Five Clans, One Crowm

The Bone Masks

The first thing Oscar saw through the dust was the blade.

It came at him in a silver arc, whistling through the air where his head had been a heartbeat before. He threw himself sideways, rolling across the stone floor as the weapon sparked against the ground. Fragments of rock stung his face.

"Jeriq!" Oscar shouted.

The assassin was already moving. His curved dagger flashed in the lantern light, parrying a strike from a second masked figure. The clash of steel echoed through the collapsing chamber, sharp and frantic.

Oscar scrambled to his feet, clutching his broken sword. The blade was dull, chipped from years of neglect, but it was all he had. He faced the first attacker—a tall figure in a bone-white mask carved with intricate spirals. The mask had no eye holes, just smooth bone, yet the man moved like he could see perfectly.

"You have your brother's eyes," the masked man said. His voice was soft, almost reverent. "Pity. They'll look better on my mantle."

Oscar didn't waste breath on a response. He lunged.

The broken sword thrust toward the man's chest. The masked figure sidestepped, moving with a fluid grace that seemed unnatural. His blade came around in a reverse grip, slicing toward Oscar's throat.

Oscar ducked. Too slow. The edge caught his shoulder, opening a shallow cut. Hot blood ran down his arm.

Ashen Rebirth Style: Ember Step.

The technique ignited in his legs, flooding them with heat and speed. Oscar exploded forward, closing the distance before the masked man could recover. He drove the broken sword upward, aiming for the gap between ribs.

The blade bit deep.

The masked man grunted, stumbling back. Dark blood seeped through his white robes. But he didn't fall. Instead, he laughed—a wet, bubbling sound that came from behind the mask.

"Yes," he hissed. "Yes, that's it. Show me what Kael taught you."

Oscar's blood froze. "What did you say?"

The masked man ripped the sword from his own body, tossing it aside like garbage. The wound in his side pulsed with black energy, the flesh knitting itself together before Oscar's eyes. "You think the Ashen Rebirth Style is yours alone? We've been studying it for centuries. Your brother was just the first to steal our secrets."

Our secrets.

The words hit Oscar like a physical blow. Kael had never told him where the forbidden style came from. He'd only said it was dangerous, that it cost more than it gave, that Oscar should never use it unless death was the only other option.

But if the Bleached Maw owned the technique—

"You killed him," Oscar said, his voice barely a whisper. "You killed Kael because he had your style."

The masked man tilted his head. "Killed him? No, little brother. We tried to save him. But Lord Veyne's rope was faster than our knives."

Before Oscar could process the words, Jeriq slammed into him from the side.

"Move!" the assassin shouted.

A third masked figure had emerged from the rubble, swinging a massive war hammer that cratered the floor where Oscar had stood. The impact sent shockwaves through the stone, nearly knocking both men off their feet.

"The archive is lost," Jeriq snapped. "We need to go. Now!"

Oscar's eyes found Mike. The old scholar was pinned against a fallen bookshelf, his leg crushed beneath a heavy wooden beam. Blood trickled from his mouth, but he was still alive. Still conscious. His spectacles hung from one ear, cracked but intact.

"We can't leave him," Oscar said.

"Then you'll die with him." Jeriq grabbed Oscar's arm, pulling hard. "The Bleached Maw doesn't take prisoners."

Another masked figure dropped from the ceiling, landing between them and Mike. This one carried twin daggers, their edges coated in something black that smoked where it touched the air. The figure moved toward the trapped scholar with slow, deliberate steps.

"Mike!" Oscar shouted. "The first key! Tell me who it is!"

Mike's eyes met Oscar's across the chaos. Blood bubbled on his lips. His mouth moved, forming a word, a name—

The masked figure's dagger flashed.

Mike screamed.

Oscar lunged forward, but Jeriq's grip held him back. More figures were pouring through the breach now, at least six of them, their bone masks gleaming in the dying light. The chamber was becoming a killing floor.

"Last chance," Jeriq growled. "Stay and die, or come with me and live to fight another day."

Oscar's heart tore in two directions. Mike was dying. The first key's identity was dying with him. But if Oscar stayed, he'd be dead before he could use the information anyway. The Bleached Maw was too many, too strong, too prepared.

"Damn it," Oscar hissed.

He turned and ran.

Jeriq led the way, cutting through a side passage that Oscar hadn't noticed before. It was narrow, barely wide enough for a man to squeeze through. The walls pressed in on both sides, rough stone scraping against his wounded shoulder. Behind them, the Bleached Maw gave chase, their footsteps echoing like hammers on stone.

"Where does this lead?" Oscar gasped.

"Temple district," Jeriq called back. "There's a hidden exit behind the shrine's altar. If we can reach it before they catch us—"

A throwing knife whistled past Oscar's ear, embedding in the wall inches from his head.

"Run faster!" Jeriq shouted.

They burst out of the narrow passage into a wider corridor. The ceiling was higher here, supported by ancient pillars carved with faded runes. At the far end, a spiral staircase climbed into darkness.

Oscar's lungs burned. His legs felt like lead. The Ashen Rebirth Style had given him speed, but the toll was already mounting. His vision blurred at the edges. Somewhere deep in his chest, the heat was fading, replaced by a hollow cold that made his fingers numb.

Keep moving. Don't stop. If you stop, you die.

He forced his legs to pump harder. The staircase loomed ahead, each step a small victory against the darkness chasing them.

Jeriq reached the stairs first and took them two at a time. Oscar followed, his boots slipping on worn stone. The Bleached Maw was close behind—too close. He could hear their breathing, ragged and hungry, and that soft, terrible laughter from the first masked man.

"You can't outrun us, Oscar! We know the paths you walk. We know the faces you love. There is nowhere in this city we cannot find you."

Oscar didn't answer. He didn't have the breath.

They emerged into a small chamber at the top of the stairs. It was a shrine, long abandoned, with a stone altar at its center and walls covered in faded murals of old gods. Dust motes danced in the thin moonlight filtering through cracks in the ceiling.

Jeriq ran to the altar and shoved against it with his shoulder. The stone ground against the floor, revealing a narrow opening beneath.

"Down," Jeriq commanded.

Oscar dropped through the hole without hesitation. He fell several feet and landed hard on packed earth. The impact jarred his bones, but he was still alive. Still moving.

Jeriq followed a moment later, pulling the altar back into place above them. The grinding of stone on stone was deafening in the silence. Then darkness closed in, absolute and total.

They lay there for a long moment, breathing hard, listening.

Above, the muffled sound of footsteps echoed through the shrine. Then voices, low and frustrated.

"The trail ends here. The scholar's pet assassin knows the old ways."

"Lord Veyne won't be pleased."

"Veyne can wait. We have the scholar. He'll tell us what we need."

The footsteps faded. Silence returned.

Oscar closed his eyes. The darkness pressed in on him, heavy as a burial shroud. Mike was captured. Not dead. But from what he'd heard about the Bleached Maw, death would have been kinder.

"Your brother's sigil," Jeriq said quietly. "They carved it into that scholar in the alley. You said it was Kael's mark."

"It was." Oscar's voice cracked. "It is. I don't know how they got it."

"Then we have a bigger problem than I thought." Jeriq shifted in the darkness, and a moment later a small flame flared to life—a tinderbox he'd produced from somewhere in his cloak. The light revealed their surroundings: a low tunnel, clearly man-made, with brick walls and a dirt floor that sloped downward.

"Where are we?" Oscar asked.

"Old catacombs. They run beneath the entire temple district. The priests used them to move bodies during the plague years." Jeriq stood, holding the small flame aloft. "The Bleached Maw won't follow us here. Too many branches, too easy to get lost."

"You've been here before."

"Many times." Jeriq began walking, his steps careful on the uneven floor. "Kane had me map these tunnels years ago. Useful for moving without being seen."

Oscar followed, his mind still reeling. The Bleached Maw claimed they'd tried to save Kael. They claimed the Ashen Rebirth Style was theirs. They had Mike now, and whatever secret the old scholar had been about to reveal.

The first key is a person.

Who? Who could be important enough to serve as the key to finding the Iron Crown?

"Mike said the first key is a person," Oscar said. "Do you know who he meant?"

Jeriq was quiet for a long moment. "No. Mike kept his secrets close. Even from Kane."

"But you knew something. Before the attack, you didn't seem surprised when he said it was a person."

Jeriq stopped walking. The flame flickered, casting strange shadows across his scarred face. "I suspected. There were rumors, old texts that spoke of the Crown's keys being 'bound to blood.' Most scholars thought it meant the keys were hidden in blood-soaked places. But I wondered if it meant something else."

"Bloodlines," Oscar said. "The key is someone with a specific bloodline."

Jeriq nodded slowly. "If the Crown was created to seal away the old power, the keys might have been people. Living vessels, chosen by blood and bound by sacred oaths. Their descendants would carry the key in their veins."

Oscar's heart hammered. "Then whoever the Bleached Maw is hunting—"

"Is someone they plan to bleed dry." Jeriq resumed walking. "We need to find them first. But without Mike, we don't know where to start."

Oscar's mind raced. Mike had tried to tell him. The old scholar's lips had formed a word, a name. In the chaos, Oscar hadn't heard it. But maybe—just maybe—his mind had registered something.

He closed his eyes, trying to recall the moment. The masked figure's dagger flashing. Mike's scream. The word on his lips.

"Iv—"

Oscar stopped dead. "Ivanna."

Jeriq turned. "What?"

"Mike tried to say a name before they took him. It started with 'Iv.' Ivanna. Does that name mean anything to you?"

Jeriq's face went pale. "Ivanna. The pit fighter. The one they call the Cinder Step."

"The slave who killed her owner," Oscar said, remembering the whispers from the arena. "The one who fights like a ghost."

"If she's the first key—" Jeriq's voice was tight. "Then the Bleached Maw will find her. And when they do, they won't just kill her. They'll drain every drop of blood from her body to extract the key."

Oscar's fists clenched. "Where can I find her?"

"The Shattered Coliseum. She fights there tomorrow night. Main event." Jeriq paused. "But Oscar, if she's the key, then she's been marked since birth. The Bleached Maw might already know. They might already be moving."

"Then we move faster." Oscar started walking, his exhaustion forgotten, replaced by a cold, burning clarity. "Take me to the surface. I need to find Kelvin."

"Kelvin? The friend who sold you out?"

"He didn't know what he was doing." Oscar's jaw tightened. "And right now, he's the only person who can help me get to Ivanna before the Bleached Maw does."

Jeriq stared at him for a long moment. Then he nodded. "The southern exit empties into the market district. It's near the old well. From there, you can reach the temple."

They walked in silence, the flame guiding them through the winding darkness. Oscar's mind churned with names and faces and threats. The Bleached Maw. Lord Veyne. Kane. Kelvin. And now Ivanna—a woman he'd never met, whose blood might be the key to everything.

Kael, what did you get us into?

The tunnel began to slope upward. Light appeared ahead—not the warm glow of lanterns, but the cold gray of approaching dawn.

Jeriq extinguished the flame. "We're here. The exit comes out behind the old well. From there, you're on your own."

"You're not coming?"

"Someone needs to report to Kane. He'll want to know about the attack. About Mike." Jeriq's eyes met Oscar's. "And about the Bleached Maw's interest in you. Be careful, Oscar. Kane's protection only extends so far."

"I'm not relying on Kane's protection."

Jeriq smiled—a thin, humorless expression. "Good. Because it won't save you."

They emerged into the pale light of dawn. The city stretched around them, gray and silent in the early morning hush. The well stood alone in a small square, its stone rim worn smooth by generations of hands.

Oscar looked at the sky, streaked with pink and gold. A new day. A new hunt.

Ivanna. He had to find her before the Bleached Maw did. He had to warn her, protect her, convince her that her blood was the key to an ancient power that could destroy everything.

And he had to do it all before tomorrow night's fight.

He turned to ask Jeriq something—and found himself alone.

The assassin had vanished, melting back into the shadows like a ghost.

Oscar stood in the empty square, the weight of his task pressing down on him like a mountain. Somewhere in the city, Kelvin was waiting. Somewhere else, the Bleached Maw was hunting. And somewhere beneath the arena, a woman who fought like fire was about to become the most hunted person in the Dominion.

Oscar started walking.

The hunt had begun.