A Face Changer

Mirak didn't press further. He knew he'd get nowhere with Lock at the moment. If his partner wanted to keep secrets, Mirak would let him—for now. Secrets had a way of surfacing, sooner or later.

"You find anything useful with the Fell girl?" Lock asked, his voice casually probing.

Mirak's mind wandered back to the books he'd slipped out of the Fell library. They were carefully curated, sterile, full of stories glorifying the noble houses but offering little of substance to exploit. The truth was buried beneath layers of omission and decorum.

"No," he said simply. "They barely watched me. Just the usual noble propaganda."

Lock studied him for a moment, then shrugged. "Well, you're not alone in that. All I've found are rumors—nobles gambling when they shouldn't, petty nonsense. Nothing to shake the Fell foundations. We'll need something bigger."

Mirak held back a smile. Lock's frustration made his lie easier to maintain. He had found something, but not about the Fell family directly. One of the books he'd taken, Harmony and Atta's Uses by Drezditch, had opened his eyes to the deeper possibilities of his power. In particular, it had lingered on a concept he was still grappling with: shielding.

"Shielding," the book read, "is the cornerstone of Sorcerer dominance. It is not the storms they summon, nor the flames they wield, but their invulnerability that secures their reign. A Sorcerer who has mastered shielding cannot be touched—not by blade, arrow, or even poison in the dark."

Mirak had pored over the passages, fascinated and frustrated in equal measure. The book had described Mordred, the so-called Maestro of Atta, who had perfected shielding to an art form. Unlike the clumsy barriers most Sorcerers could summon, Mordred's shields were seamless, a second skin that made her untouchable.

"She was a ridiculous anomaly," the book concluded. "A monster of her craft. Perhaps the only one who truly deserved the title of Sorcerer King."

Mirak sighed. He was far from Mordred's level. A single hand's worth of shielding was all he could muster, and even that left him drained and bloodied. Mordred could encase her entire body in an unbreakable flow without breaking a sweat. He could hardly fathom what it must have been like to stand against her.

The room's light dimmed further as the Lunar Storms began their steady creep over Koona. Their eerie, swirling mists slithered into the cracks of the city, painting the air in hues of blue and violet. Mirak's body sagged, exhaustion pulling at his limbs.

He lightly kicked Lock's side from his perch over the man's back. "The Lunar Storms are here."

Lock snorted. "Always on time." His tone turned grim. "Think they'll come for us?"

Mirak shook his head weakly. "Not us. But they'll want a spectacle."

"They'll grab a couple of unlucky Publici, make a big show of it," Lock said, his voice hard. "Stage an execution, call it justice. That's how they keep the crowds happy. No one will care it wasn't us."

By the time they reached the thief's amphitheater, Mirak could barely hold himself upright. Lock stopped at the door, steadying him with one arm.

"The Revenant will be pleased," Lock said with a smirk. "They'll probably reward us handsomely."

Mirak didn't respond. His attention was fixed on a building across the street, small and unassuming, but radiating an oppressive, alien energy. A modest bell hung above the entrance, swaying faintly in the Lunar breeze. The sensation was wrong, murky, pulling at something deep inside him.

"Go ahead without me," Mirak said, nodding toward the building. "I'll catch up."

Lock frowned, his gaze following Mirak's. "What's in there?"

"I don't know," Mirak admitted. "But I need to find out."

"I'll come with you," Lock offered.

"No." Mirak shook his head. "This... pull... it's something I need to face alone."

Lock hesitated, then relented. "Alright, partner. Don't take too long. The Revenant's patience has its limits." He slipped into the amphitheater, leaving Mirak alone.

The building wasn't grand. It was tucked into the corner of the street, plain and nondescript. Only the oppressive air around it hinted at something greater. Mirak pushed open the door and stepped inside.

The air was thick, almost suffocating, as though it carried a weight beyond what was natural. Candles burned in unnatural hues, their flames flickering in patterns that seemed wrong. In the center of the room knelt a woman, her head bowed in prayer. Blonde hair spilled over her shoulders, and her voice was a quiet murmur.

"All will seek your perfection, Lady of Flesh. From imperfection, we are made whole. For your gifts, we are eternally grateful."

The floor creaked beneath Mirak's step, and the woman turned her head sharply. Her face was serene, her smile warm and disarming.

"Ah," she said, her voice light. "You've come."

Mirak stiffened, his instincts on high alert. "What is this place?" he asked, though the oppressive, familiar feeling already clawed at the edges of his mind.

The woman rose gracefully, her black robes pooling around her feet. "It is a place of grace," she said simply. "The Lady of Flesh surrounds us here. Her blessings linger in the air."

Mirak frowned. "That's not what I meant."

The priestess smiled again, stepping closer to him. Her hands reached out, brushing his. "Come," she said softly, "place your hand upon the Trident of Cleansing. It will make you anew."

Mirak pulled his hand back. "I don't need your god's comfort."

"Perhaps not," she said, unbothered. "But touch the trident, and you will see. The Lady may even grant you a mark—a blessing. The noble houses covet such things, after all. The white hair of the Fell, the sharpened canines of the Omen Family. All symbols of perfection."

"Facechanger," Mirak muttered, his voice dripping with disdain.

The priestess's smile widened, and with a slight tug, she guided his hand to the cold stone of the trident. Mirak braced for something—a surge of power, a burning sensation, anything—but nothing happened. His fingers brushed the surface, and it was just stone.

The priestess frowned slightly. "It seems the Lady of Flesh does not favor you."

Mirak snorted, pulling his hand away. "Perhaps I'm too plain for your Lady."

She smiled again, serene and unbothered. "Perhaps. Or perhaps you have yet to perform the feat that will earn her attention."

Mirak turned to leave. "I've done nothing like that, and I never will. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a meeting to attend."

As he reached the door, her voice followed him, quiet and unsettling: "Perhaps you wish the gods had abandoned you. You believe yourself unworthy of their grace. But the Lady of Flesh accepts all imperfection."

Mirak didn't look back. The murky sensation clung to him as he left the building, gnawing at his thoughts. As he stepped into the cool air of the Lunar Storm, a whisper carried on the breeze:

"The Angel, the Heartless, and the Scholar. To think they would be the catalyst, my Lord Sateethn."