The first time Viggo Torlane met the Saint of Masks, he did not know he was a celestial.

In fairness, the saint did not look much like one.

He looked like a merchant. Not a wealthy merchant, nor a particularly memorable one. The sort of man who might pass through a market square unnoticed, his boots dusted with road dirt and his cloak faded by rain and travel. His shoulders were narrow, his beard trimmed short and flecked with gray, and his eyes possessed that rare quality of seeming perfectly ordinary. One could look directly into them and immediately forget their color.

Years later, Viggo would discover that he could not remember the man’s face at all. Not the shape of his nose. Not the curve of his jaw. Not even the lines around his eyes. Every detail had slipped away like water through open fingers. Only two things remained.

The man’s voice.

And his smile.

Gods, that smile.

Viggo should have recognized it for what it was. A professional courtesy. The sort of smile one liar offers another after witnessing a particularly elegant deception.

At the time, however, he was far too busy robbing him.

The relic was fake.

Naturally.

Viggo had made it himself during a particularly dull week in Halfhil; the Halfling trade stop south of some old Dwarven hold. This is where Viggo spent many years taking advantage of passerby’s and locals alike after leaving his former life on small battlefields as a medic for cheeky lords and ladies. The medallion had once been a collection of stolen silver spoons, hammered flat and shaped into a convincing holy symbol. He had spent hours scratching false scripture into the surface and aging the metal with smoke and ash until it carried the appearance of centuries. The history had come later.The history always came later.

“I acquired it from a monastery east of Velingard,” Viggo explained as he carefully placed the medallion into the merchant’s hand.

Which was true. He had acquired it east of Velingard.

The monastery had simply been abandoned for two hundred years outside of Halfhil.

“The brothers protected it for generations.”

Also true. Several generations ago. Before they died.

“It is said to reveal falsehood.”

That part was entirely fabricated, though Viggo had always appreciated the irony.

The merchant listened with surprising patience. He asked intelligent questions. He examined the relic with the care of a collector who understood value. Most importantly, he paid without complaint.

In fact, he paid so generously that Viggo nearly became suspicious.

Nearly.

The weight of the coin purse hanging from his belt was sufficient to smother any lingering doubts.

As he departed, the merchant thanked him.

Actually thanked him, and that should have been the warning.

Honest men complained when they were cheated. Victims demanded refunds. Priests threatened divine consequences.

Only professionals thanked one another after being robbed.

Three days later, Viggo found himself hanging upside down from a cliff.

The frontier had a habit of punishing assumptions.

The rope cinched around his ankle bit into the leather of his boot as he swayed gently over a drop that seemed determined to continue forever. Jagged stone waited patiently below, sharp enough to make survival an unlikely outcome.

His shoulder ached.

One of his teeth felt loose.

The smugglers he had attached himself to had proven less accommodating than expected.

In Viggo’s defense, he had not known they were transporting genuine relics. Once he discovered that fact, curiosity had gotten the better of him. Curiosity, as always, had proven expensive.

The sun was settling behind distant hills when he noticed he was no longer alone.

The merchant sat atop a nearby boulder.

Perfectly clean.

Perfectly comfortable.

Watching.

Viggo blinked.

The merchant remained.

“You.”

The merchant inclined his head.

“Me.”

Viggo stared for a moment before glancing around the empty cliffside.

“How long have you been there?”

The merchant considered the question with unexpected seriousness.

“Longer than you.”

“Helpful.” Said Viggo.

“I try.” Replied the Merchant.

There was something deeply unsettling about him.

Not frightening or threatening, Unsettling.

Every time Viggo attempted to focus on the man’s features, his attention slipped away. The details blurred at the edges of thought. It was like trying to remember a face from a dream moments after waking.

A trick of the light, perhaps. Or something far stranger.

“You aren’t real,” Viggo said.

The merchant looked genuinely wounded.

“That hurts.”

“You bought my fake relic.”

“I did.”

“It was fake.”

“It was.”

“You knew it was fake.”

The merchant’s smile widened slightly.

“Obviously.”

Viggo closed his eyes.

When he opened them again, the merchant was still there, wearing the patient expression of a cat inspecting a trapped mouse.

“Who are you?”

The merchant sighed. Not dramatically, but merely with the weary resignation of a man forced to explain a joke. Then he reached up and removed his face. Not his skin, his face. The features slid away like paint washing from glass, beneath them rested a simple white mask. Featureless, expressionless, and ancient.

The world seemed to draw a quiet breath, the wind softened, the cries of distant birds faded into silence, even the setting sun appeared reluctant to intrude upon the moment.

The mask looked handmade and that was the unsettling part.

Not divine or perfect, simply Human. As though someone had carved it thousands of years ago and Heaven had never found reason to improve upon the design.

Viggo swallowed.

“You are a saint.”

“Unfortunately.”

The answer arrived so quickly that Viggo almost laughed.

“Why unfortunately?”

The saint glanced toward the ravine below.

“You appear to be upside down.”

“That isn’t my fault.”

The saint ignored him.

“Viggo Torlane.”

The way he spoke the name felt less like an introduction and more like a document being opened.

“You are a liar.”

“Yes.”

“A thief.”

“Occasionally.”

“A fraud.”

“Professionally.”

The saint nodded thoughtfully.

“Excellent.”

That was not the response Viggo had expected.

The saint folded his hands.

“You are observant. Adaptable. Skilled at reading intentions. You understand deception as naturally as breathing.”

“I appreciate the compliment.”

“It wasn’t one.”

The saint paused.

“You are also morally inconsistent.”

Viggo frowned.

“I object to that assessment.”

The saint waited.

After a moment, Viggo sighed.

“Fair.”

“I require an agent.”

“No.”

“You haven’t heard the offer.”

“I know recruitment when I hear it.”

The saint tilted his head.

“Do you?”

“Absolutely.”

For the first time, the saint seemed amused, then he produced a familiar silver medallion. Viggo’s medallion, the fake relic.

The saint turned it over in his hands.

Golden light spread through the metal. The false scripture deepened. The scratches shifted. Symbols rearranged themselves into meanings they had never possessed before.

Slowly, impossibly, the counterfeit became genuine.

Not altered or enchanted but made real before Viggos eyes. The saint held it out as the light gently faded from the now genuine relic.

“Congratulations.”

Viggo stared.

“What did you do?”

“I made your fake relic authentic.”

“You can do that?”

The saint considered the question never leaving Viggos eyes.

“Apparently.”

When the medallion was put around his neck, it hung upside down matching his current position, gently touching Viggos forehead where a full head of hair once lay, warmth spread through him. Not warmth of power, not exactly, but an honest promise for more. As though something vast and distant had finally noticed his existence.

The saint rose.

The rope around Viggo’s ankle snapped.

For one terrible half-second he fell.

Then golden light caught him and lowered him gently onto solid ground.

Viggo stood in silence as he looked at the medallion. He made this, now he is stuck with it.

He looked at the saint, then back at the medallion allowing a slow smile to spread beneath his mustache.

“This is a debt, isn’t it?”

The saint’s silence was answer enough.

Viggo laughed.

Not because it was funny but because it was beautiful. Because after decades spent cheating merchants, gamblers, priests, collectors, and fools, someone had finally done it to him properly.

The saint inclined his head.

“Welcome to employment.”

Viggo pointed accusingly with a large, amused smile under his large nose and thick mustache, allowing his teeth to show in full.

“You planned this.”

“Of course.”

“You bought the relic because you knew I would end up owing you.”

“Correct.”

“You manipulated me.”

“Yes.”

“You deceived the deceiver.” Viggo concluded.

The white mask remained perfectly expressionless yet somehow Viggo could feel the smile behind it, a smile that had likely survived kingdoms or even perhaps empires or perhaps the world itself.

“Naturally,” said the Saint of Masks.