"Artifacts are like mirrors.
They reflect your desire,
but crack when you stare too long.
And when the mirror breaks,
what steps out is never you."
— Watchers' Lodge Manual, Black Page
The torn book lay open before Elias, pages fluttering in a wind that wasn't there.
Beside it, on a strip of cloth, rested the shard—pale crystal etched with lines that shifted like veins of blood beneath glass.
It pulsed faintly. thump… thump… Like a heartbeat not its own.
Elias tilted his head, lips curling faintly. "You're alive, then. Or pretending well enough."
The shard responded with a whisper. Not sound, not language, but meaning pressed directly into his mind.
"Name… Name… give us a name…"
He chuckled softly, leaning back in his chair. "A name? I've had too many already. Which one would you like? The one the shadows know, or the one the flames will curse?"
The shard's pulse quickened.
He extended a thread of spiritual vision—his sight slipping into that strange, layered world.
The shard wasn't crystal at all. It was a theatre mask, cracked and faceless, shifting every time he blinked. Sometimes it grinned. Sometimes it wept. Sometimes it stared at him with his own eyes.
And always, it whispered:
"Act. Act. Act. Or be nothing."
Elias pressed his thumb against the shard. A sting ran through him—cold and burning all at once. His surroundings warped.
He stood on a stage.
A velvet curtain stretched into infinity. The chandeliers dripped with black wax. And rows upon rows of faceless silhouettes filled the audience, their applause echoing like waves crashing against his skull.
Elias smiled faintly. "So. This is your domain. A stage with no actors, waiting for me to perform."
One silhouette leaned forward. Its faceless head split, revealing a maw filled with endless teeth.
"Show us the Fool. Show us the Trickster. Show us the Observer."
The applause grew louder.
Elias bowed. "As you wish."
He raised a hand. Fire coiled around his palm—not destructive flame, but mockery. A theatre flame, lighting nothing, burning nothing, yet devouring attention itself.
The faceless audience screamed in delight.
The shard pulsed wildly, feeding on the act.
Elias tilted his head, eyes glowing faintly ember-gold. "Yes… I see now. You demand performance. You hunger for roles. You would consume me if I faltered. But…" His smile sharpened. "…you cannot consume an actor who never leaves the stage."
The audience stilled. The curtain trembled. The shard quieted.
And then—applause, deafening and eternal.
Elias opened his eyes back in his quarters. Sweat ran down his temple. His hands trembled—not from fear, but exhilaration.
The shard now lay silent on the cloth. Its surface no longer cracked—it bore a faint imprint of a mask, shifting between comedy and tragedy.
He exhaled slowly. "So you've accepted me."
He dipped his pen and wrote in the torn book:
Artifact Shard of the Faceless Choir — Rule Discovered:
Demands performance.
Punishes silence.
Grants amplification of abilities if "acting" is continuous.
Danger: If I falter, lose control, or reveal my true face… it will consume me.
He tapped the pen against the page, smiling faintly. "A mirror that devours identity. Fitting."
At that moment—three soft knocks sounded at his door.
Serah's voice drifted in, cold as ever. "Vale. Arkwright wants you in the hall. There's another mission."
Elias closed the book, pocketed the shard, and smoothed his coat.
His reflection in the window wavered, splitting into a dozen faces—smiling, frowning, mocking, grieving.
He whispered to them, almost playfully:
"Then let's act again."
---
"To wield an artifact:
You do not hold it.
You let it hold you.
But never let it know your true face."