Nicolas whistled and walked under the bright afternoon sky. His first ascension, to Watchman, had halved the hours he needed to sleep. His second, Detective, vastly accelerated his healing whilst asleep, and now that he was a Magistrate those abilities had only strengthened. Where last night his flesh had melted, it now looked smooth as a baby’s.

At the sight of his destination, Nicolas couldn’t help but smile. Port Stephen’s train station was small and hopelessly ugly, but ten months—almost a year!—was far too long to stay in one place. If it hadn’t been essential to his Mantle’s development, he’d have left a long time ago.

The platform was busier than he expected, no doubt from all the summer tourists that finally decided they were sick of the place. Nicolas walked to the ticket sta—without deciding to, he abruptly turned and walked to the right. His hand came down on a boy’s shoulder in an iron grip.

The boy flinched and dropped the rock with which he had been scratching his name into a bench. Nicolas felt his Mantle press down and gave an inward sigh before acquiescing. “Vandalism is against the law, young man.”

The boy jerked his shoulder, but failed to dislodge the hand, and spat, “Get yer fuckin hand off me.”

“You broke the law,” Nicolas’s lips said.

“Help! A stranger-man is touchin me!”

Nicolas blocked out his Mantle’s urgings and took his hand off the boy, but not before the station constable had started moving. He sighed, outwardly this time.

“What’s this, now?” The constable eyed him suspiciously.

Nicolas plastered on a smile. “This young man,” he gestured at the boy, “was defacing city property. I was gently reprimanding him…”

“I see. He won’t do it again, right, boy?”

A sullen nod.

“Good enough for you?”

“I just think the law is important, is all…”

“Right. Well, I appreciate the help, but we’re very diligent in enforcing these things, here.”

Nicolas ignored his Mantle telling him those were both lies.

Really, he wouldn’t mind compulsively enforcing the rules if it wasn’t just so awkward every time. Give him a killer over a litterer any day of the week. Back when he was a Detective, the insatiable curiosity had been just as troublesome. He prayed his next ascension wouldn’t revolve around something strange.

~~~

Nicolas stepped off the train to meet the evening in New Raldon, capital of the Dalkan Empire. The sun glared red through the smoke and pollutants, as if it were bleeding into the sky. Soot-smeared faces flowed like one organism through the streets, smokestacks looming over them like watchtowers.

Smiling, Nicolas joined the crowd like an old friend. If his superiors hadn’t deemed it too dangerous to operate in the capital with a Low-Mantle, he would have gladly stayed. Despite its many, many failings, New Raldon was his home.

By the time Nicolas reached the Cathedral of the Lady Moon, he had turned in two pickpockets. He had even, with his Watchman’s eye, caught a glimpse of someone with the Thief Mantle, but they had fled, likely informed of his notice by one of their own boons.

The cathedral was octagonal, boasting eight spires. The moon had eight phases, eight angels, eight curses—it was a sacred number to the Church. Bat-winged gargoyles and the faces of wolves snarled out from the stonework. One of Nicolas’s friends in the Luminaries had told him the carvings could come to life to defend the Cathedral; he still wasn’t sure if they had been pulling his leg.

When he passed the threshold, an aura of serenity descended upon him; the lines on his face eased and his shoulders relaxed. He walked through the narthex, past the sanctuary, and with a small silver key descended into the crypt below. He passed through the maze-like corridors, ignoring the silent sepulchers, and came to a certain door. He knocked eight times in a certain pattern and whispered a certain phrase with eight words.

Came the reply in a voice like falling silver coins, “What is right, and left when water freezes?”

“Fuck off Catherine, you know I hate riddles.”

Laughter like bells, and the door swung open. “You know, I think I liked you better as Detective,” smiled the Gatekeeper, bringing her wheelchair next to Nicolas as he walked into the Luminaries’ space of operations.

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The desolate moon hung in the sky like it had dropped down a dark well, ringed by uncaring stars scattered by an immortal hand. Their half-light fell upon the stone walls of an endless labyrinth. It was roofless, open to the sweet night air, and entirely shadowed except for the intermittent glow of soft white lamps in the rooms and corridors where Luminaries did their work.

Without Catherine’s approval, anyone else would open the door to find nothing but a stone wall behind it; the Gatekeeper Mantles controlled all access to the private dimension.

“So how’s the mortal plane?” She tilted her head.

Nicolas snorted at ‘mortal plane.’ Catherine liked to pretend the outside world was beneath her, but Nicolas didn't begrudge her for it—she likely hadn’t seen the real world for years. Every Mantle had its sacrifices.

“Busy. Big. We’ve a drought at the moment—hottest summer in over half a century. What have you been dealing with?” Nicolas took a turn, relying on his Detective’s memory to navigate the maze.

Catherine wheeled next to him. “You might have heard this, but the Church of the Storm Prince had a bishop succumb to spiritual corruption; the sea-serpent wrecked half of the Dalkan Armada ships that were docked at Craysaw, and the Crown wants reparations.”

“Ah, politics. Any other news?”

“Oi, I’m not your gazette,” Catherine mock-glared, “More necromancy in Erebon, but when is there not? Ooh, and Ash has this conspiracy theory you’ll love. Something about the recent outbreak of spontaneous combustion.”

Nicolas stilled. “Outbreak? Tell me more.”

“The Churches have reported more and more people… you know, bursting into flames. Ash thinks it’s got to do with this ancient religion that died out centuries ago.”

“And what is it actually?”

“The Cult of the Coming Blaze, we think. They resurge every fifty years or so, but apparently they’re usually stamped out pretty quickly. Fire-worshippers aren’t very subtle as a rule.”

“What are they doing?”

“Woah, no need for an interrogation, Nick,” she smiled teasingly, “No idea, but whatever it is, it's messy. Why, did you have a run-in with them?”

“Maybe. I went after someone I thought was an arsonist, but she turned out to be Mantled, and already halfway corrupted.”

“Which Mantle?”

“Something fire-related, not one I’ve seen before. She succumbed, and I killed the spirit.”

“There aren’t any fire-related Mantles, what would that even be? Pyromaniac?” She laughed and tucked an errant wisp of hair behind her ear, “Even the Cult of the Coming Blaze only has Conspirators, Warriors, and Spirit Callers.”

Nicolas shook his head, “My path of ascension started with Watchman, I know what a Mantle looks like.”

“I know, I’m not disparaging your skill, but there are fourteen paths of ascension, and none of them have anything to do with fire.” She pondered for a moment, “There are fire spirits; maybe they’re trying to incubate them in mortal souls? That might look similar to a Mantle, while explaining the spontaneous combustions.”

“Hmm, maybe,” Nicolas shrugged. He knew what he’d seen. “You’d know better than I would, I’m just the muscle.”

“Hey, no self-deprecation on my watch! It’s great that you brought it to my attention.” Catherine closed her eyes, “Wait just a moment, someone is at the door.”

Nicolas stopped and waited. The night was stiflingly empty.

If it weren’t for Catherine’s Mantle fluctuating slowly at the edges of her soul, he would have thought she had fallen asleep. Her silver-blonde hair hung in the air like a halo, and Nicolas realized suddenly he knew nothing about her. Not her family, not her past, not her dreams. Even when he was a Detective, she had always deftly dodged his curiosity.

All he knew was her Mantle, all she was to him was her Mantle. The same with Ash, and the Archbishop, and all the other Luminaries—hell, everyone he knew. With each step of ascension, he’d left behind more of the mortal world. If Mantles added to who you were, then why did it feel as if they had all had some crucial part of them carved away? All that was left was the climb.

“Right, let’s go,” Catherine opened her eyes, bright.

Nicolas shivered. He had forgotten how cold and dark the Luminaries’ realm was. He needed to finish his business and leave as quickly as possible. “Yes, let’s.”

“...So, peak Magistrate already?”

“I am,” Nicolas nodded, “Do you know my next ascension?”

“No, I didn’t even know we could raise someone past Magistrate. Of course, you’re an abnormal case.”

“Abnormal?”

An impish grin, “Sorry, extraordinary.”

“In what way?”

She scoffed, “Come now, you’ve consistently achieved better results than anyone else we’ve raised on the same path of ascension. You’re obviously very well suited to your Mantle.”

“I suppose…”

“Suppose nothing. Not every Watchman becomes a Detective. And not every Detective becomes a Magistrate.”

“But I’ve met other Magistrates, with more experience; why does the Archbishop want me?”

“How long did it take you to reach peak Magistrate?”

“Ten months.”

“That’s incredible for the third step. The Archbishop is betting that you, no one else, can take the fourth,” she laughed, “No pressure, right?”

“Right.”

She saw his pensive look. “Listen, raising someone to the third step is a big investment. If the ascension fails,” they shared a shudder, “...the effort is wasted. That the Archbishop chose you is proof she thinks you can do it.”

Lost in thought, Nicolas took a right turn.

“You don’t want to turn left here?” Catherine slowed.

He shrugged, “That’s a much longer route. See, the Archbishop’s area is just over there.”

“Ah, you’re right. Talk to you later, then,” she looked almost disappointed.

“See you later, Catherine.” His ascension awaited.