The sun hung high in the sky and birds chirped.

A rhythmic rhythm of hooves striking the stone road resounded while Father Art’s long hazel hair fluttered in the wind.

Slightly behind him galloped another horse, a young short woman with black pearl earrings seated atop it. She donned short, raven-black hair, which didn’t require much maintenance and could easily be tucked beneath her coif.

Father Art wore a cassock and the woman a tunic, cloaks draping their bodies. They were black instead of their usual white, as travelling, especially after recent rainfall, would certainly dirty them.

“So, did they respond?” shouted Sister Ethel, her voice only barely able to carry above the noise of the galloping.

“Yes, actually,” responded Art in a calm but loud tone, “But they denied the request.”

A startled expression was written over Ethel’s face, and she jerked into Father Art’s direction. “What?”

Father Art’s lips curled into a wry smile. “It’s all within my expectations. With the Royal Succession War upcoming, ressources are especially tight. If it’d been any other day, things wouldn’t have turned out like this.”

“But– Someone died!” rebuked Ethel.

Father Art paused for a second, as if calculating a response.

“You’re right, but there’s a certain procedure. It’s not as if they wouldn’t desire to help us, it’s just that this is a low priority case.”

Ethel’s forehead creased even further and she dumbfoundedly responded, “What?!”

“Yes,” Father Art confirmed.

He sighed dejectedly. He aspired to join their ranks one day which required assimilating that particular mindset, thus tried rationalizing it to the best of his abilities.

However, he couldn’t help but be a little stirred by the headquarter’s response — this involved the death of a person he held dear.

On the horizon to which the road stretched, he finally noticed a wagon. He gulped nervously, but soon regained control over his breathing and heart.

As the distance to the scene shortened, Father Art sensed his body growing colder despite the several layers of clothing. His expression remained stern as he stayed on the lookout for Brother Zarael’s figure.

However, he didn’t catch a glimpse of it.

“We’ve arrived.”

As they rode with as little burden as possible, they managed to arrive in only a few hours. In comparison, the heavy burden of the wagon extended the time it took twofold.

Ethel scanned the scene littered with mice carcasses. A burnt odor still faintly lingered. “That’s crazy. I can’t imagine what might’ve happened.”

Father Art met her questioning gaze sharply in an attempt to point out her tone, which was slightly inconsiderate considering the circumstances.

When she only grew more confused, he gave up on it and answered, “It’s Brother Zarael’s ability of the Stratum, ‘The Puppeteer’”

When her lips parted slightly, he swiftly added, “He asked me to keep the details a secret, and I’ll keep that promise.”

“Eh–”

Father Art turned, walking along the side of the wagon and behind. He noted the charred corpses and silently muttered a prayer.

However he’d already expected this and kept going, looking for a sign of Brother Zarael. Sister Ethel followed suit.

He pulled back the canvas covering the first wagon, beholding even more ash and the same brass hairpin which Zarael failed to pick up laying on the right bench, which remained intact.

Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

It’s not where Sister Mary died, Surmised Father Art silently, Someone must’ve picked it up — Brother Zarael!

He stepped inside, inspecting the bench where the hairpin lay. There were rough engravings within, as if he’d seriously struggled to etch it inside.

Memories of the early morning resurfaced in Father Art’s mind, and of the bead which heated up but didn’t shatter.

His injuries… His hands must be injured!

He returned to the engravings, deciphering them intently.

“What’s that?”

Father Art held up his hand, signaling for space to think.

After a while, he finally responded, “There’s blood on my hands. I don’t dare face you before I have redeemed myself. Forgive me, Father.”

After uttering these words, Father Art fell into deep contemplation.

…

Meanwhile, in North Reedbounds. Despite the sun which stood high up, shadows blanketed the entire borough.

A young slim man stood in front of a red-bricked building with all black curtains tightly shut. Blonde, slightly tousled hair fell to his shoulders and he wore a grayish-black cape which wrapped his body.

A sign was fixed above the front door, reading ‘Madame Chérie’.

Noel shuddered, then cast a last glance at the map depicting the city of Novaston. His gaze followed the upper riverbed which led into this borough, then zig-zagged through the streets and alleyways until finally landing on a red mark.

North Reedbounds was notorious for being an entertainment district ridden with crime and illegitimate businesses. Just two days earlier, there had been a fire. No deaths had been reported, but according to rumors, it numbered thirty-eight.

He gulped and approached the door. With a heavy heart, he pushed it just slightly ajar, cautiously peering through the gap.

Immediately, a thick floral scent wafted outside. He coughed, drawing the gazes of several figures gathered at a bar on his left hand side.

Noel cursed inwardly, pushing the door open fully to avoid further suspicion.

There was a grand foyer illuminated in dark red light which shone from candles perched atop the chandelier suspended in the air. A staircase led upwards, but a red rope was strung at its initial step, preventing anyone from just barging up.

He stepped inside and observed their attires. There were men and women alike, donning mostly gowns and tailcoats. While some had visibly been patched and weren’t tailored to their proportions, it was evident they had put in a great effort.

At this sight, his muscles tensed slightly. I’m the black sheep. This is going to be awkward.

A couple of their gazes nervously lingered on him. Although the deep shadows cast by the dim candles concealed their identities, they didn’t seem confident in just this, as they wore masks ornate in feathers and intricacy.

“Welcome to this establishment. I’m Madame Chérie,” said a voice, suddenly breaking the silence. It was dripping with an oppressive yet refined tone.

His gaze darted left abruptly, beholding a mature woman with greyish hair, wearing a multilayered black lace gown. Despite her age, her skin was spotless, as if she’d never seen the sun.

Could it be the natural darkness of this borough? He silently questioned, but soon concluded it had to be heavy make-up, or the result of some unorthodox ritual.

“May I kindly ask you to strip that cape,” she said, then holding up a white feathered mask, “If you so desire, we provide masks for just a small fee.”

Noel complied, stripping his rope and asked, “How much is it?”

“Three int.”

“Three int?! That’s a day’s wage!” he blurted out momentarily. When he realized this slip-of-tongue, he flushed red.

“Excuse me. I’ll be alright,” he added swiftly, trying to salvage the situation.

“Alright.” Madame Chérie chuckled lightly and grabbed his cape. “There’s an entry fee of six int, while the final amount will depend on several factors. Are you still willing to proceed?”

“Eh–?”

Noel was shocked, but was attentive enough to not blurt out his thoughts again. Six int?! This is a scam! Isn’t this South Reedbounds?!

When his glance fell upon his white cotton ruffled shirt, he had a faint epiphany. This shirt would’ve cost around two slades or twenty-four int — a person of ordinary standing wouldn’t be able to afford it.

Could it be that she thinks I’m a Southerner? She’s actually bold enough to gouge the price?!

“Madame, this is a misunderstanding. I’m here for,– you know…” He bit his lips, scrambling to find the right words.

“That’s right, I’m here to see Mistress Violet.”

“That’s alright, but I won’t discount the entry fee,” Madame Chérie’s lips curled into a suggestive smile and added, “That’s the price everyone pays.”

Noel returned the smile, but was gritting his teeth beneath.

That’s shameless! I’m just the mediator, why do you need to involve me?

He pulled out his wallet, scrambling six ints from it, leaving him with a single slade.

They better reimburse me, or I’ll have to take on even more jobs!