Chapter 21- Another unfamiliar cieling

"It's called the Blaremoon's 'Pact'."

I looked from him to the ring again. In the morning light, it seemed almost harmless, which by now I had learned was usually a good indication that a Beyonder item was anything but. The crimson stone caught the pale light coming through the window while a faint, almost imperceptible spirituality pulsed against my finger. "Pact," I repeated slowly. "That doesn't sound concerning at all."

For several moments, the stranger said nothing. I was beginning to realize that silence wasn't unusual for him. Rather than answering immediately, he seemed to take everything said to him, turn it over repeatedly in his head, and only speak once he'd formulated exactly what he wanted to say. Eventually, his voice emerged from the dark armor. "It is a Beyonder artifact belonging to my order. It possesses regenerative abilities derived from a Vampire. When I found you, your condition was deteriorating too quickly for ordinary treatment. I didn't have another reliable option."

My hand drifted instinctively toward the thick bandages around my abdomen. The memory of the bullet striking me returned with unpleasant clarity: the impact, the warmth spreading beneath my clothes, and the horrible weakness that followed. "So this is why I'm alive."

"Yes."

That silenced any sarcastic response I might have made. I stared at the ring for another moment before quietly saying, "Then... thank you."

He didn't respond immediately.

Instead, the black mist occupying the armor began to shift.

I stiffened as vapor seeped from the gaps between the plates, my Listener instincts immediately becoming alert. The armor that had previously seemed filled by some incorporeal creature gradually went slack as the darkness withdrew from it. I watched cautiously as the mist condensed beside the chair, gathering into an increasingly human silhouette. Shoulders formed, followed by arms, a torso, and finally a face as the last wisps of black vapor disappeared.

I blinked.

Then blinked again.

The difference was absurd.

The being I'd watched tear through an underground base like something dragged directly from a nightmare now looked like a young man somewhere in his twenties. Pale silver hair fell loosely around his face, several longer strands hanging across narrow, calm eyes. His skin was pale, his features fine and striking, and a small earring hung from one ear. There was almost nothing about him that immediately suggested the toxic cloud of black mist, blue fire, curses, and violence I'd witnessed yesterday.

I stared for perhaps a second longer than politeness allowed.

That's unfair.

The thought appeared before I could stop it.

I immediately frowned at myself.

What does that even mean?

His eyes settled upon me.

"Is something wrong?"

"No."

A pause.

"You were staring."

"I was comparing."

"Comparing?"

"You look considerably less horrifying like this."

He seemed to think about that.

"...I see."

I had absolutely no idea whether I'd complimented or insulted him.

Apparently neither did he.

“So…”

I started speaking

“How should I call you?”

“Arnenth” he simply stated

I paused at the quick yet blunt response before announcing myself.

“Veil”

“I see..”

He responded quickly after.

I decided moving on was safer. "You said the ring belongs to your order. I'm assuming you'll want it back."

His expression became noticeably more serious.

"That is where the problem lies."

Of course it was.

He explained that the Pact wasn't an artifact I could simply pull from my finger and hand back. When he'd placed it upon me while activating its regenerative abilities, he'd forced a bond between artifact and bearer. It had saved my life, but until that bond could be properly suppressed, the Pact effectively belonged with me. More importantly, because it remained property of his order and he'd been the one to force it upon me, responsibility for what happened afterward now rested upon him.

I stared at him.

"So you're responsible for me."

"For the situation," he corrected after several seconds.

"And I'm part of the situation."

Another pause.

"Yes."

"So you're responsible for me."

His eyes narrowed ever so slightly.

"...For the time being."

I couldn't stop the smile that formed. "You don't sound particularly happy about that."

"It isn't a question of happiness."

There was something behind the answer that made me stop teasing. Guilt. He'd saved my life, carried me from the collapsing base, apparently treated what remained of my injuries and stayed nearby throughout the night, yet he seemed genuinely troubled by the fact that he'd made the decision without my consent.

"You feel guilty."

He looked at me without answering.

"You really do."

"I made a choice concerning your body without asking you."

That particular phrasing struck considerably closer to home than he could possibly know.

My smile faded slightly.

He continued after another thoughtful silence. "The fact that it was necessary does not remove the responsibility created by that choice. The Pact belongs to my order. You did not ask for it. Until the matter is resolved, ensuring that it does not harm you is my responsibility."

I looked down at my hand.

Different hand.

Slender fingers. Smaller palm. Nothing like the hand I'd possessed before waking in this world.

For a brief moment, his words dragged up feelings I'd mostly learned to push aside. I knew better than most what it was like to have something concerning my own body decided without my involvement. I'd awakened in this body without choosing it, gone from an adult man to a woman barely four and a half feet tall, and then been expected to simply continue living. I'd adapted because there hadn't been another option. That didn't mean the difference had stopped mattering.

I looked back at him.

"You saved my life."

He remained silent.

"I mean it. If you'd stopped to ask permission, I probably wouldn't have been conscious enough to answer you anyway."

"The outcome doesn't invalidate the decision."

"Maybe not." I smiled faintly. "But I'd rather wake up wearing an artifact I didn't ask for than not wake up at all."

He considered that for a long moment before finally giving a small nod.

It wasn't acceptance exactly.

But it seemed close enough.

"So," I continued, raising the ring, "how do we get this thing off?"

"It must first be suppressed."

"How?"

"Wine."

I waited for the rest of the sentence.

None came.

"...Wine."

"Yes."

"What kind?"

"At least ten years old."

I stared at him.

His expression remained completely serious.

"You are telling me that this supernatural ring needs to be soaked in decade-old wine."

"Correct."

"How much?"

A pause.

That pause immediately worried me.

"How much?"

"Enough that the expense will be significant."

I let my head fall backward against the pillow.

"Of course."

There were potion ingredients, ritual materials, specialized ammunition, Sealed Artifact containment supplies, and now apparently artifacts with expensive tastes in alcohol. Becoming a Beyonder seemed increasingly like an elaborate conspiracy designed to make sure nobody ever accumulated savings.

"Couldn't it use cheap wine?"

"No."

"Beer?"

"No."

"Water?"

"No."

I looked accusingly at the ring.

"Expensive little bastard."

When I glanced back toward him, something had changed in his expression. It was extremely subtle, but the corner of his mouth had shifted upward.

"Are you laughing at me?"

"No."

"You almost smiled."

"I did not."

"You're terrible at lying."

He went silent.

That was essentially a confession.

I smiled despite myself and raised my hand again, only for another realization to finally register.

The ring was on my ring finger.

My amusement vanished.

Oh.

I'd obviously noticed where he'd put it before, but there had been considerably more pressing matters to think about. Now I was sitting safely in bed while the man responsible sat beside me in a perfectly normal—and annoyingly attractive—human appearance.

And he'd put a ring on my ring finger.

Seriously?

There were nine other options.

My old self would have found this hilarious. In my original body, I'd been an adult man. Something like this would have become an easy joke, probably one I'd continue making until everyone involved became annoyed.

Now...

I looked at my small hand and felt my face becoming warm.

You've got to be kidding me.

This body was still capable of betraying me in ways I hadn't completely adjusted to. The difference wasn't merely visual. My reach, balance, strength, clothing, voice—everything had required adjustment. Social interactions were different too. Things that would have meant nothing to me before suddenly carried implications because everyone looking at me saw a young woman.

And right now I was a young woman lying in bed while a handsome man sat beside me after apparently spending the night watching over me, wearing a ring he'd personally placed on my ring finger.

This is ridiculous.

"What is it?"

I looked up.

He'd noticed.

"Nothing."

He waited.

There it was again.

That infuriating silence.

"It's just..." I reluctantly raised my hand. "Interesting choice of finger."

His eyes moved toward the Pact.

Then back toward me.

Then toward the Pact again.

For once, the long silence didn't feel deliberate.

I watched the realization slowly arrive.

"I was attempting to prevent you from dying."

"I know."

"The placement had no symbolic intention."

"I know."

"I wasn't considering—"

"I know."

Another pause.

"...Good."

I bit the inside of my cheek.

He looked away.

That was when I realized something extraordinary.

He was embarrassed too.

A laugh nearly escaped me before my abdomen reminded me that laughing remained a terrible idea. I suppressed it, although the smile stayed.

"Don't worry. I'm not expecting a ceremony."

His eyes returned to me.

I immediately regretted saying it.

The silence became unbearable.

"Forget I said that."

"Very well."

"Immediately."

"I will attempt to."

Somehow, that was worse.

I covered my face with one hand. "I hate this conversation."

The faintest smile appeared on his face again.

This time I definitely saw it.

"You smiled."

He immediately returned to his usual neutral expression.

"No."

"You absolutely did."

He declined to answer.

For several moments, the atmosphere between us felt unexpectedly normal. It was difficult to reconcile it with what he actually was. My spiritual perception hadn't forgotten. Even wearing human skin, there remained something profoundly dangerous about him. Yesterday I'd watched him burn people alive with blue flames, manipulate desires, spread corruption and survive injuries that should have been fatal.

Eventually, he spoke again.

"There is something else you should understand."

The change in his tone wiped away my amusement.

"The pathway I follow is not benign."

"Considering yesterday, I had gathered that."

He ignored the remark. "Those of my pathway progressively lose pieces of what makes us human. Violence, corruption, bloodlust, cruelty and desire become increasingly difficult to distinguish from our own thoughts."

I listened carefully.

He explained the progression as his order understood it. At Sequence 9, mastery of weapons didn't mean every battle should be fought; sometimes survival demanded retreat. Sequence 8 represented fallen angels gradually losing the clarity to distinguish good from evil. Sequence 7 embraced the spreading of sin and suffering while madness slowly consumed the Beyonder. By Sequence 6, they became Devils, their bodies and minds increasingly reshaped by desire.

"And you?" I asked.

"Sequence Five. Desire Apostle."

My eyes remained fixed on him.

The human appearance suddenly seemed much thinner than before, like a mask stretched over the black mist I'd originally encountered.

Yet what he described next wasn't surrender.

It was Defiance.

They were Devils. Their pathway encouraged them to harm, corrupt, devour and revel in suffering. Pretending those desires didn't exist accomplished nothing. Instead, they acknowledged them and resisted their dominion. They defied their desires, hearts and minds when necessary, but never surrendered their own will. If becoming inhuman was inevitable, then remaining themselves became an act of deliberate rebellion.

I remained quiet for a while after he finished.

Strangely...

I understood.

Probably more than he realized.

"Your body changes," I eventually said. "Your instincts change. Things start feeling natural that wouldn't have before. But that doesn't mean you have to let those things decide who you are."

His eyes settled upon me.

"Yes."

I looked down at myself beneath the blankets.

"Then I suppose we have something in common."

He waited.

I almost explained.

Almost told him that this wasn't the body I'd been born with. That before arriving here I'd been a man. That every morning during those first weeks had involved looking into a mirror and seeing a stranger looking back. That even now there were moments when I moved expecting longer legs, broader shoulders or strength that simply wasn't there anymore.

But we'd known each other for less than a day.

Some secrets needed time.

"It's complicated," I said instead.

He studied me for several seconds.

Then simply nodded.

No question.

No demand for an explanation.

Nothing.

I relaxed without realizing I'd been tense.

"Thank you."

"For what?"

"Not asking."

Another thoughtful pause.

"You will tell me if you decide you wish to."

"Maybe."

He accepted that too.

That, more than the ring or the rescue, made something shift slightly in how I saw him.

I settled farther against the pillows, exhaustion slowly beginning to catch up with me again. My abdomen still hurt, my team had absolutely no idea where I was, I possessed evidence belonging to an organization that apparently had influence throughout Trier, and I was wearing an expensive supernatural ring belonging to an order led by people whose pathway literally turned them into Devils.

Worse, the man sitting beside me was apparently responsible for me until we resolved that last problem.

I glanced toward him again.

Silver hair fell loosely around his face as he sat quietly in the morning light, apparently content to remain there without filling the silence simply for the sake of doing so.

Yesterday, I'd thought he looked like a monster.

Today...

That assessment was becoming considerably more complicated.

And when I caught myself looking at him for just a little too long again, I decided that perhaps the Blaremoon's Pact wasn't going to be the most troublesome thing I'd brought back from this mission.

"So," I continued, raising my hand slightly, "how do we get this thing off?"

His expression became noticeably more serious.

"You don't."

I waited for him to elaborate.

He didn't.

"...What?"

"The Pact cannot currently be removed."

I stared at him.

My fingers immediately closed around the ring. I pulled.

Nothing.

I twisted it carefully and tried again.

Nothing.

The ring didn't merely seem tight. It simply refused to move, as though the metal had become an inseparable part of my finger. I pulled harder until the skin beneath it started hurting.

"Stop."

I ignored him for another second and pulled again.

Still nothing.

"Veil."

The firmness in his voice finally made me stop.

I slowly released the ring.

"You could have mentioned that part earlier."

"I was explaining."

"You opened with 'Pact.' I feel like 'permanently attached to your finger' should have been sentence two."

His eyes narrowed slightly.

"It isn't necessarily permanent."

"That word 'necessarily' is doing an alarming amount of work."

He went silent.

I stared at him.

"...You don't know how to remove it."

"Not safely."

"Wonderful."

I let my head fall back against the pillow, staring at the ceiling while processing the newest complication in what had already been an exceptionally complicated twenty-four hours.

After several seconds, another thought occurred to me.

"You mentioned wine."

"Yes."

I looked back toward him. "If I can't remove it, what does the wine have to do with anything?"

"The wine is its sealing medium, not a method of removing the Pact."

That distinction immediately made considerably more sense.

He explained that under ordinary circumstances, whenever the Blaremoon's Pact wasn't bonded to a bearer, it had to be properly contained. The artifact needed to be completely submerged in wine aged for at least ten years. The older and better preserved the wine, the more reliably it suppressed the artifact's supernatural effects.

"But right now..."

"It is bonded to you."

"So soaking my hand in wine isn't going to accomplish anything."

"No."

I looked down at the ring.

"Good to know before I wasted a bottle."

His expression remained perfectly neutral.

"If the Pact were somehow removed from you, it would need to be placed into the wine immediately."

"And if we didn't?"

"The artifact would remain active and uncontrolled."

I frowned.

"How uncontrolled?"

He paused.

I was quickly learning that pauses before answering questions about Beyonder artifacts were rarely encouraging.

"Enough that I would strongly recommend having the wine prepared before attempting to separate it from you."

"Right."

I added that to the rapidly growing list of things I didn't want to discover personally.

"So just to make certain I understand." I raised my hand between us. "This belongs to your order."

"Yes."

"You put it on me."

"Yes."

"It saved my life."

"Yes."

"And now it physically cannot be removed from my finger."

"Correct."

"If we eventually discover a way to break whatever bond it has made with me, the moment it comes off we need enough decade-old wine prepared to completely submerge it."

"Correct."

"And until then?"

His gaze settled upon the Pact.

"Until then, it remains with you."

I slowly lowered my hand.

"And because I'm permanently carrying something belonging to your order..."

"For the foreseeable future," he corrected.

"...you're responsible for me."

"For the situation."

"And I'm part of the situation."

Silence.

I smiled.

His eyes narrowed ever so slightly.

"You're responsible for me."

After several seconds, he finally surrendered.

"Yes."

I couldn't stop the quiet laugh that escaped me, although the immediate stab of pain from my abdomen made me regret it.

He leaned forward slightly.

"Don't."

"I'm sorry," I muttered through the pain. "It's just incredibly absurd."

"I fail to see the humor."

"You saved a woman you didn't know, accidentally permanently attached your organization's property to her, and now your own rules say you're responsible for her because she physically can't give it back."

His expression remained completely serious.

When phrased that way, apparently he found it even less amusing.

I looked at the ring again.

The crimson stone gleamed innocently on my finger.

My ring finger.

That particular detail suddenly became considerably more significant now that I'd discovered the damned thing couldn't even be removed.

I went very still.

Oh.

My eyes moved from the ring...

...to him.

Then back to the ring.

Of all ten fingers available.

It had to be that one.

And now it was stuck there.

Wonderful...

-End-

Art done warara

Finally finished the latest chapter! I want to give a big thanks to u/Raven_fs for all of his help for these collaboration posts coming out a good as they have and for all his help setting up this great event everyone!

Chapter 20 -Underground Base-

The teleportation ended as abruptly as it had begun, leaving me stumbling through the narrow metal corridor with one hand pressed against the wall. My stomach twisted from the sudden displacement, but the sound of hurried footsteps ahead immediately forced me to focus. The courier was running deeper into the underground complex. Whatever confidence he'd possessed earlier had disappeared; I could hear his ragged breathing, the frantic pounding of his boots, and even the occasional curse muttered beneath his breath. For an ordinary person, the distance and twisting corridors would have made following him nearly impossible. For a Listener, his status as a Beyonder made him stand out against the surrounding noise like a bell ringing in an empty church.

I gave chase, drawing my revolver as I rounded the next corner. The courier glanced over his shoulder, his eyes widening when he realized I had already caught up. His hand immediately reached beneath his coat, presumably for the Sealed Artifact that had brought us here, but I wasn't willing to give him another opportunity to use it. I raised the revolver with both hands, steadied my aim as I'd been taught, and squeezed the trigger. The confined corridor amplified the shot into a deafening crack. The courier jerked backward as the bullet tore into his side, his body spinning before crashing hard against the metal wall. I fired again almost instinctively, the second bullet striking dangerously close to his chest and dropping him to the ground. For several seconds I remained where I was, revolver trained on him and heart pounding violently in my chest, waiting for him to move. He didn't.

Carefully approaching, I kicked away anything within reach of his hands before crouching beside him. He was still breathing, though barely, and the amount of blood spreading beneath him told me that wouldn't remain true for long without treatment. My attention quickly shifted to his coat. Inside I found several folded notes, some written normally and others covered in coded markings and unfamiliar names. I didn't have time to decipher them, so I folded everything together and slipped them securely into my own coat. If I made it back to the Church, they could examine them properly. More importantly, I found the object he'd used earlier. Even wrapped, my spirituality immediately reacted to it. I carefully uncovered enough to examine it before attempting to activate it in the same manner I'd seen him use.

Nothing happened.

I tried again.

Still nothing.

"Of course..."

Either it required knowledge I didn't possess, had limitations preventing consecutive uses, or simply refused to acknowledge me as its wielder. Whatever the reason, my easiest way out had just disappeared. I briefly considered returning through the corridors we'd arrived through, but I had no idea whether those passages actually connected to Trier normally. Worse, sounds were beginning to reach me from deeper within the complex. Gunfire. Screaming. The crash of supernatural attacks. Someone else had entered this place, and judging from the panic I could hear spreading through the facility, they hadn't been invited.

With no reliable route back and information about the Eminence potentially somewhere ahead, I made the questionable decision to continue deeper.

The metal corridor eventually opened onto a staircase descending toward an enormous cavernous hall. I slowed as I approached the final steps, keeping low while looking over the railing. The sight below immediately made me reconsider every decision that had brought me there. Blue flames rolled across portions of the chamber, consuming crates, tables, and bodies without behaving quite like ordinary fire. Workers and armed men fled between multiple levels while Beyonder powers tore through the room. At the center of the destruction was a stranger whose appearance alone made my spirituality recoil. He was clearly responsible for much of the chaos, moving through the battlefield with unnatural speed while wielding those terrible azure flames. Yet despite the overwhelming sense of danger radiating from him, I felt something peculiar when his attention briefly shifted toward me.

No hostility.

His gaze lingered for perhaps a second. He seemed to assess me, noticed the revolver and Raven equipment, and then gave the faintest approving glance before immediately returning his attention to the opponents before him.

He's not with them.

That didn't necessarily make him friendly, but at the moment it was good enough for me.

I remained near the edge of the hall, biting my lower lip as I considered my options. Leaving would unquestionably be the intelligent choice. I was Sequence 8, separated from my team, inside an unknown Eminence facility, while people considerably stronger than me attempted to kill each other. Every lesson Captain Ashcroft had drilled into me demanded that I retreat and report what I'd discovered.

Then my Listening caught something.

A woman's voice.

"...three breaths..."

I frowned and tilted my head slightly.

The words had been nearly inaudible beneath the gunfire and roaring flames, yet my spirituality picked them out with perfect clarity. The voice wasn't coming from anyone I could see.

"...blood of the offender..."

Another whisper.

"...bind intention..."

My eyes widened.

A ritual?

No.

A curse.

Someone hidden inside the chamber was preparing an attack.

The stranger hadn't reacted. His attention remained occupied by another enemy—a powerful-looking man wielding blazing attacks of his own. The hidden woman was using the chaos to move constantly around the battlefield, whispering fragments whenever the fighting became loud enough to conceal them.

Except from me.

I concentrated, allowing the overwhelming noise of the chamber to wash into the background. Screams faded. Gunshots dulled. Crackling flames became distant static. I followed the woman's breathing instead. One location. Then another. She was moving quickly, deliberately circling the stranger while remaining concealed.

"...by knowledge unseen..."

There.

My head snapped toward an elevated walkway.

For just an instant, I saw movement between two pillars.

A woman.

Her attention was entirely fixed upon the stranger. Something strange covered one of her eyes, faint spirituality radiating from it as her gaze followed his movements with impossible precision. Even from this distance, the artifact made my instincts uneasy. Whatever it was, she appeared able to read far more from the battlefield than ordinary observation should allow.

Ironically, she was so focused on understanding him that she forgot to look at me.

I raised my revolver.

BANG!

Her head snapped sideways.

For one glorious instant I thought I'd hit her cleanly.

Then her body shattered.

Not into flesh.

Into fragments of mirror.

"What—"

The real woman emerged several meters away, one hand pressed against her shoulder where a thin line of blood showed that the substitution hadn't entirely protected her. Her eyes immediately found me.

We stared at one another.

Her expression twisted with anger.

"Oh."

I raised my revolver again.

She moved.

BANG! BANG!

Both shots missed as her figure slipped behind another pillar. I heard her footsteps and adjusted my aim, firing where I expected her to emerge, only for another mirror image to appear instead. It shattered beneath the bullet.

Then pain exploded across my upper arm.

I stumbled backward as something sliced through my sleeve and skin, narrowly missing anything vital. Blood immediately began running down my arm.

"Dammit!"

Across the chamber, the situation suddenly changed. The terrifying stranger had gained a moment of breathing room, and whatever power he unleashed washed across both his opponents. Their movements visibly slowed. The hidden woman staggered as though her limbs had suddenly become unbearably heavy, while the other combatant faltered mid-attack. Something darker followed. I couldn't understand what the stranger had done, but my spiritual perception screamed as corruption seemed to seep into both of them. Their emotions twisted. Their movements became less controlled. The woman clutched her head and nearly collapsed.

That was my opportunity.

Her spirituality was clearly approaching exhaustion. Whatever substitutions and strange abilities she'd been using had taken their toll. She abandoned whatever curse she'd been preparing and pulled a pistol instead.

I did the same.

The first shots came almost simultaneously.

BANG!

Stone shattered beside my head.

BANG!

My shot clipped her side.

She stumbled but fired again.

Something punched violently into my abdomen.

For a moment, I didn't understand what had happened.

Then warmth spread beneath my clothes.

I looked down.

Blood.

A lot of it.

My knees nearly gave way.

The woman smiled weakly from across the walkway, apparently believing that was enough.

It wasn't.

Maybe it should have been.

I raised my revolver with both hands despite how violently they shook.

She tried to do the same.

I fired first.

The bullet struck her squarely.

Her body jerked before collapsing against the railing and sliding lifelessly to the floor.

For several seconds I simply stood there, staring.

Then my legs finally failed.

I dropped heavily against the wall, one hand immediately pressing against my stomach. Pain arrived properly now—hot, sharp and nauseating. Each breath seemed to make it worse.

Beside the fallen woman lay a peculiar bag covered in strange symbols. Remembering why I'd come here in the first place, I forced myself forward, grabbed its strap and dragged it toward me. Evidence. Whatever was inside might explain what the Eminence was doing here.

Another tremendous impact shook the chamber.

I looked toward the stranger.

His opponent had managed to pierce directly through his chest.

My stomach sank.

Then something impossible happened.

The stranger didn't fall.

Whatever terrible power he possessed seemed to redirect or endure the damage, and within moments he retaliated. The fight ended brutally and quickly after that. His opponent collapsed, leaving the blue-lit chamber momentarily still.

Then the stranger turned toward me.

I instinctively tried raising my revolver again.

My arm barely moved.

He approached quickly, but there was still no hostility coming from him. His eyes dropped toward the blood soaking through my clothes, and whatever he saw apparently convinced him I didn't have much time.

"Don't..." I managed.

He ignored me.

Something within his possession suddenly reacted. An object was expelled toward him—a ring, crimson and strangely elegant, carrying unmistakable Beyonder spirituality.

Before I could properly protest, he took my left hand and slipped it onto my ring finger.

Cold spread through me.

Then warmth.

The bleeding slowed.

I gasped as the terrible weakness beginning to consume my body receded. The wound wasn't disappearing, but flesh slowly began knitting itself together beneath my blood-soaked clothing. My heartbeat steadied. Breathing became easier.

I stared at the ring.

Then at him.

"...What did you just put on me?"

He didn't get the chance to answer.

His entire body suddenly stiffened.

Whatever instincts had kept him alive throughout the previous battle screamed a warning before my own spirituality registered the new presence.

Someone entered the ruined hall.

A woman.

She stepped through the smoke and azure flames without hesitation, surveying the destruction around her before her eyes settled upon us.

The pressure radiating from her made my blood run cold.

Then she screamed.

It wasn't merely loud.

The sound struck directly at my spirit.

Being a Listener made it infinitely worse.

For one horrifying instant, the scream became everything. It drowned out the flames, the collapsing structure, my heartbeat, even my own thoughts. Pain tore through my skull as my heightened senses received far more of the attack than they were ever meant to withstand.

I saw the stranger turn toward her.

I saw him move between us.

Then the world went black.

-----------------------------------

When consciousness returned, the first thing I became aware of was warmth. Not the unnatural heat of blue flames or the feverish burning of a gunshot wound, but the ordinary warmth of blankets pulled carefully over me. Pale morning light filtered through unfamiliar curtains, illuminating a room I had never seen before. For several seconds I remained completely still, trying to piece together how I'd gotten there. The underground complex. The woman with the strange artifact. The bullet tearing through my abdomen. The stranger placing something on my hand. Then that scream—so overwhelming that my Listener senses had turned it into something almost physical. After that, nothing.

My hand instinctively moved toward my stomach. Thick bandages had been wrapped around my abdomen, but I felt no warmth of fresh blood beneath them. The wound still ached sharply when I shifted, yet it was nothing compared to what I remembered. Whatever had happened after I lost consciousness, I had survived it. Only then did I notice the weight around one of my fingers. Slowly raising my left hand into the morning light, I stared at the unfamiliar ring resting on my ring finger. Its presence brought back the memory immediately: the stranger kneeling beside me while I bled out, taking my hand and forcing the ring onto it before I could properly object.

I turned toward the quiet sound of breathing beside the bed. The stranger from the underground facility was asleep in a chair only a short distance away, his posture awkward enough to suggest he hadn't intended to sleep there for long. Whatever terrifying impression he'd made during the battle was considerably diminished by the sight. He looked exhausted. Considering the last thing I remembered was him placing himself between me and that horrifying woman, followed by the entire world disappearing beneath her scream, there was only one reasonable conclusion. Somehow, he'd gotten both of us out.

I watched him for another moment before deciding I needed answers more than I needed to let him sleep. Leaning carefully toward the edge of the bed sent another dull ache through my abdomen, and I suppressed a grimace before reaching out and giving his left shoulder a light nudge. His eyes opened almost immediately. The suddenness startled me enough that I slowly withdrew my hand, suddenly aware of how awkward the situation actually was.

"Morning."

The word came out slightly sputtered despite my attempt to sound casual, though there was genuine gratitude beneath it.

"Good morning," the stranger replied.

His gaze moved from my face toward the bandages wrapped around my abdomen. Seeing no fresh blood, he released a quiet breath that sounded unmistakably relieved. For a few moments neither of us spoke. My attention returned to the ring, and when I looked back toward him I noticed his eyes had followed mine.

"I was actually hoping you could explain this."

His expression changed immediately. Whatever relief had been there disappeared, replaced by something solemn and unexpectedly sincere as he looked toward the ring he'd placed upon my hand.

"It's called The Blaremoon's 'Pact'."

-End-

Art is from Granado Espada Art Gallery Picturing Underground Concept Art

This is the last part of my event post. I also again want to give a special thanks to  u/Raven_fs for his help with the idea and flow for this chapter and doing this Collab post with me!

Chapter 7: Recovery and investigation

The second loaf arrived less than five minutes later, and by the time Eleanor had worked through most of breakfast, some color had finally returned to her face. Gareth had taken a modest portion only after receiving assurances that more food could be brought upstairs, though Eleanor suspected he had deliberately eaten less for her sake. She was considering whether to point this out when three firm knocks sounded against the door. Unlike the innkeeper's earlier visit, these were measured and deliberate. Gareth's posture changed almost imperceptibly, his cup settling onto the table as he glanced toward Eleanor. Her own hand drifted naturally toward the sword resting beside her bed.

"Miss Armitage?" an unfamiliar male voice called from outside. "Alwyn Mercer. May we enter?"

Eleanor exchanged a glance with Gareth. "How many?"

There was a brief pause. "Three."

That answer earned the faintest approval from her. Whoever stood outside understood that surprising an injured Beyonder was generally unwise. "Enter."

Three strangers stepped into the room. The first was a middle-aged man dressed in a charcoal coat over a dark formal suit, streaks of silver beginning to appear in otherwise black hair. Behind him came a woman perhaps thirty years old wearing practical black clothing beneath a hooded traveling cloak. Her eyes immediately swept across the room—the windows, Gareth, the sword beside his chair, Eleanor's weapon, and finally Eleanor herself. The last was a blond young man carrying a leather case and notebook who looked considerably less experienced than his companions. All three wore the same small silver emblem beneath their collars: a dark bird with its wings spread around the symbol of the Hanged Man.

"Unbral Ravens," Gareth said.

The older man looked toward him. "You've heard of us."

"A little."

The Unbral Ravens were the Beyonder organization belonging to the Church of the Hanged Man. They dealt with supernatural incidents that ordinary priests and constables were neither trained nor permitted to handle. Eleanor had never worked directly with this particular team, but anyone who spent long enough around the hidden world eventually learned which organizations were best avoided and which could at least be spoken to. Fortunately, the Unbral Ravens belonged to the latter category.

Mercer removed his hat. "First, Miss Armitage, my apologies for questioning you while you're recovering. We've already spoken with the survivors and examined the hunting lodge. Unfortunately, their accounts leave us with several questions."

"I expected they would."

Mercer pulled a chair closer, though Eleanor noticed that he stopped comfortably outside the range at which she could easily reach him with her sword. His female companion remained standing. "According to the survivors, you encountered members of Rusk's gang attacking a merchant carriage, defeated them, discovered their hideout, entered it alone, incapacitated the remaining bandits, discovered prisoners beneath the building, killed an unidentified supernatural creature, encountered another suspected Beyonder, rescued five people, captured Rusk alive, and returned everyone to Bellwick."

Eleanor considered the summary.

"Yes."

The youngest Raven stared at her.

Gareth quietly drank his tea.

Mercer continued. "Which naturally raises the question of how."

"I'm a Beyonder."

The young Raven stopped writing.

The woman raised an eyebrow.

Mercer merely sighed. "You could have allowed me to ask."

"It seemed unnecessary."

"Pathway?"

"Warrior."

"Sequence?"

"Nine."

"How long?"

"Several months."

"Digestion?"

"Nearly complete."

The female Raven finally stepped closer. "Who supplied your potion?"

"The government."

That produced a different reaction.

Mercer leaned back slightly.

"Name?"

"Eleanor Armitage."

"I meant your registered name."

"So did I."

Gareth covered the beginning of a smile with his cup.

Mercer gave Eleanor a long look before reaching into his coat and producing a small notebook. "Armitage..."

He flipped through several pages.

Then stopped.

"Ah."

The woman's attention shifted toward him.

Mercer read silently for several seconds before looking back at Eleanor.

"Independent cooperative."

"Yes."

That changed the atmosphere immediately.

Eleanor wasn't an official government Beyonder. She didn't wear their uniform, receive regular orders, or answer to a government captain. She was something far less formal and, in certain circumstances, considerably more useful.

The authorities knew she was a Beyonder.

More importantly, Eleanor had voluntarily made herself useful.

Over the past several months she had provided information regarding supernatural incidents encountered during her travels, taken occasional commissions, investigated rumors that weren't serious enough to justify deploying an official team, and turned over dangerous objects or information rather than attempting to profit from them herself. In return, the government largely left her alone. She was permitted to operate independently so long as she obeyed certain restrictions, reported serious supernatural incidents, and didn't cause problems requiring official intervention.

There were benefits beyond simple tolerance.

Useful information and completed assignments earned contributions.

Contributions could be exchanged for things considerably more valuable than money.

Beyonder information.

Ingredients.

Formulas.

Occasionally...

Potions.

Mercer closed his notebook. "That simplifies matters."

The young Raven looked between them. "So she's authorized?"

"Known," the woman corrected. "Not authorized."

Eleanor nodded.

That distinction mattered.

Mercer elaborated for his younger companion. "Miss Armitage isn't one of ours, nor does she work directly for the Crown. She's an independent Beyonder whose existence is registered with the government and who has established a cooperative record. Unless she's committed a crime or presents signs of losing control, we have no reason to interfere with her."

"Which I haven't," Eleanor said.

"Which you haven't," Mercer agreed.

The woman finally sat down. "Then let's discuss the lodge."

The questioning that followed lasted nearly an hour. Eleanor described the events from the overturned carriage onward, this time giving considerably more detail than she had given Gareth. The Ravens asked precise questions: how quickly Rusk's body changed, whether his eyes changed color, whether she smelled anything unusual, what symbols appeared beneath the lodge, how the creature impersonating Clara moved, what happened to its body after death, and whether anything resembling a Beyonder characteristic remained behind. When Eleanor produced Rusk's notebook, Mercer's expression immediately became serious. He read several pages before passing it to the woman and eventually placing it carefully inside the leather case.

The masked man interested them most. Eleanor described his appearance, his ability to influence the prisoners, and the illusion that trapped her. When Mercer asked what she had seen during that illusion, however, Eleanor paused.

"Someone I knew."

"Living?"

"No."

Mercer waited.

Eleanor said nothing more.

After a few seconds he nodded. "Enough."

Gareth glanced toward her but remained silent.

The Ravens had already inspected the escape route that morning. The tunnel Eleanor discovered extended almost half a mile before emerging near an old stream bed. Several sets of tracks had been found outside, including horses, meaning the masked man hadn't escaped alone. Whatever had once occupied the pedestal was gone with them. The Unbral Ravens couldn't yet determine whether it had been a Sealed Artifact, ritual material, Beyonder characteristic, or something stranger, though the residual spirituality within the chamber was strong enough that Mercer had already ordered the lodge temporarily sealed.

"You did the correct thing by not following him," the female Raven said.

Eleanor glanced toward her.

"At your Sequence, injured, while responsible for five civilians? Pursuing an unknown Beyonder through a prepared escape route would have been suicide."

Gareth looked very deliberately at Eleanor.

She ignored him.

"I reached the same conclusion."

"Eventually," Gareth murmured.

Eleanor turned her head.

"Gareth."

"I said nothing."

"You did."

Mercer's mouth twitched slightly before he continued. "Rusk and the surviving gang members will be transferred to local custody. Rusk himself will remain under Beyonder supervision until we determine whether his condition is reversible. As for the masked man, we'll handle the investigation from here."

"Will I be informed?"

"If we discover something directly relevant to you, perhaps. Otherwise, probably not."

Eleanor appreciated the honesty, even if she disliked the answer.

Mercer gathered his notes but didn't immediately stand. Instead, he opened another section of his notebook. "There is, however, the matter of your contribution."

Eleanor's attention sharpened.

Gareth noticed immediately.

Mercer continued. "You discovered and reported an unregistered supernatural operation, provided evidence concerning an unknown Beyonder organization, recovered a useful written record, rescued five civilians, captured an individual displaying signs of supernatural contamination, and prevented ordinary authorities from unknowingly entering the site. There is also the information our investigators have already recovered because of your report."

The female Raven added, "And you left the scene intact instead of looting anything supernatural you happened to find."

"I didn't find anything worth taking."

"That hasn't stopped others."

Eleanor couldn't argue with that.

Mercer wrote several figures onto a page.

"This incident will be credited to your cooperative record. Combined with your previous assignments..."

He stopped.

Checked something.

Then looked up.

"...you've crossed the required contribution threshold."

Eleanor became very still.

Gareth knew that expression.

"Oh no."

She looked at him.

"What?"

"I know exactly what you're thinking."

"I haven't said anything."

"You don't need to."

Mercer glanced between them.

Eleanor ignored Gareth and addressed the Raven.

"How many contributions do I have available?"

Mercer gave her the figure.

Eleanor mentally compared it against the government exchange list she had memorized months ago.

Enough.

Just enough.

Her fingers tightened slightly around the blanket.

"I would like to submit an exchange request."

Mercer already seemed to know what was coming.

"For?"

"The Sequence Eight potion corresponding to the Warrior Pathway."

The youngest Raven's eyebrows rose.

The woman studied Eleanor carefully.

Mercer, however, merely asked, "Your Warrior potion isn't completely digested."

"No."

"Then you understand we cannot release the next potion to you for immediate consumption."

"I do."

"You'll need an examination confirming complete digestion before advancement."

"I know."

"And depending upon availability, fulfilling the exchange may take time."

"I understand."

Mercer watched her for another moment.

"Still want to submit it?"

"Yes."

The answer came without hesitation.

Gareth sighed beside her.

Eleanor glanced toward him. "You knew I intended to advance."

"I did."

"You knew I was saving my contributions."

"I did."

"Then why are you sighing?"

"Because knowing you're going to do something dangerous doesn't make watching you do it less worrying."

Eleanor's expression softened slightly.

"I won't drink it before I'm ready."

"I know."

"I won't rush the final digestion."

"I know."

"Then—"

"I'm still allowed to worry."

Eleanor fell silent.

"...Yes."

That seemed to satisfy him.

Mercer removed a small form from the back of his notebook and began filling it out. "I'll submit the request through our liaison with the government. Your contributions will be reserved immediately. Once the potion is prepared and your digestion is confirmed, you'll be contacted with a collection location."

Eleanor nodded.

"Thank you."

"Don't thank me. You earned the points."

The words struck her more deeply than Mercer probably intended.

Months of work had led here. Small assignments. Information passed quietly to the authorities. Criminals reported rather than ignored. Rumors investigated. Dangerous situations survived. None of it had seemed particularly important by itself. Even Bellwick hadn't earned her advancement alone.

It had simply been the final weight placed upon the scale.

Mercer finished writing and tore away a small receipt, handing it to Eleanor.

Exchange Request: Sequence Eight — Warrior Pathway.

She read the words twice.

Gareth leaned over slightly.

"You look happy."

"I am."

"You have the same expression you had five minutes ago."

Eleanor's lips curved upward.

Only slightly.

"There."

Gareth smiled.

"Much better."

The Ravens prepared to leave, but Eleanor stopped Mercer before he reached the door. "Inspector."

He turned.

"The masked man."

Mercer waited.

"If you find him..."

Eleanor glanced toward the sword resting beside her bed.

"...I want to know."

The older Raven studied her for several seconds.

"I suspected you might."

"I'm not asking to interfere with your investigation."

"Good."

"But he murdered people. He took something from beneath that lodge, and he knew enough about me to use..."

Her voice faltered for the briefest moment.

"...something personal."

Mercer's expression became more serious.

"I'll note your interest."

It wasn't a promise.

Eleanor understood that.

For now, it was enough.

The Unbral Ravens departed, closing the door behind them. Silence returned to the room, broken only by the crackling fire and distant activity from the village below. Eleanor continued staring at the exchange receipt in her hand.

Sequence Eight.

She had known advancement was approaching. Her Warrior potion was almost completely digested, and she'd been accumulating contributions specifically for this purpose since entering the government's cooperative system. Yet seeing the request written before her made the next step suddenly real.

Gareth sat back down.

"So."

Eleanor looked at him.

"You're going to rest."

"Yes."

"Actually rest."

"Yes."

"No investigating the masked man."

"The Ravens are handling it."

"No accepting another assignment tomorrow."

"I am injured."

"That wasn't a no."

Eleanor hesitated.

Gareth stared.

"...I won't accept another assignment tomorrow."

"Or the day after."

"Gareth."

"You're covered in bandages."

"I recover quickly."

"That's not the point."

She sighed, but there was no genuine irritation behind it.

"Fine."

Gareth smiled triumphantly.

"Good."

Eleanor carefully folded the exchange receipt and placed it alongside her belongings.

Her quest now was to recover and hopefully by then the remains of the potion should have digested.

-End-

This painting is titled "The Little Lost Girl" (also known as "The Passing Policeman") and was donated to the Cleveland Police Department in December 1899

Chapter 19 -New Missions Start-

Three weeks had passed since my advancement to Sequence 8. Life within the cathedral had settled into a routine that, while exhausting, had become familiar. Mornings were devoted to Professor Rowan's lessons, afternoons to patrols or paperwork, and evenings often ended with me alone in my room, slowly adjusting to the endless whispers that accompanied life as a Listener. They had never disappeared—Professor Rowan had made certain I understood they never would—but they had become manageable. I was finally learning to distinguish meaningful sounds from meaningless noise, to separate the distant prayers of believers from the ordinary bustle of Trier's streets. It wasn't silence, but it was something I could live with.

That routine was interrupted one morning when Captain Ashcroft summoned Lydia, Roland, and me to the briefing room. A thin folder rested upon the table before him, its cover stamped with the Church's seal and a single title written neatly across the front: The Silent Courier. Once we had all taken our seats, the Captain began. For nearly a month, a courier had been making deliveries throughout Trier that should have been impossible. Locked estates, government buildings, guarded warehouses—no destination seemed beyond his reach. Several city officials had attempted to investigate, yet none had managed to catch him in the act. Witnesses consistently reported seeing him enter a building carrying an oversized package, only for both courier and parcel to vanish before anyone could intercept him. The Church believed the explanation was simple: the courier was almost certainly a Beyonder of the Door Pathway, likely a Sequence Nine or Sequence Eight Apprentice using supernatural means to bypass locks, checkpoints, and physical barriers.

Captain Ashcroft slid another report toward us. Yesterday, the courier had delivered a sealed steel case to what appeared to be an abandoned textile warehouse. The recipient remained inside for less than five minutes before departing empty-handed, while the case itself seemingly vanished. Rather than making an arrest, the Church had decided to observe. If the courier truly worked for a larger organization, capturing him immediately would accomplish little. Our objective was therefore straightforward: identify the courier, follow his deliveries, and determine who ultimately received them. If the Church's suspicions proved correct, this courier could be our first genuine lead into the mysterious organization known only as the Eminence.

The operation began shortly before noon. From a distance, the courier looked painfully ordinary—a young man in a simple brown uniform carrying a weathered leather satchel over one shoulder. He greeted customers politely, smiled often, and even paused to help an elderly woman carry her groceries across a busy street. Nothing about him suggested someone capable of slipping through locked doors and guarded compounds. Yet as the hours passed, the pattern became impossible to ignore. Time and again he approached locations no ordinary courier should have been able to access, and each time I felt the same subtle disturbance ripple through my spirituality. It wasn't dramatic. Rather, it was as though the world itself shifted ever so slightly whenever he passed through a barrier that should have stopped him. The whispers surrounding him briefly intensified before settling once more. Door Pathway. I felt increasingly certain of it.

By late afternoon the courier accepted one final package. Unlike the others, this parcel bore no address—only a black wax seal pressed with an unfamiliar emblem. Captain Ashcroft subtly signaled for us to maintain our distance as the courier turned away from the commercial district and entered one of Trier's older neighborhoods. Everything proceeded normally for several minutes before my Listener instincts caught something unusual.

Someone was talking.

Not loudly.

Barely above a whisper.

At first I assumed it was simply another passerby, but the voice carried with impossible clarity despite being nearly half a street away.

"...late again..."

It was the courier.

His lips moved only slightly as he walked, speaking to himself in a tone no ordinary person should have been able to hear.

"...she won't be pleased..."

My attention sharpened immediately.

"...deliver this one..."

"...then the safehouse..."

The final words were almost swallowed by the surrounding noise, but my spirituality caught them all the same.

"...don't use the front entrance."

I stopped walking.

Safehouse.

I glanced toward Roland. He continued shadowing the courier, clearly too far away to hear what I'd just overheard. Lydia remained atop the rooftops, watching for ambushes rather than listening for conversation.

The courier turned a corner.

As he disappeared from sight, I caught one final fragment.

"...shortcut..."

"...through the alley..."

He didn't slow his pace.

He wasn't talking to anyone.

Simply thinking aloud in the careless way people often did when convinced no one could possibly hear them.

Captain Ashcroft had ordered us to follow.

If I stayed with Roland, we'd continue along the main street.

If what I'd overheard was accurate...

The courier intended to leave the road entirely.

I hesitated only briefly before making my decision.

"Roland," I called quietly, careful not to raise my voice. "I'll cut through the alley and see where it leads. If he's using a shortcut, we can box him in."

Roland glanced toward me before nodding.

"Don't go too far."

"I won't."

At least...

That was the plan.

I slipped into the narrow alley between two aging brick buildings, expecting to emerge onto the next street within moments.

Instead, the passage twisted unexpectedly.

One turn became two.

Then three.

The sounds of the city gradually faded behind me.

When I finally reached the opposite end...

The courier was nowhere to be seen.

Neither...

Was my team.

Only then did I realize the alley was unnaturally quiet.

Far too quiet.

And somewhere ahead...

A wooden door slowly creaked open.

The silence lingering within the alley lasted only a heartbeat before footsteps echoed somewhere ahead. They were hurried now, no longer carrying the relaxed rhythm of an ordinary courier. Whoever he had been pretending to be on the main street was gone. I broke into a run without another thought, weaving through the narrow passage as it twisted between aging buildings. Every instinct told me I was getting closer. My enhanced hearing caught his breathing, the scrape of leather against brick as he rounded another corner, and beneath it all the faint murmur of someone speaking under his breath.

"...she followed..."

There was no surprise in his voice.

Only annoyance.

"...told you Listeners would be troublesome."

I rounded the corner just in time to catch sight of his brown coat disappearing through another alleyway. "Stop!" I shouted, though I already knew he wouldn't. Instead, he accelerated, one hand briefly brushing against the wall beside him. For the briefest instant, spirituality rippled through the air. He wasn't simply running. He was opening Doors, skipping impossible distances that allowed him to appear several dozen meters farther ahead each time I thought I was closing the gap.

I gritted my teeth and continued after him. The streets around us gradually emptied as the chase carried us deeper into one of Trier's older districts, where abandoned homes outnumbered occupied ones. My breathing grew heavier, yet my Listener senses never lost track of him. Every careless mutter reached my ears with perfect clarity.

"...almost there..."

"...Boss won't be happy..."

"...still, bringing back a Raven should make up for it..."

The final sentence sent a chill through me.

I wasn't chasing him anymore.

He was leading me somewhere.

The realization came one step too late.

As I crossed what looked like an ordinary patch of cracked cobblestone, a ring of crimson symbols erupted beneath my feet. Spirituality surged violently around me as hidden ritual markings carved into the street blazed to life. I instinctively threw myself backward, but the trap had already activated. The courier stopped running altogether, turning calmly to face me as though he'd expected this exact moment.

"You really are troublesome," he sighed, reaching beneath his coat. "Sorry about this."

From inside he withdrew an object wrapped in layers of black silk. Even before the cloth was fully removed, my spirituality screamed in warning. It wasn't merely a Beyonder item.

It was a Sealed Artifact.

The courier hesitated for only a moment before pressing his thumb against its surface. Space around me distorted instantly. The alley folded inward like the pages of a closing book, the surrounding buildings twisting into impossible shapes as every sound vanished at once. My stomach lurched violently, and before I could even draw my revolver, the world simply... disappeared.

The sensation lasted less than a heartbeat.

Then solid ground returned beneath my feet.

I stumbled forward, barely catching myself against a cold stone wall. The air smelled damp, carrying the scent of candle wax, old wood, and something metallic that reminded me faintly of blood. Rows of gas lamps illuminated a long corridor stretching into darkness, its walls carved from dressed stone far beneath the streets of Trier. It wasn't an alley anymore.

It was underground.

The courier appeared beside me a moment later, breathing harder than before. His face had grown noticeably paler, as though merely activating the artifact had drained him. He quickly wrapped it back inside its black cloth, muttering to himself.

"Never getting used to that..."

Before I could make sense of my surroundings, another sound echoed through the corridor.

A crash.

Then shouting.

Not nearby.

Somewhere deeper within the complex.

Steel collided against stone.

A wall shook faintly beneath my hand.

The courier froze.

"...What?"

Another explosion reverberated through the underground halls, followed by muffled screams and the unmistakable roar of Beyonder powers colliding. Dust drifted lazily from the ceiling as alarms began ringing throughout the complex.

His expression shifted from confusion...

To genuine alarm.

"...Impossible."

He stared toward the deeper passages.

"...Who's attacking us?"

More shouting answered him.

Someone yelled for reinforcements.

Another voice screamed for a medic.

The courier took an involuntary step backward.

"No..."

"...The boss said nothing about an attack."

For the first time since I'd begun chasing him...

The confidence he'd worn so effortlessly vanished.

Whatever was happening deeper inside this underground base...

It had caught even the Eminence completely by surprise.

-End-

Art is Old alley of the city, 2024 by Suprunchuk Yuriy

Sorry finally able to get this chapter done! I want to give a special thanks to u/Raven_fs for his help with this collaboration piece and mission!

Chapter 4: Dawn After Darkness

The climb back to the surface felt longer than the descent.

Perhaps it was exhaustion.

Perhaps it was because every muscle in Eleanor's body reminded her that she had already reached her limits.

The rescued prisoners followed close behind, supporting one another whenever someone's legs threatened to give out. Mary remained near the front, while the older man insisted on helping those too weak to walk steadily despite the bruises covering his own body.

No one spoke.

Only the sound of boots upon stone echoed through the impossible stairway.

When the first rays of morning sunlight finally reached the bottom steps, several of the prisoners stopped.

One man began crying.

Another simply fell to his knees.

Mary closed her eyes as warm light touched her face.

"We're... outside..." she whispered.

Eleanor said nothing.

She merely stood at the top of the stairs, sword still in hand, quietly watching the tree line surrounding the hunting lodge.

Nothing moved.

No cultists emerged.

No monsters pursued them.

The forest was silent.

Too silent.

She looked back toward the hidden cellar entrance one final time before carefully dragging a broken cabinet over the opening. It would not keep determined men out, nor would it imprison whatever mysteries remained below.

But it would stop a curious traveler from wandering inside.

For now...

...that was enough.

The prisoners gathered in the courtyard while Eleanor searched the lodge once more.

Rusk still lay where she had left him.

He remained alive.

Barely.

The bandit chief's breathing was shallow, and the wound where the monstrous hand had taken part of his leg had been hastily bound with the strip of cloth Eleanor had tied earlier.

His remaining eye slowly opened as she approached.

"You came back."

"I said I would."

He laughed weakly before coughing blood onto the floor.

"I thought... after everything..."

"You expected me to leave you?"

The man grunted.

"I hoped you would."

Eleanor knelt beside him.

"Can you stand?"

He gave a humorless smile.

"You've seen my leg."

She nodded once as he responded.

"No."

Rusk looked toward the cellar entrance.

"I can still hear it."

"What?"

"The whispers."

His eye trembled.

"They're quieter now..."

"...but they're still there."

Eleanor remained silent.

She knew too little about Beyonders to know whether the whispers were real, imagined, or something in between.

"What happens to me now?" he asked.

"You'll face judgment."

"You still think that matters..?"

"Yes."

Rusk looked at her for a long moment before closing his eye.

"I don't. It won't matter in the end."

Eleanor let him be and searched the lodge thoroughly before leaving with him.

The upstairs rooms contained little besides stolen goods from passing merchants, mold-covered furniture, and crude sleeping quarters. The masked man had taken anything remotely related to the ritual. Bookshelves stood empty, drawers had been pulled apart, and even scraps of paper had been burned in the fireplace until nothing remained but ash.

Whoever he served...

...he had been careful.

Only one thing escaped his attention.

Inside a wardrobe in what had once been the master's bedroom, Eleanor found a simple notebook hidden beneath a loose floorboard.

Most of its pages had been torn out.

The few remaining entries appeared to be written by Rusk.

The first entries spoke only of robbery and smuggling routes.

Later ones became stranger.

*"The man in the mask returned today."*

*"He says there is something sleeping beneath the lodge."*

*"He offered me strength if I kept people away."*

*"The whispers have started."*

*"Sometimes I dream of an eye beneath the earth."*

*"It knows my name."*

The final surviving page contained only four words.

*"Do not answer it."*

Eleanor closed the notebook.

It was not much.

But it was more than she had possessed yesterday.

Outside, the rescued prisoners had gathered the horses from the stable and salvaged what food remained untouched.

The older prisoner approached as Eleanor emerged from the lodge.

"What should we do with them?"

He gestured toward the unconscious bandits.

"And him."

Rusk had fallen unconscious once more.

Eleanor looked toward the road leading to Bellwick.

"We're taking everyone."

"The bandits too?"

"Especially the bandits."

Several of the rescued prisoners looked displeased.

One young man stepped forward.

"They killed my brother."

Eleanor met his gaze.

"I know."

"They deserve to die for what they did to everyone!"

"They deserve a trial."

"There won't be one! You saw what they did they did to us, treated us like animals down there!"

She stood firm

"There will be one....."

Eleanors expression hardened

"And if there isn't........?

For several moments neither spoke.

The survivors all tensed, even the captured bandits did.

Finally, Eleanor answered quietly.

"Then I will remember who denied them justice."

The young man lowered his eyes under her firm gaze and recalled what the woman had done to to those bandits.

He did not look convinced but he nodded all the same as he backed down.

The journey to Bellwick took nearly two hours.

The pace was slow.

The injured could not move quickly, and the unconscious bandits had to be secured across wagons salvaged from the lodge.

By the time the village came into view, Eleanor's vision had begun to blur around the edges.

Every step pulled at the wounds across her ribs.

Blood had dried beneath the leather protecting her forearm.

She ignored both.

The villagers noticed them long before they reached the gates.

Farmers abandoned their fields.

Children ran toward the square shouting that survivors had returned.

Within minutes, nearly the entire village had gathered.

The silence that followed was profound.

Five prisoners thought long dead had returned alive.

Four captured bandits had been dragged back in chains.

Rusk, their feared leader, lay unconscious in the back of a wagon.

And leading them all...

...was a lone young woman whose blue cloak was stained with mud and blood alike.

An elderly man wearing the robes of the village reeve pushed through the crowd.

"What happened?"

Eleanor looked at the faces surrounding her.

Fear.

Hope.

Confusion.

Questions she could not answer.

She sheathed her sword.

"The road is safe now....your people are safe."

It was the only promise she could make.

Then, for the first time since entering the hunting lodge...

...her body finally accepted what her mind had refused.

The exhaustion she had held at bay through sheer determination crashed over her all at once.

The world tilted.

Mary reached out just as Eleanor's knees gave way.

Darkness claimed her before she struck the ground.

All the same she smiled knowing her work was done.

The last thing she saw was a red heard man pushing through the crowd screaming her name.

-End-

Art is Old Road. The artist is Douglas Castleman.

[removed]

[removed]

Chapter 17 -Fragments Captured-

The following morning arrived beneath a blanket of gray clouds, leaving Mid Trier draped in a cool, muted light. After a quick breakfast, I made my way beneath the cathedral to the Umbral Ravens' headquarters, where the rest of the team was already gathered around the operations table. The investigation board remained covered in notes, maps, and witness statements accumulated over the previous week, but this morning a fresh map of Saint Maren's Square occupied the center.

Captain Ashcroft looked up as I entered.

"Good. Everyone's here."

Without another word, he began assigning equipment. Unlike previous investigations, there was a noticeable seriousness in the room. No one joked. Even Aldren, who usually found something to tease Roland about, quietly checked the rounds in his revolver before fastening the holster beneath his coat.

"This operation succeeds only if everyone remembers their role," the Captain began. "Our objective remains identification and surveillance. We are not attempting an arrest unless circumstances leave us no alternative."

He looked directly at me.

"And you are not to play the hero."

I gave a small nod.

"I understand."

Captain Ashcroft seemed satisfied before turning toward Lydia.

"The disguise."

Lydia stepped forward carrying a neatly folded bundle of clothing.

"We asked one of the Sisters to help."

She handed the bundle to me.

Inside was a simple cream-colored blouse with slightly oversized sleeves, a dark brown wool skirt reaching just below the knees, thick stockings, worn leather shoes, and a faded gray coat that had clearly seen several winters. Resting on top was a flat wool cap and a small canvas satchel with a few schoolbooks placed inside to give it natural weight.

"Nothing expensive," Lydia explained. "Nothing memorable."

She smiled faintly.

"Exactly what we'd expect from the daughter of an ordinary working family."

I nodded slowly, running a hand across the fabric.

It was strange.

Only a week ago I had been struggling to accept wearing women's clothing at all and admittedly still am. I still prefer mens cloths…sigh. Now I was preparing to disguise myself as a younger version of the woman whose body I inhabited.

The thought was... surreal.

Lydia seemed to notice my hesitation.

"If you'd like, one of the Sisters can help."

"...Please."

A few minutes later, I found myself once again in one of the cathedral's guest rooms as two elderly Sisters fussed over the disguise with remarkable enthusiasm.

"Your hair needs to be tied back."

"No, lower."

"There."

One adjusted the cap while the other deliberately loosened several strands of silver hair around my face.

"It makes you look younger."

Another wrapped a simple scarf around my neck before stepping back to inspect their work.

"There."

"Now try smiling."

I attempted one.

The older Sister immediately shook her head.

"Too polite."

"...Too polite?"

She nodded.

"Adults smile like that."

"You need to smile like you're still excited about seeing the world."

I blinked.

"...I don't actually remember how."

The two Sisters exchanged amused looks.

One couldn't help laughing.

"That answer alone makes you sound older."

Despite myself...

I laughed as well.

For the first time in several days, the tension surrounding the investigation eased, if only for a moment.

When we returned downstairs, the reaction was immediate.

Aldren looked up...

Stopped...

Then blinked twice.

"...Captain."

Captain Ashcroft looked over.

"...Well."

That single word carried more surprise than anything else I'd heard him say.

Roland stared for a moment before giving a slow nod.

"I wouldn't have recognized her."

Lydia folded her arms with quiet satisfaction.

"Good."

Captain Ashcroft circled me once, studying the disguise with the same critical eye he brought to everything else.

"The posture."

I instinctively straightened.

He shook his head.

"Too disciplined."

Right.

I relaxed slightly.

"Still too deliberate."

He stepped beside me.

"Children don't constantly observe everyone around them."

"They look."

"They become distracted."

"They stop."

"They start again."

He demonstrated by casually glancing toward a bookshelf before letting his attention drift toward the ceiling as though something there had caught his interest.

It looked...

Natural.

"When you're in the square," he continued, "don't hunt for the suspect."

"Let him believe you're unaware of him."

I nodded.

"I'll try."

"Don't try."

His voice remained calm.

"Forget we're watching."

"Easier said than done."

I couldnt help but whine 

"It is."

The Captain almost smiled.

"Which is why we're practicing."

The next half hour passed surprisingly differently than I expected. Rather than drilling combat techniques or signals, Captain Ashcroft had me simply walk around the headquarters while the others observed. Every time I unconsciously scanned exits, watched reflections in windows, or carried myself with too much awareness, he quietly pointed it out.

"Again."

I walked.

"Too alert."

Again.

"You looked at Roland."

Again.

"You checked the hallway."

Again.

By the tenth attempt, I finally managed to simply... walk.

Thinking about nothing.

Looking wherever happened to catch my eye.

When Captain Ashcroft finally nodded, I realized something unsettling.

If I had struggled this much pretending to be an ordinary child...

How many times had the Spectator practiced pretending to be an ordinary man?

The thought lingered as we left the cathedral together.

Saint Maren's Square was already coming to life by the time we arrived. Vendors called out to passing customers while the smell of fresh bread drifted from nearby bakeries. Children chased pigeons around the old fountain exactly as they had every day we'd visited. Nothing appeared unusual.

Which, Captain Ashcroft had repeatedly reminded us...

Was exactly what made it dangerous.

Without a word, everyone separated.

Roland disappeared toward the rooftops with practiced ease.

Lydia entered a café overlooking the square, ordering tea near the front window where she could observe without attracting attention.

Aldren blended effortlessly into the growing crowd, pausing now and then to inspect market stalls like any ordinary customer.

Captain Ashcroft simply continued walking until he vanished among the morning pedestrians.

And then...

I was alone.

I tightened my grip on the worn strap of the satchel hanging from my shoulder and slowly approached the fountain.

Around me, the square buzzed with life.

Mothers chatted.

Children laughed.

Merchants argued over prices.

Somewhere within that ordinary crowd...

A man who hunted children might already be watching me.

-

I really like this twist. It feels like something Cuttlefish would write because it rewards the antagonists for being competent instead of simply falling into the Ravens' trap.

One thing I'd tweak slightly is how much the enemy knows.

A Sequence 8 Listener isn't omniscient. They wouldn't hear everything happening across the city. However, if they were already keeping an ear on the Church or happened to be near the cathedral while Veil's team was discussing the operation, they could overhear enough to realize the Ravens were planning a sting in Saint Maren's Square using a young-looking member as bait. That keeps it believable.

Likewise, revealing the "kind man" as a Sequence 7 Psychologist instead of a Sequence 9 Spectator is an excellent escalation. It also explains why every witness remembered him so consistently. A Psychologist is vastly more capable of subtly manipulating emotions, trust, attention, and memory than a mere Spectator.

Here's how I'd continue.

Morning slowly gave way to afternoon.

At first, I found pretending to be an ordinary girl far more exhausting than any firearms exercise Captain Ashcroft had put me through. Every instinct I'd developed over the past week urged me to remain alert—to watch every passerby, to note suspicious faces, to unconsciously keep track of where the rest of my team was positioned.

Instead...

I forced myself not to.

I wandered between the market stalls with deliberate aimlessness, occasionally stopping to admire trinkets I had no intention of buying before continuing toward the fountain. Every so often I'd sit upon one of the stone benches, opening the worn schoolbook tucked inside my satchel just enough to appear occupied before eventually growing "bored" and moving elsewhere.

It was a strange performance.

One that required constant effort.

More than once I caught myself scanning rooftops for Roland before remembering I wasn't supposed to know he was there.

Captain Ashcroft's voice echoed inside my head.

"Forget we're watching."

So I tried.

Hours passed.

The square remained stubbornly ordinary.

Children laughed.

Merchants argued over prices.

Musicians performed for scattered coins.

Several people even struck up harmless conversations with me, asking where my parents were or whether I'd become separated from them. Each time I politely answered that my mother was shopping nearby before returning to my wandering.

Nothing.

No smiling gentleman.

No suspicious stranger.

No sign whatsoever that anyone had taken the bait.

By late afternoon, fatigue had begun replacing tension. Even without looking directly toward the café, I noticed Lydia casually closing one notebook and opening another, likely beginning an entirely different set of observations to pass the time. Aldren had somehow convinced a fruit vendor to let him help arrange produce, while Roland remained unseen entirely.

Perhaps...

Our theory had simply been wrong.

I wasn't the only one growing impatient.

Hidden among the rooftops overlooking Saint Maren's Square, Roland slowly lowered the small brass spyglass he'd been using throughout the day.

"Nothing," he murmured beneath his breath.

Across the square, Lydia subtly adjusted the position of her teacup upon the windowsill—the agreed signal that her side remained clear.

Captain Ashcroft observed all of it from beneath the awning of a nearby bookstore.

Calm.

Patient.

Waiting.

Yet even he couldn't ignore the possibility that their suspect had never intended to appear at all.

None of them realized...

Someone else had been observing the investigation long before today.

Several streets away, hidden behind the upper windows of an abandoned tailor's shop, a man quietly smiled.

He had watched the Ravens for days.

Not from one location.

From many.

Their interviews.

Their routes.

Their habits.

Their questions.

Most importantly...

Their conclusions.

Beside him stood another figure, face concealed beneath a dark hood.

"They're persistent," the hooded man observed.

"They're predictable," the first replied.

His voice was gentle.

Cultured.

Almost comforting.

"The little one."

His eyes settled upon the distant square.

"So she's the bait."

The hooded figure chuckled.

"Our Listener was right."

"He heard enough."

The smiling man nodded once.

"Our Raven friends believe they're hunting us."

His smile widened only slightly.

"They never considered..."

"...that we might begin hunting them."

The Listener lowered his head, listening.

Not to the street.

Not to the square.

But to the countless conversations carried upon the afternoon breeze.

Voices.

Laughter.

Arguments.

Footsteps.

Every sound layered neatly upon another.

Among them...

The distant whistle of a market vendor.

The chatter inside Lydia's café.

The scrape of Roland shifting his weight across the rooftop.

The Ravens had hidden themselves well.

For ordinary people.

Not for him.

"They're all in position."

The Listener spoke quietly.

"The captain is thirty-seven paces south."

"The Hunter remains above."

"The woman with the notebook hasn't moved for twenty-three minutes."

He turned toward the smiling gentleman.

"And the little Raven..."

"...is exactly where they wanted her to be."

The gentleman nodded.

"Excellent."

He straightened his coat before descending the staircase.

"Then let's reward their preparation."

Back in the square, I had nearly convinced myself the day would end uneventfully.

The sun hung low enough to cast long shadows across the cobblestones, merchants beginning to pack away their goods while parents called children home before supper.

I adjusted the satchel on my shoulder and turned away from the fountain.

"...Excuse me."

The voice was warm.

Friendly.

Refined.

I stopped.

Turning slowly, I found a well-dressed gentleman standing only a few steps away.

He appeared to be somewhere in his early thirties, dressed in an impeccably tailored charcoal coat with polished shoes that somehow remained spotless despite the dusty streets. His dark hair was neatly combed, and his smile possessed the effortless warmth of someone who inspired trust almost immediately.

There was nothing remarkable about him.

Nothing threatening.

Nothing memorable.

And yet...

The instant my eyes met his...

An odd feeling settled over me.

The nervousness I'd carried throughout the day...

Began to fade.

Almost imperceptibly.

The tightness in my shoulders eased.

My heartbeat slowed.

It felt...

Comforting.

Safe.

As though speaking with him was the most natural thing in the world.

Then, almost as quickly—

Professor Rowan's voice surfaced from memory.

"If your emotions change suddenly without reason..."

"Question whether they're truly your own."

The warmth faltered.

Only for an instant.

But it was enough.

Enough for me to realize something was terribly wrong.

The man smiled just a little wider.

"There's no need to be frightened."

His voice remained impossibly gentle.

"I only wanted to ask..."

"...are you lost?"

I smiled politely, doing my best to appear exactly as Captain Ashcroft had instructed. A child caught alone. Slightly uncertain. Completely unaware.

"I... think so."

The gentleman's expression softened with what looked like genuine concern. He crouched slightly so we were nearly at eye level, careful not to invade my space too quickly. It was an innocent gesture.

Almost rehearsed.

"That's unfortunate," he said warmly. "The market becomes confusing this time of day. I help lost children find their parents from time to time."

His voice carried a comforting cadence that seemed to smooth over every lingering worry. Each sentence felt measured, neither too eager nor too distant. If I hadn't spent days listening to grieving parents describe the same smiling stranger...

I might have believed him.

"I was waiting for my mother," I answered, clutching the satchel a little tighter.

"Of course."

He nodded sympathetically.

"Would you like me to help you look for her?"

For the briefest instant...

The offer sounded reasonable.

Not simply reasonable.

It sounded... comforting.

I caught myself relaxing before a sharp sting of alarm cut through the sensation. My spirituality stirred violently, the instincts granted by the Secret Suppliant potion refusing to remain silent. Professor Rowan had warned me that a Beyonder's greatest defense was often recognizing when something impossible had become too natural.

I took a slow breath.

Something was influencing my thoughts.

The gentleman's smile never faltered.

"There's no need to worry."

"I promise you'll be safe."

His words settled over my mind like a warm blanket.

Then...

Something else caught my attention.

Not him.

Behind him.

Or rather...

Above him.

For only an instant, my eyes drifted beyond the bustling square toward an empty stretch of shadow between two rooftops.

Something stood there.

No...

Not stood.

Watched.

The figure was indistinct, little more than an outline where light seemed strangely unwilling to linger. It didn't resemble any person I could clearly describe, yet my enhanced spirituality reacted to it immediately. There was no hostility.

Only familiarity.

The sensation reminded me of kneeling before the altar beneath the cathedral. Of standing within the chamber housing the Gate of Shadows. Of the faint aura I'd felt whenever Pope Smith spoke of the Hanged Man.

The presence lasted only a heartbeat before fading back into the darkness as though it had never existed.

My breath caught.

His Holiness...?

I couldn't explain why that thought surfaced.

I hadn't seen his face.

I hadn't heard his voice.

Yet something deep within my spirituality whispered that whatever I'd glimpsed belonged to the Shadow World rather than the ordinary one.

Just as quickly, the feeling disappeared.

It felt as if it were going somewhere far away.

Panic immediately struck my heart. 

The gentleman tilted his head.

"Is something wrong?"

I blinked, forcing myself back to the conversation.

"...No."

But it was.

Something was wrong.

Not just with him.

With the entire square.

A strange discomfort crept over me, one that had nothing to do with the Psychologist standing before me. It was subtler than fear, more like the sensation of entering a room moments after someone else had quietly left.

My spirituality twitched again.

Listening.

Searching.

There...

A whisper.

Not through my ears.

Through my spirit.

Someone...

Else...

Was listening.

The realization struck me with enough force that I nearly turned my head.

Captain Ashcroft had warned us that investigations often failed because investigators became so focused on the suspect in front of them that they forgot to ask who else might be watching.

The gentleman noticed the slightest change in my expression.

His smile remained exactly the same.

"I think," he said gently, "we've spoken long enough here."

He extended one gloved hand.

"Why don't we walk while we talk?"

At that exact moment, I made my decision.

My fingers brushed the whistle hidden beneath my coat.

One sharp blast.

That was all it would take.

Captain Ashcroft.

Roland.

Lydia.

Aldren.

They would converge within seconds.

My hand tightened around the whistle.

Then...

The world lurched.

A piercing pressure exploded inside my head.

It wasn't pain.

It was noise.

Thousands of voices speaking over one another in a deafening torrent, each one just beyond understanding. They crashed against my consciousness all at once, shattering my concentration before I could lift the whistle to my lips.

I staggered.

My hand slipped away from the cord.

Across the street, I caught a glimpse of a hooded figure standing perfectly still between the passing crowds.

Although I couldn't distinguish his features...

I knew.

He was looking directly at me.

The impossible chorus lasted only a second.

Perhaps two.

Long enough.

When my vision finally steadied, the gentleman was already beside me.

His hand rested lightly against my shoulder.

"There now," he said softly, almost kindly.

"You nearly fainted."

To everyone around us...

That was exactly what it looked like.

A young girl suddenly became dizzy in the middle of a crowded square.

Several nearby pedestrians glanced over with mild concern before quickly returning to their own business.

One woman even smiled appreciatively at the gentleman.

"How fortunate," she remarked to no one in particular, "that someone was there to help the poor child."

No one questioned him.

No one stopped him.

Everything they saw confirmed exactly what they expected.

A kind man helping a frightened little girl.

The spectator looked down at me with the same gentle smile as everyone described.

"I'll take you somewhere you can rest."

My thoughts screamed at me to resist.

To shout.

To fight.

But every attempt felt strangely... unnecessary.

Safe.

Comforting.

As though struggling would only embarrass myself.

Through blurred vision, I searched desperately for Roland's rooftop.

For Lydia's café.

For Captain Ashcroft.

I couldn't see any of them.

Only later would I learn why.

The hooded Listener had not merely overheard our plan.

From the moment the gentleman approached me, he had quietly finished a ritualistic magic that flooded the square with carefully chosen sounds—raised arguments, overturned carts, distant cries for help, barking dogs, the clatter of iron wheels—all positioned with impossible precision. Each distraction drew my teammates' attention away for only a heartbeat at a time.

One heartbeat…

He gently grabbed my hand

Another heart beat.

I was walking down a dark ally

A third heart beat

In the darkness of the ally I looked up to the kind stranger holding my hand.

A smiling gentleman…stared back

He looked so happy…

I….couldnt help but…. smile back. 

A single tear broke free as we disappeared down the ally

The Forth heart beat.

By the time they looked back toward the fountain…

The square was peaceful again.

-End-

Art illustration was created by artist Chubbee2412

Sorry for the slight delay on the chapter! Had to add and change some things last minute! I want to give a thanks to u/Intelligent-Tour9467 for there input and additions this chapter! Thank you all for your support!

Chapter 16 -Fragments and Plans-

The streets of Mid Trier gradually changed as we left the cathedral district behind. The broad avenues and elegant storefronts slowly gave way to narrower roads lined with older brick buildings, their walls stained by decades of soot and weather. Laundry hung between upper-story windows, children darted through alleyways chasing one another with wooden toys, and neighbors chatted from open windows while going about their morning routines. On the surface, it felt like an ordinary district where ordinary people lived ordinary lives.

That normalcy only made the missing children feel more unsettling.

Captain Ashcroft walked a few paces ahead of Lydia and me, occasionally consulting the folded map in his hand before turning down another street. Lydia carried the investigation file tucked beneath one arm, periodically glancing through its contents while quietly committing names and addresses to memory.

After several minutes she closed the folder with a soft sigh.

"You'll notice something about investigations."

I looked toward her.

"They're usually far less exciting than stories make them sound."

A faint smile crossed my face.

"I've already noticed."

She chuckled softly.

"Good. If an investigation becomes exciting..."

She left the sentence unfinished.

Captain Ashcroft answered for her without looking back.

"...something has already gone wrong."

We turned one final corner before stopping in front of a modest two-story home nestled between a bakery and a cooper's workshop. Unlike the neighboring houses, its shutters remained closed despite the pleasant weather. A small wooden horse sat forgotten beside the front steps, one of its wheels broken.

Captain Ashcroft paused for a moment before knocking gently.

None of us spoke while we waited.

Several moments passed before slow footsteps approached the door.

It opened only slightly.

A tired-looking woman peered out at us, her eyes immediately settling on the silver raven badge fastened to Captain Ashcroft's coat.

"...The Church?"

Captain Ashcroft removed his hat respectfully.

"Good morning."

"My name is Captain Ashcroft."

"This is Sister Lydia."

He gestured toward me.

"And this is Miss Veil."

The woman's shoulders relaxed ever so slightly.

"You've... come about Thomas?"

"We have."

For a long moment she simply stared at us before opening the door fully.

"...Please come in."

The home was small but well cared for. The furniture showed signs of age, yet everything had been carefully maintained. Family photographs rested upon the mantelpiece, while children's drawings decorated one corner of the sitting room.

One chair, however...

Remained empty.

Captain Ashcroft waited until we had all taken our seats before speaking.

"We understand you've already spoken with both the city guard and representatives from the Church."

"I have."

Her voice sounded exhausted more than anything else.

"I know I'll probably be repeating myself."

"You will."

Captain Ashcroft's honesty caught even me slightly off guard.

"But sometimes people remember different details after enough time has passed."

She nodded slowly.

"I understand."

Lydia quietly opened her notebook.

Captain Ashcroft rested both hands upon his walking cane.

"Let's begin at the start."

"When did you last see your son?"

The woman closed her eyes briefly, as though replaying the memory for perhaps the hundredth time.

"Six days ago."

"He left after breakfast."

"He was supposed to meet two friends in Saint Maren's Square."

"Did he?"

"According to the other boys..."

She swallowed.

"...yes."

"They played together until midday."

Captain Ashcroft remained silent, allowing her to continue.

"Afterward they all started walking home."

"They reached the old fountain."

She pointed vaguely toward the eastern part of the district.

"That's where they separated."

"The others arrived home."

"My Thomas never did."

The room became quiet again.

Lydia's pencil moved steadily across the page.

Captain Ashcroft asked only a handful of questions, each simple and direct.

"What was he wearing?"

"Did anyone unusual speak to him recently?"

"Did he seem frightened?"

"Had he mentioned making any new friends?"

Not once did he interrupt her answers.

Nor did he suggest possibilities.

He simply listened.

It wasn't until several minutes had passed that I realized he had already asked every question I had been thinking.

Eventually, he leaned back slightly.

"You've done well to remember all of this."

The woman managed a weak smile.

"I've repeated it every day."

Captain Ashcroft inclined his head.

"I know."

For the first time since entering the house, his voice softened.

"We'll continue looking."

She looked at him for several long seconds before quietly asking the question I suspected everyone eventually asked.

"...Do you think he's still alive?"

The room fell completely silent.

I found myself holding my breath.

Captain Ashcroft didn't answer immediately.

Instead, he chose his words with obvious care.

"I believe," he said quietly, "that until we know otherwise..."

"...every child deserves to be searched for as though they are."

Something in the woman's expression broke.

She lowered her head, covering her eyes as silent tears began slipping through her fingers.

Neither Captain Ashcroft nor Lydia rushed to comfort her.

They simply allowed her the dignity of grieving.

Only after several moments did Lydia quietly place a neatly folded handkerchief upon the table beside her.

No words.

Just the gesture.

Watching them, I finally understood something Professor Rowan had never mentioned during his lessons.

Being an Umbral Raven wasn't only about fighting monsters.

Sometimes...

It meant sitting quietly in a grieving mother's home...

Listening.

Remembering.

Giving her hope without offering false promises.

As we prepared to leave, Captain Ashcroft paused beside the door.

"One final question."

The woman looked up.

"Has anyone unfamiliar been seen in the neighborhood since Thomas disappeared?"

She frowned thoughtfully.

"...There was..."

Her eyes drifted toward the window.

"A man."

Lydia's pencil immediately stopped.

"What kind of man?"

"I don't know."

She shook her head uncertainly.

"He wasn't suspicious."

"Just..."

"...out of place."

Captain Ashcroft exchanged a brief glance with Lydia.

"What do you mean?"

"He smiled."

The answer caught all three of us off guard.

The woman seemed almost embarrassed by it.

"I know that sounds strange."

"It's just..."

She looked down at her hands.

"Everyone around here has looked frightened ever since the children started disappearing."

"But he..."

She hesitated.

"...he looked happy."

Captain Ashcroft's expression changed ever so slightly.

Not alarm.

Recognition.

Lydia quietly underlined something in her notebook.

Captain Ashcroft thanked the woman once more before we stepped back into the morning sunlight.

Only after the door closed behind us did Lydia speak.

"That's the third family."

Captain Ashcroft nodded.

"All describing someone similar."

I felt my heartbeat quicken.

"A suspect?"

Captain Ashcroft looked down the quiet street where children still played beneath the watchful eyes of anxious parents.

"...Not yet."

He folded his notebook shut.

"But..."

His gaze lingered on the neighborhood ahead.

"...for the first time..."

"...we have a direction."

-
We left the house in silence, the heavy wooden door closing softly behind us. For several moments, none of us spoke. The sounds of Mid Trier gradually returned—the chatter of merchants, wagon wheels rolling over uneven cobblestones, and the distant laughter of children—but after sitting across from a mother who still set an extra place at her dinner table every evening, the ordinary sounds of the city felt strangely hollow.

Lydia quietly finished the last few lines in her notebook before closing it with a sigh. "That makes three families now," she murmured. "Different streets, different occupations, different circumstances... yet they all described someone similar."

Captain Ashcroft nodded as we resumed walking. "A stranger who didn't belong."

"And who smiled," Lydia added.

The Captain glanced briefly toward me. "People remember unusual details more reliably than ordinary ones. Clothing changes. Faces become blurred with time. But emotions..." He paused, watching a pair of children run across the street toward a nearby bakery. "...people remember how someone made them feel."

I found myself thinking back to the mysterious woman from yesterday. Even now I struggled to recall every detail of her face, yet I could remember with perfect clarity the overwhelming sense of danger she had radiated simply by standing nearby.

"So we don't look for his appearance," I said quietly.

"We look for his behavior."

Captain Ashcroft's expression softened with quiet approval.

"Exactly."

We spent the next several hours moving steadily through the surrounding neighborhoods, speaking with families, neighbors, teachers, shopkeepers, and anyone else who might have witnessed something unusual. Most conversations yielded very little. Parents repeated the same painful stories they'd already told the city guard. Children remembered playing together but couldn't agree on the smallest details afterward. Shopkeepers recalled seeing the missing children pass their stores dozens of times before, making it impossible to identify the particular day they disappeared.

It was slow work.

Painfully slow.

Yet I gradually began to understand why Captain Ashcroft never seemed discouraged.

Investigations weren't built upon dramatic discoveries.

They were built upon eliminating countless possibilities until only the truth remained.

By early afternoon, my notebook had accumulated pages of names, addresses, and observations. Most would likely prove irrelevant. Professor Rowan had once remarked that the greatest enemy of an investigator was not ignorance, but the temptation to decide what mattered before all the facts had been gathered.

The lesson became increasingly difficult to remember as exhaustion began setting in.

Our fourth interview took us to a modest schoolhouse where one of the missing boys had attended lessons. His instructor welcomed us politely, though the lines beneath his eyes suggested he hadn't been sleeping well.

"He wasn't the only one," the elderly teacher admitted after we'd introduced ourselves. "Parents have begun keeping their children home whenever they can. Attendance has nearly been cut in half."

"Were any of the missing children particularly close?" Captain Ashcroft asked.

The teacher shook his head.

"Not especially. Some knew one another, others didn't. Different ages. Different classrooms."

"So no obvious connection."

"None that I ever noticed."

Captain Ashcroft asked several more questions while Lydia carefully compared the answers against earlier interviews. Once again, nothing immediately stood out.

As we prepared to leave, however, the teacher hesitated.

"There is... one thing."

The Captain stopped.

"What is it?"

The old man looked toward the classroom windows overlooking the street.

"It may be nothing."

"We'll decide that."

He nodded slowly.

"Several days before the first child disappeared..."

His brow furrowed as though trying to recall a fading memory.

"...there was a gentleman standing across the street."

I felt my attention sharpen.

"He wasn't watching the school exactly."

The teacher frowned.

"At least... I don't think he was."

"He simply stood there."

"For nearly an hour."

"Doing nothing?"

Captain Ashcroft asked.

The teacher hesitated.

"He was feeding the pigeons."

Lydia looked up from her notebook.

"For an hour?"

"So I thought it was strange."

The old man gave a helpless shrug.

"He never approached the children."

"He never entered the school."

"He simply scattered crumbs and smiled whenever the birds gathered around him."

Captain Ashcroft remained thoughtful.

"What happened afterward?"

"He left."

"Which direction?"

The teacher pointed toward the eastern districts.

"I lost sight of him somewhere near Saint Maren's Square."

The Captain thanked him before we stepped back into the street. Only once we were several buildings away did Lydia reopen her notebook.

"The smiling stranger."

Captain Ashcroft nodded.

"Again."

"And Saint Maren's Square," I added.

He looked at me.

"The first boy disappeared nearby."

I remembered the grieving mother's account almost word for word.

"They separated near the old fountain."

"Which is less than two streets from the square."

For the first time that day, Captain Ashcroft stopped walking altogether. He unfolded the city map once more, laying it across the top of a nearby stone bench. One by one, he marked the locations we'd visited that morning before drawing a small circle around Saint Maren's Square.

"It isn't proof," he said after several moments of thought.

"But it is the first location that appears more than once."

Lydia nodded in agreement.

"It gives us somewhere to start."

Captain Ashcroft carefully folded the map closed again before looking toward the lowering afternoon sun.

His gaze settled on the distant rooftops beyond the square.

"Now..."

"I think it's time we examined the place where this trail truly begins."

Captain Ashcroft led us toward Saint Maren's Square without another word. The afternoon crowds had begun to thicken as workers broke for their midday meals, and the square itself reflected the quiet rhythm of daily life. Market stalls lined the edges of the open plaza, their owners advertising everything from fresh produce to handmade toys, while children darted between fountains beneath the watchful eyes of parents sitting nearby.

If I hadn't known better...

I never would have imagined children had vanished from this very place.

The Captain stopped beside the old fountain mentioned during our first interview, unfolding the map one final time before comparing it with Lydia's notes. After several moments, he tucked both away and slowly surveyed the square.

"First impressions?" he asked.

No one answered immediately.

Roland was already studying the surrounding buildings instead of the people, his eyes lingering on rooftops, alleyways, and second-story windows. Aldren wandered a few paces away, pretending to admire a merchant's display while quietly observing the flow of pedestrians. Lydia remained near the fountain, comparing landmarks against the statements she'd recorded earlier.

I found myself simply watching.

Professor Rowan had once said that most investigators made the mistake of looking for what they expected to find. Truly observing meant resisting that temptation.

So I watched.

Parents.

Children.

Street performers.

Merchants.

Nothing seemed particularly unusual.

Captain Ashcroft nodded faintly.

"Good."

I blinked.

"...Good?"

He smiled slightly.

"If something appeared immediately suspicious, the city guard would have found it weeks ago."

That... made sense.

"The best criminals," he continued, "rarely stand out."

"They become part of the scenery."

We spent the better part of the next hour speaking with merchants surrounding the square. Most remembered little beyond the obvious. Yes, children often played here. Yes, parents occasionally lost sight of them for a few minutes. No, they hadn't noticed anyone forcing children away.

Eventually, however, a baker paused midway through answering Captain Ashcroft's questions.

"There was one fellow..."

The Captain remained silent.

"He bought sweet rolls."

"Quite a few of them."

"Every few days."

Lydia looked up.

"For himself?"

The baker shrugged.

"I assumed so."

"He'd stand over there..." He pointed toward a shaded bench overlooking the fountain. "...and hand them out to children."

My attention sharpened.

"The parents allowed this?"

"Most did."

The baker scratched his beard thoughtfully.

"He seemed respectable."

"Nicely dressed."

"Soft spoken."

"I don't think I ever saw a child afraid of him."

Captain Ashcroft asked the obvious question.

"What did he look like?"

The baker frowned.

"I..."

His expression shifted into confusion.

"I don't..."

Several uncomfortable seconds passed.

"I remember speaking to him."

"I remember selling him bread."

"But..."

He slowly shook his head.

"...I can't remember his face."

The four of us exchanged glances.

Captain Ashcroft thanked the man before leading us away from the bakery.

Only once we were out of earshot did Lydia quietly close her notebook.

"That's impossible."

"No," Captain Ashcroft replied.

"It isn't."

He stopped beside a narrow alley leading away from the square.

"What do you remember?"

I closed my eyes for a moment.

"He was well dressed."

"He bought sweet rolls."

"He smiled."

Captain Ashcroft nodded.

"And his face?"

...

Nothing.

The man couldn't give any description of the stranger's general appearance at all. Even though the man had made several purchases here, or at least had to have made. 

Captain Ashcroft remained silent for several moments before speaking.

"I believe we've found our first Beyonder."

I looked toward him.

"What pathway?"

"The Spectator."

The answer surprised me.

"They can do that?"

"Not exactly."

Captain Ashcroft folded his arms.

"A low-Sequence Spectator cannot erase memories."

"But they excel at directing attention."

"They encourage people to notice certain details..."

"...while overlooking others."

Professor Rowan's lessons immediately resurfaced.

Psychological suggestion.

Emotional guidance.

Subtle influence.

Not mind control.

Simply...

A carefully placed nudge.

Captain Ashcroft continued walking.

"They could imagine the man smile."

“They notice the smile."

“They said he only speaks politely."

"They remember his kindness."

"He buys food for hungry children."

"They remember his generosity."

He glanced back toward us.

"But his face?"

He shook his head.

"Their attention was never encouraged to linger there."

A cold realization settled over me.

"He made himself..."

"...forgettable."

Captain Ashcroft gave a quiet nod.

"Precisely."

Lydia reopened her notebook, rapidly flipping back through the earlier interviews.

"The smiling man..."

She paused.

"Every witness remembered how he behaved."

"None described his appearance."

Roland's expression hardened.

"Deliberate."

"Very."

Captain Ashcroft stopped once more, this time before another map of the district Lydia had copied into her notebook.

"Now ask yourselves another question."

He looked at each of us in turn.

"If you wished to abduct children without causing panic..."

"...why recruit a Spectator?"

Silence followed.

Then...

Understanding dawned.

"They're not the one taking them," I said.

Captain Ashcroft smiled.

"Exactly."

"The Spectator's purpose isn't violence."

"It's preparation."

He tapped the map lightly.

"They earn trust."

"They calm frightened children."

"They encourage parents to lower their guard."

"They make witnesses remember everything..."

"...except the one detail capable of identifying them."

Lydia looked up from her notes.

"So the people actually taking the children..."

"...are related to Beyonders, or at least a group that have some inside of there organization" 

Captain Ashcroft nodded slowly. 

"I believe we're looking at an organized trafficking operation."

The words seemed almost too ordinary.

Human traffickers.

No ancient monster.

No sealed artifact.

Just...

People.

People willing to use Beyonder abilities to hunt children.

For reasons I couldn't entirely explain...

That realization disturbed me more than any Devil had.

Captain Ashcroft folded the map and looked toward the eastern streets stretching beyond Saint Maren's Square.

"If we're right..."

His expression became noticeably colder than I'd ever seen it.

"...then somewhere in Mid Trier..."

"...there are children still waiting to be found."

And for the first time since beginning the investigation...

It felt as though we had finally stepped onto the right trail.

-

Captain Ashcroft did not allow our discovery to become cause for celebration.

"A theory," he reminded us as we left Saint Maren's Square, "is only useful once it's supported by evidence."

No one argued.

We had reason to believe a Spectator was involved, but belief alone was not enough to justify action. We still lacked a name, an address, or even a face. Until we possessed something concrete, all we could do was continue searching.

The following days settled into a relentless routine. Each morning the four of us met beneath the cathedral before sunrise to review the previous day's findings. Captain Ashcroft patiently reorganized every witness statement, searching for inconsistencies that might have escaped our notice, while Lydia painstakingly rewrote reports and updated the growing map that now covered nearly an entire wall of our headquarters. Roland spent hours speaking with the city guard, requesting records of known criminals and suspicious visitors, while Aldren wandered through taverns, markets, and gambling halls gathering rumors from anyone willing to talk.

I accompanied each of them in turn, gradually learning that investigations were less about dramatic discoveries and more about persistence. I interviewed frightened parents, spoke with teachers and priests, visited orphanages, and questioned merchants who had worked the same corner for decades. Every conversation ended the same way.

"Yes."

"There was a pleasant man."

"He smiled often."

"He was kind to children."

"No..."

"I don't remember his face."

By the third day, the pattern had become almost maddening.

It didn't matter whether the witness was young or old, educated or illiterate, wealthy or poor. Every description remained frustratingly similar, as though someone had carefully erased the one detail we needed while leaving everything else untouched. Even when we revisited earlier witnesses, hoping time might stir forgotten memories, the answers never changed.

Captain Ashcroft eventually gathered us around the investigation board late one evening. More than thirty names had been added since we first received the assignment, each connected by strings and notes marking where children had last been seen, where suspicious strangers had appeared, and where rumors had originated. Despite the growing web of information, the center remained empty.

"We're chasing a ghost," Aldren muttered, rubbing tired eyes.

Captain Ashcroft didn't disagree.

"No."

"We're chasing someone who wishes to become one."

The distinction lingered in the room.

Over the next two days we expanded our search beyond Saint Maren's Square. Roland identified several abandoned buildings that might have served as temporary hideouts, yet each proved empty by the time we arrived. Lydia uncovered reports of children being offered sweets in neighboring districts, but every lead ended exactly where the others had.

Witnesses remembered smiles.

Gentle voices.

Acts of kindness.

Nothing more.

Several times we believed we'd found him. A merchant would mention seeing a polite gentleman only an hour earlier, or a carriage driver would swear he'd transported such a man across the district. We would hurry to the location, only to arrive minutes too late. Whether by luck or careful planning, the trail always went cold before we could catch sight of him ourselves.

The frustration gradually began affecting everyone.

Even Captain Ashcroft grew quieter with each passing day, spending long hours staring over maps after everyone else had retired for the evening. Lydia had nearly filled an entire notebook with witness statements alone, while Roland began personally revisiting locations he'd already searched simply because he refused to believe he had overlooked something.

As for me...

I found myself thinking less about Beyonder powers and more about the children.

Each passing day meant another family waiting beside an empty bed.

Another dinner prepared for someone who never returned home.

Another parent forcing themselves to hope despite growing evidence that hope alone wouldn't be enough.

Late on the fifth evening, we returned to the cathedral with little more than another collection of dead ends. Captain Ashcroft quietly pinned our newest reports to the investigation board before stepping back to examine it once more.

The room was silent.

Thirty-seven interviews.

Dozens of locations searched.

Not a single suspect identified.

Finally, the Captain exhaled.

"We've been asking the wrong question."

The four of us looked toward him.

"We've spent five days trying to find the Spectator."

His finger tapped lightly against the map.

The room fell silent once again.

Captain Ashcroft remained standing before the investigation board, studying the tangled web of names, locations, and witness statements. No one interrupted his thoughts. Over the past five days, we'd all learned that when the Captain became this quiet, it usually meant he was fitting together pieces the rest of us hadn't yet realized belonged together.

Finally, he spoke.

"We've approached this investigation from the wrong direction."

Roland folded his arms.

"You think we should stop looking for him."

"I think we should stop expecting him to make a mistake."

Captain Ashcroft reached forward and removed one of the pins marking Saint Maren's Square before rolling it between his fingers.

"So far we've searched every location after the disappearances."

"We've interviewed every witness we could find."

"We've chased every rumor."

"And each time..."

He looked at us.

"...we've arrived after the fact."

Lydia nodded slowly.

"Because he's choosing when to appear."

"Exactly."

The Captain placed the pin back onto the map.

"So..."

"...we create a situation where he wants to appear."

Aldren raised an eyebrow.

"You mean bait."

Captain Ashcroft met his gaze without hesitation.

"I do."

The room grew noticeably quieter.

Roland frowned.

"We're not using an actual child."

"No."

The answer came immediately.

"We're not."

His eyes slowly swept across the room.

They stopped on me.

I felt my stomach tighten.

"...Me?"

Captain Ashcroft inclined his head.

"You're the only member of this team with even a chance of making the disguise convincing."

For several seconds, I simply stared at him.

I knew I was short.

Painfully aware of it, in fact.

Aldren made sure to tease me about it every chance he got, even when we first met.

Ever since waking in this body, I'd found myself looking up at nearly everyone I met. At first it had been another uncomfortable reminder that this wasn't my body.

Now...

It had apparently become an advantage.

Captain Ashcroft spoke before I could overthink it.

"Miss Veil."

"How tall are you?"

"...Four foot ten."

I had answered immediately without thinking and I sighed.

"Four foot... six inches without heels"

Aldren coughed into his fist.

Roland quietly looked away.

Even Lydia seemed to be making a determined effort not to smile.

Captain Ashcroft, however, remained perfectly composed.

"Combined with your youthful appearance..."

He paused, choosing his next words carefully.

"...you could reasonably pass for a child of twelve or thirteen."

I instinctively frowned.

"I'm twenty."

"I know."

He nodded calmly.

"The traffickers don't."

That...

Was difficult to argue with.

Captain Ashcroft continued.

"The witnesses consistently describe a man who approaches children already separated from their families."

"He doesn't use force."

"He gains their trust."

"If our theory is correct, he'll only approach someone he believes is vulnerable."

He looked directly at me.

"You fit that description better than the rest of us."

The realization settled over the room.

Not because I was especially capable.

Because I looked like the kind of victim they were searching for.

Captain Ashcroft unfolded another map, this one showing only Saint Maren's Square and the neighboring streets.

"The operation itself is straightforward."

His finger rested on the fountain.

"Miss Veil will remain here."

He then indicated several surrounding buildings.

"Roland will maintain visual surveillance from this rooftop."

Another mark.

"Lydia will observe from the café opposite the square."

A third.

"Aldren will circulate through the market posing as a customer."

Finally, his finger stopped near the entrance to a narrow alley.

"I'll remain close enough to intervene if necessary."

He looked at each of us in turn.

"Our objective is not an arrest."

"If the suspect approaches Miss Veil..."

He allowed the sentence to hang for a moment.

"...she will engage him in conversation."

"No more."

"No less."

"You are not to follow him alone."

"You are not to allow yourself to be led into an isolated area."

"If at any point you believe your safety is compromised..."

His voice grew firmer.

"...you signal immediately."

Lydia reached into her satchel and produced a small brass whistle attached to a thin leather cord.

She slid it across the table toward me.

"The same one our clergy use."

"It carries farther than you'd expect."

Captain Ashcroft nodded.

"One blast."

"We converge."

"Two blasts."

"We assume immediate danger."

He takes out a small emblem made out of some type of silver looking material

"This is a small charm. You must keep this on your person at all time, it can be used to track you if something unexpected happens so be sure to not lose it or forget it before starting the mission."

I picked up the whistle and the emblem, feeling there unexpected weight in my palm.

"...And if he doesn't approach?"

"Then we've lost nothing."

The Captain's answer was immediate.

"We've confirmed our theory is flawed and move to another."

He looked back toward the investigation board.

"But..."

"...if he does..."

For the first time since this investigation had begun, there was the faintest hint of confidence in his voice.

"...then we'll finally have a trail worth following."

The room fell silent once more.

I looked down at the whistle resting in my hand before unconsciously brushing my fingers against the silver raven badge pinned to my coat.

A few weeks ago...

I had been learning how to clean a revolver.

Tomorrow...

I would be standing alone in Saint Maren's Square...

Hoping that a child trafficker mistook me for his next victim.

I cringed at the thought

"God I am hoping to be a kidnaping victim...."

I sigh internally remembering all the families that had been torn apart because of this

"For the children and there families...please try and kidnap me..." I whisper silently.

I sigh again

"Its sounds worse when I say it like that...."

I shake my and head towards the others to get ready for the operation.

-End-

The art if Official art made for Klien personality Sherlock!

And chapter end! The first mission officially begins, along with the first proper plan!

Chapter 15 -Fragments and Leads-

The man glanced around the room, confirming everyone had arrived before giving a single nod. "Good. His Holiness requested today's briefing take place at the central headquarters."

The mention of the headquarters immediately caught my attention. Up until now, nearly all of my time had been spent within the cathedral that housed our own branch of the Church. Professor Rowan had mentioned the existence of a larger administrative center during one of his lessons, describing it as the heart of the Church's operations throughout Trier, but I had yet to see it for myself.

Our journey took us through the awakening city, following streets that gradually grew broader and busier the closer we came to the city's center. The headquarters quickly distinguished itself from the surrounding buildings. It was neither as towering nor as ornate as the cathedral, yet there was something unmistakably imposing about its architecture. Dark stone walls rose several stories high, interrupted by tall arched windows whose stained glass depicted scenes not of glorious battles or triumphant saints, but quiet moments of sacrifice, redemption, and the ever-watchful silhouette of ravens standing beneath the branches of a leafless tree. Above the massive entrance rested the familiar emblem of the Hanged Man, carved so deeply into the stone that centuries of wind and rain had failed to dull its features.

Members of the clergy moved steadily through the entrance, some dressed in the simple robes of priests, others wearing darker garments embroidered with the insignia of various divisions within the Church. Here and there I noticed individuals whose bearing immediately reminded me of the Umbral Ravens. They carried themselves with the same alertness I'd begun seeing in Captain Ashcroft and the others, their eyes unconsciously studying every passerby even while engaged in quiet conversation. Whatever duties they performed, it was obvious they belonged to the hidden side of the Church.

As we stepped inside, the atmosphere shifted almost immediately. The sounds of the city faded behind heavy wooden doors, replaced by the quiet rhythm of footsteps echoing through polished stone corridors. Sunlight streamed through high windows overhead, illuminating rows of carved pillars and polished floors that reflected the light like still water. Clergy passed us with respectful nods, while several paused briefly to greet Captain Ashcroft before continuing on their way. It became increasingly apparent that our Captain was well known within these walls.

A young deacon waiting near the entrance approached with a polite bow. "Captain Ashcroft. His Holiness is expecting you."

"Thank you," the Captain replied.

The deacon led us deeper into the headquarters, away from the public halls and toward quieter sections of the building. The corridors became noticeably less crowded, their decorations simpler, though no less elegant. Large paintings depicting previous Popes, notable Bishops, and historical moments in the Church's history lined the walls. Between them hung black banners embroidered with silver thread, each bearing the emblem of the Hanged Man above a raven in flight.

Eventually we reached a pair of tall ebony doors reinforced with silver fittings. Unlike the grand entrances elsewhere in the building, these possessed very little ornamentation beyond the Church's symbol carved neatly into the center of each door. Two guards wearing dark ceremonial uniforms stood silently on either side. Neither carried themselves like ordinary soldiers. Even without knowing their pathways, I could sense the quiet confidence shared by experienced Beyonders.

The deacon stopped before them and bowed once more.

"His Holiness is receiving the Umbral Ravens."

One of the guards nodded before opening the doors inward.

A spacious office lay beyond, illuminated by the soft morning light pouring through floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking much of Trier. Bookshelves lined one wall from floor to ceiling, filled with volumes on theology, history, mysticism, and countless subjects I couldn't identify from their bindings alone. Opposite them rested several maps of Intis and the surrounding nations, each marked with neatly placed pins and handwritten notes. A long meeting table occupied the center of the room, while near the far windows stood a broad desk crafted from dark polished wood.

Behind it stood Pope Smith.

Rather than sitting, he was studying one of the large maps spread across the desk, one hand resting lightly against its edge. At the sound of the doors opening, he looked up, a calm smile crossing his face as his gaze settled upon our group.

"Captain Ashcroft."

The Captain inclined his head.

"Your Holiness."

Smith's eyes briefly swept across each of us before lingering on me for only the briefest moment.

"Excellent."

"It seems everyone has arrived."

He gestured toward the meeting table occupying the center of the room.

"Please."

"Take your seats."

Something in his tone caused the room to fall completely silent.

The casual warmth with which he had spoken to me yesterday remained, but now it was accompanied by the quiet authority of the man responsible for every Church operation throughout the city.

Whatever we were about to discuss...

It was important.

The room settled into silence as each of us took our seats around the long meeting table. Pope Smith remained standing, gathering several leather folders from his desk before placing them carefully upon the polished wood. Rather than opening them immediately, he looked at each of us in turn, allowing the quiet to linger until everyone had given him their full attention.

"I appreciate you coming," he said evenly. "Ordinarily, Captain Ashcroft would be responsible for briefing his own team. However, the circumstances surrounding this investigation have changed enough that I believe it warrants my direct involvement."

With practiced movements, he unfolded a detailed map of Trier across the center of the table. Several black circles had already been marked across Mid Trier, clustered closely enough that even I could tell they were unlikely to be random.

"Over the last five weeks," he continued, resting a finger upon the markings, "the Church has confirmed the disappearances of thirteen individuals."

My eyes drifted across the map.

"There are thirteen?"

Smith inclined his head.

"Twelve are children."

The room grew noticeably quieter.

"Only one is an adult—a physician who vanished three nights ago."

He paused before continuing.

"The city guard has officially acknowledged fewer cases. Some families never reported their children missing, believing they had run away. Others feared drawing attention to themselves or simply had no faith that the authorities would help. By the time information reached the Church, several days had already been lost."

The weight of those words settled over the room. Twelve children. Spread across different neighborhoods, different families, and different circumstances. On the surface, they shared almost nothing beyond their age.

Captain Ashcroft studied the map thoughtfully. "You've found a connection."

"We believe so."

Smith opened another folder and slid several sketches toward us. They depicted crude symbols discovered beneath bridges, inside abandoned buildings, and carved into alley walls throughout Mid Trier. At first glance they appeared unrelated, yet the longer I examined them, the more familiar they became. Professor Rowan had shown me enough examples during my lessons for me to recognize the patterns.

"They're ritual symbols," I said quietly.

"They are," Smith replied, offering a faint nod. "More accurately, fragments of one. Individually they possess no function, but together..." His finger traced several of the sketches. "...they appear to form portions of a much larger ritual."

No one spoke for several moments.

"We don't yet know which pathway is involved," Smith continued. "Nor can we determine whether this is the work of a cult, a criminal organization, or a lone Beyonder. At present, speculation would accomplish very little. What we require is information."

Closing the folder, he looked toward Captain Ashcroft before allowing his gaze to pass across the rest of us.

"That is where your team comes in."

"This is an investigative assignment."

The emphasis in his voice left little room for misunderstanding.

"You are not being sent to resolve whatever lies behind these disappearances. You are not to confront unknown Beyonders, interrupt active rituals, or pursue suspects beyond your ability. Your responsibility is to gather information, identify patterns, and return with a complete report. Should you encounter something you cannot safely handle, you withdraw immediately."

His expression remained calm, though there was an unmistakable firmness behind his words.

"A living Raven who retreats can save lives tomorrow. A dead Raven cannot."

I found myself nodding almost instinctively. It echoed everything Professor Rowan, Roland, and Captain Ashcroft had been teaching me since I joined. Caution wasn't cowardice; it was survival.

Smith turned back toward the map. "Your investigation will focus entirely on Mid Trier. Speak with the families. Visit the neighborhoods where the children disappeared. Observe the locations. Listen more than you speak. Somewhere among these twelve disappearances is a common thread, and I believe your team has the best chance of finding it."

His gaze settled on me for a brief moment before returning to the rest of the Ravens.

"Miss Veil's presence may prove particularly useful. She is unknown both to the public and, as far as we can determine, to anyone responsible for these events. Fresh eyes often notice what familiarity overlooks."

He folded the map closed, signaling the end of the briefing.

"You have until tomorrow evening to complete your initial investigation. Once you've returned, we will evaluate your findings and determine whether this remains a matter for investigators..."

His eyes briefly lingered on the dark circles marking the map.

"...or whether the Church must prepare to confront something far more dangerous."

As the room fell silent once more, my attention remained fixed on those twelve small marks scattered across Mid Trier. They were nothing more than ink on parchment.

Yet somewhere beyond the walls of the headquarters...

Twelve families were still waiting for their children to come home.

For several moments, no one spoke. The map remained spread across the table, its dark circles silently reminding us of the children who had vanished. Pope Smith let the silence linger before carefully folding the parchment and returning it to its folder.

"That concludes your operational briefing," he said. "Captain Ashcroft will have full discretion regarding your investigation. If circumstances change or you uncover evidence warranting immediate intervention, report directly to either myself or Bishop Kornelius without delay."

Captain Ashcroft inclined his head. "Understood, Your Holiness."

Smith gave a small nod before reaching for another document resting near the edge of the table. Unlike the previous folders, this one bore the seal of the Church itself rather than the Umbral Ravens.

"There is one final matter."

His tone became noticeably more formal.

"It concerns the Church as a whole."

Our attention returned to him immediately.

"This morning, I received word directly from our Lord."

Even Captain Ashcroft's expression grew more attentive.

"Our Lord has entered what was described as... an unstable state."

The wording was carefully chosen, though I noticed the faint hesitation before he spoke it. Whatever the exact meaning, it was evidently something the Church intended to handle with discretion.

"For the foreseeable future," Smith continued calmly, "members of the Church should be encouraged to offer prayers more frequently than usual."

He paused before adding the next point.

"During this period, our Lord will be unable to personally respond to prayers as He ordinarily would."

Aldren frowned ever so slightly.

"And the Shadow World?"

"It will remain inaccessible for travel."

Smith answered without hesitation.

"Until further notice, no member of the Church—including the Umbral Ravens—is to rely upon the Gate of Shadows for transportation or rapid deployment. Should emergency movement become necessary, conventional methods will be employed."

That caught my attention immediately.

During Professor Rowan's lessons, I'd come to understand just how valuable the Shadow World was to the Church. Losing access to it, even temporarily, would undoubtedly complicate countless operations.

Sensing our concerns, Smith continued before anyone could ask.

"However, there is no cause for alarm."

His steady voice carried the same reassuring confidence it always seemed to possess.

"The seals beneath each church remain fully operational. Their primary functions have not been affected."

I found myself recalling Professor Rowan's explanation from only a few days earlier. Every church possessed a Gate of Shadows beneath it, connected to the Shadow World through a powerful seal strengthened by the faith of the congregation. Even if travel through that realm had become impossible, those seals still imprisoned dangerous Beyonder artifacts, suppressed their influence, and continued protecting each church from intrusion.

"In other words," Smith concluded, "our defenses remain intact. Only our ability to travel through the Shadow World—and our Lord's direct responses to prayer—have been temporarily suspended."

No one appeared relieved exactly.

But the atmosphere did ease.

The distinction mattered.

Captain Ashcroft was the first to break the silence.

"I'll ensure every member of my branch is informed."

"As will the other captains," Smith replied. "The official announcement will be delivered throughout the city's churches before the end of the day. There is no need for speculation beyond what has been shared here."

He looked around the table one final time.

"Our Lord has asked only that the faithful continue their prayers."

His expression softened almost imperceptibly.

"Faith is not measured by how often our prayers are answered."

"It is measured by whether we continue offering them when no answer comes."

The words settled quietly over the room.

Although I had only been part of the Church for a short time, even I understood the significance of such an announcement. The faithful would undoubtedly worry. Some would question. Others would fear the silence.

Yet if His Holiness remained this composed...

Then perhaps there truly was no reason to panic.

Smith closed the final folder and folded his hands behind his back.

"Unless there are any final questions..."

None came.

"Very well."

He offered each of us a courteous nod.

"May the Hanged Man watch over your investigation."

Chairs slid quietly across the polished floor as everyone rose. Captain Ashcroft exchanged a few final words with His Holiness while the rest of us gathered our notebooks and equipment. Before long, we were making our way back through the headquarters' silent corridors, the great ebony doors closing softly behind us.

Outside, the morning air was cool, and the streets of Trier were already alive with people beginning their day.

Somewhere in Mid Trier...

Twelve children had vanished.

And now...

The Umbral Ravens were finally on the hunt.

The journey back to our cathedral was considerably quieter than the one that had brought us to the Church headquarters. Each of us seemed occupied with our own thoughts as we walked through the busy streets of Trier, the morning crowds steadily growing thicker around us. Shopkeepers opened their businesses for the day, laborers hurried toward the factories and docks, while children—those fortunate enough to still be with their families—laughed as they chased one another through the streets.

I couldn't help but watch them.

Only moments earlier, Pope Smith had spread a map before us with twelve black circles carefully marking where children had disappeared.

Seeing children playing now...

The contrast felt unsettling.

Captain Ashcroft maintained a steady pace at the front of the group, speaking only occasionally when pointing out shortcuts through the city. Roland walked beside him in his usual silence, his sharp eyes unconsciously scanning every intersection and alley we passed. Aldren, despite his normally talkative nature, remained unusually subdued, while Lydia had already opened one of her notebooks, quietly reviewing the names and addresses listed within.

No one needed to say it aloud.

The briefing had changed the mood.

By the time we returned to the cathedral, the headquarters below had already resumed its usual rhythm. Clergy passed through the corridors carrying reports between departments while several Ravens from other teams prepared to leave on assignments of their own. The comforting familiarity of the room did little to erase the seriousness of the morning's discussion.

Captain Ashcroft walked directly toward the large map mounted against one wall before removing several colored pins from a nearby drawer.

"Gather around."

We did.

One by one, he placed the pins into different sections of Mid Trier.

"The disappearances weren't evenly distributed," he said. "Most occurred within these three neighborhoods."

He tapped each cluster in turn.

"The physician disappeared here."

"The oldest reported child disappearance happened here."

"And the most recent..." His finger rested upon another pin. "...less than four days ago."

Lydia stepped forward, comparing the locations with the notes she'd copied during the briefing.

"They're all within walking distance."

"Exactly."

Captain Ashcroft nodded.

"Which means whoever is responsible is either operating locally..."

"...or wants us to believe they are."

He turned toward us.

"We're investigators first."

"No assumptions."

"No theories presented as fact."

"We collect information."

"We verify it."

"Only then do we reach conclusions."

Professor Rowan's lessons echoed in my mind.

Observation before judgment.

Captain Ashcroft continued.

"We'll split into pairs."

His finger pointed toward the first neighborhood.

"Roland and Aldren will examine the physical locations where the children were last seen. Speak with local shopkeepers. Look for anything unusual. Anything at all."

The two men nodded.

"Lydia."

She looked up from her notebook.

"You're with me. We'll interview the families already contacted by the Church. They've spoken with investigators before, so we'll likely be able to move more quickly."

Finally, his attention settled on me.

"Miss Veil."

I straightened instinctively.

"You'll accompany us for the first several interviews."

I blinked slightly.

"I thought we'd be splitting into pairs."

"We will."

His expression remained composed.

"But you've never conducted an investigation before."

"I'd rather you observe the first few conversations before attempting them yourself."

That...

Made perfect sense.

After everything I'd learned over the past week, I appreciated that no one expected me to suddenly know how to question grieving families.

Captain Ashcroft seemed satisfied by my understanding.

"Once you're comfortable, Lydia will remain with the families while you begin speaking with nearby residents."

"Your unfamiliar face may encourage people to speak more openly."

I nodded.

"Understood."

He glanced around the room one final time.

"Our objective remains unchanged."

"No heroics."

"If you encounter anything suggesting Beyonder involvement..."

He looked each of us squarely in the eye.

"You leave."

"You report."

"You wait."

Nobody objected.

The simplicity of the instructions only reinforced their importance.

Within fifteen minutes, preparations were complete. Each of us carried a notebook, several pencils, our Church identification, and our standard-issue revolvers concealed beneath our coats. The silver raven badges pinned to our uniforms caught the light as we climbed the cathedral steps once more.

Captain Ashcroft pushed open the heavy front doors, and the sounds of Trier immediately rushed back to meet us.

Carriages.

Merchants.

Church bells.

Children laughing somewhere in the distance.

For just a moment, the city seemed perfectly ordinary.

Then I remembered the map.

Twelve children.

One missing physician.

Fragments of an unfinished ritual.

Somewhere beneath the ordinary rhythm of daily life, something was quietly stalking the streets of Mid Trier.

Captain Ashcroft adjusted his coat before looking back at us.

"Stay alert."

"Listen carefully."

"And remember..."

A faint smile crossed his otherwise composed expression.

"People often reveal the most important details without realizing they've done so."

With that, he stepped into the bustling street.

One by one, we followed.

My first investigation as an Umbral Raven had officially begun.

-End-

This artwork is an official promotional illustration from lord of the mysteries!

Sorry the chapter came out so late! Some revisions had to be made which took longer then I expected! Once again I want to give u/Intelligent-Tour9467 a special thanks for his help involving the mission details. I also want is give a big thanks to u/Ezcu123 who provided the important new details involving the church! As always if I made any mistakes please let me know. Thank you all for your support!

Chapter 14 -Fragments of a new Mission-

The following morning passed much as the previous ones had. Professor Rowan's lecture occupied the better part of the morning, this time focusing on the finer distinctions between Spirit World symbolism and dream divination. Much of it was fascinating, though by the time the lesson concluded I felt as though my notebook had somehow doubled in weight again.

As I returned to headquarters, Lydia looked up from the report she had been reading and immediately frowned.

"...You're still wearing the same clothes."

I blinked.

"I was given the uniform."

"For work."

She pointed toward me with her pen.

"I'm referring to everything else."

I looked down at myself.

She wasn't wrong.

Between the clothing the Church had lent me after the Devil incident and the Umbral Raven uniform, I possessed little beyond what I happened to be wearing. I hadn't exactly had the opportunity—or the money—to build a wardrobe.

Captain Ashcroft looked up from his paperwork.

"You received your wages."

"I did."

"Then perhaps today would be a suitable time to remedy that."

Lydia nodded enthusiastically.

"There's a tailor a few streets south of the cathedral. Several members of the clergy buy their clothing there."

"Reasonable prices," Aldren added from behind his newspaper. "Good craftsmanship."

Roland glanced up only briefly.

"Durable."

I looked around the room.

"So... that's a recommendation?"

Captain Ashcroft smiled faintly.

"It is."

The afternoon streets of Trier were noticeably livelier than when I had first arrived in the city. Street vendors called out to passing pedestrians, horse-drawn carriages rolled steadily over the cobblestones, and the warm scent of fresh bread drifted from a nearby bakery. Holding the small slip of paper Lydia had written the address on, I followed the directions until I found myself standing before a modest storefront.

The sign hanging above the entrance bore the shop's name in elegant lettering, while the display window showcased neatly arranged garments in styles ranging from practical everyday attire to far more formal pieces.

After taking a quiet breath, I stepped inside.

A small brass bell chimed overhead.

The shop was warm, carrying the pleasant and calming aroma of something floral. I took a deep breath and sighed entering further inside. Clothing was displayed with remarkable care, each piece arranged so that none distracted from the others. Shirts occupied one side of the room, trousers another, while mannequins displayed several complete outfits near the front windows. The walls had beautiful designs that drew the eyes across their surface. Though I wouldn't describe them as overdone or having an exaggerated nature. Whoever designed this establishment had wonderful taste.

My gaze wandered to a beautiful woman who looked up from behind the counter.

"Welcome to my shop. I am Crimson_Demoness how can I help you?”

Her tone was polite and she had an absolutely charming smile.

"I'm looking for some everyday clothing," I replied. "Mostly for work outside the cathedral."

She gave a small nod before stepping around the counter.

"Something practical, then."

"Yes."

After a brief glance over my current attire, she seemed to reach a conclusion.

"If you don't mind following me."

I did.

She led me toward a section displaying clothing designed more for comfort and movement than fashion.

"For field work," she explained, "I generally recommend combinations that prioritize durability while remaining comfortable during long hours."

She first lifted a pair of relaxed straight-fit trousers crafted from a breathable linen blend. A simple drawstring waist replaced the more restrictive belts I had expected, while the clean lines gave them an understated appearance that looked equally appropriate for work or casual wear.

"These are one of our more popular options."

I ran my fingers lightly across the fabric.

Soft.

Lightweight.

Comfortable.

Far more practical than I had anticipated.

Next she presented another pair.

These possessed dramatically wider legs, the fabric flowing almost like a skirt while still unmistakably remaining trousers. The front was smooth and uninterrupted by visible pockets, creating a surprisingly elegant silhouette despite their simplicity.

"A gender-neutral design," she explained. "They're intended to move freely without sacrificing comfort."

Finally, she showed me a third style.

These were more structured than the previous two, featuring crisp double pleats along the front and a distinctly tailored appearance. Though still cut with wide legs, they carried themselves with an unmistakable sense of formality while retaining enough freedom of movement for practical use.

I found myself unexpectedly impressed.

Back on Earth...

I probably wouldn't have paid much attention to clothing beyond whether it fit.

Now...

Having to dress an entirely different body...

Every decision felt strangely unfamiliar.

Fortunately...

Pants were something I understood.

Dresses...

Not so much, I shuddered

"I think..." I admitted with a slightly embarrassed smile, "...I'd prefer trousers."

The shopkeeper inclined her head.

"Many people do."

She didn't ask why.

For that, I was quietly grateful.

She then turned her attention toward the shirts.

The first featured intricate diagonal embroidery woven subtly into an oversized rayon design. Its dropped shoulders and relaxed fit paired naturally with each of the trousers she'd already shown me, giving it a distinctive appearance without becoming overly ornate.

The second possessed a boxier cut with a Cuban collar and contrasting dark buttons. Simpler than the embroidered shirt, it nevertheless carried a quiet elegance that made it seem equally suitable beneath a coat or worn on its own.

The final option was perhaps the simplest of all.

An oversized button-down with a structured spread collar, its loose silhouette prioritizing comfort over formality. It looked like precisely the sort of shirt someone could spend an entire day investigating crime scenes in without complaint.

I looked between the three shirts and three pairs of trousers.

"They're sold separately?"

She nodded.

"Eight pounds each."

I quickly did the math.

Three shirts.

Three trousers.

Forty-eight pounds.

A considerable amount of money...

Yet these weren't luxuries.

They were clothing I would likely wear for years.

After another moment's thought, I nodded.

"I'll take all six."

Without hesitation, she began carefully folding each garment before wrapping them neatly in brown paper and securing the bundles with twine.

As she worked, another thought occurred to me.

"There is... one more thing."

She looked up.

"I'd like to commission something."

"What did you have in mind?"

I hesitated briefly.

"A formal dress."

Even saying the words still felt slightly surreal.

"Black," I continued. "With red accents."

She waited patiently.

"And..."

I unconsciously touched the silver badge resting beneath my coat.

"...I'd like the emblem of the Hanged Man incorporated into the design."

She considered the request for only a few moments before giving a professional nod.

"I understand."

"It will take some time."

"That's perfectly fine."

"I'll notify the cathedral once it's completed."

"Thank you."

After paying for the clothing, I accepted the neatly wrapped bundles and thanked her once more before stepping back out into the streets of Trier.

The packages weren't especially heavy.

Yet as I carried them back toward the cathedral, I couldn't help glancing down at them from time to time.

They were only clothes.

Simple shirts.

Practical trousers.

A commissioned dress for occasions I couldn't yet imagine.

And yet...

Each purchase felt like another quiet acknowledgment that this life—however impossible it still seemed—was no longer temporary.

Little by little...

I was beginning to build a place for myself within it.

Leaving the tailor's shop, I shifted the neatly wrapped bundle of clothing beneath one arm before stepping back onto Trier's bustling streets. The afternoon sun had begun its slow descent, painting the stone buildings in warm amber light while merchants called to passing customers and carriages rattled steadily over the cobblestones. It was the sort of ordinary scene that, only a week ago, would have seemed completely unremarkable. Now, after everything I'd witnessed since arriving in this world, I found myself appreciating its normalcy far more than I ever would have before.

The weight of the packages was reassuring. Three new sets of practical clothing and the promise of a formal dress still being made felt strangely significant. They weren't mystical ingredients or Church equipment. They were simply clothes—proof that this impossible new life was slowly becoming a real one.

The only thing was the pain this gave my coin purse. Most of my advance had been used today.

Sigh

“This was an investment in myself” I mutter softly as I walk into the night.

That pleasant thought lasted only a few minutes.

The sensation arrived gradually, subtle enough that I almost dismissed it as lingering nerves from Professor Rowan's lectures. It wasn't a sound or a movement, but the unmistakable feeling of someone's gaze resting upon my back. Remembering Roland's constant insistence on awareness, I resisted the urge to turn around and instead studied the reflections in the windows as I walked. Twice I altered my route through the neighboring streets. Twice, the same woman appeared behind me without making any effort to conceal herself.

She wanted me to notice.

By the third intersection, there was no longer any doubt that I was being followed.

Keeping my breathing steady, I resisted every instinct urging me to hurry. Running from an unknown Beyonder was unlikely to accomplish anything beyond confirming I had noticed them, and confronting someone whose Sequence I couldn't even begin to guess bordered on suicidal. Instead, I quietly adjusted my route toward the cathedral. The Church was only a few streets away. If I could reach headquarters...

She took a single step forward, her movements carrying an effortless grace that reminded me less of a person walking than of a dancer crossing a stage. Even without activating Spirit Vision, I could feel something pressing gently against my spirituality, an invisible weight that made every instinct scream that the distance between us meant absolutely nothing.

"I was merely curious," she said, studying me with open interest. "The Church has been rather busy lately. New Ravens don't usually attract my attention."

Her head tilted slightly.

"But you..."

For the first time, her smile became genuine.

"...there's something unusual about you."

A knot formed in my stomach.

I couldn't explain why.

Nothing about her appearance seemed threatening. She wasn't carrying a weapon. She wasn't shouting or making threats. If anything, she sounded almost conversational.

And yet...

Every instinct I possessed was telling me the same thing.

She was dangerous.

Far more dangerous than the Devil that had nearly killed me.

The realization sent a chill through my body.

"My apologies."

A calm voice interrupted my thoughts

"I believe the young lady is expected elsewhere."

The invisible pressure hanging over the street disappeared almost instantly.

The woman sighed dramatically before looking beyond me.

"Oh..."

"So you've come personally."

I turned.

A tall man stood only a few steps away.

He appeared no older than thirty, with a straight posture that carried quiet authority rather than intimidation. His clothing was immaculate without being ostentatious, and although nothing about his appearance seemed particularly extraordinary, the surrounding street somehow felt... steadier... simply because he was standing there.

I recognized him immediately.

The Pope.

Smith.

I'd seen him only once before from a distance during morning prayers.

Now...

Standing this close...

His presence was impossible to ignore.

He inclined his head politely toward the woman.

"Good afternoon."

She laughed softly.

"Always so courteous."

Smith folded his hands behind his back.

"I find it preferable to unnecessary violence."

"As do I."

For a moment...

Neither moved.

Then, to my complete surprise, Smith reached into his coat and withdrew a small velvet pouch.

"I believe," he said evenly, "this should compensate you for the inconvenience."

The woman glanced at the pouch.

Then at him.

Then back again.

"...You're buying me off?"

"I am compensating you for your wasted afternoon."

She blinked once.

Then laughed—a genuine laugh this time.

"I have to admit..."

"...that's far more amusing than fighting."

She accepted the pouch, weighing it briefly in one hand before slipping it into a pocket.

"You know..."

Her crimson eyes drifted back toward me.

"I was beginning to like her. The scared puppy act was cute”.

"I suspected as much."

She smiled.

"Perhaps another day."

Smith's expression never changed.

"I would prefer not."

"So would your accountants, I imagine."

A faint chuckle escaped her before she gave an exaggerated bow.

"Very well."

"I've been paid."

"Our business is concluded."

Without another word...

She simply walked away.

No flash of light.

No explosion of spirituality.

Within moments...

She had disappeared into the evening crowd as though she had never been there at all.

Only after she vanished did I realize I had been holding my breath.

Smith remained where he was for another few seconds before turning toward me.

His expression was calm.

Almost kind.

"I trust she didn't trouble you excessively?"

I could only shake my head.

"...No."

"Good."

He looked briefly in the direction the Demoness had disappeared before returning his attention to me.

"Then allow me to carry your purchases back to the cathedral."

He smiled politely.

"I imagine you've had quite enough excitement for one shopping trip.

We walked in comfortable silence for several minutes, the evening crowds gradually thinning as the cathedral's towering silhouette came into view above the rooftops. With every step, the unease left behind by the mysterious woman faded a little more, though it refused to disappear entirely.

It wasn't simply that she had followed me.

It was the ease with which she had done so.

If His Holiness hadn't happened to appear...

I wasn't sure how the encounter would have ended.

Perhaps sensing where my thoughts had wandered, Pope Smith spoke without looking away from the road ahead.

"You're wondering why she left."

I hesitated before answering honestly.

"...Yes."

"Because she had no reason to remain."

His tone was calm, almost conversational.

"Contrary to what many young Beyonders imagine, not every meeting between powerful individuals ends in violence. Conflict is expensive. It attracts attention, creates unpredictable consequences, and often leaves everyone involved worse off than before."

He glanced toward me, the faintest smile touching his expression.

"Sometimes, all either party truly wants is to walk away."

I found myself thinking back to the velvet pouch.

"So... you simply paid her?"

"I compensated her for the time she chose not to spend elsewhere."

The answer was so matter-of-fact that I couldn't help smiling slightly.

"I suppose that's one way to look at it."

"It is also the least troublesome."

For another few moments, only our footsteps filled the quiet between us.

Eventually I spoke again.

"...Thank you."

He looked at me with mild curiosity.

"For what?"

"For helping me."

Smith's smile became almost imperceptibly warmer.

"I helped one of my Ravens."

"There is no debt between us."

His words should have ended the matter.

Instead...

They only made me feel more indebted.

He seemed to notice.

"You disagree."

"...A little."

He gave a quiet chuckle.

"Very well."

His hands remained clasped behind his back as we approached the broad staircase leading toward the cathedral.

"If repaying kindness eases your conscience..."

He paused briefly.

"...then allow me to give you an opportunity."

I looked up.

"An opportunity?"

Rather than answering immediately, Smith stopped at the foot of the cathedral steps, his gaze drifting toward the city stretching beyond us. From here, the rooftops of Mid Trier could be seen disappearing into the distance beneath the fading light of evening.

"There has been..." he began thoughtfully, "...a troubling pattern developing over the past several weeks."

His voice remained calm, though it carried enough weight that my attention sharpened immediately.

"In Mid Trier, several children have disappeared."

I felt my expression tighten.

"Disappearances?"

He nodded.

"Not all at once. Not even frequently enough to immediately suggest a connection."

He looked back toward me.

"A child vanishes."

"A week passes."

"Then another."

"And occasionally..."

His expression grew more serious.

"...an adult as well."

"The city guard has investigated?"

"They have."

"And found very little."

He began climbing the cathedral steps once more, speaking as though discussing tomorrow's weather rather than missing people.

"The Church has likewise begun making inquiries."

I followed beside him.

"...Do you believe it's supernatural?"

"I believe it deserves investigation."

It wasn't quite an answer.

I suspected that was intentional.

As we reached the great cathedral doors, Smith finally stopped.

"Tomorrow morning, Captain Ashcroft will officially brief your team."

"My team?"

He inclined his head.

"It will be your first assignment as an Umbral Raven."

Despite everything that had happened over the past week, hearing those words caused my heart to beat just a little faster.

"My first..."

"Investigation," he finished.

I nodded slowly.

"What exactly will I be expected to do?"

His expression became noticeably firmer.

"Observe."

"Question."

"Record."

"Think."

He allowed those words to settle before continuing.

"You are not being sent to confront whatever may be responsible."

The emphasis he placed on not left little room for misunderstanding.

"If your team uncovers evidence of a Beyonder, a dangerous creature, or anything beyond your ability to safely handle..."

He met my eyes.

"...you withdraw."

"You report your findings."

"And you allow those better suited to the task to act."

For reasons I couldn't entirely explain...

Those instructions were reassuring.

They acknowledged something I had quietly worried about ever since joining the Ravens.

I wasn't expected to be a hero.

Not yet.

Smith seemed satisfied by my understanding.

"The greatest mistake inexperienced investigators make is believing every mystery must be solved personally."

His gaze drifted toward the streets beyond the cathedral walls.

"A dead Raven carries no report."

The simple sentence lingered with me.

Professor Rowan had taught caution.

Roland had taught discipline.

Captain Ashcroft had taught responsibility.

Now...

The Pope had taught something equally important.

Knowing when not to fight.

Smith opened the cathedral doors, warm light spilling out across the stone steps.

"Rest well this evening, Miss Veil."

"Tomorrow, Captain Ashcroft will provide the details, introduce the remainder of your team's responsibilities, and answer any questions you may have."

He offered one final, reassuring smile.

"Tonight..."

"...simply be proud."

"You've survived your first two weeks."

As he disappeared into the cathedral, I remained standing on the steps for a few moments longer, looking out across the sprawling city below.

Somewhere in Mid Trier...

Children were disappearing.

Tomorrow...I can finally try to make a difference and save others this time.

The next morning came with the familiar ringing of the cathedral bells, their solemn chimes echoing across the city long before the streets outside began to fill with life. By the time I arrived at the Umbral Ravens' headquarters, the office had already settled into its usual rhythm. Lydia was surrounded by another impossible mountain of reports that somehow never seemed to shrink no matter how diligently she worked through them. Roland sat near the window with his revolver completely disassembled across the table, carefully cleaning each component with the same meticulous attention he gave everything else. Across the room, Aldren was in the middle of passionately defending himself against accusations that he had "embellished" another story from a previous investigation, while Captain Ashcroft quietly read the morning's case summaries with the patience of someone who had long ago accepted that this argument would never truly end.

"...I'm telling you," Aldren insisted, gesturing animatedly with his teacup, "the building absolutely exploded."

Captain Ashcroft lowered the report just enough to glance over its edge. "It caught fire."

"It exploded after catching fire."

"There was a single barrel of lamp oil."

"Exactly!"

Lydia sighed without bothering to look up from her paperwork. "One day you'll tell that story honestly."

"I have..."

"When?"

Aldren paused for a moment before admitting, "Fine…but it isn't like everything he says is a lie either...right Viel?”

I sighed knowing he just wanted to drag me down with him and shruged

“When half your stories are made up it's hard to defend you.”

He immediately pouted looking betrayed.

I couldn't help but grin at the cute looking pout he made and a moment after I paused. Did I just call another man “cute” I thought to myself.

The quiet laughter that followed had barely faded when the office door opened once more.

The sound of the door also drew me out of the thought spiral that my line of thinking no doubt would draw me into and I immediately shook my head to get rid of the treacherous thoughts.

Ignoring the uncomfortable warmth gathering in my cheeks I turn to the door.

It was some official from the church in red and black robes wearing the Hanged Mans sacred emblem around his neck

The man looked to be in his late 30’s. Tall tanned skin and a scar under his lip and dark piercing brown eyes.

I knew what his next words would be….

“You and your team have been requested to report to the Church Aurora HQ. You all shall be given a mission, gather your things now and come with me”

The aura in the room suddenly turned tense.

It was finally time to prove my worth….

-End-

The art is The Old City, Art Painting by Robert Spencer

And chapter over! This chapter took a bit longer then expected to get done! I also want to give a very special thanks to u/Crimson_Demoness for allowing to to use her shop for my RP and also allowing me to commission and buy some of her work so big thank you! Another big thanks to u/Intelligent-Tour9467 for reaching out to me and asking me to participate in this upcoming mission. So special thanks to them as the Pope of the Aroura Order!! Also if I have taken to many liberties on certain aspects or if you feel like I have gotten anything wrong please don't hesitate to let me know! Thank you all!

Chapter 13 -Fragments of Digestion-

The cathedral had only just begun to stir when I arrived at Professor Rowan's study the following morning. Soft rays of sunlight filtered through the stained-glass windows overlooking the gardens, bathing the room in muted shades of violet and crimson. The familiar scent of old parchment, candle wax, and dried herbs lingered in the air, while the Professor was already arranging several unusually thick tomes across his desk. Unlike the books from yesterday's lesson, these appeared far older. Their leather bindings had darkened with age, their corners rounded by countless hands, and instead of titles each bore only strange symbols pressed into the covers with faded gold leaf.

Professor Rowan noticed my curiosity and smiled as I took my usual seat.

"I hope yesterday's lesson wasn't too overwhelming."

"I understood most of it."

"Most?"

"There are still a few things I'm trying to make sense of."

He chuckled softly. "Good. Mysticism should leave you with questions. If you leave every lesson believing you understand everything, then either I have failed as a teacher or you've become dangerously overconfident."

As he spoke, he opened the largest of the books and carefully turned several yellowed pages until an enormous diagram spread across both halves of the desk. It was unlike anything I had ever seen. Countless branching lines extended across the parchment like the roots of an ancient tree, each marked by names, symbols, and numbered Sequences written in several different hands. Even a brief glance was enough to make my head spin.

"This," Professor Rowan said, resting one finger upon the edge of the chart, "is the foundation upon which nearly every orthodox Beyonder organization understands the hidden world. According to the knowledge preserved by the Churches, there are twenty-two known Beyonder pathways."

My eyes slowly followed the branching diagram.

Every pathway descended through a series of numbered Sequences, beginning at Sequence Nine before climbing steadily upward toward powers that seemed almost impossible to comprehend. Some names sounded almost mundane—Hunter, Warrior, Lawyer, Reader—while others immediately inspired unease. Seer. Corpse Collector. Prisoner. Devil. Monster. Even seeing them written on parchment sent an involuntary shiver down my spine.

Professor Rowan allowed me a few moments to study the chart before continuing.

"Every Beyonder walks only one of these roads. The potion you consumed did not merely grant you supernatural abilities. It placed you upon a pathway, one that will influence how your powers develop, how you perceive the world, and perhaps even how you yourself gradually change."

He spoke calmly, as though discussing history rather than something that would shape the rest of my life.

"No pathway is inherently stronger than another. They simply excel in different areas. Hunters dominate battle through overwhelming aggression. Spectators possess extraordinary insight into the hearts of others. Seers survive by preparation and foresight. Lawyers manipulate order itself. Every pathway has strengths, weaknesses, and dangers unique to it."

His finger moved across the diagram until it finally rested upon a familiar symbol.

An inverted figure suspended from a tree.

"The Hanged Man."

For reasons I couldn't explain, simply seeing the symbol caused my attention to sharpen.

"This," he said quietly, "is your pathway."

Turning the page, he revealed another illustration devoted entirely to the Hanged Man. Compared to the larger chart, this one contained detailed notes beneath each Sequence, observations gathered over generations of Beyonders and scholars. At the bottom was the name I already knew.

Sequence Nine — Secret Suppliant.

"A rather unusual title," I admitted.

Professor Rowan nodded. "Many people focus on the word secret, believing it defines the Sequence. In truth, the more important word is suppliant. A suppliant is one who seeks. One who humbly asks. One who searches for truths greater than themselves."

His gaze drifted briefly toward the window overlooking the cathedral courtyard before returning to me.

"The Hanged Man pathway has always been associated with the pursuit of knowledge. Not ordinary scholarship, but hidden truths—those fragments of the world concealed beneath reality's surface. As a Secret Suppliant, your spirituality is naturally stronger than that of most newly advanced Beyonders. Ritualistic magic will come more easily to you. Divination will feel more intuitive. Likewise, your sensitivity to supernatural phenomena will be significantly sharper than that of an ordinary person."

I nodded slowly. Nearly everything he described matched my own experiences over the past several days.

"But," he continued, his tone growing more solemn, "the pursuit of knowledge is never without danger. Every pathway carries its own burden, and yours is among the easiest to misunderstand. The hidden world contains truths that mankind was never meant to uncover. Some books should remain unopened. Some names should never be spoken. Some questions carry answers capable of destroying the person who asked them."

A memory surfaced unbidden—the warnings I'd heard since joining the Church, the stories of Beyonders who lost control, and the Devil whose whispers had nearly claimed my life before I had even understood what was happening.

"...How do I know which knowledge is safe?"

Professor Rowan smiled, though there was sadness in it.

"You don't."

The answer surprised me.

"You learn. You exercise caution. You ask those with greater experience before venturing into territory you do not understand. Pride has claimed more Beyonders than ignorance ever has."

He closed the book gently before folding his hands together atop the cover.

"There is one final piece of advice I offer every newly advanced Beyonder, though I confess I have never been able to prove it academically."

His expression became thoughtful, almost as though recalling former students.

"I have observed that those who seek to truly understand the nature of their Sequence—not merely its abilities, but the idea it represents—often seem to... mature more smoothly than those who treat their powers as little more than tools."

I frowned slightly.

"...Mature?"

He gave a small shrug.

"It is the only word I have found suitable."

Rising from his chair, he began returning the ancient volumes to their shelves, speaking almost absentmindedly as he did so.

"Consider what it means to be a Secret Suppliant. Reflect upon why your abilities take the form they do. Observe yourself while using them. Ask whether you are merely wielding your powers... or whether you truly understand them."

He glanced back over his shoulder with a faint smile.

"I suspect you'll find the answer more enlightening than anything written in these books."

I quietly copied his words into my notebook.

Understand the nature of the Sequence.

Don't simply use its abilities.

Learn what it means to be a Secret Suppliant.

At the time, I believed they were simply the philosophical musings of an old scholar.

Only much later would I realize Professor Rowan had just pointed me toward one of the greatest secrets possessed by Beyonders... without ever speaking its name.

The remainder of the afternoon passed quietly.

Professor Rowan spent another hour introducing several of the more common pathways that an Umbral Raven might reasonably encounter during their investigations. He made no attempt to teach every Sequence—such a task would have taken months—but instead focused on recognition. Hunters often preferred direct confrontation. Spectators were frighteningly perceptive even without speaking. The Seer pathway specialized in preparation rather than overwhelming force. Corpse Collectors frequently appeared around graveyards and battlefields, while Devils were to be avoided unless accompanied by experienced Ravens.

"Remember," Professor Rowan said as he closed yet another book, "a Beyonder's Sequence tells you what they can do. It does not tell you what they will do. Underestimating someone because of their pathway is every bit as dangerous as overestimating them."

By the time the lesson concluded, my notebook had gained another dozen pages of hurried notes. My wrist ached from writing, and my mind felt even fuller than it had the previous day. Professor Rowan noticed the expression on my face and smiled sympathetically.

"I think that is enough knowledge for one day."

"I was beginning to agree."

He chuckled as he gathered the books back into neat stacks.

"Good. The mind digests knowledge much like the body digests food. Force too much into it at once and neither process ends well."

The comparison lingered in my thoughts longer than I expected.

After wishing the Professor a pleasant evening, I made my way back toward headquarters to collect my coat and exchange a few words with the others before retiring for the night. Aldren was already complaining about tomorrow's paperwork, Lydia had somehow acquired another mountain of reports despite finishing the last one only hours earlier, and Captain Ashcroft was quietly reviewing case files beside the fireplace.

It felt...

Normal.

Oddly enough, that was becoming one of the Church's greatest comforts.

After exchanging my goodnights, I climbed the familiar staircase toward the modest room that had become my home.

The cathedral had grown remarkably quiet by the time I closed the door behind me.

Only the distant tolling of evening bells and the occasional footsteps of passing clergy disturbed the silence. A single lamp burned beside the bed, casting a warm amber glow over the small room. My uniform hung neatly from its stand beside the wardrobe, while Professor Rowan's assigned books rested in an orderly pile atop the desk.

For several minutes, I simply stood there.

Then my gaze drifted toward the silver mirror resting carefully inside its wooden case.

Viel's mirror.

The same one she had once used while indulging her fascination with mysticism.

Slowly, I removed it from the box and laid it upon the desk.

Professor Rowan's words echoed quietly through my thoughts.

"Observe the nature of your Sequence."

"Seek understanding."

The Church had assured me there were safe rituals.

Safe beings.

Safe prayers.

There was only one way to become comfortable with them.

I would have to begin.

Remembering the notes I'd copied earlier that day, I carefully cleared the surface of the desk before arranging the ritual materials exactly as Professor Rowan had demonstrated. A small silver candle holder occupied the center, flanked by two ordinary white candles placed with deliberate symmetry. Beside them I arranged a handful of black tea leaves, a sprig of aromatic mint, and a shallow dish holding a few drops of cinnamon extract. Finally, after a brief hesitation, I poured a modest measure of red wine into a small cup borrowed from the dining hall.

Nothing extravagant.

Nothing dramatic.

Simply symbols.

Lighting the candles one after another, I allowed myself several slow breaths until the room fell completely silent.

The flickering flames cast long shadows across the walls.

I lifted the silver mirror, letting its polished surface catch the candlelight.

"My request," I whispered to the empty room, "is not for power..."

"...only knowledge."

Closing my eyes, I recited the prayer exactly as it had been written in the Church's liturgy.

“HE who possesses Knowledge of countless secrets”

“The embodiment of filth and degeneration of all living beings”

“The master of the world of shadows Ezcu123”

"I humbly seek Your guidance."

"I ask permission to learn."

"I ask permission to understand."

The words carried no visible power.

No blinding light answered.

No overwhelming pressure descended from above.

Instead...

The room simply became...

Still.

The silence deepened until even the distant cathedral bells seemed impossibly far away.

Something brushed gently against my spirituality.

Not an intrusion.

More like...

Someone quietly acknowledged my presence.

The candle flames dimmed.

The mirror's surface darkened, its reflection fading until it resembled a pool of perfectly still black water.

Then—

Knowledge arrived.

Not as a voice.

Not as spoken words.

Rather...

Understanding simply unfolded within my mind, as though I had remembered something I had never learned.

The Shadow World.

The divine realm of the Hanged Man.

Every cathedral dedicated to Him possessed a Gate of Shadows beneath its foundations, each serving as a point of connection to that vast and mysterious realm. To those granted permission, these sanctified places formed a hidden network spread across the world.

One day...

By performing the proper ritual and receiving the Lord's consent, it would be possible to step into the Shadow World through one church...

...and emerge from another.

Distance would matter. The farther apart the churches lay, the greater the spiritual cost required to traverse the connection.

A Beyonder of my current Sequence lacked both the spirituality and the authority to attempt such a feat.

The understanding lingered only briefly.

Not because it faded...

But because it settled.

Like ink dispersing through clear water, the knowledge slowly became part of me until it no longer felt foreign.

The Shadow World...

The divine realm of the Sin-Bearing Hanged Man.

Every cathedral dedicated to Him possessed a Gate of Shadows hidden beneath its foundations, each serving as an anchor between the physical world and that immeasurable sea of living darkness. Together, those gates formed an invisible network stretching across every church raised in His name.

Permission.

That was the foundation of it all.

No one simply entered the Shadow World.

A ritual was required—not because the ritual itself possessed the power to open the way, but because it was an act of supplication. One requested the Lord's leave to walk within His divine realm. Whether that request was granted depended upon many things: the sincerity of one's faith, the care taken in preparing the ritual, the reason for the request, and, ultimately...

His will.

If permission was granted, a Beyonder could establish a temporary connection to one of the Gates of Shadows beneath a cathedral. Using that connection, it would eventually become possible to travel from one church to another by passing through the Shadow World itself.

Distance mattered.

The farther apart the churches, the greater the spiritual burden required.

For someone of my current Sequence...

It was impossible.

The understanding continued unfolding.

At Sequence Six... perhaps Seven for those gifted with exceptional spirituality...

It might become possible to enter the Shadow World directly, bypassing the churches altogether.

That path demanded less spirituality than traversing the network between distant Gates.

It was, however...

Far more dangerous.

The final thought arrived with quiet certainty.

Never enter without permission.

The mirror's surface slowly returned to normal.

The candles flickered.

The pressure filling the room vanished as gently as it had appeared.

For several moments...

I simply sat there.

My heart beat noticeably faster than before.

Not from fear.

From awe.

That...

Had been an answer.

Not a booming divine proclamation.

Not a voice echoing through the heavens.

Simply knowledge.

A dangerous secret entrusted to someone who had asked with genuine humility.

Without realizing it, my hand drifted toward my chest.

Something...

Felt different.

It was difficult to describe.

The lingering heaviness that had settled deep within my spirituality ever since drinking the potion seemed...

Smaller.

Not gone.

Just...

Less oppressive.

Like an overfull glass from which someone had quietly poured away a few drops.

I frowned.

"...Strange."

There was no pain.

No surge of power.

No obvious change.

Only an odd sense of... ease.

As though the potion inside me had become ever so slightly calmer. I remained seated, trying to understand the sensation. I had felt it before, I know that much. It was much smaller though. During my teachings over the week I had felt something similar but it was almost miniscule compared to this sensation. 

Had performing the ritual done that?

No...

That didn't seem right.

Professor Rowan had never mentioned rituals affecting a Beyonder's condition.

Perhaps it was simply because I had finally put today's lessons into practice.

Perhaps understanding my own abilities had eased my mind.

Or perhaps...

The knowledge itself had changed something.

Perhaps it was the action of asking.

I couldn't tell.

Nor did I have anyone I could reasonably ask.

I look at the silver mirror resting upon the desk.

Its polished surface reflected the room exactly as before.

Ordinary.

Silent.

Yet now, whenever I looked into it...

I couldn't help wondering how many unseen worlds existed just beyond that reflection.

As I slipped beneath the blankets a few minutes later, sleep came surprisingly quickly.

My final thought before consciousness claimed me was not of Devils...

Nor of the strange life I had inherited...

But of an endless sea of shadows stretching beneath the world.

And somewhere within that vast darkness...

A patient God who had answered the prayer of a newly born Secret Suppliant.

Sleep did not come as easily as I had expected.

For nearly an hour, I lay awake beneath the heavy blanket, replaying the ritual again and again in my mind. The sensation of receiving knowledge directly from the Lord had been unlike anything I had ever experienced. There had been no voice, no vision, no miracle that could be seen with the eyes. Only understanding. Quiet. Certain. Almost frighteningly intimate.

Eventually, curiosity won.

I climbed back out of bed.

The room was just as silent as before, the cathedral having settled completely into its nightly stillness. Beyond the window, moonlight washed over the gardens, while somewhere in the distance the city's clocks announced the late hour.

"...Just one more."

I wasn't even certain why I whispered it.

Perhaps because speaking louder somehow felt disrespectful.

Once again I arranged the small altar exactly as Professor Rowan had instructed. Fresh black tea leaves rested beside the candles, a sprig of mint lay carefully beside the mirror, and a small measure of red wine completed the offering. I inspected every detail twice before lighting the candles.

If I had learned anything over the past two days...

It was that care mattered.

Closing my eyes, I steadied my breathing before speaking the familiar prayer.

“HE who possesses Knowledge of countless secrets”

“The embodiment of filth and degeneration of all living beings”

“The master of the world of shadows Ezcu123”

"I humbly seek Your guidance."

"I ask permission to learn."

"I ask permission to understand."

The room grew quiet once more.

Not silent.

Quiet.

As though the world itself had paused to listen.

The mirror darkened.

Its surface lost all reflection until it resembled an endless pool of black water stretching beyond sight.

This time...

The knowledge came differently.

Instead of a single revelation unfolding naturally within my thoughts, countless fragments rushed toward me all at once. Shadows twisted through my mind like ink dropped into clear water, carrying names, images, and concepts that seemed to exist only for the briefest instant before vanishing again.

Most disappeared before I could grasp them.

A few...

Stayed.

Shadow Spy.

The name alone caused an image to bloom within my thoughts.

A shadow separating from its owner.

Sliding silently across walls and floors.

Seeing.

Hearing.

Extending one's senses far beyond the limits of the human body.

The image vanished.

Another followed immediately.

Shadow Tricks.

Shadows stretching unnaturally.

Changing shape.

Taking forms they should never possess.

Creating false silhouettes where none existed only moments before.

Again...

It disappeared.

A third.

Shadow Friendship.

Not command.

Not domination.

Recognition.

An aura that caused the countless ordinary shadows scattered throughout the world to regard their bearer as something... familiar.

Something they need not fear.

Another fragment drifted past.

Degenerate Touch.

A pale hand resting against another's skin.

Warm flesh rapidly turning cold.

Vitality fading.

Decay beginning where fingertips lingered.

The sensation made me instinctively pull my own hand back despite nothing actually touching it.

Finally...

One last image remained.

Bleeding Resistance.

Blood.

Not stopping because a wound had healed...

But because it had been commanded to remain.

The understanding lasted only a heartbeat.

Then—

Everything vanished.

The mirror reflected my room once again.

The candles burned quietly.

The oppressive stillness lifted as though it had never existed.

I remained seated, breathing noticeably harder than before.

"...What..."

My voice barely escaped my lips.

None of those abilities belonged to me.

I knew that instinctively.

If anything...

They felt distant.

As though I had glimpsed pages from a book I wasn't yet capable of reading.

Knowledge.

Nothing more.

Nothing less.

I reached for my notebook almost automatically, writing each name down before memory could dull their edges.

Shadow Spy.

Shadow Tricks.

Shadow Friendship.

Degenerate Touch.

Bleeding Resistance.

Beside each, I copied every detail I could still remember.

Professor Rowan had emphasized more than once that forgotten knowledge was little different from knowledge never learned at all.

Only after setting down the pen did I notice it again.

That same peculiar sensation.

The heaviness deep within my spirituality...

Shifted.

As is whatever resided deep within side me.

Like a few more cups of sand had slipped from a scale balanced somewhere inside my soul.

It was subtle enough that I might have dismissed it entirely had I not experienced it once already.

"...Again..."

I closed my eyes.

The feeling lasted only a few seconds before fading completely, leaving behind nothing except a faint sense of clarity.

Whatever had happened...

It wasn't imagination.

Receiving those secrets...

Understanding them, even incompletely...

Had changed something.

I still couldn't explain it.

Nor could I tell whether it was the ritual itself, the knowledge I had received, or simply the act of earnestly seeking truths hidden beyond ordinary understanding.

Perhaps Professor Rowan would know.

The thought crossed my mind only briefly before I shook my head.

No.

He had specifically said the Lord might answer prayers...

But somehow...

I doubted he expected students to spend their evenings repeatedly asking a god for increasingly dangerous secrets.

That seemed...

Unwise.

I stumble as I take down the wall of spirituality and notice my nose is bleeding pretty badly.

A small smile tugged at the corner of my mouth despite myself.

"I should probably stop while I'm ahead."

Carefully extinguishing the candles, I packed away the offerings and returned the silver mirror to its wooden box.

This time, when I climbed back into bed, sleep claimed me almost immediately.

It appears rituals of this nature take up far more spirituality than I expected….

-----------------
Far beneath the cathedral…

Beyond the Gate of Shadows...

The hidden world waited patiently, and an invisible tethered lingered leaving something
behind… 

---------------

The days that followed settled into a comfortable rhythm.

For the first time since arriving in this unfamiliar world, my life no longer felt as though it was being swept along by forces beyond my control. Each morning began with breakfast alongside the Umbral Ravens before several hours of instruction under Professor Rowan. Afternoons alternated between firearms practice with Roland, physical conditioning, and lessons from Captain Ashcroft on investigative procedure, while evenings were usually reserved for reading or copying notes until my eyes grew too tired to focus.

Somehow...

Without noticing exactly when it had happened...

The cathedral had begun to feel like home.

The sisters greeted me by name whenever we crossed paths in the corridors. Priests no longer regarded me as the bewildered young woman rescued from the streets, but as one of the Ravens under their care. Even Aldren's constant attempts at humor had become oddly comforting, while Lydia had quietly appointed herself responsible for ensuring I remembered mundane necessities such as eating lunch before Professor Rowan buried me beneath another mountain of books.

It was a peaceful routine.

One I found myself grateful for.

Yet beneath that ordinary routine, another habit had quietly taken root.

Every evening, after returning to my room, I would prepare a small altar exactly as Professor Rowan had taught me.

Black tea leaves.

Fresh mint.

A few drops of cinnamon.

Occasionally, a small cup of red wine.

The ritual itself never changed.

I offered no extravagant requests.

I sought no miraculous powers.

I simply prayed.

Sometimes I directed my prayers toward the Sin-Bearing Hanged Man Himself, asking only for understanding worthy of being granted. Other evenings, remembering Professor Rowan's lessons, I respectfully addressed one of the Lord's Angels instead.

The Lady of Apocalypse and War remained distant. More than once I completed an entire ritual without receiving so much as the faintest stirring of my spirituality. Professor Rowan had warned me this might happen, and so I accepted it without disappointment.

"An Angel is not obliged to answer every prayer," he had said.

"The absence of a response is not rejection."

"It is simply silence."

The White and Blood Angel proved... different.

His rituals carried a strangely solemn atmosphere. Whenever I directed a respectful prayer toward the redeemed Angel, the room seemed to grow noticeably colder, while the candle flames burned with an almost motionless steadiness. He rarely answered directly, yet on three occasions I received fragments of obscure knowledge concerning mystical creatures and the symbolic nature of flesh, blood, and corruption.

Nothing immediately useful.

Everything carefully recorded in my notebook.

Each answer raised twice as many questions as it resolved.

I found myself strangely enjoying that.

The Lord Himself, however...

His responses were unlike anyone else's.

There were evenings when my prayers concluded without incident, leaving only extinguished candles and cooling tea behind. Then, without warning, another night would bring a single revelation so profound that I would spend hours afterward trying to understand its implications.

Never enough to satisfy my curiosity.

Always enough to deepen it.

One evening brought a better understanding of symbolic correspondences between shadow and concealment.

Another revealed subtle distinctions between spirituality and mental strength that Professor Rowan had only briefly mentioned during class.

A third left me contemplating the strange relationship between prayer, symbolism, and authority long after midnight.

None of the knowledge felt random.

Each piece seemed chosen.

Measured.

As though someone had considered exactly how much I was ready to receive... and nothing more.

By the end of the week, my notebook had become almost unrecognizable.

Pressed herbs marked important pages.

Small diagrams filled the margins.

Entire sections had been rewritten after later revelations forced me to correct earlier assumptions.

Professor Rowan smiled the first time he noticed.

"Excellent."

I looked up from my notes.

"...What's excellent?"

"You've stopped copying my lectures."

I frowned.

"I still copy everything."

"Yes."

He pointed toward one of the pages.

"But now you're arguing with them."

I followed his finger.

Without realizing it, I had filled nearly half a page questioning one of his explanations before proposing an alternative interpretation based on a ritual I had personally performed.

"...Oh."

Professor Rowan's smile widened.

"Knowledge only truly becomes your own once you begin wrestling with it."

For some reason...

That compliment pleased me more than any praise I'd received at the firing range.

It was during one of those quiet evenings that I finally noticed the pattern.

I had just finished another ritual directed toward the Lord, this one ending with a brief but thought-provoking insight regarding shadows cast by spiritual beings. After extinguishing the candles, I leaned back in my chair, intending to organize my notes before bed.

Instead...

I froze.

That feeling again.

The same subtle easing deep within my spirituality.

Not dramatic.

Not overwhelming.

Simply...

Less resistance.

I closed my eyes.

The sensation had become familiar enough that I could no longer dismiss it as coincidence.

Every time...

Every single time...

It happened after receiving hidden knowledge through prayer.

Not every prayer.

Only the ones that were answered.

Only the ones that revealed something genuinely mysterious.

I slowly opened the notebook resting before me.

Page after page contained dates.

Subjects.

Questions.

Answers.

Almost absentmindedly, I began comparing them.

The stronger the revelation...

The clearer the sensation afterward.

The more unsettling the knowledge...

The greater the feeling that something inside me had settled into place.

"...Interesting."

I tapped the end of my pen thoughtfully against the desk.

It wasn't the ritual itself.

Nor the offerings.

Nor even the act of praying.

It was...

Receiving knowledge.

Secret knowledge.

Knowledge hidden from ordinary people.

Dangerous enough that Professor Rowan would likely have preferred I never learn it without supervision.

The realization sent a small thrill through me.

I still had no idea why it happened.

But for the first time...

I felt as though I had stumbled onto a principle.

Not a rule.

Not a law.

Just...

A direction.

My gaze drifted toward the notebook where Professor Rowan's advice from several days earlier remained written across the top of a page.

Understand the nature of your Sequence.

Don't merely use its abilities.

A slow smile spread across my face.

"...Seeking..."

I whispered the word aloud.

"A Secret Suppliant..."

"...seeks."

Not power. Not glory, but knowledge, forbidden, hidden, secret. The title suddenly felt...appropriate.

No, more than appropriate.

Meaningful.

I still couldn't explain why understanding those secrets eased the burden of the potion within me.

But perhaps...

I didn't need to understand the mechanism yet.

Perhaps it was enough to understand the direction.

For now...

I would continue seeking.

One Prayer at a time.

One secret at a time.

-End-

Art made is Photography Black Magic Ritual by Heartland Arts

Finally starting to work on digestion! Once again I must give a special thanks to the Hanged man u/Ezcu123 for helping come up with the ideas and acting principles for this sequence. Along with allowing my prayers to reach them and for them to respond!

Chapter 11 -Fragments and Training-

Professor Rowan remained seated for a few moments after closing the notebook, his fingers idly tracing the worn leather cover as though debating where best to continue. At last, he rose from his chair and crossed to one of the cabinets lining the study. Unlocking it with another small silver key, he carefully withdrew a shallow wooden tray divided into several compartments. Resting within were neatly labeled bundles of dried herbs, small glass bottles filled with fragrant oils, polished gemstones, powdered minerals, and objects that appeared utterly mundane at first glance.

He placed the tray between us before speaking.

"Now that you understand who may safely receive a ritual, we must discuss how such rituals are properly constructed. One of the most common mistakes among inexperienced mystics is believing that a ritual consists solely of reciting an incantation. In reality, words are only one part of the process. Every ritual is built upon symbolism."

Picking up a dried sprig of mint, he held it delicately between his fingers.

"Everything placed upon an altar possesses meaning. The candles, the direction they face, the incense that burns, the objects offered, even the location where the ritual is performed—all of it contributes to establishing a symbolic connection with the existence you wish to reach. Mysticism is, in many respects, a language. Symbols are its vocabulary."

He set the mint back into the tray before selecting a small pouch tied with black cord. Loosening it, he allowed several dark tea leaves to spill into his palm. Their aroma was rich and earthy, carrying a faint bitterness that lingered in the air.

"Our Lord is no exception."

I instinctively sat a little straighter.

"Like every deity, the Sin-Bearing Hanged Man possesses preferences. These are not arbitrary demands born from vanity, nor do they somehow 'feed' Him in the literal sense, as some misguided occultists believe. Rather, they are symbols that resonate with His authority and establish a stronger mystical correspondence between the ritual and the divine realm."

He gestured toward the tray one item at a time.

"Black tea leaves are among the most commonly used offerings. They represent contemplation, endurance, and the quiet bearing of burdens—qualities deeply associated with our Lord's authority."

Next came the sprig of mint.

"Aromatic mint herbs symbolize clarity of mind amidst darkness. They remind us that even when surrounded by corruption, one's thoughts need not become corrupted as well."

Finally, he uncorked a tiny crystal vial, allowing the warm scent of cinnamon to drift into the room.

"Cinnamon extract is another favored offering. Its fragrance carries remarkable symbolic weight in ritualistic traditions predating even the Fourth Epoch. It represents perseverance through hardship and the warmth of hope carried into places where little warmth remains."

He returned each offering to its place before reaching beneath the desk. To my surprise, he produced a bottle of dark red wine and, wrapped neatly in cloth, a small loaf of garlic bread.

I blinked.

"...I don't think those were in any of Viel's books."

Professor Rowan chuckled softly.

"They rarely are. Mysticism is a living discipline. As our Lord has established His Church, certain correspondences have become recognized through repeated successful rituals."

He uncorked the wine and poured a small amount into a silver chalice resting nearby.

"Red wine is frequently offered during prayers of gratitude or requests for protection. It symbolizes both sacrifice and fellowship. To share wine is to acknowledge trust."

He then unwrapped the bread, breaking off a small piece before placing it upon a porcelain plate.

"As for garlic bread..." His expression became almost amused. "I confess that many new initiates react exactly as you just did."

"I was trying very hard not to stare."

"I noticed."

The Professor smiled before continuing. "Bread has always represented sustenance and hospitality. Garlic, meanwhile, has long been regarded in various mystical traditions as a ward against corruption and unseen evils. When the two are offered together, they symbolize shelter freely given to those who walk difficult roads. Our Lord has shown a particular affinity for that symbolism."

For a moment, I simply stared at the simple meal resting upon the altar.

It was strangely... ordinary.

No precious jewels.

No rivers of blood.

No impossible treasures gathered from ancient ruins.

Just tea. Herbs. Spices. Wine. Bread.

"I expected something..." I admitted, searching for the right word. "...more extravagant."

Professor Rowan laughed, the sound warm enough to fill the quiet study.

"So do many people. They assume the greater the existence, the greater the extravagance required to attract its attention. Fortunately, the hidden world is rarely so superficial."

His expression softened.

"The value of an offering lies far less in its monetary worth than in its symbolic correspondence. A wealthy nobleman offering a chest of gold that bears no relation to the ritual may achieve less than an ordinary priest offering a handful of tea leaves with sincere reverence."

He gently arranged the offerings into the center of the table, forming what looked less like a sacrifice and more like a humble afternoon tea.

"You will discover this is true of nearly every orthodox deity. Each possesses symbols that resonate with their authority, and those symbols shape the rituals performed in their honor. As you continue your studies, you will memorize the correspondences of all the orthodox Churches, not so that you may invoke them, but so that you may recognize them. A skilled Raven should be able to enter a room, glance at an altar, and determine who—or what—the ritualist intended to contact."

He looked at me with a faint smile.

"And sometimes, more importantly..."

"...whether they succeeded."

The room fell quiet again as I looked over the simple arrangement before us. It was remarkable how mundane it appeared, yet I now understood that each object carried a meaning invisible to anyone unfamiliar with the hidden world.

Mysticism, I was beginning to realize, was less about performing miracles...

...and more about learning to speak a language that reality itself understood.

Professor Rowan turned another page in the notebook before pausing.

"There is one final matter regarding ritualistic offerings that you should understand."

I looked up from my notes.

"You have already learned that every deity possesses preferred correspondences. The same is often true of Angels. While a ritual directed toward an Angel can certainly be performed using offerings associated with the Lord, establishing a stronger symbolic connection sometimes requires offerings that resonate more directly with that Angel's own authorities and history."

His finger came to rest beneath the name of the White and Blood Angel.

"The Lord's symbolic son possesses... rather unusual correspondences."

"...Because of the Abyss?"

Professor Rowan inclined his head.

"In part."

He folded his hands before continuing.

"Before coming under the Lord's protection, he walked the Path of the Abyss. Though he has long since sought redemption and faithfully serves the Church, traces of that history remain reflected in the symbolism surrounding him."

I felt my pen hesitate over the page.

"...What kind of offerings?"

"The remains of powerful supernatural creatures."

I blinked.

"...Remains?"

"Corpses, to be precise."

My expression must have changed because Professor Rowan gave a small, understanding smile.

"I expected that reaction."

He reached for another book and opened it to an illustrated bestiary.

"The bodies of Succubi, Gorgons, Fire Salamanders, Sphinxes, Weather Giants, Magma Elves, and Demonic Wolves are all known to possess a strong mystical correspondence with the White and Blood Angel."

The illustrations were impressive.

And more than a little unsettling.

Professor Rowan continued before I could ask the obvious question.

"...People actually use these in rituals?"

"Occasionally."

He closed the book.

"But not you."

His answer was immediate.

"Miss Veil, understand this clearly."

"The overwhelming majority of Ravens will never perform a ritual requiring such offerings."

He leaned back in his chair.

"These correspondences exist primarily for senior clergy, researchers of mysticism, or high-ranking Ravens conducting operations against exceptionally dangerous entities."

His expression became more serious.

"In practice, if you ever found yourself in possession of the corpse of a Sphinx..."

A faint smile crossed his face.

"...your first priority should be explaining to your Captain why you fought a Sphinx."

I couldn't help laughing.

"I suppose that's fair."

"The Church has no expectation that ordinary believers gather such offerings. They are simply documented correspondences, much like herbs, gemstones, or incense. Most exist solely to deepen one's understanding of mystical symbolism."

He tapped the notebook gently.

"It is knowledge."

"Not instruction."

I quietly wrote the list into my notebook anyway.

Seeing me finish writing, Professor Rowan smiled approvingly.

"Good."

"You needn't memorize every correspondence today."

"But someday..."

His gaze drifted toward the ritual circle in the center of the study.

"...recognizing the significance of an offering left upon an altar may tell you exactly who—or what—someone intended to contact."

I looked once more at the list.

The hidden world truly did have a language of its own.

And every lesson seemed to reveal just how much of it I still had to learn.

Professor Rowan allowed the silence to settle once more, giving me time to organize the whirlwind of information that had filled the better part of the morning. My notebook already contained several pages of hurried notes, hastily sketched ritual circles, and more underlined warnings than I cared to count. Seeing the state of it, the old scholar smiled to himself.

"I imagine your mind feels rather full."

"...That's one way to describe it."

He chuckled warmly.

"Good. Mysticism should never feel simple after one's first lesson. If it does, then either the teacher has failed... or the student has misunderstood."

Closing his own notebook, he rose from his chair and began returning various ritual components to their proper cabinets with practiced care.

"There is still much we have yet to cover. Spirit World navigation. Advanced ritual construction. Mystical correspondences between the pathways. The proper methods for identifying Sealed Artifacts. Spirit Vision. Anti-divination techniques. The signs of corruption and the earliest symptoms of losing control."

Each item was returned to its place with almost ritualistic precision.

"But those are lessons for another day."

He looked back toward me.

"A Beyonder who attempts to learn everything in a single sitting rarely remembers anything correctly."

I nodded, unable to disagree.

"Today's objective was considerably simpler."

He adjusted his spectacles.

"To ensure that when you leave this room, you possess enough knowledge to avoid making the sort of mistakes that kill most inexperienced mystics."

"...Comforting."

"It should be."

His smile widened ever so slightly.

"You are still alive."

I couldn't argue with that logic.

Professor Rowan extinguished the final candle upon his desk before gathering several of the books we'd referenced throughout the lesson.

"Your homework."

He slid three volumes toward me.

The first was an introductory text detailing the basic principles of ritualistic magic.

The second catalogued common mystical herbs, minerals, and their symbolic meanings.

The third was considerably thinner.

Prayers and Liturgies of the Aurora Order.

"You are not expected to memorize these by tomorrow," he said.

"I am expected to read them?"

"You are expected to begin."

He looked almost amused.

"The difference is significant."

Balancing the books beneath one arm, I rose from my chair.

"Thank you... Professor."

He inclined his head.

"You've done well today."

The compliment caught me slightly off guard.

"I have?"

"You asked questions."

He smiled.

"The students who concern me are never the ones asking questions."

"They are the ones convinced they already know the answers."

The quiet halls of the cathedral felt strangely different as we walked back toward the Umbral Ravens' headquarters.

Perhaps it was simply because I now understood a little more of what surrounded me.

The prayer halls above.

The Gate of Shadows hidden far below.

The sealed artifacts sleeping beneath layers of stone.

The angels whose names I had only just learned.

The entire cathedral had transformed in my mind.

It was no longer merely a church.

It was a fortress standing between humanity and the darkness.

As we descended the final staircase, the familiar murmur of conversation drifted through the headquarters once more.

Aldren was, unsurprisingly, in the middle of telling a story.

"...and then she had the audacity to say it was my fault."

Lydia didn't even look up from the paperwork she was signing.

"It was."

"I hadn't even reached the important part yet."

"I've heard the important part."

Professor Rowan quietly walked past the exchange.

"Our lesson has concluded."

Captain Ashcroft looked up from his desk.

"So soon?"

"For today."

The Captain nodded before closing the ledger he had been reviewing.

"Excellent."

His attention shifted toward me.

"Miss Veil, if you would come here for a moment."

The Captain's office occupied one corner of the headquarters, separated from the main room by a pair of heavy oak doors that had been left open throughout the morning. Unlike Professor Rowan's study, it was practical rather than scholarly. Maps covered one wall, each marked with colored pins and handwritten annotations. Shelves held neatly organized case files instead of ancient tomes, while a large iron safe stood against the far wall beside a locked cabinet that I suspected contained more than paperwork.

Captain Ashcroft gestured toward the chair opposite his desk.

"I won't keep you long."

Once I had taken my seat, he opened one of the drawers and withdrew a thick envelope sealed with the silver crest of the Church.

"I've already spoken with the cathedral's bursar."

He broke the wax seal and slid the envelope toward me.

"Ordinarily, Ravens receive their wages every Friday."

I looked at the envelope but made no move to pick it up.

"However..."

His expression softened.

"...your circumstances are somewhat unique."

He didn't need to explain.

Everything I owned fit inside the small room the Church had given me.

The clothes I'd arrived in weren't even mine.

"You've awakened in a new life with no savings, no employment, and no practical means of supporting yourself outside the Church."

He folded his hands.

"Under those circumstances, the Bishop has authorized an advance."

I carefully opened the envelope.

Inside rested a tidy stack of bank notes and several neatly wrapped rolls of coins.

"For the next three weeks," Captain Ashcroft explained, "your salary has been paid in advance."

I did the calculation in my head.

Four Louis d’or, Ten Verl d’or...

Three weeks…

Twelve Louis d’or

Forty Verl d’or

It was more money than I had ever held at one time.

I stared at it in silence.

"...This is..."

"A loan?"

Captain Ashcroft smiled.

"No."

"A gift?"

"No."

He shook his head.

"It is simply your wages."

He leaned back in his chair.

"The Church takes care of its own."

I looked down at the money again.

It wasn't merely the amount.

It was what it represented.

For the first time since waking in this world...

I had something resembling stability.

Somewhere to sleep.

Food to eat. People who expected me to return tomorrow. Employment. Purpose. My throat tightened unexpectedly.

"...Thank you."

Captain Ashcroft smiled.

"Spend it wisely."

Aldren's voice immediately carried in from outside the office.

"And don't let Lydia take you shopping."

"I heard that!"

"You were supposed to!"

Captain Ashcroft sighed.

"...On second thought..."

He looked toward the door.

"...perhaps let Lydia take you shopping."

Once we returned to the main headquarters, Captain Ashcroft unlocked the tall iron cabinet standing beside his office.

Unlike the safe, this one was lined with velvet rather than steel.

Several identical black leather cases rested neatly upon its shelves.

Each bore a small silver plaque engraved with a Raven's name.

Captain Ashcroft removed the only empty case before placing it gently upon the central table.

"This," he said, resting one hand upon the lid, "is issued to every Umbral Raven."

Even Aldren lowered his newspaper.

Lydia set aside her pen.

Roland looked up from cleaning his own revolver.

For the first time since I'd met them...

The room had become completely quiet.

Captain Ashcroft undid the brass clasps.

With a soft click...

The case opened.

Inside, resting upon black velvet, lay a polished silver badge, a beautifully maintained service revolver, a sealed ammunition case bearing the Church's crest, and a carefully folded black uniform embroidered with the silver raven upon its inner lining.

Captain Ashcroft looked at me with quiet pride.

"Miss Veil..."

"These are the tools of an Umbral Raven."

He gently lifted the silver badge first.

"And today..."

"They become yours."

Captain Ashcroft carefully lifted the silver badge from its velvet-lined compartment. It was heavier than I had expected when he placed it in my hand, its weight carrying far more significance than the polished silver alone could account for. The raven engraved upon its face spread its wings before a crescent moon, each feather carved with astonishing precision. Around the edge ran the words Church of the Aurora Order – Umbral Ravens, while the reverse bore a much simpler inscription.

Probationary Investigator

Veil

For several quiet moments, I simply stared at it.

"It doesn't seem like much," Captain Ashcroft said, noticing the way my thumb traced the engraved lettering. "But to members of the Church, this badge represents years of trust. It identifies you as one of our own, grants you authority to investigate incidents involving the supernatural, and serves as proof of your office should you ever require assistance from local clergy or law enforcement."

Professor Rowan stepped beside him, adjusting his spectacles as he examined the badge in my hand. "It is also engraved with several minor ritual arrays," he added. "Nothing powerful enough to be considered a Beyonder artifact, but sufficient to resist weak spiritual interference. It will not save your life against a Devil, but it may prevent a lesser spirit from clouding your thoughts or disguising itself while you're carrying it."

Captain Ashcroft nodded in agreement. "Treat it with the same care you would your revolver. If you ever lose it, report the loss immediately. We would much rather spend a week searching for a misplaced badge than discover it in the possession of someone who shouldn't have it."

"I understand."

"I know you do."

Satisfied, he gestured toward the second compartment of the case. Nestled within black velvet rested a revolver that immediately caught the light. Unlike the worn civilian firearm I had purchased only days earlier, this weapon had clearly been crafted specifically for the Church. The frame was forged from deep blued steel polished to a mirror sheen, while delicate silver engravings wound their way along the barrel and cylinder in the form of intertwining ravens disappearing into shadows. The grip was dark walnut, fitted perfectly to the hand, with the Church's crest carved subtly into its base.

Captain Ashcroft lifted it with practiced familiarity before offering it to me grip-first. "Your service revolver."

I accepted it carefully.

The moment it settled into my hand, I understood why Roland had insisted balance mattered so much. It wasn't especially heavy, nor particularly light. The weight rested naturally between my wrist and forearm, making the weapon feel almost like an extension of my arm rather than something I merely carried. Instinctively, I checked that the cylinder was empty before looking it over more closely.

Roland gave a barely perceptible nod.

"Good."

I looked up.

"You checked it."

"I did."

His expression remained as unreadable as ever. "Every time."

Professor Rowan smiled faintly. "A habit every Raven is expected to develop."

Captain Ashcroft folded his arms. "Assume every firearm is loaded until you've personally verified otherwise. Then verify it a second time if you've been distracted. Complacency has claimed more Ravens than faulty weapons ever have."

I nodded seriously before opening the cylinder once more, counting each empty chamber despite having already seen they were clear.

Roland's approval was subtle, but unmistakable.

"Better."

Captain Ashcroft reached into the case once more and withdrew a small black metal ammunition box. Unlike the revolver, this one bore a bright red wax seal stamped with the raven insignia. Breaking it carefully, he opened the lid to reveal six gleaming cartridges resting in individual velvet slots. At first glance they appeared identical to ordinary revolver rounds, but looking closer I noticed impossibly fine silver engravings covering each bullet from tip to casing. Tiny runes spiraled around the metal in patterns so intricate they were almost invisible.

"Demon Hunting Bullets," Professor Rowan said quietly. "Each one is handcrafted by artificers of the Church. The silver is ritually purified, the powder specially prepared, and every engraving carved by hand before being blessed beneath the Gate of Shadows."

Captain Ashcroft lifted one carefully between two fingers. "Against an ordinary criminal, these perform little better than conventional ammunition. Against creatures of the supernatural..." He paused briefly. "...the difference can mean survival."

He placed the cartridge back into its slot before closing the box.

"You are being issued six rounds today. You will carry them whenever you are on duty. However, you are not to use them unless ordered by a senior Raven or unless your life—or the life of another—is in immediate danger. These are difficult to manufacture and cannot simply be purchased."

"I understand."

"I know." His expression softened. "I'm telling you because every new Raven feels tempted to rely on them. Don't. Your greatest weapon is still your judgment."

Finally, Lydia unfolded the neatly pressed uniform and held it up for me to see properly. It was elegant without being ostentatious. A long black coat tailored for freedom of movement fell nearly to the knees, its interior lined with deep violet silk embroidered with subtle protective patterns. Beneath it rested a fitted waistcoat, crisp white shirt, black trousers reinforced at the knees, polished leather boots, gloves, and a shoulder holster designed specifically for the Church-issued revolver. Countless hidden pockets had been sewn into the lining, each positioned for ammunition, ritual materials, notebooks, chalk, silver powder, and other tools a Raven might need in the field.

"We try to avoid looking like soldiers," Lydia explained as she brushed an imaginary speck of dust from one sleeve. "People are far more willing to speak with investigators than armed patrols. Besides, the coat hides most of your equipment without restricting movement."

"It looks..." I searched for the right word as I ran my fingers across the fabric. "...expensive."

"It is," Aldren answered from across the room. "Which is why Roland nearly had a heart attack when I tore my first one climbing over a cemetery wall."

"I did not."

"You sighed!"

"...I did."

I saw his eye twitch and even listening to the teasing made me want to slug the man again even if it wasn't directed at me. 

Lydia laughed. "For Roland, that's practically screaming."

Captain Ashcroft looked toward me with an amused smile. "There are changing rooms just beyond the armory. Put it on. Once you've returned, we'll see how everything fits."

A few minutes later, I stood before the full-length mirror inside the changing room, fastening the final button of the waistcoat.

The uniform fit remarkably well.

The coat rested comfortably across my shoulders without feeling restrictive, while the trousers and boots allowed far more freedom of movement than I had expected. The revolver settled naturally into the shoulder holster beneath my left arm, hidden almost completely once I pulled the coat closed.

For a long moment...

I simply looked at my reflection.

Only this morning, I had been a frightened stranger wearing borrowed clothes.

Now...

A silver badge rested against my chest.

A Church-issued revolver hung beneath my arm.

The black coat of the Umbral Ravens draped across my shoulders.

It still felt unreal. The face staring back from the mirror wasn't mine. Not originally.

Yet...slowly...The woman reflected in the glass no longer looked like a stranger pretending to wear someone else's uniform. She looked like someone trying to grow into it. Taking a slow breath, I adjusted the badge one final time before opening the door. When I stepped back into headquarters, conversation paused almost immediately.

Lydia smiled first.

"Looks like it was made for you."

Aldren nodded thoughtfully.

“Still a bit short though”

I barely held myself back from walking forward and knocking the amused grin off of his face, then I paused as the idea caught up to me.

I sighed in frustration

“I'm not that short though…”

I whispered under my breath

My inner thoughts were interrupted when he started to speak again. 

"I give it... three days before she starts standing like Roland."

Roland looked up from cleaning his own revolver.

"...Your posture is acceptable."

Lydia burst into laughter.

"There it is."

I frowned.

"...What?"

She grinned.

"That was Roland's version of a compliment."

A faint warmth spread across my cheeks.

Captain Ashcroft allowed the moment to pass before reaching for his own coat.

"Excellent."

He checked the pocket watch hanging from his vest before snapping it shut.

"There's one last thing to do before lunch."

He looked toward Roland.

"Our newest Raven has a revolver."

Roland stood, holstering his own weapon in one smooth motion.

"Now she learns to use it."

Without another word, he turned toward a heavy iron door at the rear of headquarters, retrieving a ring of keys from his belt.

Captain Ashcroft smiled as he gestured for me to follow.

"The firing range lies beneath the eastern courtyard. It's where every Raven fires their first shot."

As the iron door swung open, a cool draft drifted up from the stone staircase descending into the darkness below.

I tightened my grip on the revolver case tucked beneath my arm.

It seemed...

My first practical lesson as an Umbral Raven was about to begin.

-End-

------

Art made by VirendraBhai on reddit

End of another chapter! Once again a BIG thanks to u/Ezcu123 for details and some of the rituals mention! Another thanks shall be given to u/Straight_Painter_846 for being kind enough to give me some details related to him as well to add! Of course like last time I added few details of my own to flesh certain parts out so if I got anything wrong it if anything needs correcting please let me know! Thank you everyone for all the support you have given thus far!

Praise the Hanged Man!

Chapter 10 -Fragments and Studies-

The conversation gradually dissolved into dozens of smaller ones.

Lydia returned to sorting through the reports that had accumulated upon her desk overnight, occasionally muttering under her breath whenever she found an improperly completed form. Aldren wandered back toward the fireplace with a fresh cup of coffee in one hand and his newspaper tucked beneath the other arm, somehow managing to appear both completely relaxed and perpetually ready to start another conversation. Roland disappeared so quietly that I didn't even notice him leave until the chair he had occupied sat empty once more.

The headquarters settled back into its natural rhythm.

It struck me that this was probably what it looked like every morning.

Investigations waiting to be assigned.

Reports needing to be filed.

Coffee growing cold while someone inevitably became distracted by work.

Despite everything I now knew about the hidden world, the room retained an almost ordinary atmosphere.

Perhaps that was precisely why the Umbral Ravens were able to endure it.

If every day felt like the end of the world, no one would survive very long.

A stack of papers sliding across the table pulled me from my thoughts.

Captain Ashcroft had placed a leather folder before me.

Unlike the documents detailing my schedule, this one bore the silver raven emblem embossed into the cover, surrounded by a thin ring of intricate runic markings that shimmered faintly whenever the light caught them.

"This," he said calmly, "is the final formality."

I rested a hand upon the folder but didn't open it immediately.

"...A contract?"

"In more ways than one."

The Captain folded his hands together.

"Every member of the Umbral Ravens signs one before beginning their service."

"It serves as both a legal agreement recognized by the Kingdom and a binding covenant with the Church."

His tone remained even, though the weight behind his words was unmistakable.

"It outlines your duties, your rights, the protections afforded to you by the Church, and the obligations expected of every Raven."

He smiled faintly.

"It is also considerably less intimidating than it sounds."

Lydia looked up from her paperwork.

"That's debatable."

Aldren nodded solemnly.

"There are several very frightening paragraphs regarding paperwork."

"The paperwork exists because of you."

"I maintain that incident was greatly exaggerated."

"You accidentally submitted an investigation report written on the back of a grocery list."

"It contained all the relevant information."

"It also contained your shopping!"

Aldren considered that.

"...The Captain did ask for complete documentation."

A quiet ripple of laughter spread through the headquarters.

Even Roland, who had somehow reappeared without my noticing, allowed the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth.

Captain Ashcroft waited patiently for the conversation to settle before gently opening the folder.

Inside rested several neatly written pages, each bearing both the Church's seal and that of the Kingdom.

He turned the first page toward me.

"I'll summarize the important sections."

His finger rested near the top of the document.

"First, your employment."

"As of today's date, you enter the service of the Church of the Aurora Order as a Probationary Umbral Raven. You are entitled to the compensation we discussed earlier, lodging within Church grounds should you choose to remain here, medical treatment, and instruction necessary for your duties."

I nodded slowly.

Nothing unexpected so far.

"The second section concerns confidentiality."

His expression became more serious.

"The existence of Beyonders, Sealed Artifacts, mystical investigations, and the operations of the Umbral Ravens are not to be disclosed to ordinary citizens except under direct authorization from the Church."

I found myself unsurprised.

If people knew even a fraction of what I'd learned over the past two days...

Panic would spread quickly.

Captain Ashcroft continued.

"The third concerns loyalty."

"You are not a soldier."

"You are not a prisoner."

His blue eyes met mine.

"If, one day, you choose to leave the Umbral Ravens, the Church will not chain you here."

That caught me off guard.

"...Really?"

"We ask for commitment."

He spoke with quiet certainty.

"Not captivity."

"You may resign your commission provided you surrender Church property, fulfill any outstanding obligations, and continue to honor your oath of secrecy."

Somehow...

That answer earned more of my respect than if resignation had been forbidden.

He trusted loyalty freely given.

Not loyalty demanded.

"The final section," he continued, "is perhaps the most important."

He turned to the last page.

There, beneath several lines of carefully written text, rested a blank space awaiting a signature.

At the very bottom was the silver raven crest.

"The oath."

Without realizing it, I began reading aloud.

"I swear, before the Eternal Light of Aurora, that I shall use the knowledge entrusted to me in defense of humanity."

My voice echoed softly through the headquarters.

"That I shall neither seek corruption nor willingly spread it."

The room had grown completely silent.

"That I shall guard the secrets placed in my care."

"That I shall stand beside my fellow Ravens in times of darkness."

"And that so long as I bear these wings..."

I paused.

"...I shall not abandon those who cannot protect themselves."

Silence lingered after the final words.

No one rushed me.

No one urged me to sign.

The decision remained entirely mine.

For a long moment, I simply stared at the blank line awaiting my name.

A single signature. Such an ordinary thing. Yet it marked the end of one life...and the true beginning of another. Slowly, Captain Ashcroft uncapped a fountain pen and laid it beside the document.

“Whenever you're ready."

I reached for it. The polished metal felt cool against my fingertips. For just a moment...an image surfaced unbidden. My old apartment. My family. Friends whose faces I could still remember, though their voices already seemed strangely distant. A world I would almost certainly never see again. My chest tightened.

"...Goodbye."

The word escaped as little more than a whisper.

Not loud enough for anyone else to hear.

One final farewell.

To the man I had been.

Then I lowered the pen.

With careful strokes, I signed the name that now belonged to me.

Veil.

The ink glistened for only a moment before soaking into the parchment. Captain Ashcroft gently closed the folder.

"Then allow me to say it once more."

A warm smile crossed his face.

"Welcome to the Umbral Ravens."

For the first time...

Hearing those words no longer felt like someone speaking to a stranger.

They felt like they were speaking to me.

Professor Rowan quietly cleared his throat before stepping away from the bookshelves.

"If our administrative affairs have concluded..."

He glanced toward the brass clock hanging upon the wall.

"...then I believe your first lesson is already five minutes late."

Aldren leaned back in his chair.

"He's timing you already."

"The pursuit of knowledge waits for no one," the Professor replied without missing a beat.

Lydia smirked.

"It also explains why he hasn't had a warm cup of tea in twenty years."

Professor Rowan looked down at the cup sitting forgotten on the corner of his desk.

"...Curious."

He lifted it.

"...When did this become cold?"

The headquarters erupted into quiet laughter.

The old scholar merely sighed.

"I suppose another pot will have to wait."

He turned toward me, adjusting his spectacles.

"Come along, Miss Veil."

"I imagine you have a great many questions."

I rose from my chair almost instinctively.

"I do."

"I suspected as much."

Together, we left the warmth of the headquarters behind, stepping into one of the quieter corridors branching away from the central hall. The sounds of conversation and laughter gradually faded with every step, replaced once again by the peaceful silence of the cathedral.

Professor Rowan walked with unhurried confidence, his hands folded neatly behind his back as he guided me deeper into the Church.

"We won't be using the library today," he said after several moments.

"We won't?"

"No."

A faint smile appeared beneath his neatly trimmed beard.

"My study is better suited for first lessons."

I couldn't help but feel a spark of curiosity.

"What makes it different?"

He glanced back over his shoulder.

"It contains fewer books that have attempted to bite people."

I blinked.

"...I'm sorry?"

"You'll understand soon enough."

He continued walking as though he'd said something perfectly ordinary.

I hurried after him, suddenly much less certain what exactly qualified as "ordinary" anymore.

Far ahead, at the end of the corridor, an old oak door came into view.

Unlike the others throughout the cathedral, this one bore no symbol of the Church.

Only a simple brass plaque.

Professor Alistair Rowan
Master of Mysticism

The Professor reached into his robes, produced a small silver key, and unlocked the door.

As it slowly swung inward, the unmistakable scent of old paper, candle wax, herbs, and something faintly metallic drifted out to meet us. The title and room seemed far more impressive than I expected.

For just an instant, I caught sight of towering bookshelves, ritual circles painted into the wooden floor, strange instruments of brass and crystal...

...and hundreds upon hundreds of books.

Professor Rowan smiled.

"Welcome, Miss Veil."

"To where your real education begins."

-
Professor Rowan stepped inside first, waiting patiently while I followed him into the study.

The door clicked shut behind us with a soft metallic sound, muffling what little noise had followed us from the headquarters. The room immediately felt different from the rest of the cathedral. It wasn't merely quieter.

It was... older.

Years of careful study seemed to have seeped into every corner.

Towering bookshelves stretched from floor to ceiling, each one packed so tightly that several shelves had begun accommodating horizontal stacks atop the vertical ones. Some books appeared centuries old, their leather bindings cracked with age and their pages yellowed by time. Others looked comparatively recent, though many were filled with handwritten notes protruding from between the pages.

Not every shelf contained books.

Several displayed carefully labeled jars containing dried herbs whose names I didn't recognize. Others held crystal vials filled with powders of every imaginable color. A collection of polished gemstones occupied one cabinet, each resting upon black velvet beneath a tiny handwritten card explaining its origin.

Against one wall stood a glass display case containing what appeared to be ritual implements.

Silver daggers.

Bronze bells.

Bundles of incense.

Small mirrors framed with intricate engravings.

Crystal pendulums suspended from delicate chains.

A dozen objects whose purpose I couldn't even begin to guess.

Yet despite the sheer number of mystical items filling the room, nothing felt cluttered.

Everything had its place.

Everything had been arranged with deliberate care.

The center of the room remained almost entirely empty.

The polished wooden floor had been cleared except for a large ritual circle painstakingly painted into the wood itself. Silver lines intertwined with dark blue ink, forming geometric patterns so intricate that simply trying to follow one line caused my eyes to lose track of where it began.

Instinctively, I looked away.

Professor Rowan noticed.

"An excellent instinct."

He closed the door behind us before setting his worn leather satchel upon a nearby table.

"The first lesson every mystic learns is that not everything benefits from prolonged observation."

He walked toward the ritual circle, stopping just outside its edge.

"Many symbols possess meaning."

His eyes remained on the silver lines beneath his feet.

"Some meanings are merely philosophical."

He gestured toward one of the smaller markings.

"Others..."

His voice grew noticeably quieter.

"...answer when observed."

A slight chill crept across my skin.

I remembered the strange map hanging in the Ravens' headquarters.

The one whose symbols had seemed to shift whenever I looked away.

"...The map downstairs."

Professor Rowan smiled without looking up.

"I wondered whether you had noticed."

"So I wasn't imagining it."

"No."

He folded his hands behind his back.

"You have become a Beyonder. Your spirituality has awakened. You now perceive fragments of the world that ordinary people overlook."

He finally looked at me.

"That gift is both a blessing and an extraordinary burden."

I remained silent.

Something about the way he spoke made it difficult to interrupt.

"The greatest mistake new Beyonders make," he continued, "is believing that heightened perception is equivalent to understanding."

He walked toward one of the bookshelves, retrieving a small brass box no larger than his hand.

"In truth..."

He placed it gently upon the table between us.

"...it is rather like handing a child the key to a vast library."

The lid clicked open.

Inside rested an ordinary river stone.

Gray.

Smooth.

Unremarkable.

I frowned.

"...A rock?"

"A river stone."

He corrected me pleasantly.

"It has never been enchanted."

"It contains no spirituality."

"It possesses no mystical properties whatsoever."

He picked it up between two fingers before placing it into my palm.

"Tell me what you perceive."

I stared at the stone.

At first…nothing. It was cool against my skin. Slightly rough in places. Its weight was reassuringly mundane.

"I don't..."

I hesitated.

"...I don't think I sense anything."

Professor Rowan nodded approvingly.

"Good."

I looked up in surprise.

"Good?"

"Very."

He smiled.

"You've just passed your first lesson."

I blinked.

"...By doing nothing?"

"By refusing to invent something that wasn't there."

He gently took the stone back and returned it to the box.

"You would be astonished how many aspiring mystics convince themselves they perceive invisible energies simply because they believe they ought to."

His expression became thoughtful.

"The hidden world is dangerous enough without adding imagination to it."

That...made sense.

More sense than I'd expected.

Professor Rowan folded his hands once more.

"Remember this well, Miss Veil."

"A true mystic does not begin by believing everything."

"He begins by doubting everything."

The sentence lingered in the quiet study.

"Even yourself?"

I asked.

The Professor's smile widened.

"Especially yourself."

He walked slowly toward one of the tall windows overlooking the cathedral gardens, sunlight filtering through the stained glass and casting soft patterns across the wooden floor.

"For every genuine miracle, there exist a hundred misunderstandings."

"For every authentic revelation..."

He glanced back toward me.

"...there are a thousand delusions."

His expression grew solemn.

"And delusion has killed more Beyonders than monsters ever have."

A silence settled between us. Not an uncomfortable silence. The sort that invited thought.

After several moments, Professor Rowan returned to the table and pulled out two chairs.

"Sit."

I did.

He settled opposite me before reaching into one of the desk drawers.

When his hand emerged, it carried a simple leather notebook and a fountain pen.

He slid both across the polished wood.

"They're yours."

I looked down at them.

"...For class?"

"For your life."

He leaned back slightly.

"Every Raven keeps a journal."

"Every observation."

"Every ritual."

"Every unusual dream."

"Every strange encounter."

He tapped the cover gently.

"Your memory will fail you."

"The written word rarely does."

I ran my fingers across the notebook's smooth leather cover.

It was plain.

Unadorned.

Yet somehow...

It felt important.

"This notebook," Professor Rowan said quietly, "will become one of the most valuable tools you own."

I looked back up.

"More valuable than a revolver?"

He chuckled softly.

"A revolver may save your life once."

His eyes twinkled behind his spectacles.

"A carefully kept journal may save it dozens of times."

He rested both forearms upon the desk.

"Now then..."

"For your first actual lesson."

He folded his hands together.

"Tell me."

His voice became almost conversational.

"What do you believe mysticism is?"

The question was identical to the one he'd asked downstairs.

Yet somehow...

Now that we sat alone in his study...

Surrounded by books collected over a lifetime...

It felt like an entirely different question.

-
I nodded slowly, turning the professor's question over in my mind before finally answering.

"...I think mysticism is... trying to understand the hidden side of the world."

Professor Rowan smiled, though he didn't immediately respond.

"That is how most beginners answer."

His fingers folded neatly together atop the desk.

"And it is not wrong."

He leaned back in his chair, his gaze drifting toward the countless books lining the walls around us.

"But it is incomplete."

The study fell quiet once more.

"Mysticism is not simply the study of the hidden."

"It is the study of laws."

He raised a finger.

"Every Beyonder pathway follows laws."

"Every ritual follows laws."

"The Spirit World follows laws."

"The corruption brought by the cosmos follows laws."

His expression became more serious.

"Even the gods themselves are not free from them."

That sentence caught my attention.

"...The gods?"

He nodded.

"You have joined the Church of the Aurora Order. Naturally, much of your education will involve understanding the blessings our Lord has bestowed upon us."

He stood, walking toward one of the bookshelves before retrieving a rolled parchment secured by a black ribbon.

Returning to the desk, he carefully unfurled it.

The parchment depicted an intricate architectural drawing of the cathedral.

Beneath it...

Another structure.

Far larger than anything visible above ground.

Except...

It wasn't entirely beneath the cathedral.

The deeper the illustration descended, the stranger it became. Hallways no longer obeyed ordinary geometry. Staircases bent at impossible angles before fading into an expanse of black ink that swallowed the remainder of the page.

I frowned.

"...This doesn't look like the cathedral."

"It doesn't."

Professor Rowan gently rested a hand upon the parchment.

"It is merely the portion that can be represented with ordinary ink."

He tapped the black expanse.

"The remainder lies elsewhere."

"...Elsewhere?"

"The Shadow World."

The words settled heavily within the room.

I had heard the term before.

Only in passing.

Never explained.

Professor Rowan noticed the curiosity on my face.

"I imagine you've heard references to the Spirit World."

I nodded.

"A little."

"The Shadow World is... different."

He spoke carefully, choosing each word with obvious precision.

"It is not merely another layer of reality."

"It is the divine domain of our Lord."

His finger traced one of the black lines descending beneath the cathedral.

"Every cathedral belonging to the Aurora Order possesses something known as a Gate of Shadows."

I blinked.

"...Every one?"

"Every one."

His expression remained calm.

"Beneath each church rests a sacred seal."

"It anchors that church to the Shadow World."

I stared at the drawing.

"...A connection..."

"Precisely."

He smiled approvingly.

"Our Lord, in His wisdom, established a means by which every church could draw upon the protection of His divine realm."

He allowed me another moment to study the diagram before continuing.

"However..."

"No connection between worlds exists without cost."

He reached for another parchment.

This one contained what appeared to be dozens of concentric circles surrounding a single dark symbol.

"The Gate is not sustained by machinery."

"Nor by Beyonders."

"It is strengthened by faith."

"...Faith?"

"The sincere prayers of the faithful."

He looked at me over the rim of his spectacles.

"Every heartfelt prayer offered within one of our churches reinforces the seal."

"Every act of genuine devotion strengthens the connection between our world and the Shadow World."

He folded his hands once more.

"This is why cathedrals located within great cities possess remarkably stable Gates."

"There are many believers."

"Many prayers."

"Many souls placing their trust in the Lord."

His expression became thoughtful.

"A lonely chapel standing in an isolated mountain village..."

He shook his head gently.

"...cannot call upon the same strength."

"So the seals differ?"

"They do."

"The weaker the congregation..."

"...the weaker the Gate."

I found myself thinking back to Earth.

Churches had always seemed like places of worship.

Community.

History.

Here...

They were something more.

They were foundations supporting an invisible structure spanning an entire kingdom.

Professor Rowan watched my understanding slowly take shape.

"I see the idea is settling."

"A little."

I admitted it honestly.

"It still feels..."

I searched for the proper word.

"...enormous."

"It is."

He smiled.

"That feeling never entirely disappears."

He rolled the first parchment away before retrieving another.

Unlike the previous drawings, this one had clearly been created by an artist rather than an architect.

At its center stood an indistinct humanoid silhouette composed entirely of shifting darkness.

Its outline constantly dissolved into smoke before reforming again.

Several notes surrounded the image.

None of them were reassuring.

"This," Professor Rowan said quietly, "is another consequence of the Gate."

I studied the illustration.

"...What is it?"

"The faithful know confession as a means of seeking forgiveness."

He folded his hands behind his back.

"But confession also serves another purpose."

His voice became noticeably quieter.

"When sincere sins are laid bare before the Lord..."

"...they do not simply vanish."

A faint chill crept across my spine.

"They are drawn toward the Gate."

I looked back at the parchment.

"...Drawn?"

"They accumulate."

"Not as corruption."

"Nor as evil."

"But as something... transformed."

He tapped the illustration.

"Eventually."

"They become guardians."

My eyes widened slightly.

"The shadows born from confessed sin."

"They exist solely to defend the Gate entrusted to them."

He paused.

"The greater the weight of humanity's repentance..."

"...the stronger those guardians become."

I remembered what Captain Ashcroft had said downstairs.

Not everything within the Church was as gentle as it appeared.

"...Do they attack people?"

"They attack intruders."

Professor Rowan corrected gently.

"Anyone attempting to violate the Gate without possessing the Lord's blessing."

He hesitated only briefly.

"To those carrying the Lord's Aura..."

"They remain entirely docile."

"The Lord's Aura?"

He nodded.

"A sacred mark bestowed through ritual."

"It is granted only to trusted servants of the Church."

"The Umbral Ravens."

"The higher clergy."

"Those whose duties require them to pass safely through places ordinary priests should never tread."

“It functions similarly to Chanis Gate of the Evernight church, in keeping items held safely” 

I couldn't help asking.

"...Will I receive it?"

Professor Rowan smiled.

"In time."

"Not today."

"The ritual is only performed once your instructors are satisfied that you understand the responsibility accompanying it."

He adjusted his spectacles.

"It is not merely permission."

"It is trust."

The Professor walked toward one of the windows overlooking the cathedral grounds.

"Tell me, Miss Veil."

"What do you believe happens to Sealed Artifacts once the Church recovers them?"

I thought for a moment.

"...They're locked away?"

"A practical answer."

He inclined his head.

"And true."

"But not the complete truth."

He gestured toward the floor beneath us.

"Many of the artifacts recovered by the Umbral Ravens eventually find their way beneath churches such as this one."

I frowned.

"...Here?"

"Not immediately beneath our feet."

His smile returned.

"Far deeper."

"Within chambers surrounding the Gate itself."

"The influence of the Shadow World suppresses them."

"Some only slightly."

"Others almost completely."

"The stronger the Gate..."

"...the greater the suppression."

He allowed that statement to settle before continuing.

"This suppression extends beyond artifacts."

"If a dangerous Beyonder must be imprisoned temporarily..."

"...they too may be confined within those chambers."

I blinked.

"The Gate suppresses Beyonders?"

"It suppresses many supernatural phenomena."

He looked directly at me.

"But there is a price."

"The Shadow World's influence is not gentle."

His expression grew solemn.

"Those who enter without the Lord's Aura gradually find their souls corroded."

"Their minds begin to fracture."

"Their bodies slowly reject the world around them."

He spoke with absolute certainty.

Not fear.

Experience.

"Even among those protected by the Aura..."

"We limit unnecessary exposure."

I felt the weight of those words.

There was an entire prison...

An entire vault...

Hidden beneath the cathedral.

And I had slept only a few floors above it.

Professor Rowan let the silence linger before speaking once more.

"There remains one final purpose for the Gate."

He looked toward the impossible darkness depicted on the architectural plans.

"It is, quite literally..."

"...a gate."

He smiled faintly at the obviousness of the statement.

"When conditions permit..."

"The Gate may be opened."

"Not merely as a seal."

"But as a passage."

I leaned forward unconsciously.

"A passage... into the Shadow World?"

"Exactly."

"The main cathedral of our faith lies within our Lord's divine realm."

His eyes reflected something approaching reverence.

"On rare occasions."

"When sufficient spirituality is gathered."

"When the seal is stable."

"When the Church has need."

"The faithful may pass through."

He paused.

"The stronger the Gate..."

"...the more people may safely cross."

"A weaker Gate demands greater spirituality from those entering."

"And should someone attempt to force more travelers through than the seal can sustain..."

He shook his head.

"The strain alone could shatter it."

The implications slowly settled over me.

Every cathedral...

Every church...

Every humble chapel...

Was not merely a place of worship.

It was a fortress.

A vault.

A prison.

And...

Potentially...

A doorway into the domain of a god.

Professor Rowan carefully rolled the parchments closed before placing them back inside their protective case.

He looked at me with a faint smile.

"Now, Miss Veil..."

"I believe that is enough theology and architecture for one morning."

He chuckled softly.

"Our next lesson..."

His eyes drifted toward the ritual circle in the center of the room.

"...will be considerably more practical."

A hint of anticipation stirred within me.

For the first time since entering his study...

I had the distinct feeling that class was about to become much more interesting.

--
Professor Rowan carefully rolled a parchment shut before returning it to its place upon the shelf. Rather than immediately retrieving another document, he walked toward one of the windows overlooking the cathedral gardens. Sunlight filtered through the stained glass, painting shifting patches of violet and gold across the floor between us. He remained silent for several moments, allowing everything we had discussed to settle naturally.

"When most people hear the word magic," he finally said, "they imagine stories. Fire conjured from empty hands. Lightning hurled across battlefields. Miracles performed by speaking a few ancient words." He smiled faintly before turning to face me. "Mysticism is rarely so dramatic. More often, it is patient. Deliberate. It rewards understanding far more readily than talent."

He returned to his desk and opened one of the drawers, removing a small leather-bound notebook whose pages had become stained by years of use. Resting it between us, he carefully turned to a page depicting several ritual circles of varying complexity. None resembled the elaborate array carved into the floor. These were simpler, cleaner, and built from symbols I vaguely recognized from Viel's scattered memories.

"The first practical discipline every Beyonder studies," he said, tapping one of the circles with a finger, "is ritualistic magic."

I leaned forward slightly, my curiosity immediately piqued.

Professor Rowan nodded approvingly. "Unlike Beyonder abilities, ritualistic magic is not exclusive to any particular pathway. A Sequence Nine Sleepless, a Lawyer, a Seer, or even an ordinary person possessing sufficient spirituality may all perform certain rituals. The difference lies in their understanding, their spirituality, and their judgment."

He paused long enough for me to absorb that.

"In other words," I said slowly, "someone without a pathway can still use mysticism?"

"To a limited extent."

His answer came without hesitation.

"They cannot replicate the abilities granted by a potion, nor can they channel spirituality with the same efficiency as a Beyonder. However, the hidden world has always possessed methods by which mankind could borrow strength greater than their own."

"Borrow?"

He smiled.

"An excellent choice of words."

Professor Rowan opened the notebook to another page. This one contained a carefully written sentence beneath an elegant drawing of a ritual altar.

Every ritual is, at its heart, a request.

He allowed me a moment to read it before continuing.

"A ritual is not the commanding of higher powers. It is not a demand." His tone became noticeably firmer. "Many beginners perish because they mistake reverence for authority."

His finger rested beneath the sentence.

"When you perform a ritual, you are making a request according to established mystical laws. Whether that request is answered depends upon many factors. Your preparation. Your symbolism. The sincerity of your prayer. The entity being addressed... and sometimes, simple fortune."

I found myself frowning.

"So... it isn't guaranteed."

"Far from it."

He chuckled softly.

"If every prayer were answered, the world would be considerably stranger than it already is."

The Professor rose once more, retrieving a small wooden box from another shelf. Inside rested several familiar objects: candles of different colors, small vials of essential oils, silver powder, sea salt, herbs, and strips of parchment carefully labeled in elegant handwriting.

"You may have noticed," he said, "that the Church does not forbid ritualistic magic."

I nodded.

"I did."

"That is because ritualistic magic is not inherently dangerous."

He selected a white candle and set it upon the desk.

"Its danger comes from ignorance."

He then selected a black candle.

"And arrogance."

Finally, he looked directly at me.

"Above all else, Miss Veil, remember this."

His expression lost every trace of amusement.

"The greatest danger in ritualistic magic is not performing a ritual incorrectly."

He allowed the silence to linger.

"It is directing that ritual toward something you do not understand."

A chill settled over me.

I didn't need further explanation.

Even without knowing much about the cosmos, I had already encountered enough to understand that there were beings in this world whose mere attention could be fatal.

Professor Rowan seemed satisfied that I understood.

"Fortunately," he continued in a gentler tone, "the Church does not expect its members to navigate that danger alone."

He opened the notebook once more, revealing a carefully copied list written in beautiful calligraphy.

"There exist many entities throughout the world to whom one might pray."

His finger slid down the page.

"Most should never be approached."

Another line.

"Some are indifferent."

Another.

"A handful are outright hostile."

Then he looked up.

"And a very small number are considered safe."

He turned the notebook toward me completely.

"For members of the Church of the Aurora Order, there are presently three beings to whom prayers may safely be directed under ordinary circumstances."

At the very top of the page was the title of their Lord.

Beneath it were two additional names.

Professor Rowan rested a hand beside the first.

"The first is one of our Lord's angels."

His voice carried quiet respect.

"The Lady of Apocalypse and War."

He continued reading each honorific with measured clarity, allowing the weight of every title to settle naturally.

“The Lady of Apocalypse and War.”

“The Demonness Who Dwells Where Mirrors and Shadows Converge”

“The Warmonger Scholar Who Sought Countless Answers”

“The Enchanting Angel Blessed by the Sin- Bearing Hanged Man”

“The Angel of Cataclysm u/Straight_Painter_846“

When he finished, the study remained silent.

I couldn't help noticing the contradiction.

"...Those titles sound..."

I searched for an appropriate word.

"...terrifying."

Professor Rowan's smile widened ever so slightly.

"They are."

He folded his hands together.

"Names rarely reflect temperament."

Seeing my confusion, he elaborated.

"Many angels bear titles earned long before entering the service of our Lord. Some reflect ancient battles. Others describe what they once were rather than what they have become."

He tapped the page gently.

"Within the Church, you will learn that despite those fearsome names, the Lady is considered entirely safe to pray to."

He paused.

"Safe."

He emphasized the word.

"Not obligated."

I tilted my head.

"So... she may simply ignore the prayer?"

"Quite."

The Professor seemed almost amused.

"Higher existences are not servants waiting to answer every request."

His finger moved to the second name.

"The same is true of another of the Lord's angels."

His voice softened slightly.

"Past Follower of the Abyss."

"He Who Sinned Against the Gods and Sought Redemption."

"The Divine Son of the Hanged Man, Whose Sins Were Borne."

"The White and Blood Angel Who Greets You With His Name u/hlo2you_"

When he finished reading, he closed the notebook partway.

"This angel's history is... unusual."

I waited patiently.

"There was a time," Professor Rowan said carefully, "when he walked a darker path. He was pursued relentlessly by the orthodox gods until our Lord extended mercy where others offered only judgment."

His expression became almost contemplative.

"The Lord accepted him as His symbolic son."

"The burden of his sins was borne."

"From that day onward, he became one of the Church's greatest protectors."

The room fell quiet once more.

"There is a lesson in that," Professor Rowan said softly.

I looked up.

"Our Lord's faith is not one that teaches redemption as impossible."

His eyes met mine.

"It teaches that even those who have walked through darkness may yet choose to walk toward the light."

Those words lingered in my thoughts longer than I expected.

Professor Rowan closed the notebook with a gentle thump.

"You should understand one final point before we end today's lesson."

His voice returned to its usual calm cadence.

"Within this Church, both of these angels are regarded as safe beings to invoke in ritualistic magic when appropriate. Should circumstances require it, you may direct prayers toward them without fear of immediate corruption."

He smiled warmly.

"Do not, however, mistake safety for certainty."

I blinked.

"They might not answer?"

He nodded.

"Precisely."

"The Lord hears all sincere prayers."

"As for His angels..." A faint chuckle escaped him. "They are individuals. They possess duties, priorities, and wills of their own. Some prayers receive an answer. Others receive silence."

He folded his hands once more.

"Neither should be mistaken for rejection."

I found myself nodding.

For some reason...

That made them feel less like distant, unknowable powers...

And more like people.

People unimaginably greater than myself...

But people nonetheless.

-End-

-----------

Art found in the Luck Enhancement Ritual section of the lotm wiki!

Finally the info drop chapter! I want to give a MASSIVE thanks to u/Ezcu123 for helping build the base for the lore of this chapter and the information it provided and the church and related details! It was a big help and I took some liberties here and there for details on certain parts so if there is anything wrong please inform me so I can correct them! I also want to give a big thanks to my lords angels for there part in the lore this chapter. Also sorry if the chapter is a bit wordy I had to cover a lot!

As always,

Praise the hanged man

Chapter 9 -Fragments and Ravens-
-------------------

The heavy oak door swung inward without so much as a groan.

Warm lamplight spilled through the doorway, washing over the cold stone corridor where Father Kornelius and I stood. For a brief moment, I remained rooted in place, allowing my eyes to adjust to the change in lighting. I had expected something solemn—perhaps a hidden chamber lined with sacred relics, rows of weapons displayed upon polished racks, or an atmosphere so heavy with mysticism that merely crossing the threshold would make the hairs on my neck stand on end.

Instead...

The first thing I noticed was the smell.

Freshly brewed coffee mingled with the familiar scents of ink, old parchment, and polished leather. Beneath it all lingered the faint odor of gunpowder and machine oil, subtle enough that I might have missed it had my spirituality not become more acute after becoming a Beyonder. It wasn't unpleasant. If anything, it reminded me strangely of an office... albeit one occupied by people who occasionally hunted monsters.

Father Kornelius stepped aside, gesturing toward the open doorway with an easy smile.

"Go on."

His tone was gentle, almost encouraging.

"They're waiting for us."

I nodded, drawing in a quiet breath before stepping inside.

The headquarters of the Umbral Ravens occupied a surprisingly spacious chamber hidden beneath the cathedral. Thick stone walls surrounded the room, yet rather than feeling oppressive, they gave it an unexpected sense of security. Lanterns hanging from iron brackets cast warm pools of light across polished wooden floors, softening what might otherwise have been an austere underground hall.

The room itself was a curious balance between organization and absolute chaos.

A massive map of Trier dominated one wall, its surface covered with dozens of colored pins connected by lengths of black thread. Small handwritten notes had been pinned beside certain districts, while others bore circles drawn repeatedly in red ink, suggesting places of particular concern. Nearby stood another board filled with newspaper clippings, sketches of unfamiliar symbols, and reports fastened together with colored string in ways that almost looked random—until my eyes followed a few of the connections and realized there was a deliberate pattern hidden beneath the apparent disorder.

Several large desks occupied the center of the room, each one buried beneath stacks of reports, journals, maps, loose sheets of parchment, empty coffee cups, and half-burned candles. Someone had abandoned a chess match halfway through. A revolver lay disassembled atop another desk beside a cleaning kit, while a dark coat had been carelessly draped over the back of a nearby chair. Nothing about the headquarters resembled the pristine order one might expect from the Church.

It looked...

Lived in.

My gaze drifted toward the far side of the chamber, where a row of reinforced steel cabinets stood against the wall. Silver engravings covered each door, forming intricate ritualistic patterns that faintly tugged at my spirituality. Even without opening them, I could tell they were anything but ordinary.

Sealed Artifacts...

The thought surfaced instinctively before I forced myself to look away.

Some curiosities were healthier left unsatisfied.

"...So that's our newest Raven?"

The unfamiliar voice pulled me from my thoughts.

A man seated near the fireplace slowly folded the newspaper resting in his lap before rising to his feet. He couldn't have been much older than his late twenties. Dark brown hair had been combed neatly away from his face, and a pair of thin spectacles rested comfortably upon his nose, giving him the appearance of a university lecturer rather than someone who confronted supernatural horrors for a living.

His gray eyes wandered over me with unconcealed curiosity.

"So young," he murmured, almost to himself before tilting his head slightly. "I confess... I expected someone taller."

I felt offended by the commented even though I never had a problem with my height before

I blinked.

"...Good morning to you as well."

There was a bitter and sarcastic tone lining my words as I spoke.

The words left my mouth before I had the chance to reconsider them.

Silence settled over the room.

For exactly one heartbeat.

Then the man laughed.

It wasn't loud or mocking. It was the sort of laugh that escaped naturally, accompanied by a broad smile that reached his eyes.

"I like her already."

I wanted to to slug him as he gave me a coy smile but I held back....barley

Father Kornelius released the quiet sigh of someone who had witnessed the same exchange many times before.

"Mr. Aldren."

"What?" the man replied innocently, raising both hands in surrender. "I was simply making an observation."

"You were provoking our newest probationary member before she'd even stepped fully into headquarters."

"I prefer to think of it as assessing her disposition."
-

"Naturally."

The bishop's perfectly flat response earned another chuckle from somewhere deeper within the room.

Only then did I realize we weren't alone.

A second figure emerged from behind one of the towering bookshelves lining the rear wall. Unlike the first man, I hadn't heard him moving at all. Had he not chosen to reveal himself, I doubted I would have noticed he was there.

He appeared to be in his late thirties, dressed in a long black coat whose hem reached nearly to his boots. His dark hair was cropped short, and a simple sword hung comfortably at his side, its worn grip suggesting years of regular use. Sharp amber eyes settled upon me for only a moment before turning toward Father Kornelius.

"This is the survivor from yesterday?"

Father Kornelius inclined his head.

"She is."

The swordsman's gaze returned to me.

There was no curiosity in his expression.

No suspicion.

Only a quiet understanding.

"You have my condolences."

The words were simple.

Yet somehow they carried more sincerity than an elaborate speech ever could.

"...Thank you."

He gave a single nod.

Nothing more needed to be said.

Before the silence could settle again, another voice drifted across the room.

"If all of you insist on introducing yourselves before I have the chance, one of these days I'm assigning paperwork to the entire office."

I turned toward the sound.

A woman stood beside a polished brass coffee pot, calmly pouring another cup as though she hadn't just interrupted the conversation. Auburn hair was tied neatly behind her head, and the sleeves of her white shirt had been rolled to her elbows. An open shoulder holster rested comfortably beneath a dark leather vest, the polished grip of a revolver visible beneath her arm.

She took a measured sip from her cup before finally looking in my direction.

"So..."

"You're Veil."

Her tone wasn't questioning.

She already knew.

"I am."

She studied me for another moment before giving a satisfied nod.

"You look considerably better than yesterday."

A faint smile tugged at my lips before I could stop it.

"I'd certainly hope so."

The woman regarded me for another heartbeat before setting her coffee cup aside and extending a hand.

"I'm Lydia Mercer," she said. "Investigator, quartermaster when necessary, and the unfortunate soul responsible for making sure these idiots actually complete their paperwork."

She cast an exaggerated glance around the room.

"I'm losing that battle."

"I heard that," the spectacled man called from across the room without looking up from his newspaper.

"You were supposed to."

A few quiet chuckles drifted through the headquarters.

I accepted Lydia's hand. Her grip was firm, the calluses on her palm making it immediately apparent that she was no stranger to hard work. She carried herself with an easy confidence that only came from experience. Unlike Father Kornelius, whose calm seemed born from wisdom, Lydia's composure felt earned through years of surviving dangerous situations.

"It's nice to meet you," I replied.

"It usually is." Her lips curled into a crooked smile. "Try not to let Aldren scare you off. He enjoys pretending he's clever."

"I am clever," the man protested.

"That's exactly what someone pretending would say."

Father Kornelius pinched the bridge of his nose.

"I see nothing has changed."

"Not since yesterday," Lydia answered cheerfully.

"Or the day before that."

"Or the year before that," Aldren added.

The bishop sighed in quiet resignation.

"I walked into that one."

The lighthearted exchange drew another laugh from the room, and I found myself smiling despite the lingering nervousness. Somehow, it felt... normal.

Too normal.

These were people who hunted Devils.

People who investigated cursed artifacts and confronted creatures capable of driving ordinary people mad.

Yet here they were arguing about paperwork over morning coffee.

The contradiction was strangely comforting.

A chair scraped softly against the wooden floor.

The quiet swordsman I had spoken to earlier approached with measured, almost silent steps. Up close, I could see faint scars tracing across the backs of his hands and disappearing beneath the cuffs of his coat. They were old scars, long since healed, yet numerous enough to hint at a life spent in constant danger.

He stopped an arm's length away before offering a slight bow of his head.

"Roland Voss."

His voice was low and even.

"I oversee combat instruction."

Combat instruction...

So he would be one of my teachers.

"I look forward to learning from you."

He studied me for a moment before giving a single nod.

"I hope so."

It wasn't encouragement.

Nor was it criticism.

Simply a statement of fact.

Then, almost as quietly as he'd arrived, Roland stepped back toward the bookshelves.

I watched him go.

"...He doesn't speak much, does he?"

Lydia chuckled.

"Not unless he has something worth saying."

"He once went three entire days without speaking," Aldren added.

Roland looked up from the book he'd apparently resumed reading.

"I was enjoying the silence."

"You see?" Aldren spread his hands dramatically. "He's a comedian."

The swordsman's expression never changed.

"I've been told."

Another ripple of laughter spread throughout the room.

"As entertaining as this is," Father Kornelius interrupted, "I do believe our newest probationary Raven deserves to meet the individual she'll be reporting to."

The atmosphere shifted.

It was subtle.

No one snapped to attention, nor did anyone suddenly become rigid. Yet there was a quiet change in posture, as though everyone's attention naturally turned toward the staircase leading deeper into the headquarters.

Heavy footsteps echoed against the stone.

Measured.

Unhurried.

A broad-shouldered man emerged from below, carrying a stack of neatly organized reports beneath one arm. He appeared to be somewhere in his early forties, his dark hair touched with streaks of gray around the temples. A short beard framed a face that had seen its fair share of sleepless nights, while sharp blue eyes swept across the room with calm familiarity.

He didn't radiate overwhelming power.

He didn't need to.

There was an unmistakable steadiness about him, the sort that naturally drew people's confidence.

He handed the reports to Lydia without breaking stride.

"Morning."

"Morning, Captain."

He finally looked at me.

For several quiet seconds, neither of us spoke.

His gaze wasn't intimidating.

It was... evaluating.

Not in the sense of judging my worth, but as though he were trying to understand the person standing before him.

"So," he said at last, a faint smile appearing beneath his beard, "you're Veil."

"I am."

"The young woman who managed to survive her first encounter with the hidden world by immediately crossing paths with a Devil."

Heat rushed to my face.

"...When you phrase it like that, it sounds incredibly reckless."

"It was."

His answer came without hesitation.

Then he smiled.

"But you're still here."

The simple statement carried far more warmth than I'd expected.

"I'm Gideon Ashcroft," he continued, extending a hand. "Captain of the Umbral Ravens."

I accepted it.

His handshake was firm without being forceful, steady in a way that immediately inspired confidence.

"It's an honor to meet you, Captain."

"I hope you'll save that judgment until you've known me a little longer."

The corners of my mouth lifted despite myself.

"I'll keep that in mind."

He released my hand before glancing toward Father Kornelius.

"So."

"The bishop finally convinced her."

Father Kornelius smiled faintly.

"I merely explained the options."

Captain Ashcroft looked back at me.

"And yet you chose us."

"I did."

He folded his arms, studying me for another thoughtful moment.

"May I ask why?"

The question caught me off guard.

I had expected congratulations.

Perhaps a speech.

Not... this.

My eyes drifted briefly around the headquarters.

The maps.

The reports.

The coffee cups.

The people quietly returning to their work while pretending not to listen.

Finally, my thoughts returned to the apartment.

To the Devil.

To the promise I'd made before the mirror.

I drew a slow breath.

"When I woke up..."

The words came more easily than I expected.

"I didn't understand anything."

"I still don't."

I looked back at him.

"I don't know why I survived."

"I don't know why I woke with so many fragments of my life taken”

The room had grown completely silent.

"But..."

I clenched my hand unconsciously.

"I know one thing."

"If I turn away from all of this..."

I glanced toward the reinforced cabinets containing the Church's sealed artifacts.

"...none of it stops existing."

"There will still be devils, evil beyonders, and beyonder creatures."

"There will still be people who lose their lives."

"There will still be someone else waking up one day to discover the world is far stranger than they ever imagined."

I met his eyes.

"If I have to live in this world..."

"...then I want to understand it."

"...And someday..."

"I want to be able to protect someone the way your Ravens protected me."

“The way u/Spinning_Dragonite saved me”

For several long moments, Captain Ashcroft said nothing.

Neither did anyone else.

Then...

A slow smile spread across his face.

Not the amused grin he'd worn moments earlier.

One of quiet approval.

He nodded once.

"I think," he said softly, "you're going to fit in here just fine."

The tension I'd been carrying since stepping through the door eased, if only a little.

For the first time since awakening in this unfamiliar world...

The future didn't seem quite so frightening anymore. 

Captain Ashcroft's smile lingered for only a moment before he glanced around the headquarters.

"Well," he said, clasping his hands behind his back, "introductions are only half the job."

His gaze settled somewhere beyond my shoulder.

"Professor."

For a heartbeat, nothing happened.

Then a quiet voice answered from the far corner of the room.

"I was beginning to wonder if you intended to leave all of the teaching to me without so much as introducing me first."

My eyes followed the sound.

Until that moment, I hadn't realized someone else had been present.

Tucked away in the headquarters' small library, almost completely hidden behind a stack of towering books, sat an elderly gentleman whose attention had never left the thick volume resting in his lap. A pair of small, circular spectacles perched low upon his nose, and silver hair, tied neatly behind his head, reached almost to the collar of his dark robes. His beard had been trimmed short and meticulously cared for, giving him the appearance of an aging university scholar rather than a Beyonder.

Several open books surrounded him.

Some rested upon the table.

Others had been stacked precariously on the floor, forming uneven towers that looked one careless step away from collapsing.

An untouched cup of tea sat beside his elbow, long since gone cold.

The old man slowly closed the book with a soft thump before carefully marking his page with a ribbon.

Only then did he rise.

His movements were unhurried, almost leisurely, yet there was an unmistakable grace to them. Though he appeared well into his sixties, he walked without the slightest sign of frailty.

He approached us with his hands folded neatly behind his back, studying me over the rims of his spectacles.

"So."

His voice was gentle.

"This is Miss Veil."

"I am."

"Hm."

He circled me once—not invasively, but thoughtfully, like a physician observing a patient or an artist examining a sculpture.

I wasn't entirely sure where to look.

Finally, he stopped in front of me again.

"You've been a Beyonder for..."

He tilted his head.

"Approximately two days."

"...Yes."

"And you've already survived losing control, encountered a Devil, fought for your life, joined the Church, and accepted a position within the Umbral Ravens."

He removed his spectacles, polishing them with a neatly folded handkerchief.

"...You have a rather unfortunate sense of timing."

A chuckle spread through the room.

Even Captain Ashcroft couldn't suppress a smile.

"I've been told that before."

"I'm certain you have."

The old man slipped his spectacles back into place before offering a courteous bow.

"My name is Professor Alistair Rowan."

"I oversee the Ravens' education in mysticism."

His expression softened into something almost grandfatherly.

"Which means, for better or worse..."

"...I shall be responsible for correcting every dangerous misconception you currently possess."

I blinked.

"...That sounds like a very long list."

"It is."

He smiled pleasantly.

"But I do enjoy a challenge."

Professor Rowan gestured toward the small library occupying one corner of the headquarters.

"If Captain Ashcroft is responsible for ensuring you survive what waits beyond these walls..."

"...then I am responsible for ensuring you do not accidentally kill yourself before you ever leave them."

Aldren nodded solemnly.

"He's not exaggerating."

Lydia pointed toward one of the reinforced cabinets.

"The last probationary Raven who ignored one of the Professor's lectures attempted to identify an artifact by touching it."

I frowned.

"...What happened?"

"He spent three days believing he was a pigeon."

"...A pigeon?"

"A remarkably convincing one."

Captain Ashcroft cleared his throat.

"It was... an educational experience."

Roland spoke without looking up from his book.

"He also tried to build a nest."

The room fell quiet.

"..."

"...You're joking."

Four pairs of eyes looked at me.

No one answered.

"...You're not joking."

Professor Rowan sighed, though amusement danced in his eyes.

"The young often possess an unfortunate tendency to believe curiosity alone is sufficient preparation."

He folded his hands together.

"It is not."

As he spoke, he wandered toward one of the towering bookshelves, running a finger absentmindedly across the worn spines.

"Mysticism is not simply a collection of rituals and incantations, Miss Veil. It is a discipline."

He withdrew a weathered leather-bound volume.

"A science."

Another.

"A philosophy."

Then a third.

"And occasionally..."

He glanced over his shoulder.

"...an argument with reality itself."

For some reason...

That description made perfect sense.

The professor returned carrying three books.

He laid them gently upon the nearest desk.

Each was considerably older than anything I'd handled before.

The leather bindings had cracked with age, while countless handwritten notes filled the margins left by previous readers.

He rested one hand atop the stack.

"Tell me, Miss Veil."

"What is mysticism?"

The question caught me entirely off guard.

"I..."

Fragments of Viel's memories stirred uneasily.

Candles.

Tarot cards.

Silver powder.

Ritual circles drawn painstakingly across wooden floors.

I swallowed.

"...The pursuit of the supernatural?"

Professor Rowan smiled.

"A reasonable beginning."

"But incomplete."

He tapped the topmost book.

"Mysticism is the study of the hidden laws governing our existence."

His finger moved to the second.

"It is the language through which humanity communicates with powers greater than itself."

Finally, he touched the third.

"And it is also the most efficient method ever devised for getting oneself killed."

Laughter rippled through the headquarters once more.

The Professor waited patiently for it to subside before continuing.

"You will spend many hours in this library."

He looked around at the countless shelves surrounding us.

"You will learn the twenty-two standard pathways, the nature of spirituality, ritualistic magic, divination, the Spirit World, corruption, the dangers of sealed artifacts, and the countless mistakes made by those who believed they already knew enough."

His gaze met mine once more.

"I will not ask you to memorize everything."

His smile became just a little warmer.

"I will merely ask that you survive long enough to try."

I couldn't help smiling in return.

"I think..."

I glanced around the library.

"...I'd like that."

Professor Rowan nodded with quiet satisfaction.

"I had hoped you would."

For the first time since entering the headquarters...

I found myself looking at the endless shelves of books not with intimidation...

But with anticipation.

There were answers here.

Perhaps not to why I had come to this world.

Not yet.

But they were answers all the same.

And for now...

That was enough to take the first step.

Captain Ashcroft glanced around the headquarters before clapping his hands together once.

"Now that everyone has managed to satisfy their curiosity..."

His eyes swept across the room, lingering briefly on Aldren.

"...more or less."

"I was perfectly restrained!" Aldren replied.

Lydia snorted into her coffee.

"You asked if she was taller than expected."

"I was making conversation!"

"You were making trouble."

Captain Ashcroft raised a hand before the exchange could continue.

"As fascinating as this debate undoubtedly is, our newest probationary Raven should probably learn what being a probationary Raven actually involves."

The room settled almost immediately.

Several chairs were pulled closer to the large central table while Lydia gathered a handful of folders and placed them neatly before the Captain.

He motioned for me to take the empty chair nearest him.

"This won't take long."

I wasn't entirely convinced.

Once everyone had settled, Captain Ashcroft opened one of the folders before him.

"The first thing you should understand is that becoming a probationary Raven is not the same as becoming a full Raven."

He spoke calmly, as though reciting something he'd explained dozens of times.

"Think of the next several months as an apprenticeship."

"You will accompany senior members on investigations, but only when they deem it appropriate. You are expected to observe, ask questions, and learn."

He looked directly at me.

"If combat becomes unavoidable..."

"...your first responsibility is surviving."

No one laughed.

Apparently that wasn't intended as a joke.

"You are not expected to defeat Sequence Seven Beyonders."

"You are not expected to confront Devils alone."

"And if I ever discover that you've charged recklessly into danger in an attempt to prove yourself..."

A faint smile crossed his face.

"...Professor Rowan has already volunteered to explain exactly why that was a poor decision."

The Professor adjusted his spectacles.

"I have several lectures prepared."

"I don't doubt it."

Captain Ashcroft slid another sheet of paper toward me.

"This will be your weekly schedule."

I lowered my eyes.

The page had been written with remarkable precision.

Every day had been divided into morning and afternoon lessons.

Only Sundays appeared largely empty.

"The Church believes that routine saves lives," the Captain explained. "Discipline is often the difference between a Raven returning home... and becoming another name in our memorial hall."

His finger rested beside the first entry.

"Monday, Wednesday, and Friday mornings will be spent with Professor Rowan."

The old scholar inclined his head.

"We shall begin with the fundamentals."

He adjusted his spectacles.

"History of the Twenty-Two Pathways."

"Spirituality."

"The Spirit World."

"Ritualistic Magic."

"Divination."

"The dangers of corruption."

"The proper handling of Sealed Artifacts."

His smile became almost mischievous.

"And perhaps most importantly..."

"...how to recognize when something wishes to eat you."

I wasn't sure whether he was joking.

Judging by Lydia's expression...

Probably not.

"The afternoons on those same days," Captain Ashcroft continued, "will belong to Roland."

The quiet swordsman gave a small nod.

"I'll teach you how to survive."

"...That sounds broad."

"It is."

His answer was as brief as ever.

"We begin with physical conditioning."

"Movement."

"Awareness."

"Defensive techniques."

"Firearms."

"Weapons maintenance."

"Eventually..."

He rested one hand upon the sword at his side.

"...close combat."

I glanced toward the revolver lying disassembled on one of the desks.

"I've... never been properly taught to fire a gun before….at least i dont remember such"

"Good." 

I blinked.

"...Good?"

"It means I won't have to correct bad habits."

Captain Ashcroft continued.

"Tuesdays and Thursdays will be dedicated to field work."

I looked up.

"So soon?"

"You won't be fighting."

Lydia answered this time.

"You'll mostly be observing."

She leaned comfortably against the table.

"We investigate reports."

"Interview witnesses."

"Search crime scenes."

"Study ritual sites."

"Sometimes..."

Her smile disappeared.

"...we recover bodies."

The room became noticeably quieter.

Captain Ashcroft continued without pause.

"You'll accompany whichever senior Raven is leading that week's investigation."

He looked toward each member in turn.

"Every Raven approaches problems differently."

"You'll learn something from each of them."

"And Saturdays?"

I noticed the final day listed separately.

Captain Ashcroft smiled.

"Review."

Professor Rowan nodded approvingly.

"No lessons."

"No investigations."

"You will spend the day reading, practicing rituals, writing reports, and asking questions."

Aldren leaned back comfortably in his chair.

"...Or listening to the Professor explain why your reports are terrible."

"They usually are."

"I work better under criticism."

"You merely work slower."

Captain Ashcroft closed the schedule.

"That leaves one final practical matter."

He opened another folder.

"Compensation."

That caught my attention.

He noticed.

"It generally does."

A faint smile appeared.

"As a probationary Umbral Raven, you will receive four Louis d'or and ten Verl d'or each week."

“After two weeks your pay will be increased to 5  Louis d'or until the end of your probationary period” 

I blinked.

That...

Sounded like a considerable amount.

"The Church also provides lodging within the cathedral, meals, medical care, ammunition used during official training, and any approved mystical materials required for your education."

Professor Rowan added another point.

"Potion ingredients required for your advancement will likewise be supplied by the Church, provided your evaluations remain satisfactory."

I looked between them.

"...That's..."

More generous than I had expected.

Captain Ashcroft nodded.

"The Church invests heavily in its Ravens."

His expression became serious.

"Because replacing one is considerably more expensive."

The dark humor earned several knowing smiles around the room.

"There is one final matter."

Captain Ashcroft folded his hands.

"You should know the strengths of the people you'll be trusting with your life."

He looked toward the others.

"Aldren."

The spectacled man stood first, offering an exaggerated bow.

"Aldren Hayes."

He smiled with practiced confidence.

"Sequence Eight."

"The Hunter Pathway."

"...Provoker."

He said the last word with obvious amusement.

I stared at him.

"...That explains a great deal."

"It does, doesn't it?"

I suddenly felt the urge to punch him in the face as he looked at me smugly.

Lydia sighed.

"We've been trying to tell him that for years."

Roland stood next.

"Roland Voss."

"Sequence Eight."

"The Warrior Pathway."

"...Weapon Master."

Simple.

Direct.

Entirely unsurprising.

Lydia took her turn.

"Lydia Mercer."

She tapped the revolver resting comfortably beneath her arm.

"Sequence Eight."

"The Arbiter Pathway."

"...Sheriff."

"I specialize in investigations, interrogation, and keeping these fools from accidentally violating half the kingdom's laws."

Aldren raised a finger.

"It was one time!"

The provoker yelled defensively. 

"It was three."

"Technicalities."

Professor Rowan smiled warmly.

"Alistair Rowan."

"Sequence Eight."

"The Hermit Pathway."

"...Mysticism Magister."

"I spend considerably more time with books than people."

He looked toward Aldren.

"Usually by choice."

Finally...

Everyone's attention shifted toward Captain Ashcroft.

He remained seated.

"My pathway is less important than my responsibility."

Lydia rolled her eyes.

"He's doing it again."

Aldren sighed dramatically.

"The Captain has this terrible habit of pretending mystery is somehow impressive."

"It usually works."

Captain Ashcroft finally relented.

"Gideon Ashcroft."

"Sequence Six."

"The Twilight Giant Pathway."

"...Dawn Paladin."

The room fell quiet.

Even I recognized the significance.

Sequence Six.

He wasn't merely stronger than everyone else. He was an entire Sequence above the rest of the team a mid sequence beyonder...

Captain Ashcroft met my gaze calmly.

"My responsibility is simple."

"If things have gone so badly that I must personally enter the fight..."

He offered a reassuring smile.

"...then my responsibility is making certain every Raven under my command returns home alive."

Silence lingered for several moments.

Looking around the table...

I realized something.

Every person here had chosen this life.

Every one of them willingly stepped into the darkness so others never had to.

And now...

So had I.

For the first time since waking in this world...

I truly felt like I had become part of something larger than myself.

-End-

----------------------------------------------

Art made by Nela Dunato

The newest members of the cast have finally been introduced I hope you like them. Thank you everyone for your support! It is always appreciate so thank you all.

As always,

Praise the Hanged Man!

Chapter-8 Fragmented path and a choice made

----

The first thing I noticed upon waking was the silence.

Not the uneasy silence that had haunted the abandoned apartment, where every creaking floorboard seemed to conceal something waiting just beyond sight. Nor the oppressive stillness that had settled over the church infirmary while I drifted in and out of consciousness after the battle with the Devil.

This silence was... peaceful.

Morning sunlight filtered gently through the curtains, spilling across the wooden floor in warm golden bands. Dust drifted lazily through the light, dancing in currents too subtle for ordinary eyes to notice. Somewhere beyond the walls, distant church bells echoed across the cathedral grounds, followed by the muffled sound of voices beginning another day's work.

For several long moments, I simply lay there.

The events of yesterday slowly resurfaced one by one.

The mirror.

The tears.

The promise I'd made to the young woman whose life I had inherited.

My fingers unconsciously tightened around the edge of the blanket.

"...Good morning."

The words sounded strangely hollow in the empty room.

No one answered. 

I wasn't sure whether I had expected someone to.

With a quiet sigh, I pushed myself upright. My body still protested the movement, but compared to the aching exhaustion I'd felt yesterday, it was a remarkable improvement. The bandages wrapped around my arms and ribs remained snug, though most of the sharp pain had faded into little more than a dull reminder of how close I had come to dying.

My gaze instinctively drifted toward the desk.

The silver mirror rested exactly where I had left it.

Morning light shimmered across its polished frame, illuminating the engraved vines curling around the handle. It appeared completely ordinary now, almost mundane. Had I not remembered the previous night so vividly, I might have convinced myself that everything I'd experienced had been nothing more than a fever dream born from exhaustion.

"...Let's hope you stay quiet today."

The mirror, thankfully, ignored me.

I wasn't entirely certain whether that was comforting or disappointing.

I slowly slid out from under the warm covers and got out of bed. I shivered as my bare feet hit the cold wooden floor and sighed.

I lingered in the room for several more minutes, putting off the inevitable.

At some point, I was going to have to leave.

At some point, I was going to have to stop pretending I could simply stay inside this room forever.

With a quiet sigh, I reached for the simple clothes Sister Marianne had brought me yesterday and laid them neatly across the bed. They were plain by any standard—a cream-colored blouse, a charcoal skirt, dark stockings, and a modest coat embroidered with the Church's violet raven. Practical clothing. Comfortable clothing.

Women's clothing.

I stared at them for a long moment before rubbing a hand across my face.

"...Right."

There wasn't exactly another option.

Just as I was trying to work out how I was supposed to put everything on, another gentle knock sounded at the door.

"Miss Veil?" Sister Marianne called from the other side. "May I come in?"

"Yes."

The door opened just enough for her to step inside, carrying a neatly folded towel over one arm.

"I thought you might appreciate this."

She noticed me standing beside the bed, looking rather helplessly between the clothes and the door.

"...Is something wrong?"

I hesitated.

There was no sensible way to explain that yesterday I had been a man in another world.

"...Actually..."

I scratched awkwardly at my cheek.

"I was wondering..."

She waited patiently.

"...Where exactly is the washroom?"

For a heartbeat, she simply blinked.

Then understanding crossed her face.

"Of course."

A small, apologetic smile appeared on her lips.

"I shouldn't have assumed you knew your way around."

I let out an inward sigh of relief.

Thankfully, she had misunderstood my hesitation.

"The communal baths are just down the hall. There are separate facilities for the sisters and the brothers. Since you're staying in the residential wing, you'll have access to the sisters' bathhouse."

The words hit me with surprising force.

The sisters' bathhouse.

Right.

Of course.

There wasn't exactly another option anymore.

I managed a stiff nod.

"Thank you."

"If you'd like, I can show you."

"...I'd appreciate that."

A few minutes later, Sister Marianne led me through the quiet corridors of the residential wing.

Morning had fully settled over the cathedral. Priests hurried between offices carrying stacks of documents while several sisters swept the stone hallways or exchanged cheerful greetings as they passed. More than one offered me a welcoming smile.

I still wasn't used to people smiling at me.

Eventually, Marianne stopped before a polished oak door marked with a small silver plaque depicting a basin overflowing with water.

"The baths are through here."

She handed me the towel she'd been carrying.

"Take your time. I'll wait outside if you need anything."

"...Thank you."

She inclined her head before leaving me alone.

I stared at the door for several seconds.

"...Well."

There really wasn't any avoiding it.

The bathhouse was pleasantly warm.

Steam drifted lazily through the room, carrying with it the scent of lavender soap and fresh cedar. Several private washing stalls lined one wall, while a larger bathing pool occupied the center of the chamber. Fortunately, it was still early enough that no one else seemed to be using it.

I silently thanked every god I could think of.

Closing the door behind me, I slowly began removing my clothes.

The awkwardness arrived almost immediately.

Every movement felt... unfamiliar.

Not because I didn't know how to undress.

Because the body responding to those movements wasn't the one my mind expected.

I carefully slipped the oversized sweater over my head before setting it aside.

Then froze.

"..."

Pale shoulders.

A noticeably narrower frame.

Long strands of silver-white hair spilling over skin that still looked impossibly foreign.

I swallowed.

"I really wasn't ready for this."

My reflection in one of the polished brass fixtures offered no sympathy.

Taking a slow breath, I continued.

Every new layer made the disconnect sharper.

It wasn't embarrassment.

Not exactly.

No one else was here.

No one was watching.

It was the simple, undeniable reality that this body belonged to someone else.

To Viel.

A young woman whose life had ended before mine had inexplicably begun.

By the time I stepped beneath the warm water, my thoughts had grown unusually quiet.

The heat soaked into sore muscles almost immediately, washing away the lingering stiffness from yesterday's battle. I closed my eyes, letting the water run through my hair.

Then paused.

"...Wait."

I opened one eye.

"...How do I wash this properly?"

A handful of silver-white hair draped over my shoulder.

There was...

So much of it.

I stared at it with growing concern.

"I've never had hair this long."

The realization struck a moment later.

"...I've literally never washed long hair before."

For several embarrassing minutes, I was forced to rely on trial and error, occasionally recalling fragmented memories from Viel herself. Every so often, instincts that clearly weren't mine surfaced just long enough to guide my hands before fading again.

"...Thanks," I muttered quietly, unsure whether I was thanking my own subconscious...

Or the memories she'd left behind.

By the time I finally finished, I felt oddly accomplished.

-

After drying myself as best I could, I stood there for a long moment with the towel wrapped tightly around me.

The warmth of the bath had done little to quiet the unease lingering in the back of my mind.

It wasn't that I disliked the body.

If anything...

That almost made it worse.

I looked down at myself before quickly looking away again.

"...Still not used to this."

My voice echoed softly through the empty bathhouse.

Everything about this body felt lighter than the one I remembered. My shoulders were narrower, my waist slimmer, and every movement carried a subtle shift in balance that I still hadn't adapted to. Even standing still felt different, as though my center of gravity had quietly moved overnight.

It wasn't unpleasant.

Just...

Foreign.

Taking a slow breath, I picked up the neatly folded clothes Sister Marianne had left for me.

The first thing that caught my attention was the blouse.

Simple cream-colored fabric, soft to the touch, with small pearl buttons running down the front. It looked easy enough.

"...I can handle a shirt."

That confidence lasted all of ten seconds.

I frowned as I turned it around in my hands.

"...Which side is the front?"

After an embarrassing amount of trial and error—and one particularly confused moment where I'd somehow managed to hold it completely upside down—I finally slipped it over my arms.

"...There."

I looked down.

"...That actually wasn't too bad."

The skirt, however...

I held the dark garment up by its waistband and stared at it.

"...Right."

I had never worn one before.

Not even once.

There was no hidden memory to draw upon this time. Viel clearly hadn't left behind any convenient instinct for getting dressed, or perhaps she had simply never imagined someone else might need to borrow those memories.

"...Thanks. Really helpful."

The sarcasm made me feel slightly better.

Eventually, after another awkward struggle that I hoped no one would ever witness, I managed to fasten everything properly.

Or...

At least I thought I had.

The stockings proved even worse.

I spent nearly a minute trying to understand why they kept twisting around my legs before finally realizing I had them backwards.

"...Seriously?"

I let out a defeated sigh.

"I used to get dressed in under five minutes."

Now it felt like solving a puzzle designed by someone with a deeply personal grudge against me.

Fortunately, persistence eventually triumphed over confusion.

By the time I buttoned the charcoal-gray coat over the blouse, everything finally looked... correct.

At least, I hoped it did.

There was only one way to know.

I walked over to the polished mirror hanging near the entrance.

The woman staring back at me looked nothing like the terrified stranger who had awakened in that bloodstained apartment.

The cream blouse contrasted gently against her pale complexion, while the charcoal skirt and long coat gave her a composed, almost scholarly appearance. The embroidered violet raven stitched near the cuff caught the morning light, its wings spread as though preparing to take flight. Combined with the silver-white hair cascading over her shoulders and those striking crimson eyes, the outfit carried an understated elegance that somehow suited her far better than the oversized sweater from the day before.

"..."

I adjusted the collar.

Then the sleeves.

Then the coat.

Then...

I stopped.

"...I'm fidgeting."

I hadn't realized how nervous I was until that moment.

I wasn't worried about whether the clothes looked good.

I was worried about whether I looked convincing wearing them.

Would someone notice?

Would they see something in the way I walked?

The way I stood?

The way I carried myself?

Would they realize the person inside this body wasn't the woman who had been born into it?

The thought sent a chill through me.

Slowly, I exhaled.

"No."

I met my own gaze in the mirror.

"I have to stop thinking like that."

No one here knew the man I'd once been.

To everyone in this world...

I had always been Veil.

The only person comparing the two lives was me.

That didn't make accepting it any easier.

But...

It did make it possible.

I reached up, awkwardly gathering my long silver hair behind my shoulders before immediately letting it fall again.

"...I really need to learn what to do with this."

The image in the mirror offered no advice.

Only a young woman standing at the beginning of a life neither of us had chosen.

After one final glance at my reflection, I straightened my coat, took a steadying breath, and reached for the door.

There was no point hiding in my room any longer.

Whatever awaited me beyond it...

I would face it as Veil.

For now...

That would have to be enough.

_

After washing and changing into the clothes Sister Marianne had prepared, I took a moment to study myself once more. The crimson sweater from yesterday had been replaced by simpler attire suited for life within the church. Practical, comfortable, and modest. If not for the silver-white hair falling over my shoulders and the crimson eyes staring back from the mirror, I might almost have mistaken myself for one of the ordinary attendants bustling through the cathedral. 

Almost.

The face reflected there still wasn't mine and my hair was a mess of knots and tangles even though I did my best to get the worst offenders out. I sigh

Perhaps...

One day, it would feel less like a stranger's body.

A polite knock interrupted my thoughts.

Three steady knocks, spaced with almost practiced precision.

"Miss Veil?"

Sister Marianne's gentle voice came through the door.

"Are you ready?"

"I am."

"May I come in?"

"Please."

The door opened quietly, revealing the familiar sister carrying a small wicker basket. Fresh bread, sliced fruit, and a steaming cup of tea rested inside, the pleasant aroma immediately filling the room.

"I thought you might prefer breakfast before beginning your day."

I blinked.

"You brought it here?"

She tilted her head ever so slightly.

"You were crying when I checked on you late last night."

“So I assumed you would want to eat in your room”

She said and motioned for me to follow her back which I did.

Heat rushed to my cheeks.

"I..."

"There is no need to explain."

Her smile remained as warm as ever.

"Everyone mourns differently."

For a moment, I simply looked at her.

She hadn't asked questions.

Hadn't pressed for answers.

She had simply... understood.

"...Thank you."

"I've lived long enough to know that some grief cannot be eased with words."

She placed the basket upon the desk before glancing toward the window as we arrive inside after going through the twisting halls.

"His Excellency has asked that you visit him once you've finished breakfast. There is something he wishes to discuss regarding your future."

"My future..."

The phrase still felt foreign.

Only two days ago, my greatest concern had probably been deciding what to eat for dinner.

Now...

My future involved Beyonders, Devils, and a church dedicated to a god whose very existence would have been considered fantasy in my old world.

The thought might have been absurd.

Instead...

It simply felt inevitable.

Nearly half an hour later, I found myself once again standing before the large oak doors leading to Father Kornelius' office.

The nervousness surprised me.

Yesterday, I had entered this room searching desperately for answers.

Today...

I was entering to make a decision.

Sister Marianne offered me an encouraging smile before giving the door a gentle knock.

"Your Excellency?"

"Come in."

The familiar voice answered almost immediately.

She opened the door, allowing me to step inside first.

The office appeared much as I remembered. Tall bookshelves stretched from floor to ceiling, packed tightly with leather-bound tomes whose titles ranged from theology to mysticism and history. The morning sun poured through stained-glass windows depicting the Hanged Man, painting intricate patterns across the polished floor. Somewhere in the room, incense burned softly, its subtle fragrance mingling with the scent of aged parchment and freshly brewed tea.

Father Kornelius looked up from the document he had been reading, carefully setting aside his pen before offering the same calm smile that had greeted me yesterday.

"Good morning, Miss Veil."

"Good morning, Father."

"I trust you were able to rest."

"I was."

I hesitated for only a moment before adding, "Better than I expected."

"I'm pleased to hear that."

He gestured toward the chair opposite his desk.

"Please, sit."

I did as requested.

Rather than speaking immediately, Father Kornelius studied me in silence for several moments. It wasn't an uncomfortable silence. If anything, it felt as though he were making certain that I truly had recovered before continuing.

Finally, he folded his hands atop the desk.

"Yesterday, I promised that once you had recovered, we would discuss what comes next."

I nodded.

"You did."

"Then let us begin."

He leaned forward, opening one of the drawers built into his desk before withdrawing two thin leather folders. With deliberate care, he placed them side by side upon the polished wood.

At first glance they appeared nearly identical.

Looking closer, however, I noticed each bore a different emblem pressed into its cover.

The first displayed the familiar symbol of the Church of the Aurora Order.

The second...

A raven with wings spread wide against a crescent moon.

For reasons I couldn't explain, my eyes lingered on the raven.

Father Kornelius noticed.

"These represent the two paths presently available to you within the Church."

He rested one hand upon the folder bearing the Church's crest.

"The first is a quieter life."

His fingers traced the embossed symbol absentmindedly as he spoke, as though he had given this explanation countless times before.

"Every church requires more than priests delivering sermons and Beyonders battling hidden threats. There are records that must be maintained, correspondence exchanged between dioceses, relics catalogued, libraries cared for, and countless mundane tasks that allow the Church to function. They are responsibilities that rarely receive recognition, yet without them, everything else would quickly descend into disorder."

He offered a small smile.

"People often underestimate the importance of ordinary work. In truth, it is the foundation upon which extraordinary work is built."

I found myself nodding despite never having considered it that way.

The hidden world was filled with monsters, rituals, and gods, yet someone still had to organize reports, preserve historical records, and ensure the right books reached the right hands. Even the Nighthawks—no, the Umbral Ravens—would eventually return from their missions with documents that needed to be archived.

Someone had to do those things.

Father Kornelius continued.

"Considering the circumstances of your arrival, I believe you would adapt well to such a position. Your fascination with mysticism before becoming a Beyonder gives you a stronger foundation than most initiates. Although much of your knowledge is incomplete, you possess genuine curiosity. Properly cultivated, that curiosity would serve you well within our archives."

His words painted a surprisingly peaceful picture.

Days spent among ancient books and forgotten histories.

Helping scholars decipher old rituals.

Assisting priests with research.

Learning at a measured pace while remaining safely within the cathedral's walls.

After everything that had happened...

It sounded comforting.

Safe.

Father Kornelius seemed to recognize the appeal of that image, because he allowed the silence to linger before speaking again.

"It is an honorable path."

There was no hint of condescension in his voice.

"Do not mistake its quiet nature for insignificance. Many of the Church's greatest scholars have never drawn a weapon in their lives, yet have saved countless others through wisdom alone."

I believed him.

Perhaps because he himself seemed to embody those very qualities.

Then...

He moved his hand to the second folder.

The atmosphere within the room shifted almost imperceptibly.

"The second path," he said, his voice becoming noticeably more solemn, "is very different."

His fingertips rested upon the raven embossed into the leather cover.

"The Umbral Ravens."

The name carried a peculiar weight.

Yesterday it had simply been another unfamiliar title in a world already overflowing with them.

Today...

It felt important.

"I've heard the name once before," I admitted. "Sister Marianne mentioned them."

Father Kornelius nodded.

"I suspected she might."

For a brief moment, his gaze drifted toward the stained-glass window behind me before returning.

"The Umbral Ravens are the Church of the Aurora Order's official Beyonder organization. While the clergy concern themselves with guiding the faithful and tending to their spiritual well-being, the Ravens walk a far darker road."

He paused, allowing his next words to settle.

"They investigate disturbances that ordinary people cannot explain."

"They recover mystical artifacts before they bring calamity to innocent hands."

"They dismantle cults devoted to forbidden entities."

"And..."

His expression hardened ever so slightly.

"They hunt those creatures that prey upon humanity from the shadows."

Despite myself, memories resurfaced.

The apartment.

The suffocating pressure that had filled the room.

The Devil's smile.

The impossible sense of despair that had nearly driven me to surrender before the battle had even begun.

Without the Church...

Without the people who had arrived that night...

I would have died.

Not might have.

Would have.

"It is dangerous work," Father Kornelius continued, seemingly reading the thoughts crossing my face. "Far more dangerous than I believe you currently realize."

He folded his hands once more.

"The hidden world is not made solely of Devils. There are corrupted Beyonders who have abandoned their humanity, sealed artifacts whose very existence twists the minds of those around them, remnants of ancient rituals that continue to claim lives centuries after their creators perished, and influences from beyond our world that cannot be allowed to spread."

His voice remained calm throughout.

There was no attempt to frighten me.

Only honesty.

"The Umbral Ravens stand between those dangers and the ordinary citizens who will never know they existed."

Silence settled over the office.

Outside, I could faintly hear the cathedral bells announcing the hour.

Life continued beyond these walls.

Merchants would be opening their shops.

Children hurrying to lessons.

Families sharing breakfast.

Completely unaware of the horrors hidden just beyond their understanding.

Father Kornelius broke the silence.

"If you choose this path, the Church will invest considerably more into your development."

He opened the raven folder, revealing several neatly written documents.

"You will receive formal instruction in mysticism, ritualism, Spirit World navigation, Beyonder combat, and the proper methods for handling sealed artifacts. Experienced Ravens will supervise your training, and your digestion of the Secret Suppliant potion will be carefully monitored."

His eyes met mine.

"You told me yesterday that you wished to understand what had happened to you."

"I did."

"You wished to ensure that the fate which befell Miss Viel would never become your own."

My fingers tightened slightly upon my knees.

"I do."

"Then there is no environment better suited to helping you achieve those goals."

He closed the folder once more.

"However..."

The single word carried enough weight to make me sit a little straighter.

"There is something you must understand before making your decision."

His gaze became unexpectedly gentle.

"Joining the Umbral Ravens is not merely accepting employment."

The room seemed quieter than before.

"It is accepting responsibility."

His voice never rose, yet every word landed with unmistakable clarity.

"You will willingly step into places others flee from."

"You will witness tragedies that cannot be spoken of outside these walls."

"You will confront beings capable of shattering an ordinary person's mind simply by being seen."

He allowed that image to linger.

"And despite all of that..."

A faint smile returned to his face.

"You will not face them alone."

Something stirred within my chest.

Perhaps because those were precisely the words I hadn't realized I needed to hear.

Since opening my eyes in this world, I had been alone.

Alone in a stranger's apartment.

Alone with memories that weren't mine.

Alone while mourning a life I could no longer return to.

The Church hadn't erased that loneliness.

But little by little...

It had begun to share its weight.

Father Kornelius leaned back in his chair.

"I should also temper your expectations."

His smile became almost amused.

"If you choose the Umbral Ravens, you will not become a full member immediately."

I blinked.

"I won't?"

He chuckled softly.

"No."

"Every Raven begins as a probationary member."

His expression became serious once more.

"You have survived your first encounter with the hidden world, but survival alone does not make one prepared to protect others. There is much you must learn before I would ever permit you to undertake missions without experienced Ravens at your side."

Strangely...

That was reassuring.

If he had expected me to begin hunting monsters tomorrow, I might have questioned his sanity.

"I understand."

"I'm glad."

He gently pushed both folders toward me.

"The choice, Miss Veil, is yours."

Neither path was wrong.

One offered stability.

The other offered understanding.

I lowered my eyes to the raven engraved upon the second folder.

The image of the Devil returned once more.

Then the mirror.

Then the promise I had whispered to the woman whose body I now carried.

"I'll find out why this happened."

"I'll make sure your death meant something."

Could I keep that promise from behind a desk?

...

No.

I reached forward.

My hand came to rest upon the folder bearing the raven.

Lifting my eyes to meet Father Kornelius's, I took a slow, steady breath.

"If this world is filled with things like the Devil I encountered..."

I paused.

"...then hiding from them won't make them disappear."

A faint smile appeared on the bishop's face.

"I suppose not."

"I want to understand this world."

My voice grew steadier with each word.

"I want to become strong enough that the next time I face something like that... I won't have to rely entirely on someone else to save me."

For a long moment, Father Kornelius simply looked at me.

Then, with quiet approval, he slid the raven folder the rest of the way across the desk.

"Very well."

His smile was small, but genuine.

"Then allow me to formally welcome you, Miss Veil."

He rose from his chair, and for the first time since we'd met, extended his hand.

"From this day forward..."

"...you are a probationary member of the Umbral Ravens."

I stood, accepting the offered handshake.

His grip was firm.

Steady.

Warm.

For reasons I couldn't entirely explain...

It felt less like accepting a job...

And more like taking the first step into the life that awaited me.

Father Kornelius held the handshake for only a moment before releasing it. There was nothing ceremonial about the gesture, yet it carried an unmistakable finality. The decision had been made.

"Congratulations, Miss Veil."

His voice remained calm, but there was a warmth behind it that hadn't been present when we'd first met.

"I hope, in time, you'll come to think of the Umbral Ravens as more than merely your place of employment."

I looked at the raven-crested folder resting in my hands.

The leather felt surprisingly worn, as though countless others had held it before me.

"I'll... do my best."

"I ask nothing more."

Father Kornelius resumed his seat, interlocking his fingers atop the desk.

"Before we go any further, however, I believe it would be beneficial to explain precisely what becoming a probationary Raven entails."

I straightened instinctively.

"As a probationary member, your foremost responsibility is to learn."

There was no hesitation in his words.

"You are not expected to solve investigations, hunt monsters, or face dangerous Beyonders on your own. In fact, should you attempt such things without authorization, I would consider it a personal failure on the part of the Church."

I blinked.

"Really?"

He smiled faintly.

"You possess a Sequence Nine potion and little more than fragments of mystical knowledge. Confidence is admirable. Overconfidence fills cemeteries."

"...That's... difficult to argue with."

"It usually is."

The corner of his mouth twitched ever so slightly.

"For the first several months, you will accompany senior Ravens during their investigations. Your purpose is to observe, ask questions, and learn. Only when your instructors believe you are ready will you be entrusted with independent responsibilities."

That...

Actually sounded reasonable.

I'd expected something closer to being handed a revolver and told to start hunting monsters.

Instead...

They intended to train me.

Properly.

A knot of anxiety I hadn't realized I was carrying eased ever so slightly.

"As for your education," Father Kornelius continued, opening the folder before me, "your schedule will be divided between practical instruction and academic study."

He withdrew a single sheet covered in neat handwriting.

"In the mornings, you will attend lessons regarding Beyonder history, ritualism, Spirit World theory, and the doctrines of the Church."

He placed a second page beside it.

"The afternoons will be devoted to practical exercises. Meditation, spirituality control, physical conditioning, firearms training, emergency first aid, and instruction in handling mystical incidents."

My eyebrows rose.

"...Firearms?"

He regarded me curiously.

"Does that surprise you?"

"A little."

"I see."

He leaned back slightly.

"The Churches learned long ago that faith alone rarely stops a bullet."

I couldn't suppress a small laugh.

For some reason...

That was exactly the sort of practical answer I'd begun expecting from him.

"The Lord blesses wisdom just as readily as courage," he continued. "A Beyonder who refuses every mundane advantage because they possess supernatural abilities seldom remains alive for very long."

That...

Made perfect sense.

Magic and guns weren't mutually exclusive.

If anything, combining them seemed the obvious choice.

I made a mental note never to underestimate the people of this world simply because they wielded mystical powers.

Father Kornelius allowed me another moment to read through the documents before quietly closing the folder once more.

"One final matter."

His expression grew more serious.

"The Umbral Ravens are more than comrades."

He paused, choosing his next words carefully.

"Every member is entrusted with knowledge capable of endangering countless lives if handled carelessly. Consequently, absolute trust within the organization is not merely encouraged."

"It is required."

The room fell silent.

"I understand."

"I believe you do."

I look around awkwardly as a thought runs through my mind now that I knew what path I would take.

"Is there a way I could give proper thanks to the man that saved me last night from that devils attack?"

I quickly contained to explain myself

"I-I mean I was unable to show my gratitude after he had saved me as I quickly lost consciousness when the fight ended and after I woke up in the cathedral"

The Bishop nodded slowly in understanding.

"The kind gentleman that saved you is u/Spinning_Dragonite. He is also an Umbral Raven and if you wish to speak with him or convoy your appreciation for his actions I will see what I can do. Though knowing him, he will make his own plans to come to check on you in time, so there is no need to worry yourself over it"

He rose once more.

"In any case..."

He walked toward the office door.

"Come."

I looked up.

"Where?"

He smiles

"To see the others you will be working with"

I tense unprepared to be thrown into this so suddenly

"Now?"

He nodded.

"It would be rather cruel to recruit you into the Umbral Ravens while leaving you to wonder who your new companions are."

A nervous flutter stirred in my stomach.

"...Fair enough."

The cathedral felt different as we walked together.

Perhaps it was because I was following someone with purpose.

Father Kornelius greeted nearly everyone we passed with the same calm warmth he had shown me. Priests paused their conversations to bow respectfully. Sisters smiled as they continued about their duties. A pair of young attendants carrying stacks of books nearly tripped over themselves trying to make room in the hallway, earning only an amused chuckle from the bishop.

It struck me that, despite his position...

No one seemed afraid of him.

They respected him.

There was a difference.

Eventually, we reached a corridor I hadn't visited before.

Unlike the bright halls above, this section of the cathedral was quieter. The stained-glass windows gradually gave way to smooth stone walls adorned with iron lanterns. The bustle of the church faded behind us, replaced by a stillness that felt... deliberate.

Father Kornelius stopped before an unremarkable oak door reinforced with black iron bands.

At first glance it appeared no different from any of the dozens of doors we'd already passed.

Then I noticed the symbol carved into its center.

A raven.

Its wings spread protectively around a crescent moon.

The carving was subtle enough that most visitors would probably overlook it entirely.

"The headquarters of the Umbral Ravens," Father Kornelius said softly.

I couldn't hide my surprise.

"...It's inside the cathedral?"

He smiled.

"Where better to place those entrusted with protecting it?"

That...

Was difficult to argue with.

He reached into his robes and withdrew an old-fashioned brass key.

The lock clicked heavily as he turned it.

Instead of pushing the door open immediately, he looked toward me.

"One final piece of advice, Miss Veil."

I met his gaze.

"The men and women you're about to meet..."

A faint smile crossed his face.

"...will very likely become the people with whom you entrust your life."

The words settled heavily in my chest.

Because I knew...

He wasn't exaggerating.

He slowly pushed open the door.

Warm lamplight spilled into the corridor, accompanied by the rich aroma of freshly brewed coffee and the faint murmur of conversation.

Somewhere inside, someone laughed.

Another voice complained about paperwork.

A chair scraped across the floor.

For reasons I couldn't explain...

The atmosphere felt unexpectedly... ordinary.

Not like the headquarters of elite monster hunters.

More like...

A home.

I followed Father Kornelius through the doorway, my heart beating just a little faster.

Whatever waited beyond that threshold...

It would be the beginning of my new life.

-End-

----------------------------

Art made by by MISSILE228

Finally at the end of another Chapter! Thank you to everyone that has supported me thus far! With the end of this chapter Viel is now moving onto the next arc of the story and next chapter shall be introducing more members of the Church of the Aroura Order.

Chapter-7 Fragments of a new Home

The bishop's hand was warm.

It wasn't an overwhelming sensation, nor did some mystical force surge through my body the moment our hands met. There was no divine light, no invisible contract being etched into my soul.

Just a handshake.

Simple.

Ordinary.

Yet somehow...

It carried more weight than anything else that had happened since I had awakened in this unfamiliar world.

For the first time since opening my eyes in that apartment, I wasn't facing the unknown alone.

Father Kornelius released my hand before offering another gentle smile.

"Then allow me to officially welcome you to the Cathedral of the Holy Trinity u/MrDeltaXII  Ms. Veil.”

His voice retained its calm steadiness.

"You've suffered greatly in a very short amount of time. While there is much we must eventually discuss, today is not the day for overwhelming you with more information."

I hadn't realized how relieved I was to hear those words until my shoulders relaxed.

"...Thank you."

He nodded.

"Recovery is also a responsibility."

He stepped toward the door before opening it.

The woman who had been caring for me stood patiently outside, as though she had anticipated the meeting ending.

"Would you accompany Miss Veil?" the bishop asked.

"Of course."

The woman smiled warmly before looking toward me.

"My name is Sister Marianne."

I blinked.

Now that introductions weren't happening while I was half-conscious, the name felt far easier to remember.

"It is a pleasure to properly meet you."

"I... likewise."

She motioned for me to follow.

"If you'll come with me, I'll show you where you'll be staying."

The church felt different now.

Earlier, every hallway had seemed unfamiliar.

Potentially dangerous even if peaceful 

Every stranger had been another unknown variable in a world that refused to make sense.

Now...

It was still unfamiliar.

But it is no longer frightening.

The corridors stretched beneath high stone arches, sunlight pouring through stained-glass windows depicting scenes I couldn't fully understand.

The Hanged Man appeared again and again.

Sometimes watching over crowds of kneeling worshippers.

Sometimes extending one hand toward those lost in darkness.

Sometimes hanging silently against a backdrop of stars that somehow looked far older than the night sky itself.

Each image stirred something deep inside me.

Not recognition.

Not exactly.

More like...

Resonance…and with it I felt the idea of a ritual form in my mind, the train of thought which I immediately extinguished. To scatter these lingering and potentially dangerous thoughts I quickly looked away. As whatever instinct had stopped me from dwelling on Honorific Names earlier now warned me against staring too long at those windows. A single thought entered my mind that made me shudder “Never look directly at god”...

I stumbled after that thought entered my mind and cringed as a fragment returned…. A memory of madness of voices…of the RaViNgS!

Sister Marianne either didn't notice my odd expression or politely chose not to comment as my mind was left scrambling, all she did was help me steady myself. Which I silently appreciated as I gathered myself again. 

Instead she spoke about considerably safer subjects.

"The church receives many guests."

"Guests?"

She nodded.

"Travelers. Those seeking sanctuary. Orphans. Sometimes people injured during accidents."

"...Beyonder accidents?"

She smiled faintly.

"Sometimes."

That answer somehow confirmed far more than she had actually said as I let my mind wonder in the deeper meaning of her words and their implications. 

We eventually reached another section of the building and unlike the public halls, these corridors felt lived in. Doors lined both sides. Books rested on windowsills. Fresh flowers decorated small tables. Someone had left a basket of laundry outside one room. Another door stood partially open, revealing shelves stacked with medical supplies. I slowed slightly.

"...People actually live here?"

"Many do."

"The priests?"

"And the sisters."

She continued walking.

"As well as some of our attendants, apprentices, and those still receiving education."

“Even some Umbral Ravens stay here between missions” 

That...

Made sense.

For some reason, I'd subconsciously imagined churches as places people visited before returning home.

Not places that were themselves homes. I suppose I will have to get used to the concept….sigh

She eventually stopped before a simple wooden door.

"This room belonged to one of our missionaries."

A brief shadow crossed her face.

"He departed several months ago to serve in another diocese."

She opened the door.

The room was modest: a bed, desk, a wardrobe, a bookshelf containing perhaps two dozen well-worn books and small window overlooking part of the courtyard. Nothing extravagant. Yet...

Everything was clean.

Everything had clearly been cared for.

"It isn't much."

"It's more than enough."

I couldn't stop myself from smiling.

Compared to waking in a stranger's apartment with blood on the floor and a Devil breaking through the door...

This looked positively luxurious.

Sister Marianne seemed pleased by my reaction.

"You may stay here for as long as necessary or at least as long as the bishop permits until you can be given more permanent living arrangements”

I slowly walked inside.

The wooden floor creaked softly beneath my feet.

The bed looked inviting enough that I briefly considered collapsing onto it immediately.

I somehow resisted.

Barely.

"There are only a few rules."

I turned back toward her.

"The first is simple."

"Please don't wander into restricted areas."

I nodded slowly 

Reasonable.

"There are archives, ritual chambers, and storage rooms that require permission."

I nodded.

"I wasn't planning on exploring mysterious underground chambers anyway."

"...There are no underground chambers”

Her response came perhaps a little too quickly this time

I stared.

She stared back.

"...Right."

"..."

"...There definitely aren't mysterious underground chambers."

"I believe you."

"I appreciate that."

For the first time since we'd met...

She looked faintly embarrassed.

It was oddly comforting.

"The second rule..."

She continued with considerably more composure.

"If you intend to leave church grounds, please inform someone."

I tilted my head.

"So you can keep an eye on me?"

"So we know where to look if something unfortunate happens."

"..."

That answer was difficult to argue with.

Considering my first day in this world had involved nearly becoming a ritual sacrifice...

Fair enough.

"I'll let someone know."

"Thank you."

I noticed her saw and I assumed she thought I would be difficult on the matter. 

"The final rule."

Her expression softened.

"If you need help..."

She hesitated before continuing.

"Ask."

The simplicity of those words caught me off guard.

She noticed.

"Many people who arrive here believe they must carry everything themselves."

Her eyes briefly drifted toward the hallway beyond the open door.

"They usually discover they're wrong."

Something about the way she said it made me think she wasn't talking only about me.

Perhaps...

She had once been one of those people herself.

"I'll try."

She smiled.

"That's enough."

---

After explaining where the dining hall, chapel, library, and infirmary were located, Sister Marianne prepared to leave.

She paused in the doorway.

"Oh."

"I almost forgot."

She reached into one sleeve before producing a small iron key attached to a polished wooden tag.

She placed it gently into my hand.

"Your room."

The key felt unexpectedly heavy.

Ridiculous.

It was only a key. Yet... I stared at it for several long moments. Not because of what it was but because of what it represented.

A room

A place.

Somewhere that was...

Mine.

The realization nearly made my chest tighten.

How long had it been since I'd truly had somewhere to belong?

The answer wasn't Veil's memory.

Nor was it entirely my own. It was something shared between us. Loss. Displacement. Loneliness. Different lives. The same emptiness.

Sister Marianne must have noticed something in my expression.

Her voice became almost motherly.

"Get some rest."

"There will be plenty of time to learn tomorrow, also I have been told to inform you that the Bishop wishes to give you your options on what the church can offer you to help you move on from this”

I slowly closed my fingers around the key and nod

"...Thank you."

She inclined her head before quietly closing the door behind her.

---

Silence settled over the room. For several long minutes... I simply stood there. No monsters. No whispers. No screaming.

Only the faint sound of birds somewhere beyond the window.

Eventually...

I walked over to the desk. The journal still rested where the church had placed my belongings.

Beside it lay the necklace that had somehow survived everything.

I picked it up carefully.

The cool metal rested against my palm.

"...I almost died."

Saying it aloud somehow made it more real.

Yesterday...I had been living an ordinary life.

Today...

I was a Beyonder, a Secret Suppliant.

A member of the Church of the Aurora Order.

A transmigrator trapped inside another person's body.

I laughed quietly.

"...What a ridiculous sentence."

No one answered. The silence unlike before was comforting this time.

Finally alone in my room I looked over what belongings the church had left for me. Of course it was the bare essentials. Besides them just the odd necklace and the journal. As I look through its pages I notice parts missing and I frown. I had expected them to look through it of course. That only made sense….I hardly even expected them to return it to me. But for some reason, them just giving it back and not bothering to hide anything left a bitter taste in my mouth.

I sigh softly as I put the book back down on the table.

My eyes were then drawn to the bed. It was simple—almost disappointingly so at first glance—but the longer I looked, the more I appreciated it. The sturdy oak frame bore the tiny scratches and imperfections that came with years of use, yet it had been lovingly maintained. Fresh white sheets stretched tightly across a surprisingly thick mattress, and a neatly folded quilt rested at the foot of the bed beside a plump feather pillow. A faint aroma of lavender lingered in the fabric, mingling with the clean scent of sun-dried linen. It wasn't luxurious. It wasn't extravagant. It was simply... cared for. Somehow, that made it feel far more welcoming than any lavish bed could have. After sleeping in fear—if I had slept at all—the sight of it alone was enough to make my aching body beg for rest.

But I held and looked through what items they left me inside the small bag with clothing. I paused as I found my target and slid it out. It was a circular silver mirror no larger than my hand. Time had dulled its once brilliant shine into a soft, muted luster, though careful polishing had preserved its elegance. The handle was cast in the shape of intertwining ivy vines, each leaf painstakingly engraved by an artisan's hand, while the frame surrounding the glass bore delicate geometric patterns intertwined with tiny stars and crescent moons. They weren't mystical symbols—not truly—but decorative flourishes inspired by old folklore and occult traditions. Someone with no knowledge of mysticism would have mistaken it for an expensive vanity mirror. Someone who did understand mysticism would recognize it as the sort of trinket eagerly purchased by enthusiastic amateurs hoping appearances alone carried spiritual significance.

The memory made me cringe in embarrassment but I pushed on towards the main goal and slowly raised it to my face and body.

For a long moment, I simply stared.

The silver mirror reflected a face that still refused to feel like mine.

White hair framed delicate features in loose, slightly untamed waves, cascading past slender shoulders before disappearing beneath the crimson robe I now wore. It wasn't the pristine white of fresh snow, but something softer, touched by faint shades of silver whenever the light caught it. A few stubborn strands had fallen across my forehead, partially obscuring eyes that regarded me with the same uncertainty I felt.

My eyes...

No.

Her eyes.

They were a deep crimson, almost ruby in color, their brilliance subdued by exhaustion. Dark circles lingered beneath them, a testament to sleepless nights and the ordeal this body had endured before I arrived. Despite that fatigue, they possessed an odd clarity that hadn't been there yesterday. Every so often, I caught them shifting ever so slightly as my enhanced spirituality unconsciously focused on things beyond ordinary sight.

It was unsettling.

Not because they were frightening.

Because they were beautiful.

Far more beautiful than I had ever expected.

My gaze drifted lower.

A straight nose.

Soft lips that remained slightly parted as I breathed.

Pale skin, almost porcelain in complexion, unmarred save for a few faint scratches that had yet to fully heal from the previous night's struggle. Even those imperfections somehow failed to diminish the elegance of the face staring back at me.

I reached up hesitantly.

The reflection did the same.

Cool fingertips brushed against my cheek.

The skin was impossibly smooth.

Real.

I swallowed.

"...This isn't my face."

The words escaped in little more than a whisper.

The mirror offered no contradiction.

It simply reflected the young woman standing before it.

She couldn't have been more than twenty years old. Slender without appearing fragile, graceful even while standing perfectly still. The oversized crimson sweater hanging from her shoulders only emphasized how slight her frame was, its sleeves covering part of her hands. The color contrasted sharply against her pale complexion, drawing attention to the silver-white hair spilling around her like moonlight.

It was...

Beautiful.

There was no point pretending otherwise.

If I'd passed someone who looked like this on the street back home, I probably would have done a double take.

That thought made me wince.

Back home.

The memory felt distant already.

I closed my eyes for a moment.

When I opened them again...

She was still there.

I tried smiling.

The woman in the mirror smiled back.

It felt wrong.

Not horrifying.

Not grotesque.

Just...

Wrong.

The expression wasn't one I recognized.

The smile curved unfamiliar lips. My cheeks lifted differently than I expected. Even the way my eyes narrowed carried a softness that didn't belong to the person I remembered being.

I raised a hand and awkwardly ran it through my hair.

The strands slipped effortlessly between my fingers, finer than anything I'd ever felt before. They brushed against my neck as they settled back into place, longer than I was accustomed to by an absurd degree.

"...I'm going to have to learn how to take care of this..."

The thought surfaced before I could stop it.

A small, incredulous laugh escaped me.

Of all the things happening in my life—

Transmigration.

Beyonders.

Devils.

Secret churches.

Ancient gods.

—and somehow my biggest immediate concern had become figuring out how to brush waist-length hair.

The absurdity of it all almost made me laugh again.

Almost.

Instead, I simply looked into the mirror once more.

The face looking back wasn't mine.

It belonged to Viel.

A young woman who had been fascinated by mysticism, who had reached beyond the ordinary world searching for something greater...

...and had paid for it with her life.

I reached out once more, resting my fingertips against the cold surface of the mirror.

"I'm sorry," I murmured quietly, unsure whether I was speaking to the reflection...

...or to the woman whose place I had unwillingly taken.

For several long moments, neither of us moved.

Only one reflection remained.

Then tears fell, one after another. I didn't try and stop them, with each crystal tear another seemed to follow.

I reached out once more, resting my fingertips against the cool silver surface of the mirror.

"I'm sorry," I whispered, unsure whether I was speaking to the reflection...

...or to the young woman whose place I had unwillingly taken. The room answered only with silence. For several long moments, I simply stood there, staring at the face before me.

White hair.

Crimson eyes.

A stranger.

No matter how many times I looked, no matter how much I tried to convince myself that this was reality now, my mind now refused to bridge the gap between what I remembered and what I saw.

I remembered rougher hands.

A broader frame.

A deeper voice.

I remembered shaving in the morning.

Throwing on a wrinkled shirt before work.

Absentmindedly running a hand through short hair that never stayed the way I wanted.

Small things.

Meaningless things.

The sort of things no one ever appreciates until they're gone.

I couldn't remember my mother's face as clearly as I wanted.

Or the last meal I'd eaten.

Or what I'd been doing before...

Before...

My brow furrowed.

"...Before what?"

Nothing came.

The memories stopped there.

It was like standing before a cliff and knowing an entire world existed beyond the fog, yet no matter how desperately I strained my eyes, I couldn't see it.

"...No..."

I squeezed my eyes shut.

"Come on..."

Nothing.

Not a single answer.

Only silence.

My breathing became uneven.

"I had a life..."

The words came out barely above a whisper.

"I know I did..."

Friends, family, coworkers, someone, there had to be someone!

Someone who would wonder why I never came home, someone waiting for a phone call that would never come, someone who would search...and never find me. A sharp pain settled in my chest.

"...They're going to think I died."

The realization struck with crushing force. Not disappeared. Not transported.

Dead.

To everyone I had ever known...I had simply vanished from existence.

My parents...Would they blame themselves?

Would they spend years wondering what happened?

Would they ever stop looking?

"...I..."

My voice cracked.

I tried to take another breath, but it caught in my throat.

"I never even get to say goodbye!"

The tears came before I realized I was crying.

One drop struck the silver mirror.

Then another.

Soon they blurred the reflection entirely.

I raised a trembling hand to wipe them away, only for more to replace them.

"...Damn it..."

I laughed weakly.

The sound broke halfway through.

"...Damn it..."

My shoulders shook. Everything I'd held together since awakening finally began to unravel. The confusion. The fear. The exhaustion. The loneliness. It all came rushing out at once. I covered my mouth with one hand as a sob escaped despite my best efforts.

"I don't want this..."

Another followed.

"I didn't ask for any of this..."

The room remained silent.

No comforting voice answered.

No miracle returned me home.

Only the quiet walls of an unfamiliar room inside an unfamiliar church in an unfamiliar world.

I slowly slid down the side of the bed until I was sitting on the wooden floor, knees drawn against my chest.

The mirror remained on the desk above me.

Its reflection now hidden from view.

I buried my face against my knees.

"I just..."

Another sob interrupted me.

"...I just want to go home..."

The words echoed softly through the room before fading into silence. Home. Even as I said it...I couldn't remember enough to picture it. The realization hurt more than anything else. It felt as though someone had stolen my life piece by piece, leaving behind only fragments. Enough to know what I'd lost. Not enough to truly remember it.

"...Why?"

I wasn't sure who I was asking.

God?

The world?

Fate?

No answer came.

Only the quiet ticking of a clock somewhere beyond the room.

Eventually...

The tears slowed.

Not because I felt better.

Because I had cried until there was nothing left.

I sat there in silence, eyes swollen, breathing unevenly.

Then...

My gaze drifted back toward the mirror.

Toward the young woman reflected within it.

"...And what about you?"

My voice was hoarse.

"You didn't ask for this either..."

“I barely recall anything substantial from my past…I have more memories of your life then mine….hah….haha…”

I slowly stood and approached the desk once more.

The reflection looked just as exhausted as I felt.

Twenty years old.

Too young. Far too young. I thought of the journal. The careful handwriting. The excitement with which she'd written about mysticism.

The hope.

The curiosity.

The dreams she must have carried.

All gone. Reduced to a corpse that I now inhabited.

"I'm living because..."

I swallowed.

"...because you died."

The words tasted bitter.

"I don't even know if I have the right to stand here."

My fingers tightened around the edge of the desk.

"I'm wearing your face."

"Your voice."

"Your life."

Another tear slipped free.

"I'm sorry."

The apology came more easily this time.

"I'm sorry I can't give any of it back."

Y̸͖̱̻̌̽̌̎̊͝͝ȏ̸̳̻̪͚̆̓̾̏̓͂͜͝ͅư̷͈̜̬̲̑̏͗̀̆̆̈̾̆̀͠͝͠ ̸̧̜̰͚͕̖͙͍̤̺͔͈̮̭̭͖͋͒̓̌̾̄̃͛̽́̕͠c̷̘͉̪̝̠̝̦̗͚̰̗̜͚̖̯̓́̐̌̏̊̔́̏͌̏̈͋̎͐̋̕ͅa̵̖͓͌͂̽̂͌̕n̸̞̫̯̳̰͖̙̮̜̉̔̐̇̌̿͗͒̚̕͜ ̷̨̛̻̮̭͎̎̔̅͗͂̈́̑͠ͅģ̵̢̭͈͖͎͛̇̉̔͊̍̓̀̿͑͘̕̚͘į̴̧̯͕͙̰̪̘̺͉́̋̂̑͑̂͠v̸̢̨̙̺̦͍͚̗̯͔͚̻̈́͐́͗͌̽ę̸̢̼͎̭͉̱̻̥̭̥̮̊̊̅̾͊̌͌̍̑̚ ̵̙͚͍͙̦̩̠̀́̑́̈́͋̽̒̐̎̔̍̃̾͘͜͝i̵̫͚͔̱̝̍̈̍́̔̂̂̓͛̌̔t̶̡̧̹͔̜͉̯̝͓̣͎̬̦̭̘̩͂̄̿̓ͅ ̸͍̓͆͆͐̌̀̿̋́̓͆̃͂b̷̡͇̥͚̤͓̖͇̘̱͚̜̯̘͖͎̂̀̎́͗̋̈́̆̂̏͂̊â̶̜̠̱̓̓̓͐̐̈̕͝͝c̴̨̲̠̗̺͇̙̻͆͗̈͛̽̍̿̋͂̕͠͠͠ķ̶̛̟̘͚̔̉̈́̇̈̂̏͑͋͛͝ͅͅ.̵̩̲̜̣̤̤̖̖̤̫̬͓͔͚̙̓͑̒ͅ.̴̛̛̭͖̼̘̖̲͔̈́̾̉̎̂̾͌̈́̓͜.̶̢̳͉̥̭̒̑̅͘͜ͅͅ.̶̛̛̜̙̖͗͐͑͊͐̄̒̉̚̕͝.̸̢̨̝̹̖̼̠͓̫̳͎̌͆̈́̆̋̌̒̀͛̐͜

I tense at the sudden voice and quickly search around the room, only to realize after my first sweep that I am still alone…… I sigh between sobs trying to gather my  bearings and trying to decide what that voice was. I slowly stumble to the bed, as a wave of exhaustion hits me along with a splitting migraine.

Between the pain and the exhaustion I feel my consciousness quickly fade. As I slowly gave my room one last look through to make sure I was alone my eyes caught the sight of my face in the mirror….I saw a look of disgust stare back at me, my own face….I blink. Its gone…..or well the expression it gave at least, what was left was a small fracture in the mirrors surface no bigger then a hair. But exhaustion finally wins and drift off but I mutter softy as I pass out.

“What is madness...........?”

-End-
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Art made by ririrura on pinterest

Finally finished this chapter and sorry if it seemed like a bit of a slower chapter. I want to give a special thanks to u/Ezcu123 for helping me build up the church here and provide me with detailed information on some of the inner workings to make it more accurate and of the faith! Thank you all as always for all the support!

Praise the Hanged Man!