The Mask of a Thousand Faces ( ll )

Chapter 18: The Mask of a Thousand Faces (ll)

The First Test Begins

The chill of midnight clung to Noctis's skin as he crossed the cobblestone path back to the Umbrael estate. The Mask of a Thousand Faces burned against his chest beneath his cloak, its dormant hum like the heartbeat of something old and wicked. The night was still, but Noctis's mind was anything but.

Tonight was the first test.

The power of the mask, whispered to be ancient and ruinous, was now in his possession. And Noctis, pragmatic as ever, knew better than to wield it recklessly. Testing its limitations, its side effects, and the price of its use was paramount. Every tool, especially one steeped in trickster lore, had a cost.

But that was a problem for future Noctis.

For now, he only cared about results.

He had already chosen his first prey.

Lucien Umbrael. His cousin.

A perfect subject. High enough in House Umbrael's hierarchy to cause ripples but not powerful enough to bring severe consequences if things went wrong. More importantly, Lucien was an opportunistic fool—gullible and desperate to secure his place within the family. It made him vulnerable. Easy to break.

Noctis's lips curled into a cruel smirk.

Tonight, Lucien's life would begin to unravel.

The estate was quiet when he entered through the servant's entrance. The few lingering staff barely noticed his return, preoccupied with their evening tasks. Noctis moved like a shadow, his steps light, his mind cold and calculating. His chambers lay just ahead — and the mask called to him.

He could feel it. A low, persistent hum of ancient power like a heartbeat within his ribcage. Its very presence seemed to watch him, anticipate his next move.

Feed me, it seemed to whisper. Shape the world as you desire.

Noctis ignored it. For now.

His chamber door closed behind him with a soft click, sealing him from prying eyes. In the dim candlelight, the mask lay where he left it — a grotesque, unsettling artifact of bone and shadow. It did not look like an object forged by mortal hands but rather something birthed from forgotten gods.

Noctis hesitated, his fingers ghosting over the mask's surface. His heart quickened. The trickster's blood in his veins sang to it, a primal call of kindred malice.

"No hesitation," he murmured. "Only results."

He grasped the mask and pressed it to his face.

Ice. Agony. A pull. His bones cracked and twisted, his flesh reformed, and his vision blurred as the mask's magic consumed him. He gasped—only for his voice to emerge entirely different.

Lucien's voice.

The pain subsided. Noctis stumbled toward the mirror, bracing himself for the reflection.

Lucien stared back at him.

Perfect. Every detail—Lucien's sharp cheekbones, his smug smirk, the scar above his left eye—was replicated flawlessly. Even his posture, when Noctis straightened, fell into the natural arrogance Lucien carried like a second skin.

Noctis moved his jaw. "I am Lucien Umbrael."

Lucien's voice.

Noctis grinned. It works.

But something was wrong. A faint whisper, like silk against his mind, brushed through his thoughts. Stay. Be him. You belong.

Noctis recoiled, shoving the voice aside. He was in control. This was his experiment—nothing more.

"The first fracture," he murmured. "Begins now."

Noctis, wearing Lucien's face, sought out Cassius—Lucien's closest political ally. The man was cunning but predictable, his loyalty to Lucien held together only by the prospect of shared influence. Noctis knew exactly how to use that.

He found Cassius in the east wing, lingering near the courtyard.

"Lucien." Cassius inclined his head. "I assumed you'd be sulking after the auction."

Noctis smirked. "On the contrary. I've been planning my next move."

Cassius raised a brow. "And what would that be?"

A flicker of hesitation crossed Noctis's face—deliberate. Vulnerability without weakness. "A rather… unconventional alliance."

Cassius leaned in. "With who?"

"…House Ashford."

Silence. Then disbelief. "The Ashfords despise House Umbrael. Aligning with them is suicide."

Noctis shrugged, his voice dripping with calculated indifference. "I'm desperate, Cassius. I have no intention of remaining a pawn. If seducing Lady Corvina will strengthen my position, why not?"

Cassius recoiled. "You'd whore yourself to gain favor?"

Noctis smiled coldly. "If it guarantees power? Yes."

Stunned silence. Disgust flickered in Cassius's eyes—not because of the plan, but because Lucien had revealed it so carelessly.

"Surely you jest," Cassius managed.

Noctis leaned in, his voice conspiratorial. "Power, Cassius. You know what I desire. Loyalty is irrelevant when ambition is at stake."

The disgust in Cassius's face was instant—and irreversible. Noctis could already see it—the seed of betrayal. Cassius would not keep this secret. By morning, whispers of Lucien's desperation would spread like rot.

One fracture.

Time for the next.

His second stop was the east wing of the auction house, where Lucien's favored circle of confidants usually gathered. Arrogant young nobles, each vying for a piece of power within House Umbrael. Noctis knew them well from observation—Marcus, the ambitious son of a minor house; Edric, who clung to Lucien like a loyal hound; and Adrian, a man whose family's declining influence made him desperate for powerful allies.

They were gathered in the solar, their conversation low and conspiratorial. Noctis stepped into the room with Lucien's signature lazy smirk.

"Gentlemen," Noctis drawled, relishing the subtle shock in their gazes. "Conspiring without me?"

"Lucien." Marcus recovered first, his tone clipped but polite. "Didn't expect you back so soon."

"Why?" Noctis feigned a casual chuckle. "Afraid I'd miss something important?"

Adrian hesitated. "We assumed you'd be… preoccupied. Given the auction."

Noctis waved a dismissive hand. "A trivial affair. Frankly, I'm more interested in hearing what you three have been scheming."

The tension in the room was palpable. Noctis could feel it, sharp and tangible like threads ready to snap. Lucien had always wielded a precarious hold over these men—respected, but not entirely trusted. It was the perfect fissure for Noctis to widen.

He stepped toward Marcus, eyes narrowing. "Unless, of course… you've been planning something without me."

Marcus stiffened. "Don't be ridiculous."

"Am I?" Noctis tilted his head, allowing the mask's natural predatory instincts to bleed through. "You've been awfully close to House Ashford lately."

Marcus flinched. Perfect.

"You've what?" Edric snapped, rounding on Marcus.

"It's not like that," Marcus said hastily. "Lord Ashford approached me—"

"You didn't think to mention it?" Noctis pressed, his voice a venomous whisper. "Or were you hoping to secure a personal alliance without my knowledge?"

The room shifted, the air growing taut with unspoken accusation. Marcus's face flushed, his mouth opening and closing like a fish gasping for air.

Noctis didn't relent.

"I expected better from you, Marcus," he continued, voice laced with cold disappointment. "But perhaps I misjudged your loyalty."

"Lucien—"

"No." Noctis turned away, exuding Lucien's natural disdain. "Save your justifications. If I can't trust you, then perhaps I should reconsider our… arrangement."

Edric and Adrian exchanged dark glances, and Noctis could already see the seeds of distrust taking root. By morning, Marcus would find himself isolated, his influence in their circle crumbling under the weight of suspicion.

Second fracture.

Noctis smiled coldly. Let's make it three.

His next target was far more delicate—Lady Elira.

Lucien's romantic interest in Elira had been common knowledge. He had pursued her relentlessly, flaunting his position in House Umbrael as though it could charm her. Elira, however, had grown cold toward him in recent months, her patience worn thin by his entitlement.

Noctis saw opportunity in that fracture.

He found Elira in the conservatory, accompanied by two of her companions. When she spotted him, her face hardened, her courtesy barely concealing her disdain.

"Lucien," she greeted tersely.

"Elira." Noctis adopted Lucien's careless smirk, stepping forward without invitation. "A pleasure, as always."

She didn't respond, her attention fixed on a flowering ivy she pretended to admire.

Noctis leaned in slightly, voice dropping to a conspiratorial murmur. "I had hoped we could speak privately."

Her gaze snapped to his, guarded. "Why?"

Noctis feigned discomfort, glancing at her companions. "Something delicate."

After a tense pause, Elira dismissed her companions with a slight nod. Once they were alone, Noctis lowered his voice, allowing a thread of false vulnerability to seep into his tone.

"I owe you an apology."

Elira blinked. "For what?"

"For my previous… advances." Noctis adopted a sheepish demeanor, as though weighed by genuine regret. "I realize now I was… misguided. My interest in you was less about genuine affection and more about securing a strategic match."

Elira stiffened, surprise flickering across her face. "You're admitting that."

"Yes." Noctis exhaled heavily. "And I despise myself for it."

A long silence. Then—"Why tell me this now?"

"Because I overheard my father today," Noctis murmured, allowing a tremor of bitterness to coat his words. "He intends to arrange my marriage to a member of House Ashford."

Elira went still. "…What?"

Noctis laughed bitterly. "Ironic, isn't it? After all my efforts to court you, my father now views me as little more than a pawn to cement alliances."

Disgust flickered in Elira's eyes, but not toward Noctis—toward House Umbrael.

"You deserve better than to be traded like currency," she said quietly.

"Perhaps," Noctis smiled coldly. "But such is the fate of lesser heirs."

Elira's hand trembled slightly at her side, her sympathy palpable. Noctis knew then—he had planted the first root of disgust toward House Umbrael within her.

"Good evening, Elira." Noctis bowed, feigning regret. "I wish you well."

As he turned to leave, he knew she would not remain silent. By tomorrow, whispers would circulate that House Umbrael intended to discard Lucien in favor of a stronger alliance. Elira's scorn would become venom, and her influence would poison any remaining favor Lucien had.

Three fractures.

Noctis's heart thrummed with cold satisfaction.

"One more."

By the time Noctis returned to Lucien's chambers, the weight of the mask had become almost unbearable. His body ached, his skin crawled, and his mind screamed to remove it—but he refused.

Not yet.

He called for Lucien's personal attendant, Mathis.

"Prepare my carriage," Noctis ordered coldly.

Mathis hesitated. "Where to, my lord?"

"To House Delacroix." Noctis smirked.

The night was thick with silence as Noctis, still cloaked in Lucien's form, approached the towering gates of House Delacroix. The manor, a fortress of pale stone and ivy, loomed beneath the ashen sky like a corpse clutching its dignity. Noctis barely registered the cold bite of the wind. His mind was consumed with precision.

The Mask of a Thousand Faces still thrummed against his skin, its subtle pulse like a second heartbeat, feeding him instincts that did not belong to him. Thoughts he did not entertain began to slither into his mind. Ruthless, cruel thoughts.

It doesn't have to end here. You could tear him apart completely. Consume his identity. Make his life yours.

Noctis gritted his teeth and pressed the whisper down.

"Lucien Umbrael" had come to sever an alliance his father had spent months cultivating. This was not merely sabotage—it was demolition. Once House Delacroix turned on House Umbrael, Lucien would stand completely isolated, his influence gutted from within.

And Noctis would revel in it.

The iron gates creaked as they parted, and the steward emerged from the shadows, tall and austere in his crimson livery. His name was Hector—an old, rigid man whose very presence radiated disdain for House Umbrael. The man's hollowed cheeks and sunken eyes peered at Noctis as though he were a stain upon the estate.

"Lord Umbrael," Hector said flatly, making no effort to conceal his contempt. "You were not expected."

Noctis curled Lucien's lips into a smirk. "I find that expectations often lead to disappointment."

Hector did not move. "State your business."

Noctis's tone sharpened like glass. "Inform Lord Delacroix that House Umbrael is formally dissolving all negotiations for the proposed betrothal between myself and Lady Elira."

The words hit like a thunderclap.

Hector's expression, carved from stone, did not immediately shift. But Noctis saw it—the faint widening of the man's eyes, the subtle catch in his breath.

"…I beg your pardon?" Hector said, disbelief seeping into his voice.

"You heard me." Noctis's voice carried the perfect balance of disinterest and cruelty. "The arrangement is null. House Umbrael no longer considers House Delacroix a suitable match."

Hector's back stiffened, his nostrils flaring. "This is not your decision to make, my lord. Your father—"

"My father is not here," Noctis interrupted icily. "And my hand is not my father's to give away."

A cold, tense silence settled between them. Hector's fists clenched at his sides, his knuckles paling beneath his gloves. Rage simmered beneath his servile exterior. "You would dare—"

"To save my house from entangling itself with a family already in decline?" Noctis sneered. "Yes, I would dare."

The steward's face darkened, but Noctis was already stepping forward, his presence cutting through the room like a serrated blade.

"Allow me to be clear," Noctis continued, his voice dropping into a deadly whisper. "House Delacroix is bleeding. Your influence is waning. The court speaks of Lady Eliras… humiliation during the recent auction. You believe that securing a betrothal with me will salvage your dwindling power." He leaned in, his borrowed face twisted with Lucien's signature smirk. "It will not."

Hector's composure snapped. "You arrogant little—"

"Watch your tongue," Noctis cut in coldly. "You speak to a lord of House Umbrael."

The steward's mouth opened, then closed—his entire form trembling with suppressed rage.

"You would humiliate us in our own home?" Hector rasped, his voice brittle with anger.

"Humiliate?" Noctis echoed, feigning surprise. "No, no, Hector. This is mercy." His smile darkened. "I am merely sparing your house from further embarrassment. House Umbrael cannot afford to align itself with dead weight."

Hector's face burned red. "You dishonor your father's will."

Noctis chuckled—dark, hollow, and dripping with Lucien's arrogance. "My father is not me. His ambitions are not mine. And as of this moment, my hand belongs to no one in House Delacroix."

Silence.

And then the mask did something subtle.

Noctis felt it coil tighter around his skin, as though it enjoyed the destruction he was weaving. A cold shiver danced down his spine as the voice in his mind whispered again.

Deeper. Twist the knife. Tear it apart completely.

Noctis's jaw clenched. I am not Lucien.

But the temptation was suffocating.

With one final parting sneer, Noctis turned his back to Hector and strode toward the exit. "Deliver my regards to Lord Delacroix," he called over his shoulder. "I'm sure he'll be devastated to hear the news."

The steward's venomous glare burned into his back as the heavy doors creaked shut behind him. Noctis stepped into the night, his heart hammering in his chest—not from fear, but from the undeniable thrill of destruction.

It was done.

By morning, House Delacroix would sever all political ties with House Umbrael. Rumors would spread like wildfire—Lucien had not only rejected a powerful alliance but had publicly disgraced House Delacroix. The nobles would feast on the scandal like vultures.

Four fractures.

And the mask… laughed.

Noctis staggered slightly as he descended the marble steps, his breathing uneven. The mask's pulse beneath his skin had grown heavier, hungrier. For a brief, terrible moment, he felt Lucien's arrogance become his own. His tongue tasted the words of cruelty as if they were natural to him.

It's taking more of you each time.

The thought clawed at his consciousness, but the satisfaction of his victory muted the dread. Lucien's reputation was hemorrhaging. His allies were crumbling. His father's ambitions would soon lay in ruins.

And Noctis would be there laughing at there downfall.

"Just a little longer," Noctis whispered, his voice now a perfect imitation of Lucien's.

The mask did not answer with words—but he felt it grin.

Though without noticing something inside him steered. Beginning to take form.