Nuriel hunched forward, massaging the base of his neck. The headache returned, slowly turning into whispering fragments in his mind like wind slipping through cracks in his skull. Maybe it really was magic.
The moment he accepted the idea, the voices fell silent abruptly, as if retreating from recognition which raised his brows into surprise. He straightened with a slow breath, stretched his arms, and glanced around. No one seemed to be watching.
Pushing his glasses up, then letting them slide back down, he slipped into a quiet trance, staring through the trees without really seeing them.
If it was a witch's doing, then some kind of curse or poison must have been used. But the effects had vanished as suddenly as they came. Could the coffee have been the delivery method? That seemed unlikely, he leaned back against the bench, arms folded, slipping deeper into deduction.
The barista hadn't shown the slightest unease when he returned the cup—nothing in their posture or tone. They would've reacted, even subtly, had they thought him dead just moments before.
That left the possibility of a long-range curse. He'd read and heard about such things, implants, sigils, artifacts embedded within the body to channel sorcery further and more unnoticeable. But if someone had cast such a thing, they would've needed to observe the results. No assassin left their target unchecked.
And he had been on the floor, unmoving, from the morning till noon. Anyone watching would've assumed he didn't survive, and crossed him off as dead.
If the assassin was someone who didn't bother checking their target afterward, then...
Nuriel figured he should be fine for the meantime and he could use that to his advantage. In that case, he needed to leave quickly and make his way to Owhen City sooner than expected.
Stationing himself at the university would guarantee a better form of security, surrounded by faculty, staff, and public eyes that would make it harder for another attempt on his life.
Better yet, he could even apply for the faculty dormitory, assuming there was a vacancy. He gave a small nod, pleased with the idea. From there, his thoughts wandered—trying to untangle the knots in his own mind.
Or I could be insane. Just snapped and lost it completely! His lip twitched at the thought. He'd rather believe there was someone out there trying to kill him than accept a future of raving nonsense and padded rooms.
But then a darker thought crept in. What if a divine force had touched him? He'd heard stories of prophets chosen by the churches, granted visions and strange gifts before their ascension. But what kind of god would bestow mania?
He cut that line of thinking short. Tempting fate by questioning the divine felt reckless, even in his own thoughts.
Still, another possibility loomed. Mental illness. The idea carried weight, especially when he recalled those strange memory gaps from earlier.
Why did I think I was attractive?
. . .
. . .
. . .
Nuriel froze with a hint of red in his cheeks. That wasn't like him. He always maintained appearances, not for his own admiration but for others.
It was as if he had looked at someone else entirely. Admired a stranger and that stranger was him. He ran his fingers along his chin, unsettled.
And the bread. He was sure he had only ordered coffee, yet after the breakdown, he instinctively reached for a pastry that never existed. It felt like something should've been there. Nuriel questioned himself in a daze.
Strange words like Victorian also came to him naturally, he couldn't grasp where he learned it from but it felt like the right description to what he saw at that time.
A missing memory? Or perhaps... possession? He shuddered at the latter.
Someone or something leaving behind scraps of its own habits and preferences inside his mind.
Nuriel exhaled sharply, leaning back and stretching his neck until he was gazing up at the overcast sky.
Ghostly possession. Mental illness. Between those two other than the coffee theory, at least they gave some meaning to his weird behaviour.
After a moment of self-reflection, his ears twitched at the soft patter of footsteps approaching.
He straightened his back, adjusted the hem of his vest, and wiped away any hint of distress from his face, replacing it with something composed. His eyes drifted to a pair of birds nesting on a nearby branch, feigning knowledge like a charlatan.
He held his breath, still as a statue, waiting for the steps to pass him.
The chatter came first, two young women trading gossip with theatrical flair. The cadence, the flourish of their tone, it was unmistakably noble. Nuriel could practically see the exaggerated hand gestures without turning his head. To his ears, it was a familiar performance.
The rich always needed to be different. Not only in wealth but in speech,
As if even their words wore silk.
But I'm free from all that, allowing the faintest smile to twitch at the corner of his mouth. He gave himself a mental pat on the back. Eventually, curiosity got the better of him. He dared a quick glance.
Just as he predicted, two noble ladies out for a stroll, ribbons trailing behind them, parasols lazily twirling.
Looks like I was right. Two ladies... and a—
Maid.
Nuriel's heart froze in place.
He didn't factor a third person, he could hear two distinct voices nearby but not three distinct foot steps!
A violent rhythm burst inside his chest, each thump louder and more painful than the last. His face drained of color, breath caught in his throat. He didn't blink. Didn't move. Perhaps it helped as he appeared merely lost in thought rather in the brink of collapse.
His gaze slid past the two ladies until it landed on the third figure.
The uniform was tailor made. Hair tied back in a bun. Every step measured and discreetly elegant.
Then her face.
Young. Calm. Serene.
The pounding in his chest eased. Had he seen anything else the other persona expected he might have dropped unconscious right there.
The trio passed by him in the blink of an eye, and only then did his body falter, his posture collapsed. The breath he had unknowingly held hissed out of his lungs like steam from a cracked valve.
I should pray to God for once, he thought, the words not quite out loud but heavier than the rest. With great effort, he stood, letting muscle memory lead him to the cathedral.
The walk gave him time to cool off, the strange dissonance in his head slowly dulled. He kept his coins tucked away, unwilling to spend on a carriage, and certainly not on one of those rare combustion cars the upper class flaunted like toys.
By the time he reached the cathedral, the sky had darkened into a molten gold. The bells had not yet rung, but believers were already streaming in. Nuriel joined them.
Inside, his gaze immediately lifted.
Vaulted ceilings stretched like the ribs of giants. The walls shimmered with the soft kaleidoscope of sunset filtering through stained glass. One excuisite panel in particular caught his eye, a veiled witch clad in ceremonial robes, her back guarded by the image of a silver dragon, wings unfurled and mouth open in a silent roar.
The Church of the Steel Witch.
He walked slowly through the center aisle. Light pooled and scattered across his coat, painting him with orange and violet as the last rays of day cast their hues through colored glass.
At the front area, he saw a cluster of soldiers filling several pews. Blue trench coats. Matching caps. Rifles propped beside them like walking sticks. Their faces were unreadable from where Nuriel stood, but their gait was slow and heavy leaving a sense of exhaustion. Or fear.
He settled at the farthest row, trying to avoid the crowd, but it was a futile effort. The cathedral was packed. He was shoulder-to-shoulder with strangers, their warmth suffocating, their silence loud.
Despite the closeness, he listened. Sometimes mouthing prayers for himself, sometimes simply mimicking others. Time passed in layers of prayers, scripture, moments of silence, then solemn chants echoing through the holy halls.
An hour, maybe more. Nuriel expected the priest to end the gathering before the priest's voice boomed, ricocheting against marble and glass: "Fellow believers! This splendid evening calls for celebration! For one of our faithful has found a scale from the body of our God! Rejoice and spread!"
The stillness shattered.
"PRAISE THE WITCH!" the priest roared, and the crowd followed suit, their voices surged like fire in a dry forest, pounding in Nuriel's ears like war drums.
He slugged forward, rubbing his glabella with a wince. Though the cathedral echoed with frantic cries and songs of praise, a thread of doubt coiled within him. could flesh from a god truly exist? The thought teetered between absurdity and dread. There's no way, right?
Then, without warning, the pressure returned to his skull. A slow, rhythmic pulsation spread through his head, but unlike before, the sensation was oddly pleasant, like invisible hands gently massaging his mind. It alarmed him deeply, yet there was no pain. Still, he remained tense, alert, and carefully moved himself closer to the entrance.
He was alone there. The rest of the congregation had surged forward in a chaotic tide, desperate to glimpse the divine artifact. The soldiers he saw before, formed a tight barrier, their presence the only thing keeping the crowd from tearing the place apart.
Strange... Could this so-called divine object be the cause of everything? he wondered. Nuriel lingered at the back, eyes fixed on the writhing crowd, trying to piece together the cause behind his unraveling. But with so many bodies packed like sardines, all he could see were hands stretched high and faces twisted in religious ecstasy.
Then, amidst the noise, a new sound crept in, quiet footsteps approaching him.