The laughter slowly faded, as if it had never truly belonged in this world. Marcus stood still, his heartbeat steadier now, though the absurdity of the scene hadn't faded. The crimson-eyed man stepped forward with elegance, every movement deliberate—measured like a dancer who knew the rhythm of the air itself.
He gestured to the wooden floor of the cottage, now seemingly wider than before.
"Sit, if you like," he said, as if Marcus had just arrived at a social gathering and not stumbled into the most bizarre confrontation of his life.
Marcus hesitated, then obeyed. He sat, cross-legged, trying to maintain a composed expression while cats eyed him with detached nobility. The old man in black had vanished, as if he were no more than a shadow called forth to test his resolve.
The white-haired stranger leaned against a carved wooden post and folded his arms. His smile remained, but his eyes… they were studying Marcus now. Not with hostility, nor curiosity. Something deeper—like a craftsman assessing the grain of a rare wood.
"Do you know why you're here?" he asked.
Marcus opened his mouth, then closed it. He wanted to say no, but he also didn't want to lie.
"I… followed a child's voice. He told me I'd find someone here who could help."
The man chuckled. "A child's voice? Ah. So the mountain still whispers when it chooses."
He turned to the nearest cat and gave it a soft pat. It purred, rolled over, then trotted off into the shadows.
"You're a thinker," the man continued, his voice quieter now. "I see it in the way you sit, in the way your eyes don't focus on what's loudest—but on what doesn't move."
Marcus frowned. "You say that like it's a weakness."
"No. Like it's dangerous," the man said. "And sometimes, that's the same thing."
He straightened now, serious.
"You've stepped onto a path that cannot be retraced. Even if you wanted to leave, you wouldn't return the same."
Marcus raised his eyes to meet the man's. "Then I won't leave."
For the first time, the man's smile faded. Not in disappointment—but in recognition. A moment of quiet stretched between them, thick and strange.
Then the man moved to a small table in the corner and placed something upon it: a mask—half-white, half-black. Delicate, yet unmistakably ancient.
"Take this," he said. "It's not a gift. It's not a weapon. It's a key. What it opens, you'll learn soon enough."
Marcus approached slowly, and as his fingers brushed the mask, he felt it—not power, not yet. But the first stirrings of something old, something vast, something watching.
The crimson-eyed man turned away, already preparing tea for two.
"We start at dawn."