Magic obliterates world sins. Fourth Sin.

The Hall of Masks was huge. Huge to a point that moisture would gather on the ceiling – if there was a visible ceiling, so high it was you could not see it – and turn into private, interior clouds. Sometimes it would rain, but the water that fell from those clouds was tepid, sometimes even warm. Confusing, but pleasurable rain. And hovering some feet above the ground, the huge masks would gaze upon you. There were the paperwhite faces, smooth and smiling with red-tinted lips; there were the papier-mâché ones, faces of old men and women; the translucent, reflecting your own body and flickering lights. But all of them, all of them had hollow eyes.