaid anger toward a world that had never quite understood him. The masks, with their unblinking faces, whispered of hidden truths and unspoken lies. They seemed to mock both his guarded nature and the hollowness that sometimes gnawed at him when the night was too quiet.
A chill ran down his spine as he approached the heart of the garden. The path widened into a small clearing where the darkness grew thicker, almost suffocating, yet somehow the oppressive gloom felt strangely intimate—as if it were a cocoon for his suppressed emotions. The surrounding trees formed a natural coliseum, their roots entangled on the ground and wildflowers intermingling with decaying leaves. Here, in the center of that silent arena, he could see a solitary bloom—an immaculate white flower that glowed with an inner radiance. Its petals, pristine and trembling with uncertainty, contrasted sharply with the ruin around it.
It was then that the garden's eerie serenity was broken by the sound of many muffled voices—a murmur that seemed to come not from outside, but from deep within him. The whispers grew, coherent now, murmuring words like "mask," "lie," and "expose." The garden, for all its beauty, was a stage for hidden emotions and dark revelations. Every mask that swung from the barren trees seemed to contain a secret, every silent face a story of pain and longing.
Allen paused, his mind a tumult of repressed anger and profound sorrow. He knew this trial was not merely a physical challenge—it was a confrontation with everything he had kept locked inside: his disdain for a world that never cared, his fear of betrayal, and the loneliness that had shadowed his every step. In this masked garden, he would be forced to see himself as he truly was—raw, unfiltered, and powerful.
In that heavy silence, Allen steeled himself for what was to come. The garden would soon test his ability to confront and harness these emotions. He would have to decide whether to let them consume him or transform them into strength. And as the soft wind began to stir the masks, Allen took his first step forward, determined to unmask not only the world, but himself.
Allen Solmere stepped into the clearing as the oppressive garden seemed to hold its breath.
The world around him was painted in deep, muted tones—ashen grays, dull greens, and a sky that felt more like a closed ceiling than an open sky. Twisted trees loomed on all sides, their branches gnarled like reaching hands. Dozens of masks hung from the branches—some cracked, others pristine. Each bore a different expression: sorrow, malice, laughter, disdain. All unmoving. All watching.
The clearing was perfectly circular, surrounded by a low mist that clung to the ground like forgotten memories. The air was thick, not with heat, but with something else—pressure, as if the atmosphere itself sought to push Allen inward, force him to kneel beneath its judgment.
Then a voice spoke, not aloud, but within.
"Allen Solmere. You who wear no face of your own."
He stiffened.
"You hide. Behind intellect. Behind kindness. Behind silence."
The mist thickened. Shadows bled out from the trees, and with them, they emerged.
Masked figures—six of them—stepped into the clearing, walking with a strange marionette stiffness. Their masks were familiar. One had his mother's smile. Another wore the contemptuous sneer of a teacher who had once dismissed him. Another looked blank—but Allen recognized that one most of all. It was his own mask, the one he'd worn every day of his life when pretending he was fine.
They encircled him.
The trial had begun.
Allen's breath caught in his throat. "Is this… a test?" he muttered, already knowing the answer.
One of the figures lunged forward without warning. Allen barely dodged, stumbling back, breath sharp. No weapons. No escape. The garden wanted him cornered.
He tried to fight back—at first with reason. "You're not real," he told them. "You're memories. Fragments."
But the masks didn't care for reason. One grabbed him by the collar and shoved him backward. He slammed against the trunk of a tree, gasping. Another seized his arm. They weren't fast, but they were persistent. Coordinated. Silent.
A sharp, burning pain radiated from his ribs, and Allen's breath hitched as he dropped to one knee. The masked figures closed in around him like a tightening noose. The cold, unyielding air of the garden seemed to mock his vulnerability, while the silence—all the cruel, unspeaking silence—pressed in from every direction.
The whisper returned, this time with a measured, sorrowful cadence that cut deeper than any physical wound:
"You are not hated. But you believe yourself forgotten. Forgotten things rot."
Allen's mind churned as he struggled to rise, his body trembling. His voice, hoarse and raw, broke through the oppressive quiet. "I'm not forgotten—I chose solitude!" The words sounded hollow even to his own ears, a bitter defiance that quavered with uncertainty.
One of the masked figures, its mask bearing a twisted imitation of compassion, advanced slowly and, with deliberate cruelty, clutched Allen by the collar. The rough contact sent shivers of anger and dread through him. Every face around him seemed to mirror a part of his own hidden self—those moments when he retreated behind closed doors, when he suppressed the anguish that threatened to spill over.
The figure's mouth opened, but no sound emerged—only the weight of unspoken accusations. Allen's vision blurred as another surge of pain shot through him—a thin, glass-like shard had grazed his arm. Hot blood spattered onto the ground, mixing with the damp earth. His body ached as much on the inside as it did on the surface, and each breath felt like a reminder of the countless times he'd been forced to hide behind his carefully constructed wall of distrust.
Struggling against the grip that held him, Allen's inner monologue fought its way up, echoing through the chaos of his thoughts: How many times have I shielded myself with these masks? How many hearts have I left untouched out of fear? The accusatory whispers in the garden seemed to know every secret, every hidden truth of his soul.
In the midst of this onslaught, a sudden, almost imperceptible change rippled across his consciousness. A memory, unbidden, surged forth: a night long ago when Allen had sat by a rain-speckled window, watching droplets trace paths down the glass. In that memory, a gentle hand had rested on his shoulder—familiar, warm, reassuring. It was Kael's quiet voice saying, "We're in this together, even if it feels like you're all alone." The memory brought with it a fleeting moment of solace, a reminder that vulnerability did not equate to weakness.
Spurred by that recollection, Allen gritted his teeth and forced himself to focus. Despite the physical pain and the biting emotional charges around him, he began to fight back—first internally, then outwardly. He pushed, with every fiber of his being, against the oppressive grip of the masked figure. His eyes, already glinting with the early signs of his Sigil, flared with a defiant light.
The voices—the garden's murmur—shifted, becoming less accusatory and more like a challenge. "Face your truth, or remain forever broken." With a deep, trembling breath, Allen rose slowly to his feet, pain echoing in every movement, yet his resolve had hardened.
He staggered forward, each step a battle of will against the suffocating despair that had long been his constant companion. Somewhere amid the accusatory whispers and the silent glances of the masks, he found within himself a small, incandescent spark—a determination to no longer be a slave to his own repressed emotion. The garden, with all its hideous masks and chilling silence, had become a mirror that forced him to see the parts of himself he had always run from.
Allen's heart pounded as he surged forward. He refused to let the garden's harsh judgment define him any longer. Every time a mask brushed past, every whispered echo of "lonely" and "abandoned" tried to pull him back, he answered with a low, steady declaration: "I will not be forgotten. I will not let my pain bind me." His voice, though soft, carried the weight of all his unspoken scars and a growing, defiant hope.
In the struggle, his vision sharpened—a brief flash as his basic Sigil flickered along the edges of his eyelids, unveiling splintered, luminous cracks like fractured glass. It was as if his very eyes were beginning to mirror the turmoil and resolve within him. For a fleeting moment, the masked figures hesitated—then one by one, they began to retreat into the shadows, their silent forms yielding to the force of Allen's defiant march.
He pressed on until the clearing opened into a narrow, winding path—a boundary between the oppressive heart of the Masked Garden and a quieter, more transitional part of the trial. As he advanced, the voices faded into a low hum, replaced by the pounding of his own heartbeat and the sound of his determined steps on soft, yielding soil.
Allen paused near a weathered stone slab along the path. His eyes closed for a heartbeat as he steadied his breath. In that moment of fragile clarity, he allowed himself to feel the deep loneliness, anger, and betrayal that had long been hidden within. Rather than shying away from these emotions, he acknowledged them. "I know you're here," he whispered. "You won't control me any longer."
In that declaration, something shifted imperceptibly in his internal landscape—a subtle easing of the tension that had gripped him since he entered this haunted realm. Though the trial was far from over, and the garden still murmured dark secrets among the masks, Allen felt a measure of control returning. It was a small victory—one that, he knew, would be built upon in the trials to come.
With a deep inhale, Allen resumed his journey through the Masked Garden. His steps, though still uneven, carried the resolve of a man who had finally stared into the abyss and dared to speak the truth of his own heart. The path ahead wound deeper into darkness, but now he advanced with the knowledge that even in the place where loneliness reigned, he could forge his own light.