Elion returned to the Department that afternoon, long after most of the other archivists had left for the day. The corridors were dim, lit only by the flickering gas lamps that lined the walls. The building was old—older than any map admitted. Its silence was heavier than usual.
He entered through the side gate, nodding to the night scribe at the front desk, who barely looked up from his ledger.
No one asked where he'd been.
No one ever did.
He walked straight to Storage Chamber 9, where the more obscure relics were kept—artifacts not yet categorized, whose properties defied normal observation. The door opened with a soft creak.
Rows of cabinets stretched into the gloom, each labeled with dates and initials. The scent of dust and machine oil lingered in the air.
He wasn't sure why he came here.
He just knew something had changed.
As he walked past the shelves, something tugged at his mind—a strange pulling sensation behind his ear, faint but persistent. Like a thread being drawn slowly toward tension.
He followed it.
At the far end of the chamber, in a sealed glass case, sat an unassuming object: a wooden mask, smooth and featureless, with a spiral carved into the forehead.
It hadn't been there before.
He was sure of it.
The mask stared back at him—not with eyes, but with awareness. The air around it vibrated, almost imperceptibly. A low humming, just beneath hearing.
Elion stepped closer.
His breath fogged the glass.
The spiral behind his ear burned.
Then—
The lights in the chamber flickered.
The humming grew louder.
And the mask—
Turned.
It moved on its own, slowly rotating to face him directly. There were no strings, no mechanisms. Just motion. Intentional. Alive.
Elion stumbled backward.
— No — he whispered. — That's not possible.
The mask didn't move again.
But something else did.
From the corners of the case, strands of black mist began to leak out—like smoke underwater. They drifted toward him, slow, deliberate, silent.
He couldn't run.
He didn't try.
The mist touched his skin.
And in that instant—
He wasn't in the chamber anymore.
He stood in a vast field of mirrors, all facing away from him. The sky above was purple glass, cracked in a hundred places. Wind howled without sound.
From the center of the field, a voice called out—
Elion.
He turned.
The wooden mask floated there, suspended in air, staring with invisible eyes.
— You opened the path — the voice said.
— The world sees you now.
— Do not speak what you hear.
— Do not hear what you wish to speak.
— Listen to what should not be known.
Then—
Silence.
And he was back.
Back in Storage Chamber 9.
The mist was gone.
The mask was still.
But on the glass case, fogged by his breath, a new spiral had formed.
This time, it matched the one behind his ear.