The chill outside clung to his coat as Therrin stood at the base of the narrow stairwell, boots quiet on the damp stone. He glanced up at the crooked building towering above—another dusty block tucked into the skeletal frame of Belltaine's eastern district. Unremarkable. Forgettable.
Just like the man they were tracking.
He exhaled, breath fogging faintly. "White-orange flames," he muttered under his breath. "A mimic? No… too refined." He had replayed the exchange in the alley at least two dozen times. The weight of the strike, the cadence of the attack, the retreat. All real. All brutal. But it was the absence that unsettled him more than anything. No distinct aura, no magical residue, nothing traceable. Just calculated force and sudden disappearance.
High-ranking Deacon Greswin hadn't dismissed the report outright, but his skepticism had been palpable.
"Unconfirmed profile," Greswin had said. "Continue with passive tracing. Verify presence. Do not engage until instructed."
As if Therrin hadn't already been engaged.
He sighed and gazed into the silver-threaded inner pocket of his coat.
Palm-sized, matte black. Its glassy surface shimmered faintly beneath the overcast sky, like starlight trapped behind murky water. A silver hexagonal lattice encased it, and three curved prongs extended like insect limbs—twitching softly, not from movement, but from awareness.
This was Sealed Artifact 2-523, named "Starlaced Observer". It held a fragment of a Star from the remains of a Constellation Master. It granted Eyes of Mystery Prying, allowing the bearer to sense concealed truths within a twenty-meter radius—illusions, spirits, buried traces. With a bit of guidance, it could also summon a small floating Star to assist with divination or tag unseen entities… though only briefly, unless stabilized through ritual. Stranger still, it sometimes acted on its own—adjusting its prongs or subtly shifting weight, as if nudging its holder toward something just out of sight. Following its cues often revealed hidden truths. Ignoring them made it fall into silence.
But it wasn't made for solo use. The artifact required rotation between two or more users. Holding onto it too long caused strain—headaches, distorted vision, even false spiritual alarms. And if passed between handlers before completing a full "cycle," it shut down for a day. Its nature demanded shared vigilance. Not ownership.
"Still quiet," Therrin muttered, watching the prongs still.
Then he turned toward the door.
Therrin stepped further into the dim apartment, boots scraping softly against the floorboards as he scanned the space. The air was stale—undisturbed, but not old. Curtains still hung over the soot-smudged windows, and the faint scent of coffee clung to the furniture like a memory. Lived-in, but left in a hurry.
He didn't speak. Behind him, two junior clergymen moved methodically, gloved hands flipping through drawers, lifting loose floorboards, tapping the walls for hidden compartments.
Therrin moved further into the apartment, his steps silent, deliberate.
A faint gleam shimmered across his irises—Eyes of Mystery Prying still active, threading layers of perception across every corner of the room. The space pulsed faintly with residual tension, like the afterimage of a breath held too long. Nothing was broken. Nothing ransacked. But something had shifted. Something had been undone.
The apartment was pristine in a way that felt unnatural. Like someone had erased themselves without leaving a trace.
He approached the desk tucked near the wall. A faint impression marked where a small case had once rested. Beside it—subtle signs: paper fibers ruffled, a light smear of oil, and a partially faded ring of coffee along the edge.
Therrin crouched, gloved fingers brushing over the surface.
He closed his eyes.
A slow, deep breath.
…Nothing.
Whoever had lived here was either a mundane with unusually sharp habits—
—or someone trained to leave nothing behind.
A rustle behind him. One of the juniors emerged from the washroom, holding up a soap-streaked shaving razor. "Looks like he had the habit of grooming often. Neatly kept. No hair strands left."
Therrin gave a quiet nod, straightening slowly. "Means he knew we'd come. Or at least that someone would."
"And yet left no defensive sigils, no traps," the other muttered, peering beneath the bed. "Just… left."
Therrin said nothing. His hand drifted toward the inside of his coat. Tucked against his chest, within a silver-lined compartment, the artifact stirred faintly.
The black sphere—matte, palm-sized, its glass-like surface rippling beneath its silver lattice—responded like a half-woken animal sensing something familiar. Its three small limbs twitched once, then stilled.
It hadn't reacted strongly since the alley. Not during the initial report to Deacon Greswin. Not even now.
Which meant the target—whoever he was—wasn't nearby.
But Therrin couldn't shake the crawling sensation that lingered in the back of his mind. A prickle behind the eyes—subtle, persistent. Not fear, nor was it suspicion. Just an itch. The kind that suggested something had slipped past, barely brushing the edge of awareness.
He'd felt it before. Not often. But enough to know it wasn't nothing.
He clicked his tongue quietly. Everything is clean and yet something still stinks. Either I'm losing my edge… or someone wants me to think I haven't.
"Anything?" he finally asked, voice low.
The juniors shook their heads in near unison. "Nothing meaningful. Just faint impressions. Clean. Too clean."
Therrin stood silent for a moment, gaze drifting across the room one last time. The scent of coffee lingered like a ghost, but the trail had already begun to cool.
Then, he stepped back inside and motioned subtly for the others to wait. "Give me a moment."
He crouched near the center of the room and retrieved a small incense and placed it on the floor beside a tapered blue candle. From a pouch, he drew powdered incense and dusted it into the air with a practiced flick.
Lighting the candle, Therrin closed his eyes, letting the gentle flame cast a cool blue shimmer over the floorboards.
He drew in a long, slow breath and murmured under it:
"Who was the man in the alley?"
"Who was the man…
The words repeated like a chant seven times, threading themselves into the rhythm of his breathing. He eased into Cogitation his consciousness reaching out toward the Spirit World.
His Astral Projection stirred.
And then it faltered.
Something brushed against him.
A veil behind the veil.
The questions he had just asked began to loop again—out of order, distorted, a voice almost his own mimicking the tone:
"Alley… who?"
"The man… in you?"
"Seven… man alley…?"
He stiffened.
Images spilled forward, but they were different—faces blurred, scenes rearranged. A desk with no chair. A shaving razor floating in water. A hand reaching for a watch that didn't exist.
Then came a snap—like a taut thread breaking in his mind—and Therrin's eyes flew open.
The candle had guttered out. The incense had burned to a stub, cold and gray.
He inhaled once, slow and controlled, but a tightness curled at the base of his spine. Not fear, exactly. More like the sense of something brushing past just a moment too late to see.
Rising, he dusted his coat with a slow motion, composing himself.
"Divination failed," he said flatly to the juniors as they turned toward him. "Something was set up in advance. Not a trap—more like a blanket. Meant to blur the details for anyone looking too closely."
"Anti-divination?" one asked.
"Possibly," Therrin replied, eyes narrowing slightly. "But if so… it's precise."
He gave the room one final look, gaze settling on the faded mark near the desk. His eyes narrowed further, a slight pressure behind them pulsing—an odd sensation, like trying to remember a name and watching it slip away just before it reached the surface.
Something about this place still sat wrong in his mind. As if he had forgotten something before he'd ever seen it.
He didn't chase the thought.
"Mark the apartment for passive surveillance," he said curtly, moving to the door. "If he returns, we'll know."
He stepped out into the gray afternoon, the air pressing cold against his skin. His breath misted before him.
As they descended the stairs, Therrin cast one last glance toward the floor above. The pressure in his head had faded.
But the strange sense remained.
Like a memory misfiled.
Or a presence that had already passed through his thoughts and left nothing behind.
…
Belltower District, Belltaine
The heavy doors of the Cathedral groaned shut behind them, muting the bustle of the city. Inside, the world became quiet—too quiet. As if the stone itself refused to echo footsteps unless given permission.
Nearly a decade had passed since the event—an incident unknown to most civilians but significant enough to shake the city's spiritual foundation. In its wake, the Church of Evernight had acted swiftly. Recognizing the gravity of what had transpired, they consecrated ground in the heart of the Belltower District and erecting The Cathedral of Silent Revelation, as both sanctuary and stronghold. It served not only as a place of worship, spreading the Goddess's doctrine through sermons and ritual masses, but as a bastion of vigilance. Within its shadowed halls, divisions of Nighthawks, Red Gloves, and sanctioned clergy stood ready—charged with safeguarding Belltaine from any lingering echoes of that buried threat, and from the heresies still crawling beneath the city's skin.
Therrin strode down the central nave, flanked by rows of towering pews and dark stained-glass windows that depicted visions of slumbering moons, veiled angels, and stars falling like tears. The scent of incense hung in the air, thick with myrrh and smokewood. Above, silver chandeliers flickered faintly, their flames dimmed as if caught mid-prayer.
Here, there were no choirs, no sermons. Just silence, ritual, and the whispers of those who knew how to listen.
Behind Therrin, the junior clergymen said nothing. Protocol dictated they remain outside the Deacon's sanctum. He crossed the threshold alone, passing through a heavy black curtain embroidered with symbols of concealment and layered dreams.
The inner sanctum was round, quiet, and sparsely adorned. A single desk of black ironwood stood at the far end, half-buried in papers and sealed scrolls. Shelves of relics curved along the walls, each item locked behind glass etched with binding runes.
And seated behind the desk was High-ranking Deacon Greswin.
Old, but not frail. His eyes were sharp behind a silver half-mask, and his robes bore the deep navy blue of senior rank—accented with white threading that shimmered like cobwebs under starlight. He didn't rise.
"Report," he said, voice dry as parchment.
Therrin bowed briefly and stepped forward.
"The site was vacant. Left in a controlled fashion. No disruption, no signs of conflict. The apartment was orderly, but… intentionally so. Too intentional."
Greswin's fingers tapped once on the desk.
"Residue?"
"Minimal. He didn't just cover his trail—he rearranged it. Either he's extremely trained or he's using something that mimics the effect of memory-suppression."
Greswin tilted his head slightly. "Divination?"
"Attempted a Dream Reading. Interrupted. Felt… not like resistance. Like the answer had already been overwritten."
The Deacon's gaze sharpened. "You suspect interference?"
Therrin nodded. "Likely. Possibly preparatory countermeasures set in place ahead of time. That would require foresight—and confidence. He knew someone would come looking."
Greswin leaned back into his chair, fingers lacing slowly. The faint sound of the Cathedral's clock tower filtered through the sanctum—two bells, deep and hollow.
"Tell me about the artifact."
Therrin reached into his coat and placed the black sphere upon the desk, careful not to disturb its twitching limbs. Greswin didn't touch it.
"It's been… quiet," Therrin added. "Responsive, but inconsistent. It's not inert, but I sense it's choosing what to share."
"And your condition?" Greswin asked, not looking up.
"Stable," Therrin said, without hesitation.
Greswin let the silence stretch, eyes fixed on the artifact. At length, he murmured, "So either we were misled from the beginning…"
"Or someone's walking a trail so carefully planned, it crosses ours only when they want it to."
Another pause.
Then, Greswin's tone dropped a degree colder. "Do you still believe the man you encountered was part of this?"
Therrin's gaze sharpened slightly. "I do. My body recalls the hit even if my mind doesn't remember his face. And the fire—it was deliberate. Not wild. It was shaped."
Greswin nodded once.
"Very well. Continue your observations. Keep the artifact rotating among the team as prescribed. If it shifts again, I want to know before it finishes twitching."
"Yes, Deacon."
"And Therrin—" Greswin added, as he turned away to sift through his scrolls.
"If this man truly left no trace, then he didn't leave at all."
Therrin's jaw tensed. He gave a crisp nod, and Greswin's eyes lingered on him a moment longer before turning away.
Without another word, the High-Ranking Deacon pivoted and strode toward the chamber beyond, his coat sweeping behind him. Therrin followed in silence, the low thud of their boots swallowed by the thick cathedral stone.
The chamber beyond the High-Ranking Deacon's office was quiet, lit only by the blue glow of filtered gaslamps embedded in the arched ceiling. Its walls were polished stone, embedded with prayer-inscribed silver filigree. A long table stood at its center—half-map room, half tactical den. The kind of place reserved for active operations, not ceremony.
Greswin didn't speak as he led Therrin inside, boots echoing against the floor. A moment later, two more Red Gloves stepped in from the adjoining corridor—both silent, both marked by silver-threaded sigils across their coats. One bore the symbol of the Twilight Giant Pathway—likely a Guardian or Dawn Paladin. The other, a Death Pathway Spirit Guide, his cloak weighed down with talisman loops and mourning sashes.
Therrin saluted them both with a nod, and they returned the gesture without pause.
Greswin approached the far end of the table, where a red-marked map of Belltaine's eastern dock quarters lay pinned in place beneath thick crystal. Dozens of notations crowded it—routes, names, rental codes, manifest forgeries, and symbols in shorthand known only to the Red Gloves.
"The east flank?" Greswin asked without looking up.
"Quiet," replied the Spirit Guide at his left. "No abnormal traffic. No visible Broker movement. We've cycled two patrols and one static veil. The fog's holding."
Greswin gave a brief nod, then turned slightly toward the taller figure on the far side of the table.
She stood with arms clasped behind her back, lean frame wrapped in the high-collared cloak of a Red Glove officer. Silver-inked chains were stitched into the lining of her sleeves—marks of her Pathway. The stillness of her gaze belied its pressure: High-Ranking Deacon Lucienne—a Sequence 4 Demon Hunter of the Twilight Giant Pathway. Not officially Greswin's subordinate, but working in tandem for the duration of the operation.
"Our node in the western market?" Greswin prompted.
"Stable," Lucienne replied. "Local agents have sighted three minor Broker-affiliated messengers moving through the lower plazas. None have approached the warehouse route. Surveillance is embedded along the main thoroughfares. If any higher-tier contact slips through, we'll know."
"Good," Greswin murmured.
He moved around the table slowly, hand trailing the edge of the glass-pressed map.
"This warehouse encounter has been months in the making. A planted contact. Curated exchanges. Staged deliveries. And now—finally—confirmation of movement. The Brokers have taken the bait. Whoever arrives Sunday, they believe the terms are real."
Lucienne's brow furrowed slightly. "We still don't know who they're expecting."
"No," Greswin agreed. "But that doesn't matter. The 'Black Market' will send someone."
At the edge of the table, he tapped twice.
"Capture if possible. Kill if not."
The others nodded.
He glanced briefly at Therrin. "Your unit continues the inner net. Rotating pairs. No fixed routes. If the man from the apartment resurfaces, I want his path smothered before he realizes it."
"Yes, Deacon."
Lucienne spoke again, voice calm but firm. "We'll reinforce the western approach Sunday morning. Just before first light. The Constellations Masters will obscure the warehouse from long-range divinations. Five seconds of stillness is all we need."
"The warehouse meeting is proceeding as scheduled. It is our hook—our bait. A deal arranged and reinforced through weeks of forged signals, intercepted courier contracts, and three false identities. The Brokers took it. Someone will arrive. Possibly multiple."
The Dawn Paladin frowned. "And if one of their higher figures oversees the exchange?"
"That," Greswin said, "is the point."
He stepped back from the table, folding his hands behind his back.
"The Black Market must be exposed. Their network has grown bolder. A priest from White Harbour intercepted documents indicating growing interest in sequences tied to unknown deities—possibly peripheral Old Ones. The Brokers aren't just facilitating deals anymore. They're seeking something. Or someone."
"Prepare your teams for combat readiness. If the meeting is legitimate, we seize as many as we can. If it's a test, we fail nothing."
"Sunday is ours, unless they realize the stage is built on corpses. Dismissed."
…
West Courtyard Wing, Service Entry Hall
Sunlight filtered through stained-glass arches, washing the marble hallway in diluted amber and violet. The estate breathed with the quiet rhythm of routine—footfalls softened by velvet runners, faint clinks of silver from the tea service in the drawing room, and the gentle scrape of pen against the ledger where Merrill, the senior steward, sat tallying wine reserves.
It was a tranquil moment. Predictable.
Then, the chime.
Not the staff bell. Not the gate alarm.
The front entry—main door. Three clear knocks. Measured. Intentional.
Merrill looked up, frowning faintly. Visitors to the estate—unscheduled ones—rarely approached the front directly unless they were either brave, foolish, or unusually important.
He adjusted his cuffs, straightened his posture, and made his way to the grand door, polished wood gleaming beneath the sigils carved along its inner arch. A draft whispered through the lower seam as he reached for the handle.
Click.
The door opened with a low groan.
Standing on the front step was a man in a modest gray coat—respectable, plain, the kind one saw on bookish inspectors or mid-tier bureaucrats. He wore a bowler hat, pressed low over a pair of round-lensed spectacles. Dark-red gloves clung to his hands, their surface matte and subtly ridged, catching the light in strange, flickering patterns. Polished shoes, a slim case tucked under one arm.
He offered a polite nod.
"Good afternoon," the man said, voice warm, unobtrusive. "Apologies for the intrusion. I was hoping to request a brief audience with Mr. Constantine."
Merrill began to speak—habit already moving his mouth into a familiar phrase: Do you have an appointment, sir? But something faltered.
His throat tightened.
Chest stiffened.
The chill started in his fingertips. A light numbness. Not pain. Not even fear. Just a… quiet denial of will. His fingers did not grip the door. His tongue did not finish the word.
He slowly blinked, with shallow breaths.
The man waited with calm patience, not pushing further, not crossing the threshold.
"I bring concerning news," he added gently. "And a club meeting your master may wish to be aware of. It involves the eastern docks… and a certain arrangement taking place tomorrow."
A moment passed. Then Merrill stepped aside—mechanically.
"I… I will inform the master," he said, voice hollow as he gestured to the man inside. "Please… wait in the east hall."
The stranger offered a gracious smile and stepped across the threshold.
And behind Merrill's eye—something blinked.