The Mask of a Thousand Faces (lll)

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

The Thing Wearing Noctis's Skin

Noctis stumbled into his chambers, his skin still burning from where the mask had melded with his flesh. His mind felt fractured—like two voices screaming within one skull. His own identity fought desperately to reclaim dominance, but Lucien's arrogance, his instincts, his hunger for power clung to him like a rot.

He reached the washbasin, clutching its cold marble rim, and looked up. Lucien's face still stared back.

"No…" Noctis gasped, his voice a grotesque blend of his own and Lucien's drawl. His hand trembled as he reached up to tear the mask off, but his fingers froze inches from it. The mask no longer felt like a separate entity—it felt like his face.

"Leave it," the voice in his mind whispered, now stronger, more possessive. "You've already worn it long enough. It's yours now."

Noctis's vision blurred. His knees buckled. His body screamed in protest, his bones still half-morphed between Noctis and Lucien. His posture—once measured and reserved—now carried Lucien's inherent arrogance. His lips curled into a smug grin against his will, and when he spoke…

"I am—"

Lucien's voice spilled from his throat.

His stomach heaved. Noctis slammed his hand into the mirror, splintering the glass. His own reflection bled between two faces—his and Lucien's. His fingers, long and slender like Lucien's, twitched in practiced grace, and his shoulders squared as though he carried noble confidence.

"No," he growled, digging his nails into his jaw. "I am Noctis. I am Noctis."

"But you could be more."

The mask's influence did not fade. Instead, it sank deeper. Noctis could feel it slithering into his psyche, entwining with his desires. Lucien's ambition, his disdain for lesser nobility, his cruel charisma—it all settled like venom in his mind. His very thoughts began to mimic Lucien's.

I should command.

They should kneel.

Father is weak. I could—

Noctis slammed his head against the wall. Blood smeared from his temple. "Get. Out."

A low chuckle. The mask did not speak aloud, but its voice was deafening in his mind.

"You wore me too long."

Noctis clutched his skull as Lucien's confidence flooded his veins. He wanted to strut through House Umbrael's halls and demand reverence. He craved the weight of authority in his voice. Every fiber of Lucien's identity had already imprinted on him like a parasite, and it refused to let go.

"You're not real!" Noctis gasped, stumbling toward the table where the mask lay. Its runes flickered faintly, as though watching. "I am not him!"

"And yet you became him."

A shiver racked Noctis's spine. His mind splintered again. For a brief, horrifying moment, he remembered what it felt like to be Lucien—to command Cassius with unshakable confidence, to manipulate Elira with calculated charm, to humiliate Marcus with mere words.

And he liked it.

"No!" Noctis howled, his voice cracked and raw. His vision spun. His reflection in the shattered glass now only showed Lucien. His own features—Noctis's pale, unassuming face—were gone.

"Give him back." His voice broke, but his own reflection merely smirked. Lucien's smirk.

"Why would I? You were powerful. You commanded. You ruled."

Noctis lunged for the mask, intending to destroy it. His hands seized it—

And the mask clamped back.

Agony. Pure, unrelenting agony. The runes flared violently, and Noctis screamed. His skin rippled, bone realigning, his voice curling into Lucien's cold, arrogant tone. The mask did not want to let him go.

"I will make you him."

His arms convulsed. His face cracked, the bones reshaping into Lucien's jawline, his pupils dilating into that same sharp, predatory stare. His mouth opened, but only Lucien's voice spilled out.

"I… am…"

The runes seared into his mind. His identity eroded. Every thought of Noctis—the quiet, careful, manipulative extra—began to rot beneath Lucien's burning charisma. He saw himself walking the halls of House Umbrael as Lucien—beloved, respected, feared.

And Noctis's own name began to fade.

"No!" Noctis bellowed, and with sheer desperation, he ripped the mask from his face. Flesh tore. Skin cracked. Blood sprayed as the mask wrenched away from his bones. He stumbled backward, gasping, and collapsed against the wall.

For one horrifying moment… he still felt like Lucien.

The mask lay on the floor, its runes now dim, but its whisper still echoed in his skull.

"You stayed too long…"

Noctis clutched his arms, his entire body wracked with tremors. His voice—still laced with Lucien's inflection—gasped out, "How long was I in it?"

His answer came when he stumbled toward the clock. He had worn the mask for twelve hours.

But his mind screamed that it was longer.

The mirror still did not reflect Noctis's face. It reflected Lucien. Noctis tried to force his expression to return to his normal blank reserve… but his mouth still curled into Lucien's sneer without his command. His shoulders squared like nobility. His stride carried a predator's grace.

And his mind still wanted power.

"…It doesn't just copy identities," Noctis rasped. His throat ached as though trying to rip Lucien's voice from his own. "It devours them."

The mask did not move. But Noctis could still feel it reaching for him.

"You will come back. You liked it."

He staggered to his feet, his muscles still holding Lucien's commanding stance. Even without the mask, the remnants of Lucien's psyche were embedded into him. His hand curled into a fist without him willing it—like Lucien's instinct to strike down the weak. His gaze lingered too long in the mirror, admiring Lucien's reflection, and he felt disgust gnawing at his gut.

"I'm Noctis. I'm Noctis," he repeated, his voice still not entirely his own.

But his reflection only smiled like Lucien.

Later that evening. The fire in Noctis's chamber burned low, casting jagged shadows across the stone walls. Night had long settled, but Noctis did not rest. He sat by the window, the mask resting in his palm, its runes dull yet still whispering. He could hear Lucien's voice — or was it his own now? — slithering in his mind, tempting him to wear it again.

A knock. No announcement. Just two soft raps.

The knock was measured. Noctis knew the sound of it — his mother's.

"Enter," he called, his voice clipped.

Selene stepped inside, her gaze piercing him the moment the door shut. There was no warmth in her eyes, only tempered concern wrapped in steel composure. She did not move closer, instead lingering by the door as though his very presence had shifted into something unfamiliar.

Selene stepped inside, wrapped in a dark cloak. Her silver hair cascaded down her back, and her sharp features were carved with something unfamiliar — apprehension. Noctis did not turn to greet her.

"You've grown fond of solitude, I see," Selene began, closing the door behind her.

Noctis chuckled lowly. "It offers clarity."

A beat of silence. She advanced. "And what do you see in that clarity?"

Noctis finally turned. His eyes — once sharp but reserved — now burned with something else. Something darker. His face no longer carried the hesitant grace of a forgotten noble. It was poised. Calculated. Regal. Even the way he watched her was different — as if she were just another piece on the board.

Selene's stomach twisted. "You've changed."

Noctis smiled, but there was no warmth in it. "Have I?"

"Yes." She stepped closer, her voice low, cautious.

"Noctis," she said quietly. "We need to speak."

He straightened, his posture effortlessly regal. "Then speak."

Her eyes narrowed at his tone but she did not comment. "Word spreads quickly. The disgrace of Lucien. His father demanding an audience. House Umbrael's name whispered more than ever in court." She let the words linger.

Noctis's expression did not flinch. "Are you implying I had something to do with it?"

Her silence answered for her.

A bitter smile curled his lips. "He brought it upon himself."

Selene's voice hardened. "Did he?"

Noctis strode toward the fireplace, his hands clasped behind his back. "He was careless. Arrogant. A liability to his house. His downfall was inevitable."

Selene's jaw tightened. "And yet it coincides perfectly with your sudden shift in presence."

He turned sharply, his voice like ice. "What are you suggesting, Mother?"

"That you orchestrated it." Her voice did not waver. "That you walked into that gathering, spoke as though you owned the room, and manipulated Lucien into self-destruction."

For a brief moment, something flickered in his eyes — satisfaction. But it vanished as quickly as it came. "You're reaching."

"I don't think I am." Selene's voice was a dagger now. "I've watched you all your life, Noctis. You have always been cautious, subtle. You never drew attention to yourself, never provoked recklessness. But now?" She gestured toward him. "Now you speak with authority you never claimed before. You humiliated a noble heir as though it were effortless. And you enjoyed it."

Noctis's jaw clenched. "I merely did what was necessary."

"Was it?" Selene stepped forward, her gaze hardening. "Or did you like watching him unravel?"

The words struck something inside him. He opened his mouth, ready to retort — but nothing came. Instead, his hand instinctively curled into a fist, the memory of Lucien's public collapse still thrilling his veins.

Selene watched his reaction with growing dread. "…What did you do, Noctis?"

His voice came too slow. "…Nothing."

A cold silence fell between them.

Selene took another step, her tone now deadly calm. "I'm going to ask you once. Was any of this your doing?"

His stare sharpened. "I already said no."

"Then why do you look proud of it?"

A crack. His composure slipped for a fraction of a second, and Selene pounced.

"You walked into that hall last night, and you spoke with power you have never wielded before. You toyed with them — I could see it in your eyes." Her voice strained, not with anger, but with something deeper. Fear. "That isn't you, Noctis. It never was."

"People change."

"Not this fast."

Noctis's laughter was soft but hollow. "Ah. You fear I've lost myself with the gifts."

"Yes."

His gaze turned darker. "I haven't."

"Then why do you act like him?" Selene snapped, her composure cracking. "Why do you walk like him, Noctis? Why does your voice curl with Lucien's drawl when you speak?" She stepped forward, her pulse quickening. "You don't just imitate, Noctis. You become."

Noctis's smile froze, but his eyes burned colder. "And is that not what you taught me, Mother?"

Selene stilled. "What?"

"To adapt. To mold myself to survive. To manipulate those who stand above me. To become something greater." His voice was steady, but the undercurrent of Lucien's arrogance slithered beneath it. "I've simply taken your lessons to heart."

"That's not—" Selene stopped herself.

Selene's pulse quickened. "You're enjoying this."

Noctis did not deny it. His fingers drummed against the desk. "Power is addictive, Mother. Once you've tasted it — once you've commanded it — how does one return to meekness?" His gaze flicked to her, razor-sharp. "I won't."

Silence. His throat felt tight.

Selene stared at him for a long, unbearable moment — then quietly reached for him. Not physically — but with her bloodline.

A whisper of ancient power stirred from within her veins. House Erevar's bloodline, capable of grounding minds tangled in rage, arrogance, or despair. It wasn't mind control — merely a tether to pull someone back from the edge of self-destruction. She willed it toward him.

Reach him.

But the moment her power touched his mind—

It hit a wall.

Selene gasped softly. Her influence did not penetrate. It was like reaching for her son — and touching something else. A void. A cold, unfamiliar force that did not recognize her. Her hand trembled slightly, but she did not withdraw it.

"Noctis…" she whispered, horrified. "…What is inside you?"

His head snapped up. "What?"

Selene's voice broke. "I—I can't touch your mind. I can't feel you. Something is blocking me."

A surge of panic, primal and raw, flashed in Noctis's chest. "That's impossible."

"Then explain it." Her voice cracked. "I have always been able to reach you, Noctis. Always. When you were hurt, when you were afraid — I could ground you. But now? It's like I'm speaking to a stranger wrapped in my son's skin."

His breath hitched. "I am the same."

"No." Her voice was barely a whisper. "You're not."

Something inside Noctis churned violently. His mind recoiled, trying to rationalize it. She's mistaken. She's afraid. She's reaching for something that isn't there.

But deep down — he knew.

He hadn't felt the same since Lucien's downfall. His thoughts moved quicker, sharper, more ruthless. His voice commanded naturally. His mere presence seemed to shift the room when he entered. And the worst part?

He liked it.

"…You're afraid of me," he finally said. His voice held no emotion.

Selene's lips parted, but no denial came. "…I'm afraid for you."

Silence suffocated the room.

"Noctis, please." Her voice cracked now, raw with desperation. "Whatever you're doing, stop. You're stepping too high, too fast. House Umbrael cannot afford this attention. The moment you caught the court's eye, you painted a target on your back."

His fingers curled. "I have it under control."

"No, you don't!" she snapped, tears lining her voice now. "You don't see it, do you? Your speech, your posture, your very presence — it's changing. You're not just manipulating your enemies, you're becoming something else."

His chest constricted. "That's not true."

"Then why did my power fail?"

The words shattered something. Noctis staggered back, his mind desperately clawing for logic. "It—it's not possible."

Selene's voice quivered. "What have you done?"

"I said I have it under control!" he bellowed, his voice cracking with uncharacteristic rage.

Selene flinched. Noctis never raised his voice like that. Never.

"…You're losing yourself," she whispered, horror etching into her face.

The words slammed into him like ice. His mind reeled, clashing violently between his mother's fear and the cold, poisonous voice in his head whispering: She's wrong. You're stronger now. You finally have power. Don't let her weaken you.

Noctis's breath trembled. His own voice still carried the lingering inflection of Lucien's arrogance. His stance still held the predator's grace.

And he realized with sickening dread — his mother was right.

"…What's happening to me?" he choked out.

Selene's heart broke. She took a careful step forward, tears now slipping down her cheeks. "Please, Noctis. Stop whatever this is. Step back. Before it takes you somewhere you can't return from."

His hands shook. His pulse pounded in his ears.

"I—" His voice cracked. "I can fix it."

Selene swallowed thickly. "…Then fix it now."

Silence. Noctis forced his breathing to steady, his hands unclenching. He could feel Lucien's shadow still clinging to him — the charisma, the hunger, the power. And for the first time, it did not feel like a weapon.

It felt like possession.

"…I'll handle it," he finally rasped.

Selene's voice was hollow. "That's what I'm afraid of."

And without another word, she turned and walked away — leaving Noctis alone in his cold, suffocating triumph.