A battered lantern swung from the low-beamed ceiling of the Guild's hidden chamber, casting restless shadows across walls hung with painted masks—half-smiles, snarling visages, blank slates of bone. Lucent Wynn entered on silent feet, cloak drawn tight, eyes already scanning for signs of preparation. Tonight he would prove himself worthy of the Guild's confidence… or fail.
The Guildmaster sat at the head of a long oak table, its surface marred by ink stains and scorch marks from discarded candles. Around him hovered four lieutenants: spies whose faces were never the same twice, illusionists whose eyes glowed faintly with secrets, and a wiry information broker known only as "Marrow."
The Guildmaster's porcelain mask caught the lantern light, its carved smile both mocking and inscrutable. He spoke without preamble: "Your service to House Trane has earned you this audience, Beliefshaper. But true power demands more than subtle deceptions. Tonight, you will infiltrate the House of Calomir."
Across the table, one of the lieutenants—an alabaster-skinned woman with hair like spun silver—laid out a parchment map. "The Calomirs traffic in relics of old belief. They've intercepted a ciphered missive meant for the Convocation. We need that key."
Marrow produced a small crate, unlatched it, and slid the lid aside. Inside lay glass vials of colored powder, each stamped with a cryptic rune. "These are Fata Dust—fragments of broken belief harvested from dying legends. Smoke one of these near your target, and even the sharpest mind will grant you the pause you need."
Lucent's gaze flicked from Fata Dust to the map. The Calomir estate lay beyond the city's industrial quarter—a cluster of red-brick warehouses fronting a rusted canal. Guards patrolled atop iron walkways; sentries manned the gatehouse. It was no simple burglary.
The Guildmaster leaned forward. "You may call upon Whisper and Chorus, but not Mass. The Calomirs must never suspect a Beliefshaper at work. If you are discovered…" His voice trailed off into the smooth trough of threat.
Lucent inclined his head. "Understood."
He slipped through moonlit alleyways to the Calomir docks, cloak damp with canal fog. Beneath the mask he felt his pulse quicken, anticipating the collision of wills to come. At the gatehouse, he paused, inhaled the sour tang of Fata Dust, then exhaled a thin stream of smoke.
The guard's eyes fluttered as though teased by a dream. Lucent spoke in a low, firm tone: "I bring the master's personal summons. My name is Wynn, scribe to Lord Calomir." He produced a forged scroll stamped with the Calomir seal. The guard took it, read a few practiced words—and, under Fata's subtle embrace, believed it utterly.
Once inside the warehouse courtyard, Lucent discarded the scroll and moved toward the main loading bay. Stacked crates loomed like dark tombstones; overhead lanterns sputtered, hissing warnings to the fog. He tugged a length of rope from his satchel and scaled a wooden girder, landing on a narrow catwalk above the yard.
Below, two more guards paced a crate marked with the Convocation's emblem. Lucent breathed in again, "Whispering" a quiet suggestion through the wood and iron: The emblem is a forgery; these goods belong to the Eastgate Exchange. The guards paused, cocking their heads. One nodded to the other; they relaxed their grip on their halberds.
Lucent dropped into the loading area and crossed the planks with measured steps. Every creak sent a stab of tension through him—until he reached the central office door, its oak panels carved with the Calomir crest. He pressed his ear to the keyhole and listened: the shuffle of papers, the scratch of quills, and the low hum of voices discussing shipments of "Gleaming Shards" and "Beliefbind Codices."
He retrieved a skeleton key from his cloak, slipped it into the lock, and turned. Inside, a single lamp burned over a cluttered desk. On its surface lay the ciphered message the Guild sought—wrapped in oilskin and sealed with red wax—and beside it a ledger of coded shipments.
He crossed to the desk, heart hammering. As he lifted the oilskin bundle, a soft click echoed behind him: the snap of a blade sliding free.
"I wondered how long before you arrived."
Lucent froze. Standing in the doorway was a tall figure clad in black leather, mask gleaming like a moonlit blade. The edges of the mask curved upward in a cruel smile—an echo of his own power. He recognized the stance: another Beliefshaper.
"Acceptable theatrics," the newcomer said, voice smooth and echoing. "But belief is a fickle thing."
Lucent's hand tightened on the oilskin. "I work for the Guild of Masks. Return to your shadows before you regret your intrusion."
The rival smiled. He lifted a slender wand tipped with a broken mirror shard—a catalyst for belief magic. He tapped it twice against the doorframe. The walls seemed to ripple, and Lucent felt a faint tug at the edges of his mind: He is the interloper. He is the thief.
Lucent's pulse spiked. If he did nothing, every guard in the yard would flood this room. He inhaled sharply and unleashed a wave of Chorus: He is a friend, bringing urgent orders from Lord Calomir himself.
The rival's eyes flickered with doubt. For a heartbeat, Lucent saw the mask's smile fracture—then the rival's suggestion slammed back: He lies to sow confusion.
They stood locked in psychic struggle, each belief splintering the other. Lucent tightened his grip on the oilskin, summoning every scrap of confidence he'd faked on stage and in back alleys. He whispered, louder this time: You owe your life to the Guild. You serve their cause.
The rival staggered as though struck, wand lowering. Lucent seized the moment—drawing the rival forward with a sudden strike of his elbow—and surged past him, oilskin snugged under his arm. The rival's cry of "Stop!" echoed as Lucent barreled out of the office and landed in a crouch on the catwalk.
Below, half the guards had roused, uncertain whose command to obey. Lucent dropped to the ground, weaving through crates as the rival's voice rang out: "Beliefshaper! Kill him!"
He sprinted for the water's edge, boots slipping on algae-polished stones. Behind him, steel rang on steel as the rival engaged the nearest guard. Lucent dove into the canal, oilskin raised above his head, and let the current swallow him.
Underwater, the river's chill pricked his lungs, but he kicked hard, letting the current carry him through iron-grated tunnels until he broke the surface in a hidden slipway. He hauled himself onto the bank, gasping for air, heart racing with triumph and dread.
He peeled open the oilskin; the ciphered missive glimmered in the lantern light. He broke the wax seal and unfolded the parchment—rows of interlocking symbols and sigils that only a master codebreaker could unravel. He'd stolen the key at a cost: the knowledge that another Beliefshaper stalked Ardwell's underworld.
He pressed the parchment to his chest and looked up at the crumbling warehouses. Moonlight rippled on the canal's surface, painting everything in restless silver. In that shimmering mirror, Lucent saw the reflection of his next gambit: to decipher the message, expose the conspirators, and claim another strand of belief for himself.
Behind him, the rival's hurried footsteps echoed faintly off the bricks. Lucent slipped into the night, oilskin hidden beneath his cloak, already plotting his next move—and bracing for the day when masks would shatter, and belief itself would turn on him.