Noticing the Spindle’s palpable exhaustion, Yvette quickly excused herself and shut the door behind her.

Outside, Ulysses slumped against the stairway wall, hat askew. His furrowed brow suggested uneasy dreams.

She moved to rouse him, but his eyes flashed open—sharp as daggers—before recognition softened his gaze. “Apologies,” he muttered hoarsely. “I drifted off.”

“Are you ill?” she pressed. Ulysses had seemed off from the start. Though she’d initially suspected betrayal, his haggard arrival predated any mention of eldritch horrors. What sickness could breach his unnatural resilience?

“Higher-tier Source Essence exacts physical tolls.” He straightened his cuffs wearily. “The Old Gods’ touch lingers. Now—the Spindle’s verdict?”

“My corruption’s purged, but their nest remains. He says… I may be needed.”

“Refuse if you wish.”

“I accepted.”

His hands stilled. “Without consultation?”

“Protocol aside, you’ve zero survival instincts for a novice.”

“The Spindle said—”

“He wants a tool. I see safer paths.” Ulysses exhaled. “But you’re cut from his cloth.”

“His frailty—is that his gift’s price?”

“A toll for meddling with fate. Forbidden fruit for mortal hands.” His ominous tone recalled classical tragedies:

“At Cumae’s gates, I saw the Sibyl shriveled

In her glass prison. When boys mocked ‘What now, Sibyl?’

She rasped: ‘I crave death.’”

Yvette knew the myth—Apollo’s cursed gift of endless decay. Like the Spindle trading youth for foresight. Noble, yet horrific.

“Cease gawking. We depart.”

At the carriage, she offered: “Let me drive. You should rest.”

“Since when do you harness horses?”

“Since now.” She’d cheat with transcendental means if needed.

“Pray we don’t ‘rest’ in a constable’s wagon.”

Yvette gripped the reins, channeling equestrian skills through dawn’s chaos—hucksters’ shouts blending with clattering hooves and steam whistles. Behind her, Ulysses slept through London’s cacophony, shielded by her energy field.

……

Investigation limped onward. Spindle’s testimony spared Yvette scrutiny, but painter Marino endured relentless surveillance. Interviews revealed his creative revival after selling a piece to some French aristocrat—gold being art’s best muse.

Yet all described his Ship of Fools as forgettable, each remembering different banality. Mind-probers confirmed honest confusion, their “truths” fractured mirrors.

The asylum Stone mentioned proved typically monstrous—patient beatings, corpse trafficking—but no eldritch links. Bureau agents, fraying, shuttered it on corpse charges. Desperation breeds blunt solutions.

The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

“Should I help?” Yvette asked Ulysses later.

“Let them flail. We’ll know when needed.”

“Why me? Why those painters?”

“Madness let them channel formless horrors. Artists shape belief—like tribal idol-carvers. Your… aura interested them.”

“Horrors needing painters to exist?”

“Exactly.” He smirked. “Men see angels; poets see truth.”

The revelation chilled—these were no seraphs. Happy endings? Only partial. Marino recovered with lover reconciled, memories fogged by mental probes. But this age drank mercury for clap. Oblivion seemed mercy.

"You say the Old Gods’ minions might covet my power… Does that mean even deities feud among themselves?" Yvette pressed.

"Thank Providence they do. If every abomination summoned by those cosmic horrors ever united against us, mankind would’ve been snuffed out ages ago."

"A true apocalypse…" She shuddered, visions of the dreaming Creator haunting her—an entity too terrible to name, let alone behold.

"The world endures—only humans perish. Should we vanish, something else will crawl from the ashes."

"The Old Gods’ spawn?" If humanity fell, new monstrosities would surely rise—or survivors twist into mockeries of themselves. Another doubt surfaced. "Where would you rank that formless thing inside me among Transcendents? You claimed their kind birthed angels, demons, and fey of legend. Yet I’ve never heard of divine servants dying of old age—even elder vampires linger forever. Are they all Source Layer 7 or higher, creatures of the [Divine Realm]? But if even the Bureau lacks Transcendents past that tier… is victory impossible?"

Her mind reeled. Those formless vermin seemed feeble before the Slumbering Creator! Now she learned they were once worshipped as celestial messengers. How could frail flesh oppose them?

Yet The Spindle called her the "key"—was she meant to bait monsters until her patron Old God stirred?

"Precisely. You’re doomed," Ulysses deadpanned.

"What?" Her mask of calm shattered.

"A jest. Let fear keep you sharp." The Frenchman’s smirk danced. "Their power defies mortal measure. Even kin among divine spawn differ wildly before/after anchoring to our world’s laws. Without footholds here, they lack substance or presence—effectively ghosts. Hence their hunger to be seen. Our order silences the occult not to hide truths, but to starve them. Not all view Old Gods as evil—fools still chase immortality or thrones through their rot."

So these entities were incomplete… manageable for now? Yet unease lingered—not fear, but dread for the Tree of Life’s ascent. If that awaited at its zenith, what became of Transcendents?

"You brood like a stormcloud."

"Just… questioning our purpose. What are we? If the Tree’s roots sprout mindless horrors, why climb higher?"

Ulysses chuckled.

"Am I a joke to you?"

"You? Philosophizing? How novel." He steepled his fingers. "‘Meaning of life’? A child’s riddle. We live to live. Guard civilization, reap its rewards—glory, coin, status. A fair trade. Progress requires it.

"See South Ameriga: soil so rich ten kingdoms could feast, yet ruled by corpse-gods. When deities sleep, priests slit throats to wake them. None farmed smarter or forged steel. Conquistadors found savages with stone axes—their hedge-mages no match for arquebuses."

He gestured dismissively. "As for ‘angels’… Academia squabbles. Popular theory claims they’re hollow echoes—true selves lingering in cosmic voids. Thus, perfection lies beyond, awaiting our ascent."

His sneer betrayed disdain.

"Your thoughts, sir?"

"Eager pupil?"

A nod.

"They may not be our betters. A… heretical view."

"But their immortality—only Divine Realm entities transcend death!"

Ulysses dotted a page. "Behold: I play god to this paper-world. This speck? An ant. This line? Its path to sugar. Yet none pierce the page to challenge me—flatlanders can’t grasp 3D."

He twirled a music box’s ballerina. "To true gods, we’re wind-up dolls." He spun gears, skipping the dance. "Their time-streams flow apart—gods freeze as we burn bright and die. Hence they seem eternal."

Yvette flashed to Earth-cinema: a film might span eons, yet a viewer skips it in minutes. The reel’s sentience would scream as its demise nears, while the watcher stays unchanged.

"So divine spawn are superior—ageless like their masters!"

Ulysses set paper beside music box. "What if they’re the flat… and we the dancers?"

A poet’s gamble.

If divine spawn were just…different, not higher—humans died but held souls; "angels" drifted eternal yet mindless. Not alive, but static. Craving mortal shells to feel whole.

No proof… but Yvette willed it true. Humanity’s spark mattered here.

"Enough gloom! You’ve forgotten life’s wine." He snapped up. "A Chambertin ’68 from my cellar nears perfection—plump berries, velvety spice. Let its kiss cure your woes."

Burgundy’s crown jewel, wasted by Albion’s nobles as décor—corks crumbled into vintage broth.

Yet Ulysses drank his treasures when ripe, costly or humble.

His creed? A sage’s joy in mortal delights—no chains, no regrets.