"Extra! Extra! An entire coastal town went dark! Top secret reports about the Old Moon unveiled! The Church will hunt us down for this. Read the latest news for only two nultes!"

As coins were exchanged for the morning prints, a tall man with stygian eyes and jet-black hair approached one of the paperboys running around in the main square.

He wore a ruffled shirt beneath a well-fitted dress coat, with ankle-length breeches, high-heeled shoes, and a top hat—all dark in color. The distinctive tap of his pearl-ended cane rang like a tune to his wealth, though his bearing and attire were elegant enough to stifle any thought of tackiness.

The purchase of his newspaper came with a meek "m'lord," which he answered in a generous whim. Jealous gazes landed on the lucky boy as he crawled to pick up the extra coins that had slipped through his grasp, showering the passing noble with muffled thanks.

The man never slowed his walk, ignoring the gathering crowd and heading for his favorite café across the street.

It was a discrete shop with no signage and a vine-drowned entryway, hidden in a corner no one would bother to look at.

Although it had no official name, the man, alongside a few regulars, often referred to it as Le Tableau.

A bell echoed when he opened the blue-and-golden door.

The interior, albeit plain for some, had an antique air that was pleasing to his sense of aesthetics. The old manager gave him a glance, then calmly put down his polished porcelain, starting a new brew above the counter.

The man chose a table by the window, a few feet from the calming notes of a headless pianist. A severed head hummed along from atop the lid, its sprawled, lustrous hair all over its face.

He crossed his legs and flipped open his newspaper, reading the headline:

PANIC ALONG THE OBSCURE GULF!

The charming little village of Albette, renowned for its black coast and fisheries, reportedly went silent a few weeks ago on the day of its bicentennial.

Witnesses from neighboring towns claim to have seen many empty, bloodied boats passing by their shores, though with the Marshalcy evacuating and restricting access to the region, nothing can be confirmed.

The Church has yet to pronounce itself on the subject, but we may find ourselves with another layer to the annual rites. Last year's Liturgy, with its whopping 362 child sacrifices, has caused quite a backlash amongst the Hautefoy, and the clergy is undoubtedly fearful of further diminishing its reputation, hence its conservative approach.

On the other hand, the Prince of Hautefoi personally presided over the funerary ceremonies, pledging in his speech to recover the victims' bodies and publicly execute the culprits—

The man snickered, his eyes steering to the next section.

SECRETS OF THE OLD MOON UNCOVERED!

Have you ever wondered why we aren't allowed to gaze upon the Old Moon? Why, on the last three days of every year, no citizen is permitted to leave their house?

The Church's official reason for this prohibition is the prevention of the "moon plague," but has anyone truly seen it? They drag away any poor fellow suspected of having broken the rules, never giving us any proof of this staunch "wariness."

What if it was all a ruse? A malicious ploy to justify the dreadful institution that is the Liturgy and continue slaughtering our children, again and again?

Sounds too far-fetched? Hang on there, dear reader. One of our journalists has gotten his hand on top-secret documents that detail every bit of the Church's horrible machinations—

The man shook his head, a bored sigh escaping his thin lips. "Rubbish."

"Unimpressed, aren't we?" said another customer, sitting on an exquisite lounge nearby. There had been no one there moments ago.

"I heard you've made quite a mess with the Lady Desperles. Are you disappointed that none of it made it to the headlines?"

He was a youthful fellow in his early twenties, sporting thick, blond curls and golden eyes.

Garbed in a black morning coat, white shirt, and gray pants, his allure exuded as much nobility as the man he addressed, though while the latter's was a cold type of elegance, his appeared slightly more brazen.

"Civilized interactions should start with a proper greeting."

If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.

"I've rarely seen you this pouty... All right, all right." The blond man chuckled as he turned around. "Good morning, Eliphas."

"Good morning, Rollant."

Eliphas graciously accepted a cup of foamy coffee from the manager, only replacing his attention on Rollant after the first sip.

"To answer your question, Lady Desperles was more of a bait than an actual artwork. I do not mind her receiving no coverage, for she has served her purpose well already."

Rollant smiled—an artificial, meticulously crafted smile. "This purpose wasn't to irritate me, I hope? My estate enjoys preferential treatment regarding the distribution of Lapis Phylaca from the Desperles Industries. This is thanks to the head of the company, Lady Camille Desperles' husband, whom I've been cajoling for quite some time."

Eliphas raised an eyebrow, a knowing glint in his gaze. "And?"

"The Desperles patriarch abruptly retired due to his wife's death, leaving a replacement that, unfortunately, has neither love nor respect for me. My competitors are having a field day, all because of your handiwork."

"The world is a harsh place, my friend. While I would have loved to cause you such juicy troubles, I was, in fact, targeting someone else."

"Oh~" Rollant's expression shifted, and his earlier facade dwindled to genuine curiosity. "Who is the poor victim? Do I know them?"

"Indeed you do," Eliphas nodded. "It's that detestable traitor. I confirmed his involvement with the Marshalcy."

"That's a surprise. Is he still here, in Pantome? I expected him to have fled the city, if not the country after his little stunt."

"Our old friend has shown himself bolder than we remember. I shall welcome that change." Eliphas put his cup back on its saucer. "It's better than having to chase him down through the continent. Homesickness can be a dreadful thing, after all."

Rollant slumped down, relief etched on his handsome face. "Well, I don't care that much about him. I'm just happy that you weren't purposefully messing with me, as I'd hate to take you on."

"We're friends, are we not? I would never wish any ill upon you."

"You're contradicting yourself," Rollant grimaced. "Anyhow, take a look at the third page. It should pique your interest."

Knowing Rollant's devious nature, Eliphas quickly turned his paper to the indicated section, skimming through its content.

THE FACE OF A HUNDRED SLEEPLESS NIGHTS!

For the Hautefoy, the paranormal is the normal state of things, and that which transcends normalcy for other parts of the world is a common sight in our nation.

It is advisable to be aware of it, to "fight" it, as the Church's teaching would suggest. It is the reason why the yearly Liturgy still exists and why, to this day, we have survived its deadly grasp.

Many citizens of Pantome have reported dreaming of a terrifying face these past few days.

We urge any of you who have seen it, as a simple measure of caution, to seek immediate help in the nearest Black Shrine.

It is of the utmost importance that you consider these phenomena with the urgency they require. Do not attempt to "fight" this nightmare, lest it devours you whole.

This is a warning and a plea.

Stay safe, ladies and gentlemen, and may the Others spare you.

The article was followed by a peculiar illustration—a pale, mouthless face with hollow, bleeding sockets. Despite its lack of eyes, it seemed to peer into one's soul, drawing closer and closer with a nonexistent smile.

"A beautiful curse. Whose is it?"

"I knew you'd like it," Rollant chuckled. "He's a newcomer from across the Orphic Sea and a distant family member of mine. He shares our... way of thinking and wishes to join our Collective."

"Oh, the western colonies? He's quite far from home. I assume this first display is for us to enjoy, a greeting gift of sorts?"

"I wouldn't count on such graceful foresight from him. He's restless, self-centered, and, I would say, a delightfully unhinged fellow."

Eliphas curled his thin lips up. "Who amongst us isn't? Art has a way of manifesting madness out of passion and fanaticism out of wonder. I can empathize with those who indulge in such urges. What name does he sign his work with?"

"He goes by Jean, I believe."

"How uninspired. Hm, wait." Eliphas looked up from his paper. "Jean, as in Jean's knives? The genius knifemaker?"

"You know him?" Rollant seemed surprised.

"I have a rather expansive collection of his works. His craftsmanship is unparalleled yet so subtle that the average eye wouldn't notice its brilliance. You never told me you had such a master in your family."

Rollant passed a hand through his blond curls, slightly embarrassed. "I'd like to say I was keeping it a secret, but I didn't even know. Although I was vaguely aware of his smithing hobby, he only reached out to me once he arrived in Pantome, and we never really talked before that."

"Well, his secrecy is certainly a given. He's a known serial killer, and his knives are said to be made out of the remains of his victims. As of now, he has forty-three masterpieces, and those are only the ones in circulation."

"I've never heard of him," Rollant said, increasingly confused.

"Seeing how I have to restock the entirety of my cellar each time you come to our soirées, I do not doubt that it must've escaped you." Eliphas leaned back, briefly enjoying the comfort of his sofa. "Though I must say, his existence isn't public knowledge, not outside our closed circle, that is. I first heard of him from colleagues in the OCA. He's currently classified as a criminal Esoteric."

"This explains a lot," he nodded along. "That aside, I'm impressed you still work in the OCA. Mingling amongst trained Esoteric-hunters whilst yourself being a criminal Esoteric is a scary thought. I envy your nerves of steel."

"I merely volunteer from time to time as a special operative. In a way, it helps keep us hidden by recognizing and burying any trail they might have on us. Which reminds me—" He took out his pocket watch, glancing at the time. "—I have a meeting with the head of their local branch soon."

"What about Jean?"

Eliphas finished his coffee, folded his newspaper, and slowly rose from his seat. "You may invite him to our upcoming soirée next week. As per tradition, he must showcase his skills before being accepted in our midst. I wouldn't worry too much, however. He already has a number of fans in the Collective."

"All right. Thanks for everything, Sir Murderer!" Rollant jumped to his feet, mimicking an exaggerated bow.

Eliphas' brow twitched, though he kept his smile nonetheless. "You're welcome."

It took but a blink for the blond gentleman to disappear, vanishing as abruptly as he had come.

With his departure, the café returned to its pleasant atmosphere, cradled by the refined tune of its headless pianist and bizarre singer.

Eliphas checked his watch again, his expression softening.

"Time for a new performance."