The wind that touched my face wasn't real.
Not entirely.
It stung like a cold slap, and in that instant - breath sharp in my lungs, the haze of memory and illusion broke apart like glass. I stumbled backward, nearly slipping on the moss-slick stone beneath me.
The grave still sat there. Fresh soil. Still-damp nameplate. But the longer I stared, the less real it felt. The less he felt.
Lucien Batford.
A name meant to gut me. Whoever carved it knew exactly what it would do. Not just to remind me of what I'd done - but to make me question if I even remembered it correctly.
I didn't linger. I couldn't.
Whatever this place was, it wasn't just twisted space or hallucination. It was memory made manifest - pieces of guilt and madness stitched together by a force that wanted me to snap.
It nearly worked.
But not today.
I turned away, forcing my feet into motion.
The Void still buzzed faintly at the edge of my senses - like static behind my ears - but Charlotte's eyes helped me carve a path through it. My footing was steadier now, though it felt like walking through layers of dream that hadn't quite finished melting.
With shaky hands, I took out Arthur's family medallion that had helped me so much. I bit my thumb, drawing blood from it, and spilt it on the coin. Gaining back my composure, I talked into the coin.
"Arthur. It's Damian. I found the Heritic from the mansion incident. I only trust you right now, so come alone. I'm heading to…" I paused, checking the final location mentioned in the letter I'd pulled from that hidden room. "…the Garden of Yarrow. It should be closer to you, its in the higher echelons of the Inner Rim."
A beat of silence passed before Arthur's voice buzzed in my ear. Rough, alert. No wasted words.
"Ten minutes. Don't die."
I exhaled. "Copy that."'
Please you old clergy bastard, don't be dead.
With that silent prayer, I ran as hard as I could.
---
Ugh, maybe my stamina needs work.
Arthur and I stood inside the edge of the Garden of Yarrow a large complex made for entertainment for Nobility. I was crouched, puffing as I tried to gain my breathe, currently in the reception hall.
Once, it might've been beautiful. Grand even. A cross between a greenhouse and a noble's courtyard. Broken glass domes arched overhead, their skeletal frames choked by vines and rust. Steam pipes twisted through marble statues like metal roots. An old fountain in the center had long dried up, now filled with soot and bones.
The flower it was named after - yarrow - still bloomed around the outer edges, pale and soft, almost mocking in their purity. Historically, they were used to bind wounds, and were a medicine from the Emperors time.
Fitting I thought, considering what would happen here.
Arthur stood to my right, steel armor glinting under the pale sun filtering through the broken ceiling. His bright silver sword embroidered in gold was held in both hands, and he wore some quickly rushed armor.
It seemed to be made of leather, but it was actually a Aetheris absorbing material, classic for someone of his class.
He looked at me sideways. "You look like shit."
"I feel like shit," I replied, still bent over from exhaustion.
"Good. That means you're still sane. The scent of the Veil marks you like flies to shit."
Before I could retort at the unprovoked insult, I heard it.
A soft clink. Porcelain on porcelain. A spoon stirring tea.
Then a voice followed - pleasant, measured, with a hint of melody behind every word.
"Well now. The Veils little fledgling, and the exiled hound from the east. You're both quite punctual. I do appreciate that."
Arthur tensed, weapon raised.
From the far side of the Garden, through a haze of drifting steam, he stepped into view.
The cultist Bishop.
Still dressed in his dark robe, though now dirtied and smudged. His eyes gleamed beneath the heavy folds of his hood, and a grin stretched across his face like it had been painted on. His mask from before was gone, all that remained was the decayed part of his, now un-hidden.
It looked as thought he had been a burn victim, and the skin seemed like it would peel off at any moment. In one hand, he held a teacup. In the other, a blood-stained pocket watch swung lazily on its chain.
Beside him, in the middle of the hallway, a table was set.
Tea service for three.
Of course it was.
"I'm afraid the Hierarch isn't with us," the Bishop said, sipping lightly. "He's indisposed. Something about bleeding truths and being strung up like a warning bell."
I stepped forward, eyes locked on him. "This is a trap."
"Everything is a trap, dear boy," the Bishop smiled wider. "You just have to decide which ones are worth springing."
Arthur didn't wait for more words.
The moment his boot scraped the stone, the Bishop dropped the teacup - Arthur disappeared - and the fight began.