Gilbert tried to calm his breathing after the thief melted into the shadows. He didn’t understand it. It had seemed to his eyes as if… as if the man had stepped back into nothingness. As if reality for a short moment was a backcloth on a stage, and the thief had stepped nimbly through the unseen opening down the middle. Gilbert had a feeling he was still there, somehow, but just occupying another part of what was visible and tangible.

Forcefully, he tore himself away from staring at the shadow where the thief disappeared.

Ahead was a side alley, branching out from the narrow lane, and he saw a light flicker there. Slowly, he approached the mouth of the alley, just a narrow space between two houses where people threw their waste of all kinds. The funk was sharp and wasn’t helped by the addition of fresh blood, smeared all over the clay wall of a timber frame house.

The painter stood with a lantern, regarding his work critically. He looked to be in his early thirties, well-kept and groomed, wearing a loose coat and good-quality boots.

Gilbert quickly scanned the area. He could probably get closer to the man, but he would have to move fast. The moment the painter turned, he would likely run, and he would have to chase him down.

He did his best to sneak closer, getting to within five meters of him unobserved.

The painter nodded, satisfied with his work, and made to turn around, as Gilbert tensed for the chase. Then the painter suddenly froze in his tracks and spun around, turning his back on the Watcher in the shadows, searching the darkness with his lantern held high.

The shadows melted away, oily and reluctant, and Temple stepped towards the painter …who gasped, dropped his lantern to the ground, and fell to his knees, arms up in front of him as if in prayer.

“Silver-eyed darkness, grant me your mercy!” the painter exclaimed, voice trembling either with fear or some other turbulent emotion. Gilbert couldn’t tell, but he saw the deeply puzzled look in Temple’s eyes. The thief’s gaze flickered to him as he moved closer, and then back to the kneeling man.

Gilbert grabbed the kneeling man in a chokehold and dragged him to his feet.

The painter froze in surprise, but then struggled and kicked. Gilbert just tightened his hold for a moment, threatening to choke the man unconscious. “Stand still!” he hissed in the prisoner’s ear, trying hard to keep weeks of frustration in check.

Gilbert quickly looked at Temple, who was staring at him, almost shocked.

“Who are you?” Gilbert demanded of the painter, who had stopped struggling quite as much with the threat of the chokehold.

“The messenger of the high priests,” the painter gasped, hands still fighting against Gilbert’s grip. “The temple is waking, and the darkness reclaims its rightful place.” Suddenly, the painter grew limp in Gilbert’s grip and began to fall, only held aloft by his arms. Instinctively, he followed, so he wouldn’t kill the man accidentally, and then the painter bucked against him while squirming and screaming, “Great darkness, I give myself to you!”

A warm wave hit Gilbert’s arms, rushing forth with enough force to be felt as stark pressure against his skin.

“No, no!” he exclaimed, but the painter had opened his jugular somehow and the torrent of blood made his grip slippery. “Gods damn you!” he yelled and let the man down on the dirty ground, so he could try to stop the bleeding. The man was already white as a funeral dress and, for a moment, Gilbert thought he was beyond vision already as he desperately pressed on the wound.

This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

Then he realised the man was staring at Temple, reaching a blood-stained hand out to him.

“No! Who do you work for?” Gilbert barked, grabbing the man’s face and forcing him to look at him. “Who?”

“Highest… Dark…” the painter said weakly as the fierce flow of blood became a calmer river, flowing forth from the small but deep cut that Gilbert tried to staunch. “Rakkos…” he whispered and turned his head in Temple’s direction, though Gilbert doubted if he still saw this world.

Then the painter expired, surrounded by his scribbles, the thief he had kneeled to, and a very frustrated Watcher.

Gilbert stayed, looking at the dead man on the ground for a while before he slowly turned his head and stared at the writing on the wall. Then he turned to look at the Magpie King, whose gaze was glued to the dead man, eyes huge in shock. His chest was rising and falling at a frantic pace, and his hands were clenched.

“Temple?” Gilbert asked gently.

The thief started violently and stared at him. Then he blinked and looked away, clearly fighting to get a grip on himself. He took a step away from Gilbert and the corpse on the ground, and for a second, Gilbert was quite certain he would run.

“You have blood all over,” Temple finally said, not looking up. His voice was trembling audibly.

Gilbert looked down at himself. His sleeve and chest were soaked through hideously and he felt the blood begin to cool and dry and grow sticky. He looked down at the dead man and noticed a metal band on his finger, sitting like a ring on the middle joint. On the inside of the ring was a sharp, short blade. A quick jab at his own neck had been all it took. The vein had opened up to the small slicing motion as if it had longed for its freedom.

Slowly, he got to his feet and looked at the thief. “Have you read what he wrote?” he asked and watched Temple tear his gaze away from the corpse with obvious difficulty.

He looked at the message blankly and then finally looked at Gilbert again. “The temple of darkness awakens?” He shrugged, obviously confused about the question.

“Temple,” Gilbert said, “why did you step out of the shadows just before I got to him?” he added and watched the thief clench his hands. He knew he should apologise, quickly, before Temple felt under attack and ran. Before he could do anything, the emotions in the thief’s eyes condensed into anger and he stepped closer, so they were only separated by the dead man on the ground.

“You think I had something to do with this!” he spat. “I gave up my cover because an empty barrel rolling down the street would make less noise than you did. It’s a wonder he didn’t flee immediately. And I was only doing any of this, putting myself in danger, because I wanted to help you! I didn’t know I would find you that quickly, I didn’t even have high hopes that I would at all. You are welcome!” He retreated a few steps.

Gilbert took a deep breath, feeling the stench of the blood in his nostrils as he tried to calm down. The thief was right. “I’m sorry,” he said. “You did all that. I know.” He sighed, suddenly hit by a wave of exhaustion. He lifted his hand to rub his eyes, but the dead man’s blood would be all over his face if he did that. Slowly, he stepped away from the corpse, creating more distance from the thief as well. “Look, I will have to go back to the palisade and get people here. And I really need sleep. But please, meet with me tonight? You see things that I don’t.”

Temple stood completely still for a while, gaze fixed on the corpse, fear in his eyes. “No,” he said finally and shook his head slightly.

A hot flower of anger unfolded its petals in Gilbert’s chest, and he took a deep breath to calm himself. “I’m not planning an ambush,” he said as quietly as he could. “I gave you my word.”

“Yes, and it doesn’t matter. Do what you must here and come meet me immediately. Alone. Unarmed. At The Maskerade in Old Town. Enter through the blue door on Vencana Road and give them your name to be let in.” Gilbert opened his mouth to say something, but Temple stopped him, “It’s that or nothing. I can’t keep letting you control the surroundings. I won’t.” He backed away a few paces down the alley, keeping his eyes on Gilbert. “I can’t help you anyway. I don’t even know what I was thinking.”

“I will be there as soon as I can.” Gilbert looked at the thief who kept retreating, feeling like he had just been very rude, but unsure exactly how or why.

Temple nodded and turned silently, walking down the alley until the darkness quickly swallowed him just as before, as if reality had given up on showing him.