Interlude NF: A Scholar and a Gentleman

The year was 1888, and the city of London was shrouded in mist.

Any Heroic Spirit summoned across time and space from the Throne of Heroes would not have thought this unusual. As existences already atemporal in nature, knowledge of at least a broad overview of events following their original deaths was a part of their domain, something which they possessed as a matter of course, and therefore the fact that Victorian London was prone to bouts of thick fog would be considered a given. There would be nothing strange about it at all.

Indeed, because of the circumstances of the time, neither would the natives have thought anything of it, not normally. London was rather famous for its thick fog, something that any who lived there for any appreciable amount of time would come to accept as simply a part of life in the city.

These thick fogs also provided a level of convenience. Harder for people to notice the strange and unusual when they couldn't see more than a few feet in front of their faces, and therefore, it was easier to hide things such as the sudden appearance of one who ought not be there. There need not be any attempts to obfuscate the summoning of a Heroic Spirit when such a thing was already obfuscated, allowing a Servant to appear to correct an aberrant situation without anyone the wiser.

For Caster, this was the case, for he arrived suddenly and without warning in an empty street, called forth to aid in the restoration of proper human history. One moment, there was only a stretch of air filled with silvery mist, and then the next, he appeared in a flash of light and a burst of energy, sprouting up fully formed like he had simply shot up out of the ground.

And the instant he had completely manifested, he closed his eyes and breathed deeply through his nose as though it was the first breath he had ever taken — only for his entire face to wrinkle as his lips curled in disgust.

"What's this?" Caster muttered. He held the sleeve of his robe up to his nose and mouth as though that would be enough to ward away the stench. "How utterly foul. What sort of fellow would coat an entire city with a fog so thick with magical energy? Really, now. Have you no respect for these poor people?"

A burst of wind whipped up around Caster, sending his long robes flapping, tousling his hair, and nearly ripping the hat right off of his head. The fog was blown back, creating a pocket of clear air almost a dozen feet across in every direction and granting him a reprieve from the toxic fumes that would have choked an ordinary human to death in mere minutes. He heaved a sigh of relief, glad to be rid of the thick, cloying mist, but it was short-lived, because only a handful of seconds later, the fog encroached again, sinking through the pocket he had opened and attempting to smother him beneath its gentle weight.

Caster scowled. It made his thick beard and mustache droop and gave him the appearance of a disappointed headmaster.

"I see," he said to no one in particular. He was used to talking to himself. It helped to keep his thoughts in order, although it had annoyed his wife endlessly. "So it's like that, is it? What an insidious little plot you've got going on here. After all, no one would have any reason to believe anything amiss at all until people started dying, and even then, well, that isn't particularly unusual for those who have suffocated underneath this cruel trap, is it?"

There was, of course, no answer, for he was quite alone on that street, although he hadn't actually expected one either. No, no, that would be far too convenient, wouldn't it? The mastermind behind all of this must have blanketed the entire city in this poison, and unless whoever it was happened to have some kind of mechanism for feeling out people who disturbed the mist — a not impossible proposal, Caster acknowledged to himself — the likelihood that this dastardly fellow was anywhere near Caster at all was exceedingly low. Infinitesimal, in fact.

Of course he would not be able to confront the source of this evil so soon. Whoever they were was probably miles and miles away, hidden away from easy reach as their plan unfolded beneath them. To imagine they were anywhere nearby — or if they were, that they would present themselves to him and face his scorn directly — would be folly of the highest order.

London was not a small city, after all. At this point in history, it had already possessed a population in the millions, although perhaps, thought Caster, that number might have been substantially reduced, depending on how long this mist had been choking the city and how quickly the population had wizened up and realized it may have been safer indoors.

"Even then, that might not have been enough," Caster murmured. He clicked his tongue. "If this mist permeates even the people's homes, then it may be that it is already too late to save them."

It was cruel either way. To be locked inside your home and unable to leave for fear you might die in the fog's poison, or for the poison to be so toxic that even your home was no longer a safe haven from its creeping tendrils. Whoever had concocted this situation was truly diabolical, a villain worthy of scorn and certainly deserving of whatever punishment might be meted out in response.

As a matter of professionalism… Well, hopefully, Caster would find someone better suited to punishing the wicked and vanquishing evildoers. Another Servant, perhaps, one for whom this sort of thing was more familiar, because he doubted that there weren't others that had been summoned for the same purpose as his and things were dire indeed if there weren't.

If it was absolutely necessary… He'd cross that bridge when he got to it, as the saying went. If at all possible, not at all.

"Well," said Caster, rolling his shoulders and setting his brow, "no use standing around here all day, is there? I might as well see if there's aught I can find about."

And so he set off down the street, or as best as he could, given the thickness of the fog. Periodically, he blew open a pocket of clean, fresh air, as much for his nose as for the sake of getting his bearings, but for the most part, he was limited to using what few landmarks he could make out through the mist and the stones beneath his feet to keep track of where he was heading.

Even this was not all that useful. The fog was so thick that a lamppost less than twenty feet away was nothing more than a vague blob, a shadow cast along the fluff. Only barely could he make out the shape of his own shoes, let alone the street he was walking along, and that made it quite difficult to determine where he was or where he was going at all.

It was rather unfortunate that the knowledge he'd been granted during the course of his summoning hadn't been so convenient as to include a map of London itself, and doubly unfortunate, therefore, that he had never visited the city at any point while alive, and as a result hadn't even the slightest inkling of its layout. A native Londoner might have been able to navigate these streets with his eyes closed.

"Now," murmured Caster, "if this had been Paris…"

It had undoubtedly changed in the intervening years between his death and this current era, but even so, it would have been more familiar than this. If this aberration had taken place there, had focused there, at least he might have been able to trust his sense of direction more than now.

Perhaps it was better that it wasn't, however. Having to see his home in such a state might have been more than he could bear.

Eventually, Caster managed to stumble his way towards what could only have been a residential apartment building, and deciding that it bore investigation whether or not any people still lived in this place, he made his way towards the door, lifted one hand, and rapped his knuckles sharply but relatively gently against the door. It wouldn't do to knock the thing down, after all, not if it was the only thing protecting the people inside from the dangers of the outside.

There was no answer. There was, however, a sudden flurry of activity in the building beyond, and the shutters that had been fastened tightly rattled as the inhabitants checked to make sure that they had not come loose. Faint footsteps along creaking floorboards told the tale of someone rushing about, perhaps trying to find a place to hide, but they eventually went silent, and several minutes later, Caster remained alone at the door. No one ever arrived to greet him.

A little rude, perhaps, but understandable. It confirmed for him, at least, that some people had managed to survive and find shelter in their homes. How many, it was impossible to say, and it would be long, tedious work to confirm each individual building had at least one surviving occupant — longer, Caster thought, than he could afford to spend on it. London was host to millions of people, it bore repeating, and therefore thousands of homes that he would have to check individually for people still living.

It was heartening to know that there were survivors at all. The numbers didn't necessarily matter, except as an accounting of the blood on the perpetrator's hands, and any number was unforgivable when it meant lives ruined that would otherwise have been spared.

"I see." Raising his voice a little, he called to the people inside, "Pardon my intrusion! I meant no harm! I merely wanted to confirm that there were still people in London!"

Again, there was no answer. Not even someone sneaking up to the shutters to crack them open and take a peek out at him.

It said as much about the circumstances as anything else had yet.

Caster left the apartment behind and started walking again, aimless. Unfortunately, the fact that there were survivors in the city did him no favors, even if it eased some of the burden on his shoulders. It didn't change the fact that he hadn't the slightest clue what he should be doing or where he should be looking if he wanted to find whoever it was that had created this fog. He couldn't even ask any of the citizens if they might point him in the direction of where it had originated.

Perhaps if he were to take spirit form and slip inside one of these buildings…

No, no, that wouldn't do any good. It would only frighten the good people hiding there, and if he were to suddenly appear in their midst, why, they might decide to take their chances out in the fog and run to their deaths outside. It would be counterproductive at best, outright harmful at worst, and cruel no matter how he looked at it.

The choice might eventually be taken out of his hands, however.

"It's not like I can wander around London until I find something, after all," he muttered.

The thing to do would be to follow the flow of magical energy to its source so that he might discover the person behind all of this. That same magical energy was too thick, however, and it permeated everything. With enough time and a place to work, determining whence this mist originated should still have been possible — child's play, even — but having to rely solely on his senses and his sensibilities as a magus, there was just too much in the air all around him to trace a pathway.

As though it had been designed specifically for the purpose of confounding the senses, magical or mundane. Given the culprit was most likely another Caster of some kind, that was a frighteningly likely possibility.

Frustrating. And the fact that this mist was being allowed to persist meant that the Mage's Association was either unable or unwilling to do anything about it. If he had a better understanding of the city's layout, that might have been the first place he should attempt looking, but with things as they were, he couldn't even have hoped to see the infamous Tower of London, let alone a cultural landmark as famous as Big Ben.

If this whole thing had been going on for long enough… Perhaps "unable" would be the better bet, especially if this was the work of another Caster. If he were the one behind all of this — although what madness could have possessed him to do such a thing, Caster couldn't imagine — then neutralizing the Mage's Association would be one of the necessary steps to completing it. Depending upon how expedient the culprit was, it was possible there were simply countermeasures in place to prevent intervention or…

"Or eliminating the Association was but a single step in this fiend's plan," Caster muttered aloud.

Ruthless, cruel — and yet, undoubtedly effective. Caster had no love for the Association and the Clock Tower, and he most especially had no taste for their politics and their obsession with lineage and history, especially when the likes of Leonardo da Vinci proved that rare geniuses of exceptional talent very well could exist outside of carefully cultivated bloodlines, but he would not have wished death upon them all.

And yet, death may have been visited upon them all the same.

"An avenue for investigation," Caster decided, "should the opportunity arise that I might examine those circumstances more closely."

Until that chance came by, however, the only thing he could really do was investigate the city some more. He sighed, his shoulders sagging.

"If only the Counter Force had seen better fit to summon me within closer range of allies, if any here truly exist. This aimless wandering is getting me nowhere fast."

Quite literally. With things the way they were, it was impossible to tell if he was getting closer to the center of the city or farther away, and for that matter, whether that was a good thing or not. There was no way to be certain when he hadn't the faintest clue what else he should be searching for in the city or where any potential allies might have decided to set up a base of operations — or, indeed, whether they would even be the sort to do so. Berserkers were a notoriously fickle sort, often driven by confusing motives or nonsensical world views, when they were even coherent enough for such a thing at all.

A Berserker that rampaged mindlessly was like as not to kill him as it was to kill the enemy. A small mercy, perhaps, that there had yet to be any signs of such a thing summoned to this place. Caster was certain he would have heard such a reckless beast by now, if only from the ruckus it would cause as it flailed around the city.

"I suppose I can afford to look about for some time yet," Caster mused. He tilted his head back and looked up at the sky, but it was just as impossible to tell the time of day as it was to see past the length of his arm. The only thing that he could be at all sure of was that it was daytime and not night. "At some point, however, I'm going to need to find a place to stay, if only because the enemy is more likely to be active at night. Although with this mist…"

This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it.

It would be the perfect way for an Assassin to hide, wouldn't it? Fantastic. That was another thing he was going to have to worry about. Being ambushed as he investigated things would be an unpleasant experience to top off this already vile situation. Assassin Servants were such a pain to deal with, especially when you were the target.

Well. As long as this theoretical Assassin didn't have a way of guaranteeing an instant kill, that might wind up working out in Caster's favor. Even if only because it would give him some information about the sorts of enemies he might be forced to confront.

Caster sighed again. "It's going to hurt either way, though…"

There was nothing for it. He was just going to have to hope that the theoretical Assassin was only theoretical. That way, he could avoid the whole situation.

In any case, provided he didn't run into any enemy Servants anytime soon, then he would have to put his misgivings aside and use spirit form to find a residence of some sort to stay in — empty, obviously, because he wasn't about to evict any of the survivors of this place; that would be unnecessarily cruel — maybe make a temporary workshop to use while he searched. Depending on whether or not he ever found any more Servants bound for the same purpose as him, that workshop might wind up being more or less permanent.

It wasn't like he'd been given a timeframe to work in, after all. Obviously, the people of the city couldn't afford for him to take too long, but it might wind up taking weeks or months to solve this problem, especially if it was more entrenched than he hoped.

"And if it crippled the Mage's Association," he concluded grimly, "it's not likely to be something I can handle with a flick of my wrist."

The worst kind of problem.

Caster continued on without delay, and deciding to be less conservative than he had been thus far, he cast a spell that formed a small ball of light that lazily orbited his head, pushing away the fog. It didn't give him much more visibility than he'd had before, not with the mist as oppressive as it was, but even that little bit was helpful in keeping better track of his surroundings.

The first order of business once he had a workshop set up would be to craft a device that could do this more reliably. It would not, unfortunately, be powerful enough to let ordinary humans go about outside without consequence, not with the amount of time he was likely to have to make it, but it would at least be enough to make it somewhat easier to navigate the city.

"There you are, you bastard!"

Caster whirled about just in time to see a vague blur leap off of a nearby rooftop — but not fast enough to avoid the blade of the sword that slashed across his chest and threw him backwards like a ragdoll. A spurt of blood trailed behind him, splattering across the street, and he crumpled onto the cobblestone with a meaty thud. The blur landed with a metallic clank, humanoid in shape, all gleaming silver and red cloth.

For a moment, there was silence.

"Tch!" the stranger scoffed, voice echoing behind a helm of medieval plate. It was impossible to tell whether it was male or female with that helmet on. "I know that wasn't enough to put you down, so stop pretending and stand up already!"

Caster sighed, and slowly, he leveraged himself up, climbing back to his feet.

"Was that really necessary?" he asked as though a grisly gash was not carved into his chest, still weeping blood. "That sort of violence is simply uncalled for."

Red light crackled along the wound, and in an instant, it was gone, replaced with perfectly healthy flesh. A moment later, the robes that had been cut stitched back together as well, leaving Caster as though nothing had happened at all, and he patted down his clothes to brush away the dust.

"Uncalled for?" barked the stranger. "Say that to the people of this city! I'd say this shit is pretty uncalled for!"

Caster paused.

"Ah," he said simply. "That would make you a Servant called here by the Counter Force — to fix this problem, as it were. Going by that armor, a Saber, correct?"

It would certainly explain the unkind welcome. A bit more brash than one would expect of a knight, admittedly, but there were plenty of chivalric romances featuring headstrong protagonists with a tendency to attack first and ask questions only afterwards.

The stranger — Saber — shifted. "Yeah, that's right." Saber brandished their sword at Caster threateningly. "And the fact you know that, that makes you the guy behind this crazy fog, doesn't it? You Casters are always ruining people's lives without a care in the world, and here's the last place I'll let that happen again! You've got one chance to put an end to this, and then my sword's gonna convince you!"

But, Caster thought, wasn't that what Saber was already doing? He wisely decided not to say anything about it.

"Alas, I'm afraid that is beyond my power," said Caster, "because it seems you and I were both summoned here for the same purpose."

Saber paused again, helmet tilting to the side a little. "You're shittin' me."

Caster hummed. "I imagine your circumstances were something like this: you arrived in the city with no warning and little in the way of information, only the directive to fix this problem — no more than a few hours ago?"

Saber took a second, but eventually said, "Yeah, that's right."

"And without any direction or any idea how to go about doing what it is you were called here for, you settled for wandering, hoping you might stumble upon either allies to help you in your quest or some clue about where you might find your enemy — correct?"

Saber was silent for another few seconds, processing this. "Shit." They let their sword droop, arm relaxing and falling back to their side. "So you don't have any idea what's going on either, huh, Gramps?"

Caster deliberately ignored the nickname. Perhaps if he didn't respond to it, it wouldn't stick?

"Unfortunately, I've discovered little in the short time since my summoning," said Caster, "save that there are indeed at least some survivors among the populace. How many lives this mist might have claimed, I cannot say. Indeed, whence this mist came, how long it has lingered, and what its purpose might be, I'm afraid I haven't been able to uncover. I can only offer a guess — at best."

Saber grunted. "Damn. So this is stumping you, too, huh?"

"Without the time or the resources to do a proper investigation…" Caster let the thought trail off suggestively before moving on. "Assuming the mist itself is not the end goal, it is likely intended to obscure the culprit's location and activities. To veil their misdeeds from us and hide from scrutiny, allowing them to do as they like without consequence."

"Yeah, but if that's all he wanted, that bastard didn't have to go this far," said Saber. They made a sound of disgust that echoed through the helmet and came out sounding warbling and dissonant to Caster's ears. "This shit's so toxic, it feels like it's trying to melt my goddamn tongue off!"

"A valid point," Caster acknowledged with a nod. "Of course, it's also possible that the toxicity is an unintended side effect. Of the artificial mist mixing with this era's native atmosphere, as it were."

After all, London had faced several such challenges over the course of its later life, although smog so poisonous was admittedly several decades early at this point. It only meant that enough of the factors were in play that the wrong nudge in the wrong place could have had the same end result.

"What's it matter whether he did it on purpose or not?" Saber demanded. "He's still doing it!"

"Another valid point," Caster agreed. "However, whether this is negligence or malice greatly changes what we might expect from our ultimate foe, and indeed, how reasonable he might be."

Although the callousness required to continue whatever plan this enemy was enacting even after discovering the effect it had on the city spoke ill of their personality, whoever it was, and cast many doubts on their reasonableness. Perhaps it was a runaway effect? Impossible to rein in once it started?

Saber was starting to get to him. There was no reason to leap to the defense of someone who had already gone far enough to require correction from the Counter Force as direct as the summoning of multiple Servants.

"Who cares how 'reasonable' this guy is?" Saber said. They brandished their sword demonstrably. "He'll be real reasonable either way with three feet of steel in his gut!"

Caster grimaced. "Quite."

At least he seemed to have found someone who would be only too happy to handle the more violent bits of this deployment. If all Caster had to do was find the enemy and point Saber in their direction, well, that would suit him just fine, and he could put up with a few eccentricities until then.

"In any case," said Caster, changing the subject, "perhaps it might behoove us to move on and attempt to find the perpetrator? Failing that, we might at least encounter more allies who could assist us, or perhaps find an empty building to use as a sort of home base."

Saber's helmet bobbed, clinking off the gorget and the oversized pauldrons of their armor. "Yeah. The sooner we can find this bastard, the better!"

And together, they set off, venturing forth into the city and along the road. Saber, it turned out, was actually fairly short, once Caster actually paid attention to it. The armor likely added a few inches of height, and it most certainly gave them a larger silhouette, creating a shape that seemed taller and more imposing than it actually was.

Perhaps Saber was a younger knight? One who had hit his prime early and favored a more youthful physique as a result? It would certainly explain the brash attitude and the tendency towards violence as the first solution.

"Say," said Saber as they walked, "you're a Caster, right?"

"I am."

Perish the thought of a warrior attempting to fight in robes like his.

"So who does that make you, then?" asked Saber. "I don't know that many Casters, but you sure as hell ain't either of the two I know best. That pervert would be throwing flowers all over the place, and my…that witch would have gone straight for the palace and parked her ass on the throne."

A pervert and a witch? Caster would have thought those great clues about Saber's identity, provided Saber wasn't so irreverent. Those descriptors were like as not to be colored by Saber's own perceptions of those people as anything else, and that made them nearly useless.

But…

A pervert and a witch, hm? And a knight who had encountered two magi — or at least spellcasters — one certainly female and one presumably male, and knew them well enough to address them with such epithets.

Not enough to go on, but it was a good start.

"And you?" Caster countered. "I'm certain that helmet of yours offers a degree of protection, but none so potent and important as your identity. You're going to ask me my name without even the willingness to show your own face?"

Saber's head tilted towards the side. "Fair enough."

And that was that, at least for the moment.

"So what else did you find out then?" asked Saber, changing the subject again.

"As I said, very little," replied Caster. "Much of it only supposition. However, if our enemy is indeed, as I suspect, another Caster, then I believe it very likely they have already eliminated the Mage's Association of this era. Failing that, they have at least been neutralized in some form or fashion. It is the only explanation I have for their apparent inaction in the face of this threat."

Saber nodded. "Makes sense. I guess if I was up to no good like this, the first thing I'd do was make sure there wasn't anybody around who could stop me, yeah?"

"Precisely."

"Guess that means we can't expect any help from those louts," said Saber. They shrugged. "Eh. Probably better off, anyway. Less reason to worry about being stabbed in the back, right?"

Caster huffed a short laugh. "Yes, I suppose there is that, isn't there?"

"And you haven't seen any other Servants yet?"

"Just you," Caster told them. "Granted, I haven't been here all that long myself, so it's entirely possible there are others, and they've simply been summoned to a separate part of the city."

Provided they hadn't been eliminated by the enemy. After all, it was entirely possible that this was the work of a coalition rather than a single Caster Servant, and they might not find the answer to how many enemies waited in the wings until they confronted all of them.

Saber made a sound of vague agreement. "Maybe. Or maybe we're some of the first ones here."

"Maybe we two will be the only Servants summoned to deal with this," Caster pointed out.

"Heh!" He could almost hear Saber's savage grin. "Maybe we will! After all, the two of us can handle this whole thing by ourselves, can't we? Who needs anyone else!"

Caster allowed himself a small smile. "Your confidence is inspiring, if nothing else."

Saber laughed, delighted. "You think so? I guess that makes sense, Gramps!"

Although why or how, Saber didn't elaborate. Perhaps something to do with their identity. Caster decided not to pry for the sake of maintaining the current camaraderie between them.

They continued on for several minutes in relative silence. Saber's armor clanked with every step, drowning out the quieter clop of Caster's shoes, but beyond that, there were no other sounds. It was as though the city had been deserted.

For a second time, Caster wondered how many of the millions of London's inhabitants had managed to make it to safety and how many had died. The streets should have been filled to the brim, and yet they were entirely empty. As though the entire population had suddenly been scooped up the instant the mist touched them, transported to some far away place.

It might have said something that they had yet to encounter any bodies. There must have been at least a few who died before everyone cottoned on to what was happening, and he rather doubted anyone would take the time to retrieve the corpses if it meant braving a corrosive fog, but rather fortunately, there were not bodies lying all about the streets, left to sit and rot.

Of course, that itself supposed that the enemy Caster had no need of those selfsame bodies. A necromancer would neatly explain that lack, and would also offer an explanation for the callous disregard for the lives of the citizenry. Not definitive proof, but another possibility to consider.

If there was perhaps one silver lining to the situation, it was that the enemy appeared to have no interest in directly damaging the city. There was no telling what prolonged exposure to this mist would do to the infrastructure, but aside from that, everything else seemed to be remarkably intact — what Caster could see of it, in any case. Admittedly, that wasn't as much as saying so made it sound.

"Hey, Caster," said Saber at length, "do you have any idea where we're going?"

"Not a one."

"Ugh." Saber's shoulders sagged. "I was going along with it because I thought you might have some idea of where we were headed."

Caster hummed. "If you have a better grasp of the city's layout, then I would gladly hand the lead over to you, Saber. I'm afraid I know nothing more about our destination than the goal of it."

"Ah. Well," Saber said awkwardly. "M-maybe I don't…know where we're supposed to go either. It's not like I'm from this era, after all! I mean, obviously, right?"

"Obviously," Caster agreed. He pursed his lips. "Perhaps the better idea would have been attempting to find the river — Thames, I believe it's called — and following that through the city. On the other hand, if I had done that, I don't believe I would have encountered you, so it's entirely possible we might miss potential allies if we were to limit our investigations merely to the riverside."

Saber sighed, deep and exasperated. Behind the helmet, it sounded like a hurricane.

"Damn it. There's no good answer, is there?"

"Unfortunately not. And were we to split up…"

Saber made a frustrated sound high in their throat. "Yeah. Good luck finding each other again."

"And if the enemy has an Assassin on their side," said Caster, "then it would be the perfect opportunity to stage an ambush."

"Ha!" Saber scoffed. "Like I'm afraid of a measly Assassin! They send one after me, I'm sending it back — in as many pieces as I can!"

Whether it was simple bravado or hard-won confidence, Caster couldn't have said with absolute certainty. At the very least, however, Saber seemed to honestly believe so, and to have become a Heroic Spirit summoned in one of the Knight classes, a category already overflowing with strength and skill from across millennia of myths and legends, perhaps it truly was well-earned.

"Speak for yourself," Caster said, smiling slightly. "Not all of us are made for direct combat, you know. If an Assassin ambushes me, I'm done for."

Saber laughed. "Right, right, sure, sure! That's what you need me for, right? Don't worry, Gramps, I'll protect you!"

"What a relief!" Caster sighed theatrically. "It looks like I'm in good hands!"

Saber puffed out their chest, thumping a gauntleted fist against the thick plate.

"The best!"

A shrill, terrified scream suddenly rent the air, cutting through the moment of levity like a knife. Saber and Cast froze and turned to each other, sharing a startled look, even though one of them was wearing a helmet —

"Shit!"

— and then they took off, racing towards the sound as it died away.

"It came from over there!" Saber shouted.

"I know!"

They dashed through the mist, following the hazy road further out — out and towards the slums, Caster realized, because he and Saber had unintentionally been heading that direction. The buildings looming out of the fog rapidly became less opulent, more ramshackle, and the street beneath their feet lumpier, less smooth. The people out here, it stood to reason, would be far less capable of waiting in safety for the mist to pass, and so hunger or thirst would inevitably drive them out into danger sooner than those more fortunate with access to greater resources.

There was no second scream. Caster feared he already knew what that meant.

Saber put on a sudden spurt of speed, rounding a corner and turning towards the alleyway beyond. "Here!"

They stopped, frozen.

The stench hit Caster first as he came up behind them, a coppery tang that stung his nostrils and clung to the roof of his mouth, and when he, too, rounded the corner, he was not at all surprised to find a large pool of blood already seeping across the ground. A body lay, limbs askew haphazardly, in the middle of it, a red stain darkening a ragged dress and eyes staring sightlessly back at him. A curtain of brown hair haloed the head.

And upon the neck, there was carved a line of red, a gash that wept sluggish blood. The heart had already stopped.

Caster cataloged further wounds, rips in the bodice across the torso that showed rents in the flesh beneath, and in an instant, deduced that while the slash across the neck had been the killing blow, all the rest would have been just as fatal. Liver, kidneys, the abdominal aorta — the killer had been thorough and ruthless, targeting nearly every vital organ below the ribcage. Likely, by the time the poor woman had the chance to open her mouth and scream, she was already dying. Cutting her throat was probably as much to shut her up as anything else.

A flutter of cloth drew Caster's attention from the corpse, and another figure in a black cloak leapt out of their hiding spot, running towards the other end of the alleyway. Attempting to escape.

"Get back here, you bastard!" Saber roared, and they leapt towards the culprit with furious intent.

But the figure in the cloak was slippery, dodging around Saber's wild blow and juking back and forth with jerky, unpredictable movements as they tried to slip around the corner. Saber was too angry and wasn't thinking clearly — they followed after the figure, slashing, hacking, throwing refuse and discarded miscellanea about with every swing, but always just slightly too slow and too far behind to land a clean blow. The fog couldn't have been helping things.

It was only inevitable that the figure in the cloak would outmaneuver them, hopping deftly up to plant a foot in the center of Saber's horned helm, and then using that as a stepping stone to leap over them and make a run for the far turn at the end of the alleyway. The sudden shift in weight threw Saber off balance, sending them stumbling into the brick wall. It would provide just enough time and leeway for an escape, off into the mist where tracking would be impossible.

Caster didn't intend to let the killer go without consequence. He clapped his hands together. Red light flickered between his fingers.

"I'm afraid you won't be leaving that easily."

And the alleyway roiled.