"Victory wins applause.
But survival earns suspicion.
Never let them see which mask you wear."
— Whisper carved into the Watchers' Lodge altar.
The Watchers' Lodge smelled faintly of smoke and ink.
Elias sat at the long oak table, his coat still marked with soot, the torn book resting on his lap. Across from him, Arkwright leaned back in his chair, steel-gray eyes fixed on him with unnerving intensity.
"Report."
Elias spoke calmly, detached. "The cult was conducting a summoning. I disrupted the ritual. Their leader fell. The corpse vessel crumbled. Whatever was coming through… did not."
Jonas whistled low, lounging in his chair with a grin. "Not bad for your first dance, Vale. Didn't even combust."
Serah, silent until now, finally spoke. "You returned alive. But alive is not the same as untouched." Her cold gaze swept over him, lingering on the faint ember-glow in his eyes.
Elias tilted his head, lips curving faintly. "I wouldn't call myself untouched. But I am not broken."
Arkwright's gaze didn't waver. "You manipulated the cultists. You used flame without combustion. You walked into the abyss and came back… calm." He leaned forward, voice sharp. "Explain."
Inside, Elias nearly laughed. Explain? That he had stared into their threads, twisted their fears, and walked the stage like a Trickster actor while the abyss whispered his name? That the torn book steadied him, when any other man would have lost his mind?
Of course not.
So he lowered his eyes, affecting humility. "I followed your teachings. I didn't resist the burn. I guided it."
A pause. The silence stretched.
Then Arkwright leaned back slowly. "Perhaps. Or perhaps the fire has already taken root."
Jonas chuckled, breaking the tension. "Oh, let the boy breathe, Ark. Not every Observer bursts into flame on their first outing."
Serah said nothing. But her eyes never left Elias.
Later, as the others dispersed, Elias lingered alone in the Lodge hall. The chandeliers above flickered faintly, shadows dancing like an audience watching.
He slipped a hand into his coat.
The shard pulsed softly, whispering against his palm. The Choir's voice, faint but insistent:
"We remember you… Fool… Trickster… Observer…"
Elias exhaled. His smile returned, faint but genuine this time. "Yes, yes. You remember my face. Good."
He closed his hand around the shard, letting the whispers curl harmlessly at the edges of his mind.
Footsteps echoed.
Serah stood at the archway, her silhouette sharp against the candlelight. "That shard," she said quietly. "You kept it."
Elias didn't flinch. "Would you rather I left it for scavengers?"
Her jaw tightened. "Artifacts consume men. They don't serve them."
He tilted his head, amusement flickering in his ember-glow eyes. "Or perhaps men consume artifacts. Depends on who's acting, and who's watching."
For a moment, neither spoke. Then Serah turned, disappearing back into the shadows.
Elias chuckled softly to himself.
He returned to his quarters, setting the torn book on the desk. Its pages fluttered, blank yet alive, as though waiting for his thoughts.
He dipped a pen in ink, writing the first words since his transmigration:
"Sequence 9: Observer. First lesson—The stage is endless. The audience blind. But the play never stops."
"To survive in the Lodge,
play the obedient novice.
To survive in the world,
play the amused Trickster.
To survive yourself…
do not forget the Fool you truly are."