Chapter 37: A Lantern Lights the Way
Levi stepped onto Whispering Pines Road, the path leading from the shipyard back into town.
Scattered houses lined the way—residences mostly, a few businesses here and there. The only real establishment before hitting city proper was The Whispering Pines Cemetary, whose proprietor was also the cities hangman.
The place handled more than executions. It sized folks for coffins, provided funeral care, and made sure the dead were properly seen off.
Levi had passed it plenty of times over the past month. Always thought it was creepier than it needed to be. But it fit its owner perfectly.
Mr. Solomon Graves.
Even his name sounded like it belonged with the dead. Levi had only seen him once—standing inside his office, motionless, staring out the window at nothing. At the dead probably.
Tall and gaunt, Graves cut a figure like a man stretched thin by death itself. His black suit, finely tailored, clung to his skeletal figure, blending against his black skin like shadow on shadow. His hair was cropped short, neat, exact.
And then there were the glasses.
Round lenses, dark as pitch. Day or night, he never took them off.
Far as Levi knew, no one had ever seen the man's eyes. Rufus swore on it.
As he passed his office, he glanced inside, hoping to catch sight of Graves again. Nothing. Slightly disappointed, he picked up the pace.
That's when he heard it.
A crowd.
Something big was happening.
Pulling his hat low, he sped up, rounding the corner. Like most roads in Denton, Whispering Pines led straight to Market Square.
His eyes narrowed at the mass of people gathered in the distance.
'Someone gettin' hung?'
First thought that came to mind. Crowds this big typically only formed for two things—church or a lynching.
Instead of pushing through the mob, he slipped down an alley he knew would swing back around to the square.
'When was the last time? Fort Maria? No… there was one after. No, that ain't right.'
He couldn't help it. No one could. Sunday school teachers, farmers, women, and children—didn't matter. Folks always turned up for a good neck dance.
Stepping onto a crate for a better view, his brow furrowed.
No gallows. No chopping block.
"What the hell's goin' on?"
Nearby, a couple of boys were bickering over a handful of cards. One glanced up.
"He ain't here yet, mister."
"Who ain't?"
"An Inquisitor. Hey, that's mine!"
The kid snapped back to his argument, swiping for his cards.
Levi recognized them. Church-issued collection cards. Kids traded them like gold—special editions, rare prints, all designed to keep the little ones hooked.
Every card had a face on it. Soldiers, frontiersmen, outlaws, Wasters, Church knights, saints.
But the ones they were fighting over—the ones that, along with that name, sent a shiver down his spine—
The Inquisitors.
Levi had seen one before. Once was enough for a lifetime.
He thought about leaving. Probably should. But before he could decide, the crowd went still.
His heart jumped. Hearing that many people fall silent all at once sent a chill up his spine. But it didn't stop him from leaning forward, trying to get a better view.
'Can't see jackshit.'
Even standing over most, the buildings boxed in his line of sight. Ignoring better judgment, he got down and started pushing through the crowd.
But that's when he noticed it.
The fear.
This wasn't excitement. This wasn't a crowd itching for a spectacle. These were people waiting on their own damn reckoning.
'Just like before.'
Years ago, some backwoods town—his only time seeing an Inquisitor up close. The whole town had turned out, fear carved into every face.
No one had dared stay inside. Not when the Inquisition came knocking. That'd be as good as waving a flag that said I got something to hide.
Finally shoving past a couple of stuffy old-timers, Levi stepped to the edge of the empty street.
Not a single soul stood on the cobblestone. From the heart of Market Square to the southern road leading out of the city, the entire stretch was deserted.
His breath stilled.
Through the shifting vapor in the distance, he could see it, a figure emerging. Dressed in black. Moving with slow, deliberate steps.
Cold sweat prickled his skin.
Maggie's notes said his eyes glowed when he used them, so he pulled his hat low, raising a hand like he was shielding his eyes from the sun.
Peering through his fingers, he focused. Stretched his vision. Closer. Closer—until instinct warned him not to push further.
A man. Walking straight toward the square.
In his hand, a chain.
And behind him—
What looked like a family.
A man, a woman. A boy about Levi's age. A little girl, no older than six.
All bound at the neck. Collared. Chained.
You'd think the family's plight would've been his focus. But Levi barely noticed them.
His eyes were locked on the Inquisitor leading them.
'The Hounds of Heaven…'
Draped in the black robes of the faith, chains wrapped his body like penance. In one hand, a staff—taller than him, black as midnight. From its top, a short chain dangled a lantern, its light burning golden.
Levi's enhanced vision took him in with full clarity.
Too tall. Arms hanging unnaturally low, nearly to his knees. A slight hunch. Hands dark and leathery, skin stretched too tight.
A member of the lowest order of the Inquisition. Levi knew instantly. Not because he recognized him—no one could.
Only the Grand Inquisitor went unmasked, the sole bearer of the Church's unshrouded authority.
But this one—his mask was bone-white, smooth, featureless. No markings.
A Bloodhound.
A Hound of Heaven.
The blank mask symbolized their faceless devotion to the Church's judgment. No identity. No self. Only the will of the Inquisition.
The Sanctified Inquisition didn't answer to kings, generals, or even the Church's high priests. They answered only to the High Pontiff and the Council of the Holy Vapor—the ones who decided what was heresy, what was treason, and who deserved to die for it.
And in their ranks, the Bloodhounds were the lowest, the ones sent to track and drag the damned to judgment. Levi knew they weren't inquisitors in the way most folks imagined—not grand figures delivering fiery speeches or presiding over trials. Bloodhounds didn't speak at all. They didn't question.
They hunted, seized, and brought their quarry to the block, the pyre, or the hangman.
Their masks were smooth, featureless—nothing but a reflection of the Church's will. No face. No name. No hesitation.
Where they went, the gallows followed.
Rumors swirled about them, whispered in dark corners, sending even the bravest men searching for their mothers.
The most common?
They weren't human.
If they ever had been.
All metal. Fake flesh. No soul.
Levi pulled his vision back fast and shifted away. Last thing he needed was that Hound noticing him.
No one else moved. The whole damn street felt frozen. He barely made it a few steps before stopping, realizing he'd stand out more if he kept pushing through. He settled where he was. It'd have to do.
From the crowd, he swore he could hear it—the steady, pounding rhythm of a thousand hearts hammering at once.
And the closer the Bloodhound got, the louder it became.
'I should wait for the crowd to stir, then slip out. Shouldn't have even gotten curious.'
Too late for regret now. All he could do was wait.
He glanced at the sky. Supper time was closing in. He immediately decided he wouldn't say a damn thing to Edmond when he got back. No doubt the old man would have some words for him, and none of them good.
The tension stretched. He almost felt like stirring something up just to break it, just to snap the spell the Bloodhound had cast over the city.
Then—
Clack.
Metal struck stone.
The staff.
It wasn't just a walking stick. Wasn't just a guiding light. Levi had known it from the moment he saw it.
That lantern didn't just hold light.
It held souls.
A weapon, through and through.
Behind the Bloodhound, the sound of shuffling chains mixed with the broken cries of the prisoners. The youngest sobbed—a sharp, thin sound that cut through everything else.
Levi clenched his jaw. For a moment, it was all he could hear.
The Inquisitor reached the square's center. Shops shuttered. Stalls emptied. Signs taken down.
The whole place was cleared, set for the spectacle to come.
The crowd braced. Hands gripped tight.
Ready to pray.
Through a break in the crowd, Levi caught sight of them.
The parents stood battered and bloodied. The father, a man of the earth, tanned and lean with labor, looked to be in his thirties. The mother, heavier, the weight of motherhood and a life once well lived.
Both were missing pieces.
The man had no ears. The woman, no eyes.
Beside them stood their son. The spitting image of his father, around Levi's age. But where his parents' faces held only fear, his burned with rage.
He couldn't scream it, though. Couldn't curse the man who'd done this. His mouth had been sewn shut.
And then, the youngest. A small girl.
Her eyes were red, raw from crying. Her voice, hoarse. Her skin, pale.
No wounds. No bruises.
But Levi could see it.
She was broken.
Not in body, but in the mind. He'd seen it before—survivors of battles too brutal, soldiers who'd witnessed too much, done too much.
She stood there crying, but her eyes were wrong. They didn't match her face.
'Calm down. They ain't your kin. This ain't your problem.'
He forced himself to look away.
Focused on the Inquisitor instead. On the object now in his hands.
A small, palm-sized box of bronze.
He raised it high.
A soft winding sound filled the air, like a record coming to life.
Then, a voice.
Deep. Heavy.
Like a boulder dragging across stone.
The voice rumbled through the square, thick with judgment, heavy with finality.
"Before us stands corruption, dressed in the skin of the faithful. Once, they walked among you—ate your bread, shared your prayers, called themselves kin. But in secret, they harbored blasphemers. Heathens. Savages who defied the Holy Order, who spat upon the Divine Mechanism and called it false."
A low murmur rippled through the crowd. Levi saw shoulders tense, hands clasp together in silent, fearful prayer.
"For months, they defied the will of the Church. They gave shelter to the condemned, broke bread with the faithless, whispered in the dark when righteous men slept. And in their betrayal, they were not content to simply aid the heathen. No. They learned from them. Took their ways. Studied their pagan tongue, bowed to false idols, kept relics of their foul beliefs within the walls of their home."
A pause. Weighted. Absolute.
"Their sentence is death."
It came as no surprise, yet the words still settled like stones in the gut. No gasps. No protest. Only grim acceptance.
But then—
"And yet—"
The crowd held its breath.
"One among them has been absolved."
All eyes shifted to the girl as the Hound motioned to her.
"Through trial, through suffering, through devotion—she has proven herself free of her family's sin. In her own hands, she has carried out penance. With her own blade, she has excised the corruption from her bloodline."
A cold chill ran down Levi's spine.
"With these hands—"
The Inquisitor gestured, and the girl flinched.
"She took the ears of her father, so he might hear no evil."
"She took the eyes of her mother, so she might see no evil."
"She sealed the mouth of her brother, so he might speak no evil."
The lantern swayed gently in the hush that followed.
The child trembled, lips quivering.
But she stopped crying.
The Inquisitor tucked the box into his robes and stepped toward the girl.
The crowd held its breath.
Reaching out, he placed a hand on her head.
And patted it.
CRRK-SPLCH!
Then he crushed her skull.
Levi winced.
He knew it.
CRRK-SPLCH!
The brother fell next.
Even though her sins had been forgiven—
CRRK-SPLCH!
The sentence was still death.
CRRK-SPLCH!
And with that, Levi watched the Hound crush the skulls of the entire family.
One by one.