the Mask
January 4, 2026 at 6:08 PM
This time the city wakes much later. From the very moment of its rising, the sun allows itself to neglect the already grim streets of Dunwall, hiding behind a dense curtain of heavy rainclouds – though it is doubtful that warm rays would have done much to brighten the dull, pointed rooftops of the tall houses. The whalers care little what kind of sky is reflected in the black depths of the ocean or in the equally bottomless eyes of the dying whales on their slaughterhouses. People too are in no hurry to leave their homes.
On the cold table of the Royal Spymaster a report of last night’s events already lies. With great difficulty the Empire manages to scrub the blood of traitors poured in rivers from the cobbled streets – those who sold their loyalty to the Crown for a bottle of cider and a vial of serum. Each of them has received their due, because now nothing escapes the Lord Protector’s gaze. No one can slip away round a corner into a dark back alley, nor utter a single whispered word without his knowledge. He has ears, eyes, mouths, and hands everywhere – all of them to be feared. The brutality with which Corvo purged the ranks of the City Watch is terrifying. It was a forced measure, born of the bitter experience of past years. Those who were not sentenced to death for their crimes were returned to the prison from which the Regent had once recruited them into the Watch. For some this instilled respect and unquestioning obedience, crushing any desire to raise their heads above the horizon. For others it bred hatred and a pathological terror of the tyrant himself. Credit must be given to him for the surgical precision with which he overthrew his enemies and preserved the Empire – for the way he alone uncovered the conspiracy. And no one will ever know the cost of that victory. No one must ever know.
Corvo casts a brief glance at his sleeve, which reliably conceals beneath dense fabric the mark bestowed upon him sixteen years ago by a higher being.
Alongside the familiar gangs someone else has appeared on the streets. The sites of old and new murders are unconnected, scattered chaotically throughout the city, avoiding repetition and any discernible logic. The weapon is usually a short sword or a stiletto. There are no leads beyond hesitant statements from citizens, passers-by, and neighbours who heard noise – and yet a few lines in the report draw attention:
“According to an elderly woman from the Business District, the criminal appeared as if from nowhere and at times moved so quickly that it was impossible to follow the blade’s motion. In the blink of an eye, before her brother’s body had even fallen to the floor, the killer was already on the balcony of the opposite flat. Then she saw the face was hidden behind a silvery mask with glinting eye sockets.”
Similar accounts had been voiced by several witnesses earlier, but were dismissed as nonsense and never recorded. Had the Outsider given his mark to someone else? Was there reason to fear another coup? Sometimes it seems that Corvo sees enemies in every face, mentally drafting plans to eliminate anyone in this hall, in this Empire. He gathers information on anyone who so much as lifts a finger towards the Empress. Now they have a new, unidentified enemy; nevertheless, Corvo still does not consider it necessary to trouble Emily with the news. It is all the more surprising that at the same time an audience was requested by Wyman.
The empty hall is so quiet that one can hear rats scurrying through the upper corridors. Emily looks as ever strict and unapproachable, one leg crossed over another, both hands resting freely on the white armrests. She is truly strong – everything they have endured has left indelible marks, scars upon her very being, shaping her into someone… her parent can be proud of. It is not the easiest path. Rough daylight from the tall windows of the throne hall settles with a magnificent sheen upon her black as raven wing hair. Unshakable, just, impenetrable – Empress Emily Kaldwin.
For the hundredth time Corvo lets his gaze sweep over every guard, even those beyond his direct line of sight, hidden behind columns in the shadows of the side aisles. He has examined this hall so many times: eight enormous chandeliers, as before, hanging from the ceiling on sturdy chains; six colossal columns designed in the neo-gothic style, like the entire tower itself; one guard at each, armed to the teeth and ready to take or give a life in the name of the Empress; twelve domed candelabra, lit even in the absence of the sovereign; four wooden ravens standing watch over Her Majesty as unyieldingly as the Lord Protector at her right hand. Nothing has changed since the days when a young Corvo Attano received his title, earning his place at the Imperial Court. This hall has witnessed the making of history – and will likely witness its end.
Corvo knows who they are about to speak with, but is utterly deprived of any information about the subject of discussion, and he does not like it. The last time ended in a coup. If Wyman has decided to return from Morley early to see his beloved, then why all this excessive formality? The League and its actions must always remain in the shadow of Her Majesty, just like the Office of the Spymaster. Wyman would not reveal his cards.
“Regrettably, I do not know what they are bringing to us,” the Lord Protector informs quietly, just before the tall, solid doors swing open, letting in a long strip of daylight and a group of people.
Corvo recognises several Overseers of the Abbey of the Everyman among them; the others are unknown to him. One of the golden masks carries a sizeable device with two gramophones and a crank, improved since the days of the Rat Plague. Emily sees it for the first time, recalling it only from the pages of religious textbooks, where the suppressive effect of a “mathematically pure” melody on heretics worshipping the Outsider was also explained. She was never particularly fond of the Abbey’s actions. Faith did not help her mother avoid death, nor herself from falling into the hands of traitors, and fifteen years later, from being turned to stone by a witch who walked straight into the throne room. Too many Overseers betray their own ideals for power, lust, and wealth – things they were meant to despise. The Oracular Order is no exception. This does not frighten Corvo, but merely raises many questions – questions he may never voice, but will certainly make clear as something amiss when he steps closer to the throne. Where before he stood at a quarter turn, occupying a secondary position, he now turns fully, facing the newcomers head-on.
Seamus Alastair Wyman – a young, handsome face, untouched by time since their very first meeting – stands at the head of the League of Protectors, a fact known to very few, excluding even Her Majesty. A vetted man, a competent guardian of peace and order, though since Jessamine’s death, trust in them remains fragile. Emily likes him: attentive to her wishes, selflessly helpful, and gentle enough with her. Corvo’s heart tightens when the young man’s gaze fills with light at the sight of beloved. The aristocrat has merits enough to suit a Kaldwin well; nevertheless, something distinctly un-fatherly rejects even this man’s presence under the same roof.
“Your Magnificence, my lady,” Wyman says, elegantly getting himself down on one knee, placing a hand, clad in a snow-white leather glove, over his heart.
“Good afternoon, Alex,” the Empress allows a certain familiarity, guiding the dialogue into a softer flow. “For what news was an official meeting required?”
“I swore an oath of loyalty and protection to the Imperial Majesty. The city remains restless, despite all efforts at restoration, and I have come to fulfil my true duty, having selected the finest men for my detachment. A brutal killer has appeared on the streets. He attacks peaceful citizens, without regard for district or house, presumably out of greed… or bloodlust… as though he had long concealed himself, perhaps among the gangs still terrorising certain quarters, until the hunger became unbearable. Do you know anything of this?”
This is the business of the City Watch and the Office alone, raw, unfit even for a report. What are they planning? Corvo would like to object, but it is not for him to decide what truly serves the ruler’s interests, now that the matter has been brought into the open. With every word spoken, Kaldwin likes this meeting less and less. What is happening is indeed troubling, but what does it have to do with her, when entire institutions filled with competent people exist to maintain order? Is no one capable of finding the killer and bringing him to trial? Why such importance and what does Alex have to do with it? And yet Kaldwin is no longer sure she wants to hear the continuation or learn the answer to an unasked question. Judging by Corvo’s expression, he understands what this is about.
“We have found irrefutable evidence. Are you familiar with this mask? It was discovered at the crime scene by the Watch, but the culprit escaped, concealing his identity beneath a hood,” with a flick of his wrist, a battered, menacing silver mask with lenses set deep in the eye sockets appears in his hands, identical to the one Corvo once wore, and is promptly cast at Emily’s feet.
Cold sweat breaks across her back, though for now she manages to maintain an unyielding expression. A chaotic yet vivid dream has proven, in some measure, prophetic. Meanwhile, the crank-turner begins slowly winding the handle as Alastair signals him.
“In the name of the Council and the League of Protectors, for the good of Her Majesty Emily Kaldwin, ruler of the Isles, Queen of Gristol, Corvo Attano, you are under arrest on charges of multiple murders and an immoral connection to the Outsider, the use of charms, and witchcraft.”
Thick brows draw together as Corvo scowls. What he sees plunges him into confusion and shock. Such an outcome was impossible, both physically and technically: Piero, who once created the original mask for Corvo, vanished long ago, and no living craftsman could produce such a flawless copy. This unique object is securely hidden, in the hope it will never need to be touched again. And yet the evidence is plain. It is pointless to insist that such a possibility is excluded. Wyman is resolute, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword. Resistance would be taken as an attempt to flee, a provocation, and a losing option from the outset. Besides, his powers do not function while the melody plays, and as memory serves, destroying the damned mechanism is no easy task.
“I did not disclose this information, Wyman, until I was certain of its reliability.”
“Reliable evidence now lies at your feet. You await just punishment in full measure, Lord Protector,” Wyman replies.
The bewildered guards do not move without the captain’s leave, while one of Alex’s subordinates approaches Corvo, unfolding prepared manacles.
Emily urgently weighs her next move. Everything cannot be perfectly incontrovertible, and she does remember something. Her gaze still betrays none of the care or tenderness she might have shown Wyman in a less official setting, and her figure grows more imposing as she rises from her seat. She looks down at him, and it seems she needs no Outsider’s mark to incinerate the offender to the bone.
“Corvo is not going anywhere,” she restrains herself from rash words, choosing a tone befitting an affronted Highness. Anger inside her begins to simmer, showing in a less friendly expression.
“I will not interfere with them, Emily. I have nothing to fear,” Corvo says.
The charge against him is indeed serious, and by refuting it Wyman also risks a great deal. He likely has something more than a forged mask.
The invention in the Overseers' hands emits perfectly clean, precise notes. The melody itself sounds soothing, but the longer Corvo listens, the tighter it clamps his skull in a vice, causing a dull, growing pain that crawls from his ears into the very centre of his mind, as though nails were being driven into his temples. Similar sensations ripple through his ligaments in pulses, blocking every sharp movement, draining his muscles of strength and energy. Magic is tightly interwoven with his biology, and stripped of it, Lord Protector looses half of the physical capability, approaching the edge of helplessness. There is little pleasant about this peculiar device, and each time it affects Corvo exactly as it did before. Still, years of acquired endurance and discipline shroud the pain, just as they once allowed him to withstand Coldridge torture, survive grievous injuries inflicted by Broken Tom, and endure the influence of the twin-bladed knife.
“The Lord Protector will not leave Dunwall Tower until the Commission arrives in full,” Emily cuts in suddenly, looking down at her beloved as if upon a subject. Steel and the unyielding resolve of monarchs ring in her voice. “All you are entitled to now, Lord Wyman, is to escort Lord Attano to his chambers until the trial.” At present, this is all she can do.
The news is so unexpected that it binds their hands entirely. It infuriates them. Even with her authority and vast range of power, she can do nothing now but delay her father’s imprisonment. She must consider whether she is acting rightly. In the time it will take for all the lords to assemble, more details will surely come to light – Corvo has certainly not ceased his investigation, and technically the General is obliged to continue it. A single appearance by the killer would be enough to exonerate the Lord Protector, for at that time he will be confined in the Tower under the watch of the League’s so-called “best men”.
The accused Lord Protector clasps his hands behind his back and voluntarily turns, yet they do not shackle him, unwilling to meet the gaze of the enraged Empress. Despite everything, due respect is still shown – though their faces reveal no agreement with the title of Lord that Emily firmly repeats twice. Fear and dread of the “masked killer” force the guards to keep their distance. They cannot believe such a man stood so dangerously close all this time, dispensing justice with his cursed hands, holding hundreds of comrades’ lives under the sway of a black-eyed bastard. Now they want to believe the music box truly robs him of his abilities. The last thing Corvo hears through the din as he leaves the hall is an address to Wyman. It is likely this man will not wish to leave a captured criminal unattended, and will personally settle somewhere nearby. He will surely have the gall to order the Tower guards to concentrate around the bedchamber. Anything to isolate Corvo Attano and await the desired trial. He must have anticipated Emily’s resistance.
***
The hands of the clock move very slowly, and even through his focus on the book, the pendulum strikes at his throbbing temples. Once again throwing his head back to rest against the sofa, Corvo tries to divert his attention from the pain, to relearn how to ignore it, if only to comprehend the printed pages. “This sound is driving me crazy,” admits to himself and returns to the book. “And the hunger became unbearable,” – Wyman’s voice is irritatingly calm, though it stirs a certain interest in his “irrefutable evidence”. All of it is false, without question – but something makes him believe in his own truth. Still, this concerns Attano least of all. Emily is now without protection. What if this is another strike against the government? How swiftly people weave conspiracies, having witnessed the Empress’s fall more than once. The clock strikes eight. Confident footsteps sound beyond the door, and Corvo recognises his daughter in them. And what could be better than a late supper with father? There is no need to confirm the guess, impatiently awaiting her appearance yet habit compels him to rise and meet her. To his great surprise, daughter appears with an attribute not befitting her. Shadows slip by on the far side of the door. They watch Corvo’s every movement in his own bedchamber, which irritates him greatly. They might at least have the decency not to spy on the Empress. “I have only brought food for Lord Corvo,” she reports patiently and pointlessly, measuring one of the guards stationed on either side of the massive wooden doors with a glance. “Your Imperial Majesty, shall I fetch the servants?” One step more and this hound will start drooling straight onto the tender, hot meat. “No. I wish to do this personally.” The guard does not argue further or test the Empress’s patience, obligingly opening the door and then closing it behind her. “Good evening, Corvo,” a faint, somewhat weary smile appears on the Empress’s face. A single glance would be enough for anyone to see that the Empress herself arranged the serving: on a rather large silver tray sits a lone plate with roasted rabbit, beside it a few carelessly placed golden potatoes; nearby roll Serkonan pears, a cluster of heavy, juicy grapes lies spilling apart, and a large slice of bread (blatantly torn off by the Empress’ slender fingers). Most beautiful of all is the apricot tartlet, neatly set aside on a saucer with a gold-patterned rim. On top of that, she has even produced a bottle of Gristolian natural cider from her own hidden reserves, but in her haste to beat the maid, Emily forgot the glasses. Her chief concern now is not dropping everything on the floor, which proves rather more difficult than she anticipated. “Good evening, Emily,” her father replies in the same tone, noting how the voices in his study beyond the fireplace suddenly fall silent. Corvo has visited the Empress’s chambers many times, both in her youth and more recently, but now it is she who stands in his personal space. As a child, Emily often came to him, unceremoniously occupying his bed or the armchair in his study, climbing through the fireplace, which frequently left the room bitterly cold. “The last time you came in here was almost a year ago,” he takes the tray from the Empress’ hands and sets it upon the table, then deliberately steps aside to a place where they would scarcely be visible through keyholes. “I remember how you loved looking at the books on the shelves as a child. And then complaining that they were all boring.” She remembers the time spent recovering after being turned to stone. Then Corvo, like a mighty knight-king, defeated the villains and returned Emily to the throne. “It is remarkable how easily Corvo relinquished such a thing, with all the cards in his hands.” And it is true: he could have taken the throne – even twice. And not so many would have opposed it, the aristocracy desires a strong male hand over the Empire. Yet, for some reason, it never happened. Corvo deliberately stops by the back of the chair, offering it to his daughter, and obligingly retrieves a pair of carved glasses from the shelf. He is not truly hungry, to be honest, but he is glad Emily came to see him. All this discomfort robs him not only of appetite, but of any desire to do anything at all. The guards’ chatter beyond the wall and the endless melody make it impossible to focus. Corvo pours the cider, hoping the alcohol will soothe the pulsing in his temples, which likely makes him look paler than usual. “Until you hid a few among them with entertaining stories,” Emily recalls with a smile, before her voice grows more concerned. “Are you feeling well?” “I have been hearing that melody all day, and I am used to the quiet of my study. It is just a headache,” Corvo admits honestly. He would never confess that he truly feels dreadful, so exhausted he fears he might drop the glass from his hand. Emily knows Corvo always wants to appear strong, no matter what, utterly forgetting the concern of a loved one. Nevertheless, she forgives his disregard for his health, gently brushing his hand with her own. Anyone would be driven mad by that melody, listened to for so many hours. It becomes a form of torture, perhaps meant to draw out everything Corvo keeps in his head, because official papers are always lacking details. They believe these notes can cleanse the heretic and drive the Outsider from him, bringing repentance. “Did Alex speak with you again?” Corvo’s dark eyes now search Emily’s face intently. Of course he wants to know what is happening beyond the walls of his chambers and this is something to be spoken of quietly. “No matter how I tried, he would not tell me of any other evidence he claims to have,” the Empress sighs heavily, peering into her glass. “But he certainly does have it, if he is so convinced of your involvement in the murders.” “You understand this is impossible,” his tone gradually evens out, becoming a continuous, indistinct vibration in a distant, hidden corner. “I was leading this case. Do you think that will be enough to convince the House of Lords?” “I have never doubted you. The Lords remember the events under Burrows. As for the mask – I have sent people to search for Piero, for only he can distinguish a forgery from his own work, even if you did manage to alter it slightly.” “Before Delilah, he was at the Academy of Natural Philosophy with Sokolov. That is where we should begin, though more than a year has passed. His file is in the archive in my study. At least, it was. Those hounds have probably already turned all the documentation upside down.” “Do they even have the right to that?” At first it sounds like surprise, then it turns to displeasure. “Though in any case, by now they have searched everything accessible to them,” she clarifies, knowing the castle is filled with dozens of secret rooms and vaults. “Then what about your real mask? It could be presented to the Lords as evidence.” “It is securely hidden from prying eyes, and not so easy to retrieve,” Corvo states confidently. “Besides, what use would it be if they look identical? If this is another setup, they can dispose of that specimen and claim it was stolen. We must continue the investigation and find the real killer before a verdict is passed.” “Even if I take everything into my own hands, you will be condemned faster than I find the first lead,” she says, clearly worried. The more she considers the options, the faster she realises she is at a dead end. Her well-kept nails tap against the smooth glass. “The Council may take your reputation into account, but that will not erase material evidence or the pressure from Wyman. He can be very stubborn.” “Then this may be our last supper,” Corvo says, chillingly indifferent to his fate. Torn from her thoughts, the Empress’ eyes widen in shock at the dreadfully calm statement of her Lord Protector, as though he has long reconciled himself with his lot. The resignation does not frighten him; he looks as though he still believes the Lords simply will not accept it. “Heck no!” Emily blurts out, rising sharply from her seat. The mere thought that he might be right is like ice water down her spine and she falls silent just as abruptly. “I will not leave this as it is. I will get you out of here by any means necessary.” “There is no way out of here, Emily,” his voice nearly falters, because in part he is right. She does not know how much the music box truly affects him, draining a significant portion of his strength and energy. All that remains is to convince her to abandon thoughts of escape. “And I still doubt the evidence. There are those in the House who know the history and are loyal to the Crown. The accusations are false.” “You are just letting this go?” His plan works quickly: Emily recoils at once, drawing her neat brows together so that faint lines appear on her forehead – there it is, her chief difference from her mother: impulsiveness. “Then I will ask the Lords for a postponement of the verdict and deal with this myself.” She lacks patience when something truly important... or someone is at stake. She is as emotional as her father once was, before service instilled rigid discipline and the hardening of former times. Sometimes events demand a clear head such as persuading a temperamental Empress into a deliberately passive stance, thus shielding her from foolish actions. She intends to pursue this conversation no further, making it known through her decidedly loud departure, startling the guards at the chamber entrance. The heavy door slams, sending a ringing echo down the corridor, and the soldiers fall silent as does the music box, but only for a moment, which brings not the slightest relief. Yes, perhaps she overreacted. Yes, Jessamine would have acted quite differently, pushing her own emotions aside. But, Outsider's eyes, she is not Jessamine. Emily cannot sit still in her study and sleep peacefully, knowing Corvo faces prison or, worse, execution. She is terrified. Terrified to the core at the thought that the Lords will condemn Attano, that a mask and human gossip supplied by Wyman will be enough. First, Emily orders her personal maid, Mrs Nesbit, to deliver food to her father personally. It will not hurt him to seeing the face of someone who sincerely believes in his innocence. Besides, this middle-aged lady can surely stand up to the insolent agents at the entrance to Corvo’s chambers. If she wished, she might even put the Lord himself in his place. As for Kaldwin, she buries herself in reports, searching for anything that might catch an eye, until the text quite literally begins to blur, and for two days she simply falls out of reality, plunging headlong into the whirlpool of investigation.
