CHAPTER SIXTY-SIX

Lens of Gray

A monocle. I'd forged a monocle, small enough to fit in my palm, it looked fragile as a bird's bone, yet pulsing with a power that could fracture reality. The Whispering Lens lay on the steel table, its amber-green lens glinting in the forge's dying glow, the Dirgethinner bone frame etched with runes that twisted like living veins, the Gloomwing hide cord coiled beside it.

I named it the Whispering Lens for the voices it unleashed at a touch, whispers of the dead that clawed my mind. The runes I'd carved into the bone frame, precise and silver, were now warped, corrupted by the Tongue's chaos. New shapes curled, unbidden—spirals, jagged lines, forms I couldn't read, glowing faintly, then dimming. I'd seen this before, in my other artifacts, their runes shifting over time, a mark of my corrupted nature. But the Lens was different, its changes faster, relentless, as if the Tongue still fought its cage.

The Priest's words echoed: "Surrender control, let mana breathe." I'd done that, let chaos guide the merge, and it worked, against all logic. History warned of malformed runes; artisans burned alive, workshops razed by failed circuits in times when mana imbued materials were more common. Yet my artifacts, warped as they were, still functioned, defying reason, like the Lens before me, a paradox of power and ruin.

I handled it carefully, fingers grazing the cord, avoiding the lens. A single touch could wake the dead, and I wasn't ready to drown again. The workshop was silent, the air heavy. The absurdity struck me again—a monocle, so small, so delicate, bridging life and death.

I'd glimpsed another realm, layered over the living, where the dead lingered, their voices a chorus of pain and memory. The Whispering Lens was a bridge to that place, its whispers useful, perhaps, like the Shrouded Priest's riddles that shaped its creation. But its power gnawed at me, a cursed tool I barely understood even though I am its creator, after all, madness has guided my hand as much as the priest had.

I reached out, fingers brushing the Gloomwing cord, then grazing the lens's edge—a mistake. Whispers surged, soft but sharp, like blades grazing my mind. A guard, his voice cracked from old fights, muttered, "Left my boots by the gate." A child's shade, her giggle hollow, said, "Mama's still calling." The voices were fewer, only the strongest piercing through, their wills clawing at the Lens's connection. I pulled back, mist leaking, frosting the table, my core steadying me. Contained, yes, but never safe.

I hesitated, the workshop's silence pressing in, the forge's embers dim. Curiosity warred with dread—I needed to know the monocle's limits. Holding the cord, I lifted the monocle, careful not to touch the lens itself, and raised it inches from my right eye. The world warped, not shattered but bent, colors draining beyond the lens's rim. The workshop turned gray, a husk of ash and shadow, the air heavy, like fog trapped in stone. The dead materialized, vivid against the monochrome veil, skin flushed, eyes gleaming blue, brown, green, their robes and scars stark, more real than the living world.

The same forge worker from before, her apron bloodied, stood by the table, her hands charred, her voice clear: "Hot. Sweet." A flicker followed, flames rising in a forge, her hands shaping steel, a moment from her past.

Was it true, or a lie woven by the ghost? The vision flickered, unstable, her face twisting, eyes boring into mine. My pulse raced, my mind library straining, new fragments forming to shield me. I lowered the monocle after seconds, the world snapping back—colors flooding the forge, the dead gone, the air light again. My hand shook, the cord slipping, the monocle clattering softly on the table.

I exhaled, mist coiling, knowing the monocle needed no recharge, its power boundless. But just like all artifacts, it had its drawbacks, in this case it was sanity itself. Even my mind library, weaving new selves to brace against madness, buckled under the monocle's weight.

Each use would chip away pieces of me, the dead's voices and visions eroding my grip. I couldn't imagine its effect on others, unshielded, their minds fracturing at a single glance. The monocle was cursed, a marvel born of madness, its amber-green heart a gateway no one should cross. Truly an artifact deserving to be considered cursed.

***

The night I forged the Whispering Lens left scars on District 97, a night they called the Night of Gray. Shadows of the dead, gray and fleeting, had drifted through the streets, their forms glimpsed by sleepless guards and citizens peering from bolted doors.

Whispers echoed in alleys, soft but sharp, chilling the air. The ward surrounding the district flickered, its runes stuttering off-beat, a pulse of light that many swore drove the gray evil out. No one could deny the ghosts anymore, their presence as real as the fog that clung outside the ward.

Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

Yet the people of District 97, hardened by the breach's horrors, stood firm. Unlike the chaos that had claimed lives and homes, the Night of Gray brought no blood, no beasts—only fear, a wound to the mind. They saw the ward's flicker as a victory, a purging of the spectral curse. "The gray evil's gone," they said, their voices steady.

Days passed, and normalcy crept back. Patrols resumed their night rounds, lanterns swinging, their steps bold where fear had once kept them indoors. Taverns hummed again, their laughter spilling into the dark, as if the ghosts had never walked.

I barely noticed. Exhaustion had claimed me, my body collapsing after the monocle's birth. I slept for days, a dreamless void, my core dim, my mind library silent. When I woke, Kara's calm, synthetic, insistent voice urged meditation. "Mental healing requires deep meditation," she said, her diagnostics citing stress fractures in my psyche.

I obeyed, retreating to a derelict shed, meditating in darkness, my mist coiling, my thoughts tracing the Lens's power. The dead's chants lingered even without touching the monocle "Stay… stray…", but faded, a dull ache. A week passed before I could face another soul, my sanity stitched together, fragile but holding.

I emerged on the seventh day, my cloak heavy, the Whispering Lens hanging as a pendant around my neck, its Gloomwing cord resting on my shirt but tucked beneath my cloak to avoid my skin. I headed to Lucious' workshop to retrieve my tools, my steps slow, the district's air lighter, its streets alive with clatter and voices.

The forge's smoke curled skyward, a beacon of order, but as I crossed the threshold, the workshop's transformation stopped me cold. The walls, floors, and ceilings bore the carvings from that night—jagged spirals, gaping mouths, eyes that seemed to follow me, etched deep into stone and steel.

Faces screamed silently, their features twisted, frozen in agony, some half-covered by draped cloths, as if too raw for the artisans to bear. A nightmare woven into reality. The workshop was a shrine to ruin, beautiful and wrong, its surfaces alive with the Tongue's echo.

Lucious and Mateo stood amid a crowd of artisans, their heads bent over a schematic. Assistants bustled, hauling ingots, stoking the forge, their chatter a hum against the carvings' silent scream. I approached, my voice rough from disuse. "Hi."

They turned, Lucious's hazel eyes brightening, Mateo's narrowing, his gaze flicking to my gaunt face. "Omen, the true artist!" Lucious said, his voice warm, his ink-stained hands pausing. "Always glad to have you here, kid." His enthusiasm was unchanged, as if the workshop's horror was just another canvas.

"You're not angry?" I asked, glancing at a carving, a face with its mouth stretched and eyes hollow, half-draped by a tarp. Its scream seemed to hum, a vibration only I felt, my core twitching.

Mateo snorted, folding his arms, taking my question as an admission of guilt. "I told you it was him," he said to Lucious, his tone sharp, restrained, his jaw tight. "We've been over this; no one breaks in to do… that to the walls." His eyes flicked to a warped face bulging from the stone, its scream frozen.

Lucious shot Mateo a look, his brow furrowing. "Don't be dense. Of course it's Omen; concrete doesn't grow faces by itself! Stone and steel sprouting like roots, mouths pushing out? That's magic, plain as day." He gestured to a spiral, its lines curling into teeth, his voice reverent, blurring craft and art. "It's disturbing, sure, but a marvel. No need to fuss."

I swallowed, my mist stirring. "I didn't do it on purpose. But I'm responsible."

Mateo's eyes widened, suspicious. "You're saying you did it without intent? That's mad." His voice was low, but his fingers tightened on the schematic, crumpling its edge.

I nodded, knowing how it sounded. The Night of Gray hung between us, unspoken, their glances meeting, tying my words to that haunted night. Lucious's curiosity sparked, undeterred. "So, it happened while you were crafting? One of those experiments you were running?"

"Not an experiment," I said, a flicker of pride cutting through my haze. "I finished it. Crafted what I wanted."

Lucious leaned forward, his eyes gleaming, the carvings forgotten. "What is it? Don't hold out on me, kid."

I hesitated, then drew the monocle from beneath my cloak, the cord sliding against my shirt, the monocle dangling as a pendant. A faint whisper grazed my ear as my fingers brushed the lens, "Crafter burns, knows not the cost," sharp and accusing. I ignored it, my face steady, and held the monocle by its cord, lifting it to my right eye, closing the eye to avoid its power. The bone frame gleamed, its runes, silver, twisted, alive, catching the forge's light, visible only up close.

"A monocle?" Lucious said, his voice rising, then falling, his curiosity dimming. "That's… it?"

I nodded, the moment stretching, the monocle's simplicity a mask. To the naked eye, it was unremarkable, a delicate trinket, its runes unnoticed unless scrutinized. Yet its weight pressed my core, its power a silent roar. "Allows one to see more than they should," I said, my voice low, the words heavy with truth.

Mateo frowned, skeptical. "See what, exactly?"

I paused, the carvings' eyes seeming to watch, the workshop's air tightening. "Things beyond." I tucked the monocle back, its whisper fading, and moved to gather my tools: a hammer, a pestle, a notebook smudged with ink. Lucious stared, his awe flickering, a craftsman sensing more than he could grasp. Mateo's jaw tightened, his silence louder than words, the carvings' presence a rebuke he couldn't voice.

I left, the monocle hidden, its cord warm against my skin. The district hummed, alive, but I felt the Lens's pull, its promise of answers. The Night of Gray was over, but my path between realms had just begun and it was time to finally get the answers I wanted.

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