"You insist on this pointless ritual, Lienna. What game are you playing?"

Queen Margaret IV studied the Koh-i-Noor diamond before bed, its cold fire rippling across velvet. A nightly chore as tiresome as court etiquette.

"Your bloodline kindles its dormant magic through meditation," said Lienna, the undercover operative posing as a maid. "Focus, and its spirit awakens."

"Spirit? It’s a glorified paperweight. Where’s my immortality? Where’s the power to smite enemies?"

"Subtlety serves sharper ends." Lienna lowered her voice. "Shall I recount the tale even kings fear to whisper?"

The queen’s eyes turned predator-sharp. "Proceed."

"Born of Indian earth a thousand years past, this gem baptized itself in fratricide. Princes slaughtered siblings, warlords poisoned mentors—all to own its lethal glow. For the Koh-i-Noor is Discord incarnate, breeding greed like maggots in rot. Until one doomed chieftain read scripture beneath a faceless idol: *Only God or a woman may tame its bite.**"

Margaret scoffed. "Superstition."

"Yet here it rests—in Albion’s crown, not some conqueror’s grave. Our queens wielded its curse as a scalpel. When Spain grew too bold, we armed France. When France dreamed of empire, we bolstered Prussia. Let Europe’s hounds snap at each other while we profit from their barks."

"And India?"

"Divide tribes, crown pliant puppets, watch rebellion choke on infighting. All possible because you," Lienna’s finger grazed the gem, "channel its discordant song each night. A gentle hum to sour alliances among our enemies."

The queen exhaled. "So this tedious ritual is my battleground?"

"Pray it remains dull. Should you ever unleash its full cry, the price would haunt generations."

Blissfully ignorant of supernatural betrayals, pirate captain "Jolly Roger" slammed his rum mug, glaring at the damning headline:

"Firebrand Shot by Bobby! Hospitalized Awaiting Trial!"

That swill-brained idiot! He stormed toward the door—only to freeze as the tavern’s salvaged mast-beam creaked ominously. Sailors’ lore rang loud: Three warnings before doom. First, a rigging-wheel plummeting near his boots. Second, the tavern’s signboard smashing where he’d stood.

Even the Drowned Lord’s timber warns against this folly.

Better a live coward than dead hero. If Firebrand’s mortal disguise held, a prison stretch might even improve his temper.

Three days of stakeouts left Chief Alton cynical. "Your cultist trap caught flies, Ulysses. Pack it in."

The investigator watched Alton leave, then scanned Holy Cross Hospital’s exits. No tattooed sailors. No cloaked figures. Just the metallic taste of wasted time.

Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

At home, apprentice Yvette greeted him with a dreamcatcher. "A Walpurgis gift! Witches taught me—"

"—that dirt floors beat gas lamps?" Ulysses sneered. "Civilization exists for a reason." He tossed her a bloodied cloth scrap. "Cultists tracked this from your Otherworld fiasco. Clean up your mess before it gets us both killed."

After choosing crystallization over cash for her promotion to Grandeur, Yvette left.

Winslow, the ageless valet, served tea with grandfatherly grace. "Pity she refused scones." His gaze lingered on the dreamcatcher. "Superstition suits the young."

"Delusion suits no one." Ulysses flicked the trinket. "You hang spiderwebs to trap wasps, not tigers."

They sipped in silence. Both knew nightmares couldn’t be caught—only endured.

The organization moved swiftly. Within two days, Yvette held two amber crystals—keys to ascending the third sephirah, Tiferet. To avoid disturbances, she retreated to her old room in the Yulissis mansion’s male wing. Winslow lit sandalwood from the East Indies, its sacred smoke curling through the air.

She pressed a crystal to her chest, closed her eyes, and let oblivion take her.

The Vision.

A city.

A city dying.

Bodies rotted in the streets beneath a death-knell sky. Plague-swollen lymph nodes bulged black beneath collars and arms. Madmen leapt from rooftops; others raved at heaven until their final breath.

“The Black Death comes! Kings flee! Lords flee! All useless! It’ll feast until none remain! Forty days—then the world dies!”

“O Holy Spirit! I confess—I deflowered a girl! Cuckolded my brother! Stole the priest’s silver watch! Forgive me!”

“The Divine is dead! His veins spew venom! Pestilence-Rider descends! Man’s reign ends here!”

As plague choked the city, a furnace-wind rose.

Fire.

Flames gnawed rooftops. Fiery imps shattered leaded windows, molten metal oozing like veins. The crackle of devoured wood sang of renewal.

Smoke blazed brighter than sun, transmuting hellscape to gilded temple—a purifying forge.

Yvette woke gasping, sweat-drenched, phantom heat clinging to her skin.

The crystal had crumbled to dust, but power thrumded in her veins—senses preternaturally sharp. Too sharp. Why else see shifting eyes in the wallpaper? Hear the Night Mother’s hiss?

Illusions. Lies.

Stumbling downstairs, she found Winslow waiting.

“Tea?” he offered, pouring a blend of lemongrass and chamomile sweetened with sugar.

“You waited up?”

“The ascent through Yetzirah is treacherous.” His voice held paternal concern. “How were the visions?”

Yvette recoiled—blood gushed from his teapot, drenching the table.

“Unpleasant sights?”

She shut her eyes. Not real. The cup he pressed into her hands held only herbal sweetness.

Winslow, ever practical, had brewed caffeine-free tea—proof this was reality.

“I’m stronger… but the visions…”

“All transcendents endure this,” he said gently. “The Illuminating Dream shows higher realms. Rest before trying again—rush, and the visions may… twist you.”

Yvette described the flaming city.

“The path from Malkuth to Tiferet is the Primordial Flame,” Winslow explained. “Fire visions mean you’re nearing ascension. The city was London—1666. Plague killed thousands; the Great Fire cleansed it. Six fire deaths, yet they called it salvation. The Monument’s gold flame at Pudding Lane marks where hell began.”

“But why dream history?”

“Few do. You’ve overstudied.” He shifted tone. “The fire birthed Albion’s dour fashion. Post-inferno, our king banned French frippery. We dressed in mourning hues—Parisians mocked us as paupers.”

As Winslow’s lecture grounded her, the hallucinations faded.

Days later, “Poisonwood” summoned her to a May Eve gathering. His debut novel, The Vampire Murder Case (first in Lord Detective Chevalier’s saga), had launched. Blending the real “Red Windmill Murders” with aristocratic intrigue, it captivated readers.

Noblemen penned essays analyzing Chevalier—a French lord-detective whose intellect and swordsmanship enthralled all. The Times dedicated columns to his “romantic genius.”

“This isn’t me,” Yvette groaned, avoiding the book.

Poisonwood teased that Chevalier had a real prototype (the “Pyle Street Phantom” solver) but kept Yvette’s name hidden. Thankfully, readers imagined Chevalier as Yulissis-like—brooding and virile—not a boyish girl. Else, she’d never leave home.