The day finally came.
The Yellow Mage knew it.
He was certain of his work.
He entered his workshop.
Only a single fracture remained.
It was barely visible now, a thin silver line running along the bridge of the nose.
He approached it slowly.
He needed to be careful in these final stages.
For weeks, he had refused to rush the process.
Healing cared very little for impatience.
But today, it was ready.
He caressed the mask.
Unlike in the days and weeks before, the mask did not resist his magic at all.
It welcomed it.
So he began his work for the day, and with each passing hour the final fracture contracted by a hair's breadth.
The line grew thinner and thinner until, with a faint sound like a distant breath, it disappeared entirely.
Silence followed.
Absolute and complete.
The Yellow Mage slowly lifted his hands away.
The mask was whole.
No seams remained.
No hint that it had ever been broken into fragments scattered across the world.
The face staring upward was flawless.
Serene, regal, and expressionless.
Yet it almost looked disappointed in the Yellow Mage.
Otherwise, it resembled an exquisitely crafted ceremonial mask, the sort that belonged in a museum.
It deserved to be preserved with all the care the world could muster.
The illusion of peace and wonder lasted less than a heartbeat.
The room grew heavy.
The air dense.
The Yellow Mage's thoughts slowed as though moving through deep water.
The mask did nothing visible.
It merely existed.
That was enough.
A wave of understanding washed through the Yellow Mage's mind.
Entire theories unfolded within moments.
Impossible magical structures.
Elegant solutions to problems that had occupied scholars for centuries.
Entire branches of spellcraft seemed obvious while he looked upon it.
He could not hold on to any single idea, but the feeling of understanding remained.
The knowledge was not his.
It merely flowed close enough for him to catch the briefest glimpse.
He looked away.
The understanding vanished instantly.
For a brief moment, that was terrifying.
It was as though the mask invited him to put it on.
But that would be of no use.
It presented impossible power as though it were simply another tool resting upon a workbench.
As if it were a chisel.
No one simply wore this mask.
It was not a mask at all, but a part of Endrith of Irath.
His life.
His history.
His understanding.
But the Yellow Mage knew that this knowledge was bait.
It was not knowledge at all.
It merely wanted someone to put it on without a second thought.
How else could its power be used if nobody wore it?
The mask, Endrith, was nothing the Yellow Mage wanted.
It had nothing to do with healing, or growth, or gentleness, or patience.
Its power was immense, but it was also profoundly unsuited to him.
He could feel that instinctively.
It was like placing a blacksmith's hammer into the hands of a baker.
The hammer possessed vastly greater force.
Yet force alone accomplished very little in a bakery.
Even if he wore the mask, and he had absolutely no intention of doing so, he doubted he could use even a fraction of what it offered.