The Masked evidence

      Dunwall, the capital of the Isles, is a bleak, grey city, swathed day and night in a pall of lead‑heavy clouds. Sunlight rarely has the honour of touching the pale faces of its inhabitants. Perhaps that is why they always look so grim? That is, of course, if one does not take into account the overall state of the whole city.       Emily Drexel Lila Kaldwin. The daughter of the tragically murdered Jessamine, the rightful heir to the throne and an eleven‑year‑old child‑ruler who ascended it by blood‑soaked steps in the darkest of times. That seems to be the exact order in which nearly every subject perceives her. Yet first and foremost, she is her mother’s daughter – her living likeness, at least in appearance. Her style of rule, however, raises discontent and questions among some. And it all invariably begins with the same thing – comparisons to Jessamine. Even when Emily was only ten, though she made no meaningful decisions back then.       At first, the little girl was even flattered by how much she resembled her beloved, so cruelly lost mother. She tried to live up to every possible expectation and kept asking herself the same question over and over again: “What would Mother do?” All her efforts felt futile, and her childish mind could not grasp the fact that there would always be those who were dissatisfied, and that even the reign of her adored mother had not been without troubles. In the eyes of the heiress, Jessamine stood as an utterly unattainable ideal. With the passing years, the pursuit of that unreachable illusion gave way to disappointment, and then to anger towards anyone who dared to mention their resemblance. It hurt most of all to hear those words from the person closest to her heart – someone she could not and should not blame. And so Emily would merely fall silent and offer a modest smile.       A full year had passed since Delilah Copperspoon’s bloody usurpation. Memories of that day still tangled in her mind; much of it felt like nothing more than a figment of imagination, or a fragment of a dream imposed by enchanted, icy marble. As did the conversations with the black‑eyed God.       Corvo had been there as well, frozen in an uneasy sleep on a bunk in some cabin, covered in scrapes and sand, bronzed by the bright sunlight outside. He had looked so very tired. For some reason, it was this memory that had burned itself into her mind more vividly than all the others. And after yet another enemy had been overthrown, the days filled once more – no, not with incredible adventures or lavish balls – but with mountains of paperwork and audiences with lords and ministers who replaced one another without pause. On rare occasions, the Royal Court was convened. It was hardly surprising that the only respite for the freedom‑loving Empress lay in fencing practice and nocturnal escapades from her own castle onto the rooftops of sleeping Dunwall. And yet, once upon a time, Emily had sincerely believed that an Empress could with ease set sail upon the finest ship, ploughing the seas, destroying hordes of pirates and battling sea monsters. All of it remained nothing more than an unfulfilled childhood dream, long forgotten amid the years spent behind castle walls as grey as the sky above.       Yesterday had been no different from the days before it. Hundreds of words, dozens of conversations, problems that could have been solved without her personal involvement. And so Emily went to bed well past midnight. Far too late to rise with the first rays of the sun, as was expected of her. Perhaps the reason lay in the dream itself, as chaotic as the thoughts with which she had laid her head upon the pillow.       Before her eyes, like the pages of a royal chronicle, scenes from the past begin to unfold, replacing one another: her mother’s murder, the kidnapping, the Golden Cat, the Hound Pits, Kingsparrow, and then the second coup staged by her aunt – mechanical soldiers, her father’s last clear gaze, flashes of light and the transformation into a stone statue, and finally the throne room, where Delilah had stood only a second before. A bright light from unseen projectors was trained upon the throne, to the right of which a short distance away Corvo Attano stood immovably in his grotesque mask. And in the smallest lens there was a reflection of a being that had suddenly emerged from black light and curling smoke. Eyes as black as the void pierced through her with icy cold, gripping her heart with nothing but a glance. As always, he did not hurry; he raised his hand, as though drawing a memory from the countless thousands of years of his existence, in order to reveal the truth hidden within it. “So, once again, you are here. The one who is the heart of the great Empire, a Just and Wise ruler, for whom people are willing to fight. As is the one for whom for many long years you have been the very meaning of life,” his even, tranquil voice echoed through the unknown space. “Your father,” the word cut painfully into the young Empress’s ears, making her lashes tremble “will do everything possible for your sake, and even more. And when the time comes – do not judge him too harshly.”       The moment the Unknown fell silent after his brief monologue, another figure, frozen in time, appeared behind her. Corvo again? No. Despite the identical appearance, the same mask, clothing, even the same build, he was different. Kaldwin simply felt it. “From childhood you have come to understand just how coveted the imperial throne truly is,” the Outsider spoke again, observing with customary detachment the interest with which the girl examined the living statues before her. “It is the ultimate aspiration of every confidant, aristocrat, and more. What is remarkable is the ease with which the Lord Protector was able to renounce such power, holding all the cards in his hands. And yet, at present, he is no longer the only one standing but a single step away from the long‑desired authority.”       What followed forced Emily to recoil in fear: behind the stranger who was a perfect copy of the Royal Protector, others like him began to appear, one after another – a second, a third, a fourth, a tenth – and each of them seemed to exude hostility through their very skin. But not towards her. All their gazes – which she could have sworn burned behind the glass of their masks – were fixed on the space behind her back. All of them were looking at Corvo. Her heart fluttered sharply at the mere realisation that he might be in danger. The feeling cut so deeply into her memory that Emily remembered the dream even after her abrupt awakening.