The five companions had been walking through the ruin for more than two hours when Burr found the hidden room. They had halted in one grime-crusted corridor, where huge, two-handed swords of rusted steel were fixed to the walls. Selliar and Nickon were busy arguing about where to go next. Parten was listening to it all with mild disinterest, while Treg was using his quarterstaff to poke at the copper urns they'd found spread out across the castle. Always one to keep himself apart from an argument, Burr simply leaned against a piece of the wall.

The ancient stone shifted under his weight.

"Ashes and bloody embers!" he muttered, barely avoiding tumbling to the ground.

"What happened?" asked Parten.

"The bloody wall's falling apart!"

"Let me see," said Selliar. He was tall and lithe, his self-assured gait the result of years of drilling at swordcraft under his father's watchful eye. He strode forward, shifting his blade to one side as he ran his hand across the dingy wall. "I can feel air moving between the cracks. Just a light current, but I wonder…"

Before anyone could think to stop him, Selliar raised his boot and drove his heel into the wall. If any of the rest of them had tried it, they'd have come away with a broken ankle, but Selliar was Emberborn, a reality that allowed him to draw power from his Soulblaze and augment his physical strength.

The wall crumbled beneath his assault, revealing a small chamber beyond. It was no more than eight feet square, dark and oddly damp, though free of much of the filth that filled the rest of the castle. Two more of the strange urns rested in each corner. Otherwise, the room's only other content was an unusual mask hanging on the wall. It appeared to have been carved from oddly-marbled jade. Inky black fringed the eye holes and marked the exaggerated curve of the mouth. The very sight of it sent a chill down Parten's spine, as though he were looking upon the Sightless One. When he tore his gaze away, he felt as though the mask was laughing at him.

"What the hells is that?" asked Selliar, seemingly unaffected by the mask's gaze. 

Not to be outdone, Parten squared his shoulders and stood a little straighter, trying to ignore the growing pit in his gut.

"Looks like a mask," muttered Treg, yawning and scratching the whiskers of his pointed chin. A full day of exploring the ruins had left them all feeling worn and weary.

"I see that, horse face," Selliar quipped, laughing too loudly at his own jest. "But what's it doing here?" 

He approached the wall, curiosity painted across his handsome face. Parten found himself taking a step backward. He chided himself for his sudden and irrational fear, refusing to allow himself to feel like a coward because of Selliar's breezy confidence.

"Looks to be in better shape than anything else we've seen so far. I wonder if it's worth anything?" 

He was standing directly before the mask. Slowly, his hand rose toward it.

"Stop!"

Parten could have sworn the word burst from his own mouth. It took him a moment to realize it was Nickon who'd cried out. Old, reliable Nickon, as steady and unshakeable as the walls of Havenhome itself. Nickon, who'd spent an entire year behind those very walls, learning from the Hands of the Servant. His vows forbade him from carrying weapons, and he'd only joined their company as a balance to Selliar's recklessness. Nickon's plain, square face was usually so calm and stoic. Now, it was flushed with the colour of fear.

"Hells, Nic," said Selliar. "What's wrong with you?"

"I don't think you want to be messing with that thing," replied Nickon.

"Why not?"

"It feels… well, it just feels wrong."

"Feels? Ashes and embers! What did they do to you in Havenhome? Strip all the bone from your spine? Stop being so yellow-livered. It's just a stupid old mask."

"I dunno, Sel." Burr—Castor Burlington by birth—was the fifth and youngest of their company. He was standing close to Nickon and carried the same look of concern on his face. Or at least the parts of his face that could be seen through his shock of melon-red hair.

"You too, Burr?" laughed Selliar. "I thought we came here for some excitement. Adventure! And here your knees are knocking over an old mask. It's embarrassing! Here, let me show you."

Before Parten could stop to think, his oldest friend was reaching out and closing his hand around the edge of the mask. As Selliar lifted it off the wall, Parten thought he felt a chill blow like a whisper through a dense evening fog.

A whisper of ruin.

Selliar Rosen screamed.

"Sel!" Parten cried.

The swordsman laughed. "See? It's harmless. Just a stupid old mask."

"Yeah." Treg chuckled nervously.

"Want to try it on?" Selliar offered.

"I'll pass."

"Might make your ugly mug more popular with the ladies."

The stablehand shrugged. "Haven't had any complaints yet."

"You're probably weren't listening." The swordsman turned to Parten. "What about you, Par?" 

"I'll pass."

"Am I the only one with any flaming balls?" Shaking his head in disgust, Selliar raised the jade mask. Its black-rimmed eyes seemed to flash, dark and glossy. Then, Selliar pressed it against his face. He laughed, his voice clear and bright. "Oh, no! It's got me! I can't get it off!" He fell to his knees, clutching at his face and laughing.

"Okay, Sel," Parten grumbled. A flash of irritation sparked in his mind. "You've made your point. You're braver than the rest of us. You can knock it off now."

The swordsman continued to laugh, rolling onto his back and smashing the floor with one fist so that if it hadn't been for the sound of his howling mirth, he might have appeared to be suffocating.

"It's not that funny," grumbled Nickon.

Abruptly, Selliar started to sing.

Tara tara trill. Tara tara troll

Run to the garden

When you hear the bell toll

"What the hells?" muttered Burr. "Has he been drinking? I thought we used up the last of the brandy yesterday."

"Seriously, Sel!" Parten shouted. His irritation sparked into burning anger. "You're being an ass. Knock it off and let's be on our way."

Selliar laughed again—a loud, manic cackle. He writhed and twisted, as though in some depraved glee. He hooped and howled until there couldn't have been a single breath left in his lungs. Then, all at once, he snapped. His shoulders twisted and his back contorted. He sprang to his feet with a single blood-chilling shriek.

Burr was the first to die. His blood splattered over the mask. Its terrible, black smile grew wider, and the laughter echoed on and on.