I stood in the middle of the room for a few seconds, letting my eyes adjust again, even though the Veil had already peeled back most of the illusions. Charlotte's eyes were still active, still burning behind mine with a soft heat that tingled in the back of my skull. Even now, the space didn't quite feel real. Not fake either, just... displaced. Like it had been ripped out of one world and stitched clumsily into mine.
I took in the details.
The desk in the center wasn't old, but it was battered, like someone had lived out a thousand sleepless nights leaning over it. Maps, letters, burnt candles melted into the wood. Pins and red string connected cities and locations, most of them crossed out or circled with heavy, frustrated ink.
I traced my fingers across the mess. Most of the letters were in code, but a few had been hastily written, as if someone had lost patience with discretion. One in particular was scrawled across an unsealed parchment, ink still glossy on the edges:
"The wine has done its work. The seeds have taken root in Morren's rot. Praise the Black Sun. The Prophet smiles. The time is nearly ripe."
Another read:
"The sleepers walk. The nobles sleep. And soon, both shall meet."
I picked up a map underneath them, more carefully, this time. The city was hand-drawn, and I recognized the familiar shape of Morren from above. But dozens of marks had been added. Drain paths. Churches. Train routes. Circles around the Noble District. One line led from this very tunnel to a red X over an area that read: Iron Chapel.
That was… above the city, in the higher tiers of the Inner Rim.
Another note, tucked into a folder labeled simply Operations: Awakening, had a single line underlined three times:
"I and the Hierarch are currently having tea at the Iron Chapel. Come meet us, my little angel."
I didn't realize my grip on the page had tightened until the corner crinkled beneath my fingers.
What the hell is going on here?
Who the hell were they writing to?
My heart kicked in my chest, the heat of adrenaline crawling up my neck like ants under my skin. The words on the page weren't just cryptic—they were real. This wasn't some cultist fantasy. These were orders. Meetings. Operations in motion.
And it meant they were close.
Still active.
Still planning.
I turned, ready to search for more, when I froze.
A faint breath grazed the back of my neck.
It was real.
I spun around, blade half-raised, revolver sliding into my palm. The air was empty-but my eyes caught the shimmer just a second too late. A shape darted out the passageway, fast and silent like a blade in water.
"Shit-!"
I gave chase, footsteps slamming against the stone. My cloak tore against the narrow wall, but I didn't stop. The figure moved like a shadow-blurring past the brick corridors and into the brighter tunnel, back the way I'd come.
The pressure was returning.
The closer I got, the more the Veil fought me. It pushed against my skull, dragged invisible fingers across my thoughts. Charlotte's eyes kept it back just enough for me to keep clarity, but it felt like running through a hurricane made of whispers.
The figure slipped ahead, ducking into the hatch that led back up to the church.
I followed.
I climbed quickly, boots scraping the rungs. I burst back into the hollow sanctuary, light leaking in through the broken rafters. My breath steamed in the cold air.
The figure was already sprinting to the side hall-the ruined classroom.
I followed them, bursting through the threshold-
And then everything changed.
Gone was the ashen ruin.
The classroom was whole.
Perfect.
Sunlight streamed through clean glass windows, glinting off polished wooden floors. The chalkboard had fresh notes scrawled across it in elegant script. Rows of desks were lined with children in spotless uniforms, humming prayers and scriptures.
Nuns moved between them, smiling. Guiding them gently.
The air smelled like candles and ink.
What the hell…?
I moved through the crowd like a ghost. No one noticed me. Not a glance. Not a word.
I passed one desk, a boy drawing stick figures in the margin of his text. A girl humming under her breath. Another clutching a rosary.
This wasn't a hallucination.
This was a memory.
The Veil was showing me something. Something it had stored in its fractured mind like a shard of broken glass. And then… it changed again.
The temperature shifted.
I turned my head to the far corner.
A scream echoed.
A boy stood against the wall. Shirtless. Thin. Pale. His back bore fresh red lashes, welted and raw. A nun stood above him with a cane, raising it high.
It came down.
Once. Twice. Again.
The boy cried out.
Then… he laughed.
The laughter didn't belong to a child.
It was too old. Too deep.
Too wrong.
The blood on his back boiled. Sigils burned across his skin in unnatural symmetry. Fire erupted from the lashes, racing up the cane, consuming the nun. Her screams turned to chanting-dozens of voices joined in, rising like a choir of agony.
The children around me didn't scream. They kept humming. Their eyes rolled back, white and lifeless. Blood streamed from their noses. Some smiled.
I stumbled back.
"No, no no-"
Flames bloomed across the floor, chasing the walls. The illusion fractured like a mirror cracking. And then-
Darkness again.
I stood alone in the hallway.
Charred.
Empty.
The same room I had entered earlier.
Burnt. Forgotten. Broken.
But my feet moved again, as if pulled by strings.
Out the side door.
Behind the church.
The graveyard was old. Crumbling. Stones leaned like drunkards, half-swallowed by the earth. The grass was overgrown, dew clinging to each blade.
I stepped through, boots crunching softly.
Then I saw it.
Fresh soil.
A single grave.
Unmarked-except for the headstone, clean and untouched.
Lucien Batford
I stared at it, my mind frozen.
I didn't know the name. Had never heard it.
But something about it settled into my spine like frostbite.
Like I was meant to see it.
Like it was left for me.
A chill rode up my arms. My hand brushed the top of the stone. The stone was warm.
What the hell is going on?
And somewhere, in the back of my mind-beneath the voices, beneath Charlotte's watchful glow-I heard the same words again.
Not spoken.
Not screamed.
Just… remembered.
"They're coming."
And the worst part?
I believed it.