The Mask of Twelve Souls

Ixchel ran her thumb across the final jade fragment. Perfect fit. She positioned it above the death mask's last empty space, her calloused fingers steady despite her racing heart.

The workshop was silent except for her breathing. Dust motes floated through the narrow window light. Every tool on her workbench sat in precise rows, not a single implement out of place.

She lowered the fragment. Click. The sound was softer than a whisper.

The air froze.

Ixchel gasped as twelve voices detonated inside her skull. Each one distinct, each one screaming for dominance. *VENGEANCE*, roared something primal and burning. *Caution*, whispered another, cold as winter stones. *Analyze the situation*, commanded a third voice, measured and calculating.

Her rigid posture shattered. She staggered backward, hip colliding with the workbench.

Tools clattered across stone floor like broken promises. The tray she'd spent an hour arranging scattered into chaos. Her perfectly ordered world crumbling in metal percussion.

*Pride sneers at your weakness*. *Compassion weeps for what you've lost*. *Fear shows you their faces burning with plague fever*.

"No." The word came out strangled. She pressed both palms against her temples. "The correct approach is— if you measure—"

But technical language couldn't build walls against twelve ancient souls. They weren't requests. They were invasions.

*Courage demands you fight*. *Wisdom counsels patience*. *Rage remembers the betrayer's face*.

Ixchel's knees buckled. She caught herself on the workbench edge, knuckles white against wood. The jade pendant her father made her swung forward, tapping against her breastbone. She didn't notice.

The workshop door opened without a knock.

Teyolia stepped inside, her weathered face arranged in concern. But her eyes—her eyes moved too quickly across the scattered tools, the completed mask, Ixchel's trembling hands. Calculating. Measuring outcomes.

"Child." The elder's voice dripped manufactured worry. "What have you done?"

"I finished the restoration." Ixchel forced herself upright, fingers rubbing her calluses in unconscious rhythm. "The commission. It should be— it was supposed to be perfect."

*Hope whispers it can be fixed*. *Cunning plots three moves ahead*. *Love mourns what perfection costs*.

Teyolia moved closer, her footsteps deliberate, almost ceremonial. She peered over her spectacles at the death mask. Her fingers steepled, a gesture Ixchel had seen a hundred times during village councils.

"As the ancients taught us," Teyolia began, each word precise, "the death mask of Te K'ab Chaak was shattered for a reason."

"What reason?" The twelve voices made Ixchel's own sound thin.

"His soul was too powerful for the afterlife to contain." Teyolia's hand disappeared into her sleeve, touching something hidden there. "It fragmented. Twelve pieces scattered across sacred grounds. Each piece carrying an aspect of his consciousness."

*Vengeance knows she's lying*. *Compassion wants to believe her*. *Wisdom demands proof she cannot give*.

Ixchel grabbed the workbench again. The world tilted. "The fragments will destroy your village," Teyolia continued, urgency threading through her measured tone. "Unless they're reunited before the blood moon rises. Five days, Ixchel. Perhaps six."

"I don't understand." But she did. The voices made certain she understood. They showed her visions—villages burning, souls screaming, her own hands stained with consequences.

"Only you can gather the scattered pieces." Teyolia stepped closer, her ancient frame moving with practiced care. "Your skill awakened them. Your skill must restore them. Completely."

*Fear shows you failure*. *Pride refuses to admit weakness*. *Mercy begs you to try*.

"Where?" The word scraped Ixchel's throat raw.

"I have maps. Texts. Histories preserved through centuries." Teyolia produced a rolled parchment from her robes too quickly, as if she'd been carrying it for precisely this moment. "The first three fragments rest in the Sunken Temple of Echoes. The others..." She paused, let the silence press. "The others will require a journey."

Ixchel looked at the death mask. Twelve jade pieces formed a perfect mosaic. Flawless craftsmanship. Her masterwork.

And it was killing her from the inside.

*Courage says this is your threshold*. *Fear says you'll die trying*. *Hope whispers both can be true*.

"I'll do it." Her voice steadied even as the voices warred. "If you measure carefully, follow the pattern, restore what was broken—"

"Yes." Teyolia's thin lips curved. Not quite a smile. "Wisdom suggests that very approach."

The elder turned toward the door, then paused. "One more thing the ancients taught us, child. Integration requires understanding each piece. The king's souls will speak to you. Listen carefully to what they say."

She left without waiting for response.

Ixchel stood alone in her workshop. Tools scattered across stone. Narrow window light cutting through dust. Twelve voices arguing about whether Teyolia was guide or manipulator, savior or architect of doom.

*Cunning noticed she knew to come*. *Wisdom marks the timing suspicious*. *Love remembers trust can be a weapon*.

Her thumb found her calluses again. Rubbing. Checking. An anchor against the chaos flooding her mind.

The death mask gleamed on its stand. Perfect. Complete. Deadly.

She touched her father's jade pendant. The only piece of grief she'd allowed herself to carry.

Five days until the blood moon. Twelve souls to reunite. One girl whose perfect surfaces were already cracking.

Ixchel straightened her spine. Forced her shoulders back. If she maintained perfect posture, perhaps she wouldn't fall apart.

The twelve voices laughed at that delusion. All of them. Even the kind ones.