The air was thick with gunpowder and the stench of waxed flesh. The echo of footsteps, the crash of spells, the rhythmic beat of heart-pounding violence—all of it had begun to die down.
The last of the dolls collapsed, twitching on the ground like discarded mannequins.
Arthur wiped the sweat from his brow, his coat torn and bloodstained. He glanced at Arsa, who stood beside him breathing heavily, still gripping his revolver.
Suddenly, Arthur's eyes darted to a loose wooden beam by his foot.
He picked it up, and without a word, the wood shimmered—morphing into a long-handled knife. With a swift movement, he threw it straight at Reyman, who was standing near the far wall like a conductor in a broken opera.
The knife cut through the air.
But just before it made contact, Reyman vanished—again. His form dissolved like smoke.
Then—
He reappeared on top of the dusty, old bed at the far corner of the basement. His daughter, Artstate, stood by his side, unblinking. Her stitched eyes stared blankly forward.
Arsa and the others immediately raised their guns, magic circles glowing at their feet. The atmosphere froze, tension screaming in every muscle.
But Reyman only smiled.
And in the blink of an eye, he vanished once more—this time taking Artstate with him.
Silence fell.
Aritrea slowly lowered her hand, her spell fading into dim embers.
"…He got away," Litun said bitterly, lowering his weapon.
Arsa took a deep breath and turned to Aritrea. "Call the local station. Get the Mariontton police. We need them to secure this place and identify the victims."
She nodded wordlessly and stepped out into the hallway, her footsteps echoing.
Arthur looked down at one of the collapsed dolls. The skin was real. Stitched. A young woman, stripped of her identity, her name.
"Bastard," he muttered.
Arsa didn't answer. His gray eyes scanned the room—searching for something. Anything. A clue.
But there was nothing left.
Only silence.
It didn't take long for the police to arrive.
The narrow street outside the grim townhouse was soon filled with the sharp calls of officers and the muffled wheels of stretchers being rolled in and out. The gaslamps flickered over the somber faces of the Mariontton city watch, many of whom looked visibly shaken as they descended into the basement.
The sight of the stitched women—lifeless, beautiful, desecrated—left no one untouched.
Reynold took charge, his tone composed yet firm. "Check every body. We need names, families, any signs of identification. Notify the press only after we confirm they're not still being used in rituals."
The lead officer gave a sharp nod and got to work.
Meanwhile, Arsa stood silently by the wall. He had changed out of the blue gown and gloves, now back in his usual deep gray coat and long-brimmed hat, the revolver concealed once again under the folds of his inner lining. His long gray hair had been brushed back, though streaks of dried blood still clung faintly near the hem of his coat.
His face was unreadable.
As he turned to leave, Reynold stepped beside him, holding out a thick envelope.
"You and Arthur. First salary," Reynold said with a small smile. "Well-earned. Eleven pounds and two hundred shillings. Not bad for your first week, eh?"
Arthur, already nursing a bruised shoulder, snatched his share with a smirk. "Still not enough for trauma therapy."
Arsa accepted the envelope without a word, tucking it into his coat.
He looked back at the house one last time. The lights, the blood, the quiet sobs of a young officer who had stumbled upon a girl that looked like his sister. The horrors didn't leave the walls—they followed you home in silence.
"Goodbye," Arsa muttered, mostly to himself.
Then he stepped outside, the gaslamp casting a faint halo around him as he descended the stone steps. A black carriage was waiting at the edge of the curb, its silver trim reflecting the dull moonlight.
The driver, an old man with a bowler hat and tired eyes, gave a respectful nod.
"Where to, sir?"
Arsa didn't hesitate.
"The Catholic Church of Darkstar," he said, voice low.
The driver raised an eyebrow slightly—Darkstar wasn't exactly a popular parish.
But he didn't ask questions. "Yes, sir."
The door clicked shut behind Arsa. As the carriage wheels began to roll through the misty cobblestone streets, the boy leaned back against the seat, finally exhaling a breath he didn't know he was holding.
The carriage came to a gentle halt in front of a tall, gothic structure cloaked in shadows. The Catholic Church of Darkstar, known for its obsidian steeple and hauntingly quiet bells, stood at the edge of the district like a forgotten monument. A place only the desperate, devout, or damned visited after dark.
Arsa stepped out into the cold wind, his coat trailing behind him, long gray hair swaying slightly. The scent of old incense, iron, and candle wax lingered at the edge of the heavy oak doors.
He pushed them open slowly.
The sanctuary inside was dim, lit only by the black flame of enchanted candles that flickered with a cold violet hue. At the center of the altar, the silver statue of Darkstar—the goddess of silence, shadow, and sorrow—stood with her hands clasped over her heart, eyes blindfolded.
Empty pews stretched down both sides of the nave. Not a soul in sight.
Arsa walked down the aisle alone.
He chose the third bench from the front and sat down, his revolver still holstered, his eyes still watchful.
Then, slowly, he bowed his head.
His lips parted, and in the sacred tongue of Karmian, he whispered his prayer:
"Ossa iliyen, Darcesta Venaria.
Mi vena lo sarin, mi dolen lo thir.
Teyn nerume, anun tela mirei.
Seyel oshen, veyel thu lenara."
(Translation for the reader:)
"Bones listen, O Darkstar the Silent.
My blood is restless, my grief is deep.
Guide my shadow, away from the abyss.
Keep the silence, hold back the madness."
The words echoed faintly in the cavernous hall, like wind brushing the edge of a grave.
Arsa raised his head slowly, looking at the blindfolded goddess.
He didn't ask for protection.
He didn't ask for forgiveness.
He asked only for stillness—a moment where the nightmares stopped moving.
A few minutes passed in silence. Then, without lighting a candle or leaving a token offering, Arsa stood and turned toward the door.
[TO BE CONTINUE]