"To fight the abyss, you must first open your eyes.
But once opened… they never close again."
The carriage rattled through the fog-drenched streets.
Elias sat across from three black-coated figures, the book heavy in his lap. Outside, gas lamps glowed dimly, their light drowned by the curtain of mist that refused to part.
The leader sat directly opposite him. Hat brim shadowed his sharp eyes, revolver still holstered but close enough to draw in a heartbeat. His every movement radiated cold discipline, the kind of man who had seen too much and trusted too little.
"Name," the man repeated, though Elias had already given it.
"Elias Vale."
"Origin?"
Elias hesitated. Earth. A lie would be safer, but his mind moved quickly—sharp, deliberate, detached, like an actor slipping into role.
"Merchant's son. My family was lost to illness. I've… been drifting since."
The man's gaze drilled into him, searching for cracks. Elias met his eyes calmly, his pulse steady. Eventually, the man leaned back.
"Commander Arkwright," he said at last, tapping his chest. "I lead this branch of the Watchers' Lodge. Those beside me—"
The woman to his right tilted her chin slightly, her copper hair catching the lantern-light. Her eyes, a striking green, carried both fatigue and fire. She offered Elias a faint nod.
"Serah Wynne. Specialist in tracking and bindings." Her hand rested on a dagger etched with spirals of runes.
The younger man on the left gave a lopsided grin. His dark hair fell into his eyes, and he spun a coin across his knuckles lazily, though the faint shimmer of energy clung to it.
"Jonas Reed. Resident trickster. I throw coins, they explode. Or maybe they heal. Depends on my mood."
"Jonas," Arkwright snapped.
"What? I'm being honest."
Serah rolled her eyes.
Elias allowed himself the faintest smile. So even in this world, clowns exist.
The carriage lurched to a stop.
They stepped out into a secluded courtyard, stone walls rising high around them. At the center stood a tall building, its stained glass windows glowing faintly from within. The air was thick with incense and something sharper—iron, gunpowder, and secrets.
Arkwright led them inside.
The interior was a maze of hallways lined with books, weapons, and strange artifacts locked behind glass. Men and women in black coats moved with purpose, whispering reports, carrying boxes etched with wards, or polishing revolvers that gleamed unnaturally.
Elias felt it immediately—the pressure. The weight of unseen gazes, like invisible eyes crawling over his skin. His grip tightened on the torn book.
Arkwright noticed.
"The Lodge is built on old ground," he said curtly. "Some say the walls remember. Don't stare too long. The walls… might stare back."
They stopped at a heavy oak door. Inside was a round table lit by lanterns, papers spread across its surface, maps pinned with black nails.
Arkwright gestured. "Sit."
Elias obeyed. Serah and Jonas flanked him, while Arkwright stood, his shadow looming.
"Now. That book."
Elias glanced down. The Veil of Lies pulsed faintly, as though aware of being discussed. He slid it forward but did not release it.
"It came with me," Elias said evenly. "I don't know how. Or why."
Serah frowned. "Artifacts don't just… come with you. They're taken, stolen, bargained for—"
"Or cursed," Jonas added cheerfully.
Arkwright's gaze hardened. "Artifacts are dangerous. They bend minds, corrupt bodies, twist fates. Men burn alive for touching the wrong one. You're holding something that reeks of the unknown."
He leaned closer, voice lowering.
"And yet… you're sane."
Elias said nothing. Inside, his mind churned. The book's first page still burned in his thoughts:
"Observer's Sight – Sequence 9"
Close your eyes. Open the curtain. Watch the unseen.
He remembered the writhing crimson threads, the whispers in the mutating man.
Not an illusion. Truth.
Arkwright finally straightened.
"You'll stay here, Vale. Under watch. If you lose control, you'll be put down. If you survive… perhaps you'll serve."
Jonas leaned over, grinning. "Don't worry. We're all half-mad here anyway."
Serah's voice was softer, though no less sharp. "Pray you never see what we've seen."
Elias nodded calmly, concealing the storm within. His fingers brushed the book, and he thought:
If the world is a stage, then I'll play my part.
But unlike the rest of you… I already know the audience is watching.
---
"Every oath spoken in the dark carries a hidden cost.
The Watchers' Lodge swears to protect.
But what do they protect us from…
and who protects us from them?"