: The Face That Lied

: The Face That Lied

It stood in the vale, not like a god, not like a beast, but like a memory returned to its original shape. The thing that wore Wale's face was not his reflection. It was his distortion—a version of him written by other people's fears, fueled by every story that hinted he would be the villain.

The monster smiled, and the air grew thick.

Chris pulled Wale behind a fractured monument. "Tell me that isn't what it looks like."

He couldn't speak.

Not yet.

The ritual had taken his breath, his sense of weight. His mind was still catching up to the world. But he didn't need to answer. The answer was walking toward them in boots too perfect, eyes too steady, voice too smooth.

"I expected more," the doppelgänger said. "You should have stayed forgotten. It was better for everyone."

Chris stepped forward. "We remember him. The real him."

The creature tilted its head. "Do you? Or is that just another story you're telling yourself to feel better?"

It moved fast—too fast—and knocked Chris into a pillar. She groaned, fire magic spilling in all directions, but she held her stance.

Wale staggered to his feet. "Why my face?"

The creature paused. "Because that's the one they'll believe. The one they'll follow." It gestured to the horizon, where more blank-eyed travelers began to gather. "The world likes villains. They're easier to understand than complexity. You became me the moment you gave them hope."

Wale's fists clenched. "Then let's see how complex you can get."

He lunged.

The battle wasn't physical—it never had been.

Each blow Wale threw came with fragments of memory, slashes of narrative, shards of self: the day he watched Grey disappear, the moment Chris chose to fight beside him, the first time he touched the Ash Letters. These weren't punches—they were edits.

But the creature responded in kind.

It hurled betrayal.

Regret.

The silence of being forgotten.

It showed Wale versions of himself—ones who had given in, who had accepted power over truth, who had twisted the world for control. And each image landed like a scar.

Chris joined the fray with burning glyphs, weaving stories aloud to weaken the creature's hold. She chanted Wale's name like a shield, building layers of remembrance in the space between every clash.

But the creature adapted.

"You can't out-write me," it whispered, pinning Wale to the broken stone. "You are me."

Wale struggled. "No. I'm the draft you abandoned."

With one final push, he drove his name—spoken in full—into the creature's chest.

It howled.

The form wavered.

For a moment, it looked like Chris.

Then Grey.

Then no one.

Then Wale again.

"See?" it hissed. "We're the same."

Wale shook his head, breathing hard. "No. You were written by fear. I was rewritten by choice."

And with that, the creature broke.

But not in defeat.

It didn't scream or bleed or vanish.

It simply split—into hundreds of fragments that slipped into the air like loose words, phrases unfinished, promises unkept.

And every person watching—the blank-eyed travelers, the silent ones—they absorbed those pieces.

Now they bore its face.

They didn't speak.

They didn't attack.

They just stood.

Waiting.

Chris backed up beside Wale. "Now what?"

He stared at the crowd. "Now the real fight begins."

Wale knew what was happening.

The creature wasn't just one being anymore.

It had gone viral.

A concept, no longer a body.

Each infected person carried part of its lie. Its story. Its power.

And those stories would spread—through whispers, through written words, through fear.

You couldn't kill that.

But you could outnumber it.

Chris turned to Wale. "We need more stories."

He nodded. "Then we give them one worth repeating."

They fled the vale that night and returned to the scattered camps of the Inkfire Rebellion. Word had traveled already—people claiming to see Wale's face in reflections, in puddles, in the corners of rooms. Some thought him a god. Others a traitor.

He stood before them with Chris at his side.

He told them the truth.

Not all of it.

But enough.

"I saw the face of the enemy," he said. "It looked like me. And it will look like you, too, if you let it decide your story."

He told them to remember each other, to speak names, to write even when the words didn't make sense.

He gave them a new rallying cry:

"The lie ends when the truth is spoken."

And they believed.

Because belief was power.

That night, Wale sat alone, scribbling his name into a piece of bark. Over and over. Just to keep it real.

Chris joined him, holding a torch of blue flame.

"You okay?" she asked.

"No," he replied. "But I'm here. And I'm me. That'll have to be enough."

She sat beside him. "What if it wins?"

He didn't answer right away.

Then:

"Then I make sure I'm the last thing it sees."

They didn't sleep.

Sleep invited the monster back in.

They just sat there.

Watching the stars.

Hoping they'd remember which ones were real by morning.