"Power wears many faces. Truth wears only one."
It had been seven seasons since the last king fell.
Vatayana no longer followed crowns.
The palace gates now stood open, ivy curling through marble, pigeons nesting on the spires once reserved for flags. The royal banners had been taken down — not burned, but folded — and stored in the newly built House of Faces.
It was not a temple.
It was not a court.
It was a space where stories were remembered — through masks, through memory, through unflinching eyes.
No statue of Yuvan stood there.
But his mask did.
And beside it, another.
Unmarked.
Unclaimed.
Still.
Watching.
---
The people came often, not to worship, but to witness.
Children traced the mask's shadows with their eyes, wondering how a face could feel so alive in stillness.
Elders brought grandchildren to it and whispered, "This is how we learned to see."
Artists copied it.
Poets feared it.
Leaders… studied it.
And slowly, the stories of Vatayana no longer centered on kings, wars, or divine rights.
They centered on questions:
> "What becomes of a man when no one can stop him?"
> "What do we lose when we cannot be wrong?"
> "Who carves our face — the world, or ourselves?"
---
No one knew where Ananthu had gone.
But his cave remained.
Some said he passed into the stone, now part of the masks themselves.
Some believed he had been the spirit of the first sculptor — reborn every time truth was forgotten.
But the truth was simpler.
He had returned to silence.
---
In the final years of his life, Ananthu wrote one scroll.
No title. No signature.
Only words etched in ink made from ash and river water.
It was found years later beneath the final mask he carved — the only one he ever named.
It read:
---
> There is a moment between the lifting of the chisel and the first strike.
That is where the truth waits.
> We do not rule it.
We do not shape it.
It shapes us, when we stop pretending we are not clay.
> I carved kings, not to glorify them,
but to remind the world that power is never one face — it is a mirror made of many.
Some break it.
Some bow to it.
A few dare to look.
> This is not the face of a man.
It is the face of truth — and it will outlive every crown.
---
The scroll was displayed beneath the final mask in the House of Faces.
No rope guarded it. No soldier protected it.
Because none were needed.
Once a people have seen themselves clearly, they do not forget easily.
---
And the mask?
It remains unchanged.
Obsidian.
Silent.
Unflinching.
But some swear that at dusk, when the sun hits it from the western gate — for just a moment — the face looks back.
And smiles.
Not in arrogance.
Not in cruelty.
But in recognition.
---
Across Vatayana, a new generation rose.
They no longer spoke of kings.
They spoke of carvers.
Not of stone, but of policy, of compassion, of law, of resistance.
Each decision was weighed not by popularity or tradition — but by what face it would leave behind.
Would it be a face others could bear to look at?
Could they wear it themselves?
Could they call it their own?
---
The city changed. It was slower than revolution, but stronger.
Because truth, once seen, reshapes everything.
---
And on the edge of Vatayana, in a quiet workshop far from the capital, an old man with worn fingers carved a small figure from riverwood.
Not a mask.
Not a king.
Just a child.
Eyes open.
Hand outstretched.
No crown.
No title.
Just possibility.
---
He whispered as he worked, not knowing if anyone listened:
> "Let the next face be lighter."
---
> Faces of Power ends not with a throne — but a mirror.
> One we all must face.