Chapter 22: The Mask

12:01 AM — Chapel Basement

Daxton’s old chapel wasn’t on the maps anymore.

The upper level had been converted into a lecture hall two years ago, but the lower floors—stone-walled and flickering with forgotten electricity—still carried the echo of secrets.

Sonia stepped inside and closed the door behind her. Her breath left a ghost in the cold air.

Someone had texted her a single phrase two hours ago:

“Truth bleeds in threes. Come alone.”

That wasn’t a riddle. It was an order.

She followed the worn stone steps down past the broken stained glass, past the rusting plaque with the academy's motto—Dominus per Veritas—until she reached the room at the end of the corridor.

Inside were three chairs.

And one mask.

Not the Cartel’s bone-white beaked ones.

This one was mirrored—split down the middle.

One half delicate silver filigree. Feminine. Ornate.

The other half, raw metal. Brutalist. Harsh angles. No eye hole.

Someone had made a choice.

They just hadn’t let her make hers.

On the back of the chair was a tag.

S.V.

She didn’t move for a long time.

Then, slowly, she reached out and picked up the mask.

And in the moment the cold metal touched her fingertips, she remembered something Silas used to say in a voice half-joke, half-warning:

“Daxton doesn’t teach you who you are. It teaches you what they’ll let you survive.”

She put the mask down.

And walked out.

Because tonight, she wasn’t ready to wear someone else’s version of her face.

---

12:39 AM — East Garden

Eric waited for her under the lantern lights, pacing.

When he saw her, he didn’t speak.

She didn’t either.

Until she stopped in front of him and said, “They want me to choose who I am again.”

He looked at her, jaw tight. “And?”

“I already chose. They just don’t like my answer.”

He exhaled like he’d been holding it.

Then: “What do you need?”

She looked at him fully now.

Not the Daxton golden boy. Not the fencing prodigy.

Just him.

“You,” she said.

He took a step closer. “For real, or just until the next secret comes crashing through?”

She didn’t smile. But she didn’t flinch either.

“For real,” she said. “Until it all burns down. Or doesn’t.”

His hand slid to her waist.

Hers went to the nape of his neck.

And when they kissed again, it wasn’t heat for the sake of hiding.

It was wanting, yes—but also weight.

Like two people realizing they might not have much time left to be honest.

---

Later — 3:17 AM

She couldn’t sleep. Again.

So she sat on her floor, surrounded by everything she had left of Silas:

His notebook.

The photo from the Cartel.

The ripped sleeve from the day she stole the blazer.

The twin acceptance letters she never knew existed.

And finally—

The legacy list from the Gala night.

Her name was still there.

Confirmed.

A lie written in cursive and blood.

But if they were going to parade her on stage…

She’d make sure they heard every word of what came next.

---

6 Days Until Gala Night

And Sonia Vale had a plan.

It started with burning every mask they'd given her.

And ended with setting the whole stage on fire.