The Faceless Man stared at the cup of tea in front of him before responding.

  “His appearance. Images of this church. A man at the dockyard. I’ve forgotten almost everything from my life before, the only thing left is…”

  “The less I know the better, and trying to hold onto memories of your life before is like holding on to sand in the flows of the tide. I suggest you let go, starting with the memories of our lord’s appearance. You seem like far too sincere a person to be allowed to go insane.”

  “If there’s one thing I wish to forget, it would be that face, and that room… but I’ll never relinquish my family. If not for their memory, I wouldn’t be standing here today.”

  “Fair enough,” Jacques said after a sip of tea. “Drink up. It’s a herbal remedy, good for your mental state and to help you relax.”

  The Faceless Man took a sip of the tea. It was sweet, with just a faint hint of medicine. After a look to see how the Faceless Man was enjoying the tea, Jacques continued.

  “I’ve been placed in Alderbridge at my lord’s command to guide his servants, so guide you I shall. As you’ve no doubt realized, you’ve become a faceless man, a servant of the Faceless God. In your true state, your form can barely be considered human. In order to pass in everyday society, you have no choice but to assume the identity of another. Only in this way can you find the answers you seek.”

  Jacques put down his teacup and wandered over to one of the chests on the other side of the room. Unlocking it with a key on his belt, he took out a smaller box the size of a loaf of bread. Jacques picked it up effortlessly and carried it over to the Faceless Man.

  “The first power you have been granted is that of disguise, but to earn this power requires a sacrifice.”

  Jacques opened the box and offered it to the Faceless Man.

  “Take it, friend.”

  The Faceless Man reached into the box and took out a black stone. It was somehow at once both smooth and uneven, absorbing the light into its crevices. Suddenly, the Faceless Man felt a sensation like his palm had been cut open. He could feel blood pouring out from his hand into the stone. He leapt to his feet, the chair falling backwards behind him as he tried to cast away the stone, but to his horror he found he was unable to relax his fingers.

  “Relax,” Jacques barked. “Look at it.”

  The stone in his hand began to change shape, becoming longer and thinner, jutting out well past the Faceless Man’s hand. The part still within his grasp became more uniformly round, resolving itself into a handle perfectly proportioned to his hand. The rest of the stone slowly resolved itself into a blade, its razor edge resolving into a point. As the stone completed its transformation into a dagger, the Faceless Man could feel his palm healing, and after a few careful tests, realized he could finally relax his fingers and balance the knife in his open palm.

  “The Faceless Dagger is a symbol of the Faceless Man. Only true followers of the Faceless God will carry one, and as much as it is a symbol of our identity, it is also a source of our power.”

  The knife had a blade of the deepest black, a darkness so profound it seemed to swallow the light that dared touch its surface. Its obsidian-like sheen was interrupted only by the occasional, almost imperceptible, shimmer of silver, a reflection of the comic void in which the Faceless Man guessed it was birthed. Even though it had come from the same rock, the hilt of the knife had developed an entirely different feeling. It was wrapped in what felt like leather, but had the warmth of human skin. Engraved upon it were runic symbols unknown to all but the most devoted servants of the Faceless God. The Faceless Man firmly grasped the knife in his hand and took a few experimental swings.

  “Good.” Jacques said, “It looks like a fine blade, but you wouldn’t be much of a faceless man if you walked around with a blade announcing yourself as one. Now, will it away.”

  “What?”

  “Will it away. The blade is part of you now and will respond to your will.”

  Jacques walked him through the thought process, and after a few false starts, the Faceless Man was able to make the dagger disappear.

  “Where did it go?” the Faceless Man asked in amazement.

  “I don’t know. Now make it come back.”

  Again Jacques walked the Faceless Man through the steps, and with some practice, he was able to make the dagger appear and disappear at will.

  “Good. You’re a quick study.” Jacques said. He glanced at a clock on the wall. “It’s nearly dawn. That’s enough for one night.”

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  He led the Faceless Man back into the hallway and into one of the side rooms. He pointed to another room down the hall.

  “A bath has been prepared, along with some clothes. After you’ve bathed, sleep here. When you awake, I’ll help you plan your next steps.”

  The Faceless Man got little rest that day. Fatigue would quickly drag him to sleep, only for him to find himself again in that same hall, reliving fragments of the previous day's nightmare.

  Elisia. Elisia.

  Over and over he repeated her name, forcing his breathing to slow down. After a few hours, he rose from the bed. He stretched his body and was surprised at how rested he actually felt. Could it be that increased recovery was part of the gifts of the Faceless God?

  That day Jacques trained him in knife combat. Again and again the Faceless Man was knocked to the ground as Jacques countered his every move, picking him up and walking him through a slight variation in his stance or grip, then running it again just to still knock him down. In the evening, Jacques gave the man a cloak and hood and took him through the city, pointing out landmarks, but also alleyways, places to hide, and showing him places where the Cosmics had left their mark on the city—The Martyr’s tree that stood immovably through one on the busier streets near the high court, Blackstone Alley, where a Cosmic follower had died in an explosion of mental energy so potent, to this day the Church’s best exorcists and the Empire’s top disease cleaners were unable to make the alleyway accessible to the common man.

  This cycle continued for days— training, exploration, poring over maps and ancient texts, swapping stories with some of Jacques’ contacts, and learning the skills of the people who inhabited Alderbridge—all for the purpose of letting the Faceless Man pass as a native of the city.

  One day, after being thrown off by a particularly flashy knife trick and being knocked yet again to the ground, the Faceless Man asked Jacques where he had learned to use a knife.

  “The circus. When I was a boy,” was all he said.

  “Somehow, I can perfectly imagine you as a carny. When did your memories of the past come back?” The Faceless Man asked.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I lost all my memories when I became Faceless. I assume you did as well.”

  “The only memories I’ve lost have been to drink,” Jacques said with a laugh.

  “Wait. What? Then why did the Faceless God claim my memories?” The Faceless Man said, throwing the towel he had used to wipe his face to the ground.

  “The Faceless God doesn’t take memories, not from the living at least. Think about it, did you have your memories when you stood before our lord?”

  “I…” Yet again the Faceless Man thought back to that night, and gradually he realized Jacques was right. By the time he stood before the Cosmic he now served, all that was left of his past life was his daughter’s name and a few brief fragments. “No, I suppose I didn’t. But then—?”

  “There’s only one god that has that power, the True Creator.”

  “The True Creator? But, that means—” Suddenly, a story from his Sunday school days came to mind. Long ago, a family had found some fragments of an ancient diary. Within that diary was rumored to be a written record of the Betrayer’s true name. The family was foolish enough to try and sell it. Soon Church Inquisitors came. Not only was the diary confiscated and destroyed, but the family received the same punishment the Betrayer had received all those years ago—unnaming.

  “The punishment reserved only for heretics and those corrupted beyond salvation by the Cosmics, unnaming.” Jacques replied. “What you did, I don’t know, and the Church tends not to publicize when it uses that power. Why they did so is something you’ll have to discover for yourself.”

  Unnaming was rumored to be one of the strangest and most powerful powers of the Church of the True Creator. Not only did it cause you to forget your own name, it also caused not just you but everyone to even forget who you were. Some said it could even affect written records, but no one had been able to prove it. If the Faceless Man had really been unnamed by the Church, he must have been involved in something far deeper than he could have imagined. The Faceless Man felt a rage against the church well up in his chest. These past few days he had been agonizing over what he thought had been a betrayal of his beliefs, but if the Church had been the ones to drive him to this point by taking everything he held dear, then the guilt in his chest could only be replaced by vengeance.

  “Let’s pause our training here for today,” Jacques said. “We have an important walk for tonight.” After a quick meal and a change into his now familiar hooded cloak, the Faceless Man followed Jacques out of the Church of the Faceless God and into the city. They wound their way through the city night life towards the shoreline, changing routes once as Jacques saw a group of Inquisitors and decided not to take any chances. Eventually, they arrived in front of a dockyard, its workers slowly streaming out of the entrance at the end of their shift, making their way to one of the bars just down the street or home to their families.

  “Does this place ring any bells?” Jacques asked.

  “Not particularly… no, wait,” the Faceless Man began, but just as he started speaking, he realized he did recognize this place, or at least the third-floor balcony of the main building that overlooked the loading dock. In the vision the Faceless God had shown him, he had seen a man standing there, overlooking the dockyard like a king. “This is where I saw that man, in my vision from the Faceless God.”

  “Bartholomew Crane,” Jacques said. “The owner of this dockyard. They say he has a close relationship with one Vicar Corvus, a former smuggler who saw the light, and now tends to the True Creator’s flock here in Alderbridge.”

  “But what’s the connection between Crane, Corvus, and me?” The Faceless Man asked.

  “As I said, that’s up to you to discover. Your first task is to get close to Crane. To do that, you’ll need to find someone to replace.”

  The two loitered near the dockyard a while longer, watching the dockers come and go and the security staff change shifts. As it got darker, lights were lit in the offices, but Crane never came out. After several hours, Jacques and the Faceless Man returned to the Church of the Faceless God to get some rest. For the first time since that night, the Faceless Man felt like he knew the way forward. He lay in bed and controlled his breathing.

  Elisia. Elisia.

  Tomorrow the hunt would begin. He slept well that night.