The Hidden Relic of the Trickster (lV)

Chapter 17: The Hidden Relic of the Trickster (lV)

The Price for a Riddle

The silence stretched, thick as ink.

The figures that had risen from the shadows stood motionless, their forms shifting like half-remembered dreams. They had no faces, only silhouettes—shapes cast in darkness, incomplete, waiting.

"One must be forgotten, for the path to remain."

The whisper was patient. It did not demand.

It simply offered.

Noctis exhaled, steadying his thoughts.

A bargain. A trade. The price of knowing.

This was not like the games of the aristocracy, where words could be twisted and debts delayed. This was deeper. Older.

A true exchange.

His gaze flicked back to the Trickster. The god had not moved from his throne, but his smirk had sharpened. Interested, but not intervening.

That meant there was no trick hidden in the choice. Not yet.

"One must be forgotten."

Noctis's mind worked fast. What could he afford to lose?

"What is held yet slips away?" the shadows whispered.

Noctis's breath slowed.

The Trickster did not ask riddles lightly. This was a game. A test of wit. A trick wrapped in truth.

Something held yet lost.

A moment.

A memory.

A name.

Noctis's mind sharpened. He could solve this, but the question was not only about answering—it was about choosing what to give.

His own name? No. That was too dangerous.

A memory? Perhaps. But which one?

The shadows shifted, restless. The Trickster's gaze gleamed, unreadable.

The weight of choice settled in Noctis's chest.

He exhaled.

His name? Too dangerous. His identity was a weapon, carefully sharpened. If he lost that, he risked unraveling everything.

His past? No—memories were power. They shaped him, guided him. To lose the wrong one could be catastrophic.

But not all memories were equal.

His gaze flicked to the figures, their shifting forms flickering between familiarity and nothingness. He recognized pieces—moments, people, echoes of things he had seen but never truly noticed.

Half-formed recollections. The small things.

A realization settled in his chest.

The Forgotten Path did not demand something precious. Only something real.

And he spoke.

He inhaled. "I choose a memory."

The figures stirred.

The Trickster raised a brow, amusement flickering in his gaze. "Do you, now?"

Noctis ignored him. His focus was on the shifting shapes, on the offer being presented.

If he was right, he could outmaneuver this cost.

"I give you a moment I will never need," he said carefully. "A memory that has no weight."

The shadows whispered. The words were no longer spoken aloud, but he felt them coil through his thoughts.

"All memory has weight. Choose."

A test, then.

Fine.

Noctis closed his eyes, sifting through the countless moments in his mind. The feel of the vault's cold stone beneath his fingers. The first time he held a blade. The scent of old parchment in the academy halls.

No. No. No.

Something small. Something that did not define him.

Then—

A flash. A memory so insignificant he had almost missed it. A book he had glimpsed years ago in a noble's study, one he had never read, only seen in passing. The title was lost to him, the words meaningless.

It was nothing.

It would do.

His eyes opened. "I give you a memory of a book I never read."

The figures froze.

The Trickster let out a laugh, full and rich with delight. "Oh, well done."

The moment stretched. The shadows trembled—then collapsed, folding into themselves like ink drawn into parchment.

And just like that, the bargain was made.

Noctis barely had time to register the shift before the shadows laughed.

Not the Trickster. Not a voice from any one thing. The space itself laughed.

It was a whispering, churning sound, rolling through the air like dry leaves caught in a storm.

Noctis remained still. He had already made his choice.

The Trickster, lounging upon his throne of shadows, tilted his head with an expression of delighted mischief. "Well, well. That was almost disappointingly practical."

The Trickster leaned forward, his smirk still in place but his gaze sharper now. "A clever choice. Most give too much. Some give what they cannot afford."

Noctis met his eyes. "I don't make bad trades."

The god chuckled. "So I see."

The throne of shadows flickered, its form shifting. The air around them changed.

Something unseen settled into place—knowledge, power, the thing Noctis had won.

Noctis gave him a flat look. "Would you have preferred I sacrificed my name for the sake of drama?"

The Trickster's smirk deepened. "It would have been more entertaining."

"Entertainment wasn't my goal."

The god chuckled. "A pity. You'd do well on a stage."

Noctis exhaled through his nose, not rising to the bait. The shadows had stilled, the bargain accepted. But something still felt unfinished.

His gaze flicked back to the god. "What exactly did I win?"

The Trickster leaned forward, resting his chin against his hand. "Ah, that's the real question, isn't it?" He gestured idly, and the space between them rippled.

The darkness parted.

For the first time since stepping into the Forgotten Path, Noctis saw something solid.

A fragment of obsidian, no larger than a coin, hovering in the air. Faint runes flickered across its surface, shifting too quickly to read. It pulsed, as if something inside it was alive.

Noctis narrowed his eyes. "That doesn't look like knowledge."

"Oh, but it is," the Trickster mused. "Just… in a form you don't yet understand."

Noctis did not move. "And what's the catch?"

The Trickster feigned offense. "Must there always be a catch?"

"With you? Yes."

A pleased grin. "You're learning."

The fragment remained, hovering expectantly. Noctis didn't trust it—not yet—but leaving it was not an option. Whatever this was, it was his.

He reached out.

The moment his fingers brushed the surface—

A rush of sensation.

Memories that were not his. Words spoken in tongues he did not recognize. A glimpse of a place that should not exist.

Then—

A whisper, curling into his mind like smoke.

"What is forgotten is not lost."

Noctis's grip tightened. The knowledge did not settle—it did not make itself known. Instead, it coiled within him, waiting.

The Trickster watched, expression unreadable.

Noctis exhaled slowly, steadying himself. "That wasn't an answer."

"It never is."

His gaze snapped to the god's. "Then what is this?"

The Trickster smiled. "A key."

Noctis's jaw tightened. "To what?"

A lazy shrug. "That depends on you."

Useless. Infuriating. Exactly what he should have expected.

He inhaled, forcing calm. "I assume you won't elaborate."

The Trickster's grin widened. "Now, where's the fun in that?"

Noctis resisted the urge to curse.

The god rose from his throne, the shadows curling around him like eager hounds. The space itself shifted—the edges of reality cracking, unraveling.

"This is where we part ways, little fox," the Trickster murmured. "For now."

Noctis met his gaze, sharp and unwavering. "We'll see."

A chuckle. "Oh, we will."

The Trickster lifted a hand, and the space around them began to unravel, the sky splitting apart like shattered glass. "Then take your prize, little fox." His grin widened. "And remember—every bargain leads to another."

Then—

The world shattered.

Darkness swallowed him whole.

And when the light returned—

Noctis was elsewhere.

Noctis felt nothing. No absence, no loss. The book, the moment, was simply gone.

The Forgotten Path had taken its due.

Noctis staggered as reality snapped back into place.

The air was thick with the scent of dust and old parchment. The vault's torches flickered back to life, casting their dim, wavering glow across the chamber. The heavy silence that followed his return was almost suffocating—as if the world itself had been holding its breath.

For a moment, he simply stood there, pulse still thrumming from the weight of what had just transpired.

The Trickster's trial. The riddle. The key now resting deep within his mind, a presence he could feel but not yet grasp.

Then his gaze dropped—and he stilled.

Something new lay before him.

A mask.

Sleek, smooth, and unnervingly perfect, it rested atop the very pedestal where the stone fragment had once been. Its surface was dark—not black, but something deeper, shifting with the barest hints of color that were not color. Faintly pulsing green runes traced its edges, living ink that shifted and flickered like dying embers.

A gift.

A physical one.

Noctis's brows furrowed. The Trickster did not give without reason. That meant this mask was either an extension of the knowledge he had gained… or a trap.

His fingers hovered over it. Hesitated.

Then—

"Go on," a whisper curled at the edges of his mind, still echoing with the Trickster's amusement. "Try it on."

Noctis exhaled slowly. Then, carefully, he lifted the mask.

The moment it touched his skin—

A shift.

Not painful. Not overwhelming. Just… a subtle unraveling, like pulling a loose thread in a grand tapestry.

The air around him seemed to ripple. His own reflection in the polished metal of a nearby vault door warped.

His face was no longer his own.

Not an illusion. Not a simple glamour. The change felt real. His cheekbones had altered, his jawline sharpened. His hair had darkened a shade, his eyes now a hue he had never seen before.

A test.

He thought of something different—something opposite.

A flicker. A breath.

His features shifted again.

Noctis inhaled sharply.

"A Mask of a Thousand Faces," the Trickster's voice murmured, not truly present, but lingering nonetheless. "Wear a name, wear a face, and become what you are not. But remember—"

The voice curled, soft as silk.

"A mask is a tool. A lie. And sometimes…"

The whisper grinned.

"A lie wears you back."

Then the presence was gone.

Noctis exhaled, steadying himself. His fingers traced the mask's smooth surface, mind already spinning with possibilities.

This was more than a disguise. More than a trick.

This was power.

Noctis stared at his reflection, the unfamiliar face staring back.

His breath came slow and measured, but beneath that calm exterior, his mind raced. This wasn't just a glamour or a simple disguise—this mask had altered his very essence, weaving the change into something almost indistinguishable from truth.

He flexed his fingers, feeling no resistance, no weight of illusion. His skin stretched naturally, his muscles shifted as if this face had always been his.

Incredible.

Dangerous.

"A mask is a tool. A lie. And sometimes… a lie wears you back."

The Trickster's last words curled at the edge of his mind like a lingering aftertaste. A warning. A challenge.

Noctis rolled his shoulders. He didn't like debts. Gifts came with prices, and gods were the worst kind of debt collectors.

Still.

He turned the mask over in his hands, the green runes pulsing softly with something alive—something that almost seemed to watch him back. The material was cool to the touch, yet it carried no weight, no resistance.

A tool worth mastering.

He exhaled, steadying his thoughts. There was only one way to understand its full potential.

With a flick of his wrist, he pressed the mask to his face once more.

A ripple. A shift. A fracture in reality.

His body responded immediately, the transformation seamless. This time, he focused on something specific—someone specific.

The sensation was strange—not painful, not disorienting, but deeply unsettling. Like stretching into a space that wasn't quite meant for him.

The reflection in the vault's polished door changed again.

A nobleman. A face he had seen once at a gathering, a lord known for his sharp tongue and sharper dealings. Not just his face, but his posture, his mannerisms—the weight of his presence.

Noctis smirked, testing his voice.

"Fascinating."

The word came out in another man's voice.

Not an imitation. A perfect replica.

Noctis studied the face for a long moment, considering. This… this was a weapon unlike any other. Deception made flesh.

And yet, the Trickster's words loomed over him like a shadow.

"Sometimes a lie wears you back."

A test, then. How far could this go?

He focused again, pushing against the mask's magic, trying to return to his own face.

There was a pause.

A hesitation.

The ripple of change slowed, stretched—caught.

Noctis's heart gave a single, measured beat before the shift snapped back into place, his own reflection staring at him once more.

A test. A warning.

But he had control. For now.

His lips curled into a smirk. "Not bad."

The Trickster had given him something truly dangerous. And Noctis intended to use it well.