Under the cloak of night, Alderbridge lay quiet, its streets nearly completely empty as its citizens nestled in the safety of their homes and those without homes had retreated to whatever cranny they could call their own. The river flowed on through it all, uncaring.

  The hidden Chapel of the Faceless God beckoned to the Faceless Man. He had some memories of the capital. What he had done here was beyond his recall, but images of places he had been, fragments of maps he had seen, and the images gifted to him by the Faceless God guided him through the streets. The few souls he encountered seemed like phantoms of another age, and he quickly crossed the street or rounded the corner to avoid getting too close.

  As he rounded one corner, a lone carriage rattled down the avenue, its horse’s hooves echoing against the stone. Inside, the silhouette of a woman, her face obscured by the thin curtains, peered out into the night, her eyes meeting his for a fleeting moment before the carriage disappeared into the fog. Later, a street vendor, pushing a cart half filled with unsold wares, saw him with a start. His hand grasped at the dagger at his belt. The Faceless Man averted his eyes and rushed onward. As he crossed from the new town under a stone archway into the old town, a stray dog approached. It growled at him as if he were a hunk of meat, and then, as though smelling the residue of cosmic contamination that clung to him, closed its lips and skirted around him, looking for healthier prey.

  He continued onward into the heart of the city. The streets got narrower and more uneven. The gaslights here were older models and the light they cast was more irregular, creating shadows across every wall. Every shadow felt like a potential threat to the Faceless Man and he slowed his pace to give himself more time to react in case one of them ended up being more than just a shadow.

  The Faceless Man turned another corner and was stopped dead in his tracks at the sight of a group of Church Inquisitors. Clad in their unmistakable red robes, they moved in the direction of the cathedral with a purpose that spoke of the authority and zeal they possessed. Their faces were hidden behind their hoods, and in their hands they held mechanical torches that cast an ominous glow over their surroundings. If the man had turned the corner just a moment before, he would have emerged right in front of them. Thankfully, he emerged behind them, but still he immediately shrank back into the shadows and waited until they disappeared down the street.

  Elisia. Elisia.

  He forced his breathing back to a more controlled rate. They likely wouldn’t come back this way. From here he would follow the roads away from the cathedral and into the old residential area of the city. The Faceless Man knew all too well the danger those Inquisitors represented. To encounter them now, in this state, would lead to certain death, or perhaps a fate even worse. Still, he reminded himself to be careful and slowly left his hiding spot to continue on his way.

  With renewed determination, he pressed on, navigating the maze of streets toward the hidden church. The night seemed to stretch on interminably, punctuated only by the flickering gas lights, the pale light of the moon, and the eyes of the alley cats that loitered on the low, crumbling walls. He saw only one more person on the remainder of his journey, a lamplighter making his final round of the evening. The lamplighter paused to light a cigarette and, seeing the Faceless Man emerge, reached for his pole as if to use it as a weapon against him. However, after a moment he relaxed. He gave the Faceless Man a brief nod and resumed lighting his cigarette. The Faceless Man could only wonder what things the lamplighter had seen in his years that made his disfigured face one that could be so easily ignored.

  At last, after what seemed an eternity of wandering, the Faceless Man found it—the hidden Chapel of the Faceless God. Tucked away in an alley that one could pass a hundred times without noticing, the entrance was as unassuming as any of the countless doors he had passed this night. No grand spires or stained glass windows adorned this sanctuary. Put next to the grand cathedral of the True Creator, it had the appearance of a laborer's shack. However, hidden here between the other buildings, once the Faceless Man was able to notice its existence, he became aware of the strange air of mystery that surrounded it. There was a feeling of something in his mind telling him that he had made a wrong turn somewhere and had best continue on his way.

  He stood before the door, his hand hesitating on the latch as he wrestled with the feelings in his mind. This was a threshold between the somewhat familiar streets of the capital and the complete unknown. Part of him wondered if he should listen to the feeling in his head and take his chances on the streets. There were only a few hours before dawn. If he found a place to get a few hours’ rest, he could try to blend in with the crowd in the morning. His grip softened on the handle, but then, making up his mind, he firmly grasped it and turned, pushing his way inside the church and leaving the world of man behind.

  In contrast to the churches he had attended in his youth, there were no pews or altars in this church, nor any ornate decorations or symbols of faith. Instead, the room was bare, save for a few candles in nooks on the walls that cast a soft light over the room. The ceiling had small glass windows that let in the moonlight, drawing the faintest of circles on the floor. Between the candles on the wall were several mirrors, notable for their large size and clarity of reflection but bereft of any decoration. The air was thick with the smell of incense, a scent reminiscent of the flowers used to mask the smell of the deceased. It brought to mind the smell of the hall in which the man had seen the Faceless God sitting.

  The man walked over to one of the mirrors and gasped. He had no memory of what his face used to look like, but he could never have imagined the scarred visage that stared back at him. He was completely hairless, and his entire scalp was wrinkled and burned, like that of a corpse that had been pulled from a fire. The only thing that was perfect was his teeth. Just like those of the god he had seen in that hall, they were straight and unnaturally white. He staggered away from the mirror and fought the urge to vomit.

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  He walked back to the center of the room and knelt in one of the circles made by the skylights. He again focused his breathing and tried to visualize Elisia’s face.

  Elisia. Elisia.

  His breath came in, slow and strong, and out, slower and softer. After a few cycles, he had calmed down. The events of tonight seemed to recede, like devils at the approach of the dawn. The river, the city, the Inquisitors—for a moment they all seemed like distant memories, things that could no longer hurt him. The Faceless Man focused himself on the future. He had found the church. Now he needed to find the man half in the shadows. Tshen he could begin to unravel the truth behind his tragic fate. The Faceless Man opened his eyes and realized he was no longer alone in the church.

  “Survived, did you?” The man said. He stood in front of one of the few walls without mirrors, now opened to expose a hidden door. “You’re a particularly ugly one, but the Faceless God only keeps those he deems worthy.”

  The Faceless Man simply nodded.

  “My name is Jacques,” the man said, “often called two-face.” He stepped into the light more and the Faceless Man could finally make out his features. The left side of his face was young and handsome. He had clear brown eyes and brown hair with the slightest curl. Jacques’ right side was only slightly less damaged than the Faceless Man’s own.

  “Although I can’t imagine why. I’ve never broken an oath in my entire life.” Jacques chuckled to himself and beckoned the Faceless Man to follow him deeper into the church. The hidden door led to a small hallway that sloped downward. Along the hallway were several closed doors, but Jacques led him past the hallway into the room at the end. It was sparsely furnished with a long table and chairs, a few chests and cabinets, and a bookshelf. Another mirror hung on the wall and the rest of the available wall space was covered with maps. There were two more doors on the other side of where they entered.

  “Sit, you must be exhausted.”

  The Faceless Man sat down, and as soon as he did a new person appeared from the door they had just entered. He was of slight build, and his face was covered by a plain white mask. The mask was totally featureless, without even a spot for the eyes or mouth. The masked man wordlessly put a bowl of soup and a piece of bread in front of him before going over to one of the cabinets to pour a glass of water. He brought the jug and glass over to the table, and bowing once to Jacques, departed from the room.

  “Eat,” Jacques said. “It’s nothing the Virgin Queen would dare let pass her lips, but it will give you strength.”

  “Thank you,” the Faceless Man said. Those were the first words it felt like he had said in a lifetime. He was relieved to find the voice that came out was without surprises. After the shock he saw in the mirror, he was afraid that everything about him had been deformed.

  He dug into the food with relish. The soup as Jacques said was simple fair, but it was hot, and the few pieces of meat and potato brought him the very first glimmer of happiness he had felt since he emerged from the river. He downed a glass of water and refilled it from the pitcher three times, until the water in the pitcher had run out. Jacques watched on, silently playing with the dirt underneath his fingernails.

  “Thank you.” The Faceless Man said again.

  “Thank not me,” Jacques replied, “Give your thanks to our lord, whose protection you have entered under in return for your service.”

  “And what does the Faceless God want from me in return for that protection?” The Faceless Man asked.

  “Now that is the question. What the Faceless God wants is what all Cosmics want, full entrance into our world. How you can help it with that remains to be seen.”

  The Faceless Man shifted in his chair and was about to ask another question when Jacques cut him off.

  “Fret not, the Faceless God is a far kinder master than most of the Cosmics, but it would be the utmost folly to attempt to hold it to any human standards of morality.” Jacques opened another cabinet and pulled out a second pitcher of water. He poured the water into a kettle and brought the kettle over to a small stove burning in the corner.

  “As you know, thousands of years ago, the Cosmics first breached our world. At first, they were stopped by the power of the True Creator. Mankind and the Church were at their peak then, but every sunrise has a sunset, and all men must grow old. Driven by a lust for power and beguiled by the promises of the Cosmics, the True Creator’s son, now known only as the Betrayer, did as befits his new title and made a pact with the Cosmics. What exactly he did to the True Creator is unknown to the likes of us, but whatever he did, the result was that a god died that day, and the church has been left holding a shattered sword trying to fend off the Cosmics from ruling over the world.”

  All this rang true with the fragments of the Faceless Man’s past life. The name of the True Creator’s son had been stricken from all records and it was said to speak the son’s true name was to invite the eye of evil itself upon you. Now he was known only as the Betrayer, and this story was often told to scare children into behaving properly and not going out at night. However, there were a few differences between Jacques' telling and the version he had heard growing up.

  “The version I learned at Sunday school says the True Creator still lives on and will return again in glory to judge the Cosmics and the Betrayer.”

  “Worried about your eternal damnation already, are you?” Jacques said with a laugh. “If just words like these were enough to earn the hellfire, I hate to imagine what the deeds that lie ahead of you will bring. Oh, make not that long face in here. Aye, the True Creator likely still lives in some form or another. Whether he’ll return or not and in what form is beyond the ken of mortals such as ourselves. As good as the True Creator is at surviving, truth be told our master is even better.”

  The kettle began to scream. Jacques lapsed into silence as he began to prepare the tea. The Faceless Man had a million questions he longed to ask, but he held his tongue, knowing the answers would only come when Jacques chose to reveal them.

  “Tell me, what do you remember from your pact?” Jacques asked, placing an off white tea cup filled with a strange brown tea in front of him.