"An actor is only as convincing as his lie.
An observer is only as powerful as the truths he steals.
But remember—
Truth cuts deeper than any blade."
— Watchers' Lodge Maxim.
Three days passed since Elias' initiation.
The fire in his veins had cooled, but his perception had not. The world no longer looked the same.
Every person he passed on the streets of Coldhearth carried threads he could see—thin, crimson lines snaking from their chests, twining into the air. Some were taut, others frayed, and some knotted into messy tangles.
Fate…? No. Something deeper. Choices. Paths.
When he concentrated, whispers bled from the threads—snippets of memory, fragments of intent. But he had to pull away quickly. The longer he stared, the louder the voices grew, threatening to bury him.
"Observer," Jonas had chuckled the day before, slapping him on the back, "means peeping into places no sane man wants to look. Just don't lose your mind, Vale."
He wasn't wrong.
That evening, Arkwright summoned him to the Lodge's war room.
A map of the city sprawled across the oak table, covered in pins and notes. The smell of burnt parchment lingered.
Arkwright's sharp gaze pinned Elias.
"A cult is moving in the eastern district. They've been stealing corpses—fresh ones. We suspect they're preparing a mass ritual."
"Necromancy?" Elias asked.
"Worse," Serah murmured, her gloved hand resting on a sheathed dagger. "They follow the Whispering Choir. They invite madness into their bodies. One slip and the entire district could collapse."
Arkwright pushed a small box toward Elias.
"Your first mission. Infiltrate. Observe. Report. If necessary—interfere."
Elias opened the box.
Inside was an artifact.
A silver monocle, its glass faintly misted as though it breathed. When he held it up, cold seeped into his skin, and for a fleeting second, he saw his own reflection blink independently.
Arkwright's tone hardened.
"Be warned. This is the Eye of Silent Witness. It reveals lies, hidden signs, and what cannot be seen… but it will also watch you back. Never wear it for long."
Elias closed the box slowly. His lips curved. "So my first toy comes with teeth."
Jonas grinned. "Welcome to the Lodge."
Night fell.
Elias moved through the eastern district, his steps silent, his book tucked within his coat. The streets reeked of rot. Cats hissed from alleys, and the fog was thick enough to choke on.
He slid the monocle into place.
The world shifted.
Walls breathed. Shadows stretched like grasping arms. Symbols—hidden, wrong, hungry—burned across the cobblestones in glowing script only he could see. At the center of it all, a warehouse pulsed like a diseased heart.
Inside, chanting voices rose.
Elias' vision tunneled. He could see them without entering—the cultists kneeling in a circle, carving sigils into their skin, blood pooling into a basin. At the center lay a corpse, its eyes wide open, lips whispering though it was long dead.
His hand tightened on the book.
The whispers clawed at his ears, urging him to step closer, to listen, to join.
For a moment, his pulse raced. He could almost feel the fire stirring in his veins, demanding to be unleashed.
But Elias only smiled faintly.
"Whisper all you like. I'm the one watching."
The cult leader's head snapped up. As if he had heard him.
Dozens of eyes turned toward the shadows where Elias stood.
And for the first time, Elias realized—
Observation was not one-sided.
---
"If you stare too long into the abyss,
the abyss will remember your face."