The Labyrinth of Illusions wasn’t the only obstacle on the way to the promised gold. When Gwen and Mask caught up to the barber—who stood frozen in confusion—they saw a massive pit, at least six meters wide. Crossing was possible only via two very narrow plank bridges stretched from one edge to the other.
Crossing the planks was made harder by wooden dummies placed on both sides. They spun constantly, swinging heavy spiked maces on long ropes. To make matters worse, the bottom of the pit teemed with writhing black bodies—snakes.
In the torchlight on the opposite side, a heap of gold glittered.
On the right bridge, Tin Knight Willy was making his way quite confidently. Despite his bulky armor, he deftly avoided the swinging spiked balls—ducking under some, leaping over others. Apparently, his rooftop-climbing experience was proving most useful here.
One of the wooden mannequins fired poisoned darts at him. All of them lodged harmlessly in his tin armor, causing the chimney sweep no harm.
Willy had already covered half the distance and was steadily approaching the gold.
``I’m not sure those bridges can hold two people at once, but we should be able to get across, one at a time`` the Mask estimated pragmatically.
Gwen peeked into the pit below. Among the writhing mass of snakes, she thought she spotted a helmet and a dwarf’s beard. Yes, dwarves were never known for their acrobatic talents.
“Ugh, how disgusting. I’m not stepping on those planks, no way.”
“The most important thing is to not look down,” said Berengard, mostly to himself.
The barber chose the left bridge and stepped onto it, wielding his large scissors, which helped him keep balance on the narrow plank. He wasn’t afraid of the swinging spiked maces either. With practiced ease, he snipped them mid-air.
“Well done, Berengard!” Gwen cheered happily.
What happened next was one of those vile tricks clearly prepared in advance by Abarrass himself. The mannequin Berengard had just disarmed with his scissors suddenly spewed a jet of bright flame in his direction. The barber barely managed to stay on the plank, but he dropped his scissors. The fire singed his luxurious mustache and beard, and the greased-up tufts of hair on his head began to smolder like a lit fuse.
Gwen and the Mask waved frantically, pointing to his hair. Berengard didn’t immediately understand the signs and waved back just in case, signaling that everything was fine.
Gwen tried shouting at him. But her voice was drowned out by the roar of the crowd, gleefully shouting from the stands.
When Berengard finally noticed the smoke curling above his head, he panicked and bolted back in a frenzy. The Mask and Gwen tried to help, but it was no use. The barber dashed past them without even stopping and vanished back into the labyrinth.
“No, Berengard!” Gwen cried after him.
She might as well have been yelling at Abarrass himself.
“Ha-ha-ha!” came the impresario’s mocking voice. “Looks like we’re losing another contestant. I think he could use a little cooling off! Ha-ha-ha! Willy, on the other hand, is almost at his goal. Well then, let’s see whether our brave Tin Knight is afraid to face Fanglet. That mimic just loves his shiny coins and won’t give them up to anyone! Ha-ha!”
The Mask took Gwen’s hand firmly and squeezed it.
“I’ll go on the right, and you take the left. We’ll meet on the other side.”
Without waiting for a reply, the Mask dashed toward the bridge.
Gwen watched her go, then turned her gaze forward. She had to try — for Sheyla, and not only for her.
As Gwen stepped onto the shaky plank stretched across the snake-filled pit, she imagined a simple game she and Sheyla used to play on the cobbled streets of Vallor, back when their mother was still alive. It felt like a different lifetime, though only a couple of years had passed — and yet, everything had changed.
Now, both of them wandered the port in search of odd jobs, but back then they’d draw squares on the stone pavement with chalk and hop across them on one leg until they fell. Sheyla would always get upset when Gwen won and, through tears, would grumble, “Of course you’re better — you’re older.”
Imagine it's just a cobblestone street and there’s no pit or snakes below, Gwen told herself as she stepped onto the narrow plank. It worked — she crossed most of it in one breath. She halted abruptly before the fire-breathing mannequin — just in time to avoid the blast of flame. As soon as it subsided, Gwen dashed forward and cleared the danger before the fire burst again.
She stepped onto the far side of the pit nearly at the same time as the Mask, who had also made it across, skillfully dodging the poison darts. Seeing Gwen, the Mask tipped her hat in greeting.
Our adventurers have managed to overcome the pit full of deadly vipers and are now within reach of their goal,” proclaimed the voice of Abarass through the pipes. “But will they be able to deal as easily with my dear little pet — Fanglet? Show them what you’ve got, Fanglet! These nasty little people want to steal your gold!”
Gwen had heard many city legends about mimics before — in fact, she’d memorized several just to retell them to Sheyla at night and scare her little sister. But now, the idea of facing one of those legendary creatures in real life sent a chill down her spine.
Typically, mimics looked like inanimate objects or pieces of furniture — a chair, a table, a bookcase, or even a door. But in truth, they were malicious and horrifying monsters, lying in silent wait until an unsuspecting victim came too close.
According to legends, the first mimics were crafted by the great mages of the Magic Academy, competing to outwit one another with illusion and trickery. But their creation soon found eager fans among the skywalkers — as the wealthy residents of Vallor’s Upper City were called. These wealthy men were always on the lookout for new ways to safeguard their lavish homes against intruders.
Word of the mimics eventually spread to even the farthest districts of the city. And not long after, it became possible — though only for a fortune — to purchase a mimic on Vallor’s black market.
A large chest stood atop the heap of gold, appearing to be stuffed with coins to the brim. It was made of old, darkened wood, bound in heavy iron bands — exactly the kind of chest most people imagined skywalkers from the Upper City would use to hoard their endless treasures.
Willy, who had crossed the pit earlier, was already within arm’s reach of the pile, though showing an unusual amount of caution for a chimney sweep. Circling around the gold, he drew the long poker he carried like a sword at his belt and reached toward the treasure.
The chest gave a slight shudder. At first, Gwen thought the mimic might be asleep. She had never seen a real one in person before and didn’t even know if they slept at all. At a glance, the chest looked old, but there was nothing overtly monstrous about it.
Using the poker, Willy carefully pulled a few coins toward himself and greedily stuffed them under his tunic. When he reached out again, the chest gave a stronger jolt — as if something deep underground had stirred it. Willy froze for a moment, then resumed his fishing. This time, he managed to rake in a sizable pile of coins — a fortune for anyone in the city, not just a chimney sweep.
“BRUUUUUUM!” A deafening blast erupted from every pipe at once, just as the gold was almost in Willy’s hands. Abarass had clearly been waiting for that very moment to signal his monster.
A long spiked tongue — appearing seemingly out of nowhere — lashed out, seized the poker, and yanked it violently. Willy flew straight toward the gaping lid of the chest. Gwen saw the sharp fangs lining the monster’s maw beneath the lid.
At the last moment, Willy managed to brace himself and jam the poker crosswise between the creature’s jaws. Fanglet gagged, struggling to close its mouth. On the second attempt, it managed to spit the poker out. By then, Willy had already rolled to the side and even managed to recover his poker.
Scattering gold coins like droplets, the mimic lunged at him on its short spider-like legs. Its long, barbed tongue slithered toward the adventurer like a snake. Willy’s poker deflected the strike — once, twice — each time from a different direction. A real duel had broken out between the Tin Knight and the mimic.
With growing horror, Gwen noticed the creature’s many eyes opening across its body — from tiny bead-like ones to massive orbs the size of saucers. The mimic’s eyes gleamed like gemstones in every hue, from sky blue to blood red.
The spectators on the stands watched the battle intently. Abarass himself, whose private box hung directly above the battleground, had leapt to his feet and was now leaning out, shouting encouragement to his repulsive pet.
Under the assault of the monstrous tongue, the chimney sweep retreated step by step until he was finally pinned against the arena wall. The mimic had cornered its prey and was now ready to finish the job.
After another attack, Willy lost his only weapon—his poker. Gwen cried out in despair. A similar scream of horror echoed across the stands. The mimic's tongue swept across Willy’s face, leaving a wide trail of slime. He pressed himself against the wall, too terrified to move. Fanglet was toying with its victim, taking its time before devouring him.
Suddenly, something whistled through the air—and the mimic’s tongue was pinned to the arena wall with a throwing knife. The mimic howled in pain and thrashed to free its slick weapon. To be sure, the Mask threw two more knives—both struck true. The disgusting creature was firmly nailed in place.
Abarrass unleashed a torrent of colorful curses and vile invectives at the Mask, which only cheered her up. She winked at the girl.
“Well, Gwen, the path to the gold is open. I hope now you’ll be able to buy back your sister’s freedom.”
Then, turning to the impresario’s box, the Mask shouted:
``Hey, Abarrass, you lost! And now I—the Mask—want to offer you a fair deal.``
She took off her hat mid-stride and shook her head, transforming into a girl with red hair and a freckled, upturned nose. This must have been her real face.
The Mask took another step forward, not watching her footing—when suddenly she shot up into the air in a flurry of goblets and gold coins.
It all happened so fast, Gwen didn’t even have time to scream. The Mask had triggered a cunning trap and was now hanging in a net like a rabbit or a deer. The net was held aloft by a taut rope looped over a hook and pulley.
Gwen rushed to help her.
“I’m here, I’m here—hold on just a minute, I just need to untie the rope!”
The end of the rope was fastened to the wall. Gwen struggled to undo the knot holding the rope tight, but without a knife, it was nearly impossible.
“We are delighted to welcome you, Mask, to our arena,” Abarrass said with venomous cheer. “You managed to fool me for quite some time, but now the moment has come—you’ll join your brothers soon enough. They've been serving me for a long time, and soon, you’ll be just like them… a mindless little puppet—ha-ha-ha!” Abarrass roared with laughter, stroking his fat belly.
Gwen tore her fingers bloody trying to loosen the knot in the rope. This was exactly the kind of situation where Berengard and his scissors would’ve come in handy—but he was nowhere to be seen.
So Gwen turned to the tin-plated knight who had only just avoided being devoured alive thanks to the Mask.
“Willy! Willy, I need your help!”
But the chimney sweep didn’t seem to hear her. Once he was sure the mimic no longer posed a threat, he busied himself stuffing gold into his pockets. He even filled his tin cap to the brim, having removed it from his head.
“And it looks like we have a winner in today’s event. Who would’ve thought it would be our own chimney sweep Willy? No more will the nobles of Upper Vallor call him a failure. Now he can get himself a proper house—with servants! Let’s hear it for Willy the Stove Knight! Sleepwalker, escort him!”
The crowd erupted into a joyful roar from the stands, drowning out Gwen’s desperate cries for help.
With a groan, the heavy arena gates swung open—the passage through which the victor was to exit. Rolling out of the shadows came the same harlequin Gwen had seen during the circus troupe’s performance.
Sleepwalker cartwheeled across the arena, then executed a few flashy somersaults to the roaring delight of the crowd. Reaching Willie, he bent in an exaggeratedly deep bow before him. The audience continued to cheer. But as he straightened up, Sleepwalker suddenly puffed a cloud of pale blue-and-white powder right into Willie's face. The chimney sweep staggered, took a few faltering steps, and collapsed onto the sand, his tin cap spilling coins everywhere.
The crowd fell silent in shock. Sleepwalker leaned over the now-motionless Willie, listened for a moment, then mimed a sleeping figure and pressed a finger to his lips.
The audience erupted in laughter. Abarrass’s slimy chuckle echoed from every pipe at once. Once he'd had his fill of amusement, he announced:
— Let’s not disturb our dear Willie while he dreams his sweet dreams — clearly, he just inhaled a little of the sleep powder and decided it was nap time. Looks like he won’t be today’s victor either. So, perhaps you, girl… What was it? Gwen! Would you like to take his place?
— Or maybe, instead of chasing glory, you’d prefer to save your little sister?
Abarrass pulled some hidden levers in his private box. Beside the large gates of the arena, a smaller grate creaked open. Behind it, Gwen saw Sheila. Her sister was tied to a post.
— Sheila! — Gwen screamed.
“Gwen, don’t leave me here, please!”
“A difficult choice!” Abarass concluded, clearly savoring his triumph. “Save your sister? Or perhaps your friend? Or maybe give in to the temptation of gold and finally move out of that miserable shack hidden in the backstreets of the port, and into a cozy little home closer to the bright and straight avenues of the Upper City?”
“How does he know that?” flashed through Gwen’s mind. That scoundrel had made Sheila tell him everything.
“So then, Gwen, what will it be?” Abarass pressed on.
The girl looked at her younger sister, then at the Mask, still suspended in the net.
“Don’t listen to him,” the Mask forced out with difficulty. “Do as your heart tells you—leave me and save your sister.”
Gwen had almost no time left. Fanglet still hadn’t managed to free his tongue, but he was close. The mimic had already torn two of the three throwing knives from the wall. The last one was starting to wobble and would soon give way. Gwen had to act quickly if she didn’t want to come face to face with an enraged mimic. She couldn’t decide what to do.
“Do as your heart tells you!”
A sudden plan formed in Gwen’s mind. All she needed to do was sing. She darted across the pile of gold toward the mimic. Sleepwalker spun into a nimble pirouette to block her path and released another puff of sleep powder in her direction. Gwen held her breath and slid forward over the golden coins as if skating on ice.
She slipped past Sleepwalker and found herself right next to the mimic. It was still trying to free its tongue, but some of its eyes had already noticed her, and it began thrashing its massive, chest-like body in fury.
Leaping up, Gwen grabbed the edge of the lid with her hands and legs, mounting the mimic like a wild horse. The monster couldn’t close its lid-mouth because of the thick tongue sticking out. Sticky saliva dripped heavily from the randomly grown fangs lining the underside of the lid, splashing onto Gwen and making it difficult to keep her grip.
“Don’t be afraid of me,” Gwen said, not knowing if the mimic could hear her—or even if it had ears at all.
With one hand, she tried to gently stroke the mimic’s body. On the outside, it looked exactly like old, darkened wood, but her fingers felt warmth, and even a slight elasticity to the skin under pressure.
“Calm down, Fanglet. No one wants to hurt you or steal your gold. You don’t need to attack us.”
The mimic seemed to respond to her words and thrashed much less, no longer trying as hard to throw her off.
“Can someone please explain what she’s doing?” Abarrass bellowed in confusion. “Fanglet, you must throw her off immediately and crush her!”
But the mimic didn’t seem to hear the command. In response to Gwen’s soothing voice, it let out a series of strange, rumbling, almost purring sounds from deep within its belly.
“Good boy, Fanglet! That’s the way. Now I’ll help you.”
Gwen reached out and, with one swift motion, yanked the last throwing knife from the wall, freeing the mimic’s tongue. Unfortunately, the blade slipped from her hand—slick with saliva—and fell.
Sensing his long-awaited freedom, Fanglet froze for a moment, then quickly retracted his injured tongue into the fang-lined maw beneath the lid.
The crowd in the stands went still, breath held. Even Sleepwalker, who had lingered on the arena floor, froze in place as Gwen stood atop the mimic.
Fanglet took a moment to test his tongue inside his mouth, then suddenly lashed it out in a lightning-fast strike—trying to snatch the girl from his own back, like a frog catching a pesky insect. Gwen let out a disgusted gasp as the rough, slimy tongue swept across her body, leaving behind a cold, wet trail.
When he failed to grab her, the mimic began thrashing again, violently hurling itself side to side, rolling through the pile of gold, desperate to throw the girl off with a well-timed jolt.
“No, Fanglet, stop—wait!” Gwen cried out, trying in vain to get through to him.
In his viewing box, Abarrass beamed with delight.
“Yes, Fanglet! Go on, devour her! She’s right there—and she’s delicious. Don’t let her slip away this time!”
Gwen knew she couldn’t hold out much longer. The grotesque, sandpaper-like tongue lashed at her relentlessly, and she clung to the mimic’s lid with fingers slick from drool, her grip failing fast.
If only she’d held onto the knife, she could’ve fought the tongue off—or maybe even stabbed one of the mimic’s many grotesque eyes. But she had only one thing left. From beneath her tunic, Gwen pulled out the feather of the Miriliss bird—the Mask’s gift.
She pulled herself as close as possible to the edge of the lid, clutching one of the protruding fangs with her left hand. Just then, the rasping tongue wrapped around her arm, trying to drag her fully into the yawning, fanged mouth. Gwen had no strength left to resist it. Summoning the last of her will, she shoved her right arm—up to the elbow—into the mimic’s mouth, the enchanted feather clenched in her hand.
The mimic puffed up as if about to burst. Its tongue released Gwen’s arm. Then Fanglet let out an explosive sneeze, with a sound like an old hot water bottle popping—blasting Gwen a dozen paces backward. From the mimic’s maw rained a shower of various golden objects: rings, chains, bracelets, coins, even a gilded candlestick and a set of ornate fireplace clocks.
Wasting no time, Gwen shoved the feather back into his mouth and waved it side to side. The mimic couldn’t resist—he sneezed again. This time, a halfling’s skeleton in full battle gear tumbled out, along with a flowerpot and a golden comb.
“What are you doing, you insufferable brat?!” bellowed Abarrass. “Stop that at once!”
But Gwen had no intention of stopping. Fanglet sneezed several more times until finally, from deep within his mouth, a plain iron sword tumbled out—its hilt set with a large red ruby.
The Bondbreaker, Gwen realized at once.
Only then did she release Fanglet and nimbly leap down onto the arena’s sand. The mimic didn’t even try to pursue her. It slumped to one side and transformed back into an ordinary old chest.
On the move, Gwen scooped up the sword. It felt slightly warm to the touch and fit perfectly into her hand—as if made for her. Within five minutes, both the Mask and Sheila were freed. The sisters rushed into each other’s arms, and then Gwen called out loudly:
— Well then, Abarrass the Great and Magnificent, I’ve won your little contest. But I don’t want your gold. I want you to release the troupe of circus performers you enslaved through deceit and trickery.
Instead of answering, circus music blared over the arena. The main gates creaked open a second time, and through them limped Abarrass himself, flanked by the entire troupe.
The announcer in a powdered wig hurried to declare in a grand voice:
— Abarrass the Great and Magnificent, master of the circus, peerless impresario of Vallor...
Abarrass shoved him aside with his thick, hairy arm.
— Foolish girl, if you think you can mock me so easily, you’re dead wrong.
He played with the whip in his hand, and all the performers watched his every move with both horror and reverence.
— Give me that sword. Now. Or else…
He didn’t finish the sentence. Instead, he gave the whip a light flick, and the entire circus troupe gasped in fear.
— Your new friend, girl, managed to hide from me for quite a while, changing her faces like gloves. A long time ago, her troupe signed a contract with me—one that made them all my obedient puppets. But the Mask, true to her name, managed to fool me and escape. I suspected she hadn’t truly left the city, that she still dreamed of freeing her family — Abarrass glanced around darkly. — These circus folk are naive, clinging to each other like children. I wasn’t wrong. And now, thanks to you, I’ve finally caught that pesky little mouse.
Gwen turned to the Mask. There was a silent question frozen in her eyes. The Mask simply lowered her head and pulled the mask from her face.
— No… — Gwen whispered in fear. — Tell me he’s wrong. You can fight him. Please…!
— Fight back? — Abarrass echoed with mock surprise, then burst into a harsh laugh. He snapped at the trembling circus performers shrinking away from him.
— Fight me? What nonsense!
He cracked the whip sharply and gave a command:
— Mask, by the name of Rimmy, I, Abarrass, your master, command you to bring me that sword.
Gwen instinctively stepped back as the Mask’s face twisted into something predatory and cold.
— Give me the sword, Gwen. And better do it the easy way.
On one side stood Abarrass, on the other, the Mask was slowly advancing.
— Do you really want this old sword so badly? — Gwen asked Abarrass.
At that moment, the Mask lunged at her. Gwen didn’t want to fight or hurt her, so she made a split-second decision to trust the circus folk.
— Then come get it!
With all her strength, Gwen hurled the sword high into the air above the arena, just like the orc strongman had done in his act. She gave him a sharp nod. Hugo reached out with perfect timing, and the sword landed neatly in his palm.
Abarrass shouted to the harlequin:
— Sleepwalker, fetch me that cursed sword!
The harlequin flipped through the air toward the sword in a whirlwind of motion—but Hugo had already hurled it further, straight into Danko’s waiting hands. The fiend caught it with graceful precision, beating Sleepwalker by a heartbeat.
— Danko, now! — Gwen shouted.
But Danko didn’t need words. He knew he had only seconds.
Abarrass was already raising his whip, ready to give the command no puppet under his control could disobey.
Besides his poetic flair, Danko also possessed a host of useful circus talents—and one of them was juggling. Without aiming, he flung the sword in a spinning arc. It passed close to the whip, seemingly grazing it.
Abarrass grinned wickedly, convinced Danko had missed—until his whip split into pieces, severed down the middle by the Bondbreaker. Abarrass stared in disbelief. He dropped to his knees in the sand, frantically gathering the tattered strands of his whip, whispering a stream of barely intelligible incantations.
The circus folk, who had moments before stood frozen in fear at the edges of the arena, began to look at one another in stunned wonder.
Danko approached Gwen and the Mask, rubbing his neck and glancing down at himself as he walked.
— I can’t believe it… it’s like someone took the shackles off my neck—or a short leash. I’d almost forgotten what it felt like… to be free, to feel like I actually control my own body.
The Mask threw her arms around him with joy, then embraced Gwen and Sheyla in turn.
— We did it. I can’t believe it actually worked.

— I’m so happy.

— Look, look…
All three turned their heads toward Abarrass. The circus troupe had encircled the “Great and Magnificent” tightly. Years of humiliation and bondage had left them hungry for justice.
— Don’t you dare! Don’t touch me, you miserable pack of clowns! I command you—just let me fix my whip and—
But his words were drowned out by the cheers of the spectators, who now celebrated alongside the freed performers.
Suddenly, Abarrass sprang up, shoving aside the nearest circus folk and making a mad dash for escape.
He might have made it—if not for Fanglet. The mimic stood in his path, lid-jaws open wide, rows of jagged teeth gleaming. His mismatched gemstone eyes locked on Abarrass, unblinking.
— Are you hungry, Fanglet? Don’t eat me—go after them instead!
But the mimic didn’t move. Instead, his long spiked tongue began slithering straight toward Abarrass’s legs.
— Damn it, Fanglet! I’m your master—I command you!
Abarrass reached instinctively toward his belt, where his whip usually hung—only to find it gone.
The mimic’s tongue coiled rapidly around the impresario’s legs. Abarrass thrashed and fought, but the enormous chest-like creature had no trouble reeling the massive ogre into its gaping maw and snapping the lid shut with a wet crunch.
Muffled screams continued to echo from inside the mimic’s mouth for a moment… until Fanglet let out a satisfied burp and spit out a wooden leg.
The crowd in the stands and the circus performers on the arena floor erupted into a roaring cheer. Gwen and Sheyla cheered with them, laughing, breathless, overwhelmed with relief. This year, the Valloran Carnival of Wonders was shaping up to be the most thrilling—and hopeful—one yet.
At that very moment, chimney-sweep Willy stirred from his enchanted slumber. The tin knight sat up, stretched with a yawn, blinked around in confusion, and asked:
—What did I miss?