CHAPTER 3: WHISPERS OF THE ABYSS

The tavern reeked of stale ale and burning tallow. Low voices murmured over clinking tankards, a thick haze of smoke curling beneath the rafters. Elizabeth moved through the crowded room, her boots silent against the warped wooden floor.

At a corner table, a woman lounged with a half-drained cup, fingers tapping idly against the rim. Her cloak was pulled tight, hood drawn low, but Elizabeth knew those sharp, knowing eyes beneath the shadow. She slid into the opposite seat without a word.

The woman tilted her head, smirking. “Thought you were dead.”

Elizabeth exhaled sharply, brushing a stray lock of hair from her face.

“Not yet.”

The smirk faded. “You look like hell.”

“I feel worse.”

The woman leaned in, resting an elbow on the table.

“So? What is it this time?”

Elizabeth hesitated. The words clung to the back of her throat like tar. Then, in a low, strained voice—

"Something is wrong with me.”

A pause. The woman’s fingers stilled against the cup.

Elizabeth pressed on.

“It’s eating me alive. I need answers. A cure. Something.”

The woman studied her for a long moment, then sighed, running a hand through her dark curls.

“You’re asking for ghosts.”

Elizabeth narrowed her eyes.

“There’s a world beneath this one,” the woman muttered, tracing the rim of her cup.

“People who deal in the unseen. The old ways. Blood magic, rites, pacts—things that shouldn’t exist but do. But they don’t leave breadcrumbs, Elizabeth. No one sees them and lives to talk about it.”

Elizabeth’s nails bit into the table. “You must know something.”

The woman huffed.

“Legends. Whispers.” She took a sip, then glanced around the tavern before lowering her voice.

“There’s a pharmacist. Outskirts of the city. Strange one. Knows things no man should. If anyone has ties to them, it’s him.”

A folded scrap of paper slid across the table. Elizabeth snatched it up, her pulse quickening at the inked address.

She met the woman’s gaze. “Thank you.”

The woman shrugged.

“Don’t thank me yet.” She leaned back, swirling the dregs in her cup. “You might not like what you find.”

The tavern door groaned as Elizabeth stepped into the cold, soot-laced air of the city. Gas lamps flickered along the cobbled streets, their dim glow swallowed by the neon haze of towering brass and iron structures. The city never slept… gears turned, steam hissed, and distant bells rang, signaling the shift changes in the factories that stretched toward the smog-choked sky.

She pulled her coat tighter and hurried toward the station, where a great iron train car, lined with copper pipes and riveted plates, hissed and whirred. The platform buzzed with workers in oil-streaked vests and women in soot-stained dresses, their eyes sunken with exhaustion. She stepped onto the train, slipping into an empty seat by the window as the doors sealed shut with a mechanical hiss.

The train jolted forward.

Outside, the city unfolded in a maze of towering spires and labyrinthine streets. Enormous steam engines churned within colossal factories, their smokestacks vomiting plumes of black into the sky. Airships drifted overhead, their propellers humming as they wove between bridges of iron and glass. Below, mechanized carriages rumbled past gas-lit avenues, and automatons in polished brass moved with unnatural precision, their glowing eyes scanning the crowds.

The further the train traveled, the more the grandeur of the city gave way to decay. The skyline sagged, spires replaced with squat, rusting mills. The streets narrowed, tangled with pipes that spewed hissing vapor into the green-tinged fog. The air thickened with the scent of burning coal and something acrid… chemicals mixing in unseen vats, staining the mist that slithered through the alleys.

Then, at the very edge of the city’s breath, the train slowed. The factories loomed like great beasts, their smokestacks jutting into the sky like the ribs of long-dead giants. Elizabeth stepped off the train onto a cracked stone platform, her boots tapping against the damp ground.

Among the sprawling ruins of industry, nestled between rusted machinery and abandoned tramways, stood a lone pharmacy. Its wooden sign creaked in the wind, the painted letters peeling with age. A single gas lantern flickered above its door, casting a sickly yellow glow against the thickening mist.

Elizabeth exhaled, the air cold against her lips.

This was it.

A bell chimed as Elizabeth pushed open the heavy wooden door of the pharmacy. The air inside was thick with the scent of dried herbs, clove oil, and something faintly metallic. Shelves lined the walls, crammed with glass bottles, paper-wrapped parcels, and ceramic jars labeled in delicate, faded script. Bundles of strange roots hung from the ceiling, their twisted forms casting eerie shadows in the dim lantern light.

Behind the counter stood an old man, hunched over a worn ledger. His thin spectacles balanced on the bridge of his nose as he scribbled something in neat, sharp strokes. He didn’t look up.

Elizabeth cleared her throat. “I need to see Doctor Chen.”

The old man turned a page.

“You’re looking at him.” His voice was dry, rasping like parchment against stone.

She stepped closer, lowering her voice.

“I was told you know things. Things about the occult.”

Dr. Chen finally looked up, his eyes unreadable behind the thick lenses.

“I sell medicine,” he said. “Not ghost stories.”

A lie.

Elizabeth’s hands curled into fists. Frustration coiled in her gut, burning hot.

“Don’t play games with me.”

The air shifted. The bottles on the shelves trembled, then lifted. Paper parcels unwrapped themselves, their contents hovering in midair. Jars floated from their places, rotating slowly, their labels peeling away. A scalpel slid free from its case, spinning like a compass needle pointing straight at Dr. Chen’s throat.

He didn’t flinch. He only raised a brow.

“Impressive,” he murmured. “But I’d appreciate it if you didn’t ruin my merchandise.”

Elizabeth exhaled sharply, forcing herself to regain control. The floating objects trembled, then descended, glass clinking softly as they returned to their places. Her limbs felt heavier now, her breath uneven.

A sharp pain stabbed through her skull.

She staggered, clutching her temple as her vision pulsed with white-hot light. A thick warmth trickled from her nose, dribbling onto her lips, tasting of iron.

Dr. Chen studied her. Then, he reached under the counter, pulled out a cloth, and slid it toward her.

“You’re dying,” he said simply.

Dr. Chen gestured toward a beaded curtain in the back of the shop.

"Come," he said, disappearing through it without waiting for her response.

Elizabeth wiped the blood from her nose with the cloth and followed.

Beyond the curtain, the air changed. The scent of dried herbs faded, replaced by something sharper… chemicals, old parchment, and a faint metallic tang. The laboratory was cluttered yet methodical, a place of quiet obsession.

A massive worktable stood in the center, covered with rusted surgical tools, glass vials filled with murky liquids, and parchment covered in anatomical sketches. Beakers and flasks, some filled with thick, bubbling fluids, sat atop iron stands, glowing under the flickering gas lamps. Along the walls, cabinets brimmed with ingredients… powdered bones, jars of preserved eyes, rows of dried fungi, their colors ranging from sickly yellow to deep violet. Old books, their leather covers cracked with age, lay open on every available surface. Strange symbols, painted in ink darker than any Elizabeth had seen before, adorned the pages.

Metal restraints were bolted to a worn examination chair in the corner. Dried stains, too dark to be rust, marred the floor beneath it.

Dr. Chen walked past it all without a glance. He approached a heavy iron door at the back of the room, pulling a ring of keys from his belt.

“This,” he said as he unlocked it, “is where the real work begins.”

The door groaned as it swung open, revealing a chamber bathed in dim, golden candlelight.

Elizabeth stepped inside.

The room was unlike anything in the lab. It felt… alive.

Shelves lined the walls, but instead of medicine and tools, they held objects that hummed with an unseen energy. A bronze mask with hollow eyes. A preserved hand, its fingers curled in a beckoning gesture. A severed head submerged in green liquid, lips frozen in a scream. Sigils burned into ancient scrolls and flickered as if whispering secrets only the dead could hear.

Hanging from the ceiling were wind chimes made of human finger bones, swaying with no wind. A massive, circular mirror dominated one wall, its blackened surface shifting like liquid, reflecting nothing. On the far side, a glass case held a single, red-stained dagger, its blade pulsing like a heartbeat.

Dr. Chen stepped past her, tracing a finger along a silver medallion inlaid with runes. He turned to her with a slow smile.

“I study psychics and the occult,” he said. “For a price.”

Elizabeth folded her arms, eyeing Dr. Chen warily. “What’s the price?”

Dr. Chen’s smile didn’t waver. He reached for a small glass vial on a nearby shelf, holding it up to the candlelight.

“Your blood,” said Dr. Chen.

Elizabeth tensed.

“I collect blood from psychics,” he continued, placing the vial on the table with deliberate care. “It’s the key to understanding your kind… your abilities, your limits. But I’ve never seen anyone like you before.”

His gaze flicked to her temples, where dried blood still lingered from her earlier episode.

“A talent that strong… well, I’d be a fool not to study it.”

Elizabeth exhaled sharply. “That’s all?”

Dr. Chen chuckled. “A little gold, too. I am a businessman, after all.”

Elizabeth sighed, reaching into her coat and pulling out a small pouch. She weighed it in her hand and then tossed it onto the table. The coins clinked, spilling out in a dull gleam.

“That’s everything I have,” said Elizabeth.

Dr. Chen scooped up the pouch with nimble fingers, testing the weight before tucking it into his robes.

“Fair enough.”

He turned, retrieving a clean syringe from a drawer. The needle gleamed under the flickering candlelight. With practiced efficiency, he rolled up Elizabeth’s sleeve, found a vein in her arm, and slid the needle in.

Elizabeth clenched her jaw as dark red liquid filled the glass tube.

Dr. Chen withdrew the syringe, tapping it lightly before transferring the blood into a vial. He corked it and held it up, watching the thick crimson swirl.

“Fascinating,” he murmured.

Elizabeth rolled her sleeve back down, rubbing the sore spot on her arm.

“You have what you wanted. Now tell me what I need to know.”

Dr. Chen turned to a shelf lined with old books, trailing his fingers over their spines.

“You are what we call a Psychic,” he said, plucking a tome from the collection. He set it down on the table and flipped through its pages, revealing ancient diagrams of glowing figures, their bodies outlined with strange energy.

“Psychics are connected to a dimensional rift… an unseen force that grants power beyond human comprehension.”

“And what does that mean for me?” Elizabeth studied the pages, the symbols foreign yet strangely familiar.

“It means your abilities are killing you.” Dr. Chen’s expression darkened.

A chill ran through her. She swallowed hard. “You’re sure?”

“I’ve seen similar cases,” he admitted. “But none this extreme.”

He closed the book with a heavy thud and met her gaze.

“I don’t know the cause, but I do know one thing: you’re losing control, and if that continues, you won’t survive,” said Dr. Chen.

Elizabeth exhaled slowly, pressing her fingers to her temples. She thought back to all the times her powers surged, the unbearable headaches, the nosebleeds. And then… she remembered something.

“When I was captured by the werewolves…” Her voice trailed off. She frowned, piecing the memory together. “I couldn’t use my powers. No matter how much I tried, there was… nothing.”

Dr. Chen nodded as if he had expected that answer. “Your breathing.”

Elizabeth blinked. “What?”

“The way you breathe affects your power,” he explained. “A psychic’s abilities are tied to their body’s rhythm. If your breathing is erratic—shallow, panicked—it disrupts the flow of energy. That’s why, when you were in distress, your power didn’t manifest.”

Elizabeth thought back to the terror of the meat locker, the suffocating dread that gripped her lungs. It made sense.

“So if I can control my breathing…”

“You can control your power.”

She clenched her fists, determination replacing doubt. “Then teach me.”

Dr. Chen’s lips curled into a small smile. “Good. Let’s begin.”

Dr. Chen reached into a wooden chest beneath his desk, pulling out a tarnished bronze mask. It was smooth, featureless, with only thin slits for airflow. He turned it over in his hands before passing it to Elizabeth.

“Wear this.”

Elizabeth eyed it warily. “What is it?”

“A breathing mask,” Dr. Chen said, tapping the metal. “It will force you to control your rhythm. If your breathing is steady, your power will flow freely. If it falters—” He paused, letting the weight of his words sink in. “You will suffocate.”

Elizabeth’s grip tightened on the mask. “That sounds like a death trap.”

Dr. Chen shrugged. “Discipline or death. That’s the nature of power.”

She clenched her jaw. “You expect me to just put this on and hope I don’t choke to death?”

“If you don’t learn control, you’ll die anyway,” Dr. Chen said flatly. “This is the fastest way to teach your body the rhythm it needs.”

Elizabeth hesitated, staring at the mask. The metal was cold, its weight solid in her hands. Every instinct screamed against it, but deep down, she knew he was right. Her powers were killing her. If she wanted to survive, she had to master them.

With a sharp breath, she lifted the mask to her face and strapped it tight. The moment it sealed, her breath became measured, deliberate. The mask allowed just enough air… no more, no less. She focused, aligning her breathing with the steady flow it demanded.

Dr. Chen watched her for a long moment. Then, satisfied, he nodded.

“Find your rhythm. Maintain it.” He stepped back, wiping his hands on his coat.

Elizabeth exhaled through the mask, feeling the airflow in perfect time. She gave a single nod and turned to leave, the cold weight of discipline now strapped to her face.

Dr. Chen led Elizabeth through a rusted side door, pushing it open with a creak. The air inside was stale, thick with dust and the scent of old wood. Dim shafts of light filtered through broken windows, casting jagged shadows across the warehouse floor. Stacks of wooden crates loomed in uneven towers, some tilting dangerously as if a single breath could send them tumbling.

They stepped into an open space in the center. Dr. Chen folded his arms and gestured toward the crates.

"Destroy them."

Elizabeth exhaled through the mask, her breath slow, controlled.

"That's it? Just break boxes?"

Dr. Chen gave her a pointed look.

"If you can’t break these, you’ll never survive what’s coming."

Elizabeth clenched her fists. She planted her feet, inhaled deeply, and let the air flow through her as the mask dictated. The energy within her stirred, raw and restless, but this time, she wasn’t fighting it. She was guiding it.

She extended a hand toward the nearest crate. The air around it trembled. Then, with a sudden pulse, the wood splintered, a jagged hole bursting through its center. Pieces flew outward, clattering onto the concrete floor.

She took another breath… steady, deliberate. Her power surged again. She lashed out, this time with both hands, and the stack of crates in front of her exploded into flying shards. The force rattled the ones behind them, knocking a few off balance.

Dr. Chen remained still, watching.

Elizabeth exhaled, her body tingling with the aftershock. She turned to him, her breath still even beneath the mask. “That controlled enough for you?”

Dr. Chen smirked. "Do it again."

The days blurred together in a rhythm of breath and power.

Elizabeth stood before a fresh pile of crates, her breath steady behind the mask. A single exhale… wood burst apart. She refined her aim, learning to punch through the center, splintering them without scattering debris everywhere. The mask kept her in check. Too fast, and the pressure wavered. Too slow, and her chest burned for air.

She lifted a crate next. Not shattered, not broken… just lifted. It wobbled at first, hovering inches above the ground, then steadied as she found her center. She raised it higher, sweat trickling down her temple, before setting it down without a sound.

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Dr. Chen introduced precision drills. A needle and thread floated before her, suspended in the air. Her powers trembled against the fragile thread, struggling between force and control. She exhaled sharply… the needle dove through the fabric. Again, and again, each stitch smoother than the last. Hours passed, and soon, she held a completed sleeve in her hands.

The next test was water. A rusted basin sat in the corner of the warehouse, deep enough for her to submerge. Elizabeth took a breath, stepped in, and let herself sink. The mask forced her into a rhythm, a constant flow of air and power. She willed herself upward, her body rising not by kicking or paddling, but by sheer force of will. She hovered just beneath the surface, weightless, suspended in the murky depths, before bursting out in a spray of water.

Dr. Chen watched, arms crossed. “Not bad.”

Elizabeth pulled herself onto the edge, dripping and exhausted.

He nodded toward the door. “Come back tomorrow. We’re not done yet.”

The train station hummed with the low murmur of steam and shifting machinery. Elizabeth stepped onto the platform, her breath steady behind the mask. The rhythmic hiss of an approaching train filled the air. She reached into her coat for a ticket—

“Mademoiselle.”

The voice slithered from the shadows between iron beams, silk-smooth and confident. Elizabeth froze. A figure emerged, stepping into the flickering gaslight. His coat was pristine, midnight black with silver embroidery. His gloved hands adjusted his cuffs with an air of leisure, but his crimson eyes—so unmistakably Ravenholm—were locked onto her with quiet amusement.

“There is no use hiding behind a mask.”

Elizabeth’s fingers twitched near her belt. “Who are you?”

The man exhaled a soft laugh, tilting his head as if disappointed.

“Paige Ravenholm.” He bowed slightly, mockingly. “And I am here to retrieve you.”

Her pulse quickened. She clenched her fists. “I’m not going anywhere with you.”

Paige sighed and shook his head. “Mademoiselle, I am not asking.”

The air shifted. Elizabeth barely had time to react before sparks flickered at his fingertips. Heat rippled outward… then, with a snap of his fingers, the station behind her erupted.

A blast of fire and shrapnel tore through the platform. Steam pipes burst, hissing violently as metal twisted and groaned. Elizabeth flung herself to the side, rolling behind a steel column as the world behind her burned.

Paige stepped forward, untouched by the chaos, embers swirling around him like fireflies.

“War Pigs,” he mused. “That’s what they call my power. I control explosions. Combustion.”

He spread his arms, a conductor in his element.

“And you, dear Elizabeth, are standing on a rather volatile stage.”

Elizabeth exhaled, feeling the mask press against her skin. Her breath found its rhythm, her heartbeat syncing to the controlled inhale, the precise exhale. The air around her trembled.

Paige grinned.

“There we go. That’s the look I wanted.”

The platform shuddered under their feet as Elizabeth’s power flared to life. The gaslights flickered. The wreckage of the explosion rose, floating in the air like broken marionettes.

For a brief moment, the world stood still.

Then they lunged at each other.

The ground quakes as Elizabeth pounces on her opponent, the shattered remains of the platform twisting in the air around her. Splintered wood, jagged steel, and glass shards whirl like a storm, surging toward Paige. He flicks his wrist… boom. A shockwave rips through the debris, igniting splinters midair, and sending flaming wreckage hurtling in all directions.

Elizabeth dashes through the smoke, weaving between bursts of fire. Her hand snaps forward… a loose rail bends like a serpent, snapping toward Paige’s chest.

Snap.

The rail explodes before it can touch him. Paige steps through the smoke, untouched, boots clicking against scorched wood.

Elizabeth’s fingers tighten. The floating wreckage shifts. A dozen steel beams spiral like thrown spears, streaking toward Paige from all angles.

Paige’s grin widens.

Boom. Boom. BOOM.

Each spear erupts in a burst of fire before reaching him, lighting up the night in violent flashes. Smoke rolls across the battlefield, heat pressing down like a heavy hand.

Elizabeth doesn’t stop. The moment the last beam detonates, she clenches her fists. The ground beneath Paige twists. Crates, broken planks, and station debris slam together in a crushing vise.

A heartbeat of silence. Then… detonation. The debris bursts apart, fire rolling outward. Paige strides from the wreckage, still grinning, eyes gleaming like embers.

“Not bad,” he says.

Elizabeth moves. She closes the distance in a blink, her hand snapping forward. An unseen force crashes into Paige’s chest like a battering ram, sending him skidding back. His boots carve trenches into the soot-streaked floor.

She follows up… rail ties rip free from the ground, twisting around his limbs like grasping hands.

Paige clicks his tongue.

Snap.

Flames burst from the bindings, incinerating them in an instant. But Elizabeth is already there. A crate rockets toward his head. He ducks. Another slams into his ribs. Another. And another. The air is a blur of wood, steel, and glass, hammering him from all directions.

For the first time, Paige stumbles.

Elizabeth clenches her hand, fingers trembling. A final chunk of steel hurtles toward him—

BOOM.

The explosion is deafening. The shockwave slams into Elizabeth, hurling her backward. She crashes into a pillar, the impact forcing the air from her lungs.

Paige stands amid the wreckage, steam rising from his fingertips. He adjusts his gloves, rolling his shoulders.

“Fun’s over.”

Before she can move, he’s in front of her. His hand snaps forward… an explosion ignites right next to her head.

Pain. Heat. The world spins. Elizabeth’s body slams into the platform floor. Her vision blurs.

Her breath hitches.

The mask tightens.

Her chest burns.

She gasps, fingers clawing at the mask. No air. No control. Her own power slips from her grasp, the floating debris around her crashing down like a dead weight.

Paige crouches beside her, head tilting.

“That fancy little breathing trick of yours…” His fingers brush the side of the mask, tapping it lightly. “I wondered what would happen if I knocked the rhythm out of you.”

Elizabeth’s vision darkens at the edges. She struggles, but her own body betrays her.

Paige leans in, voice a low murmur. “Now, let’s talk about coming home.”

The world swims around Elizabeth as Paige hefts her onto his shoulder, his grip firm but almost casual. Her body aches, her lungs still fighting for air, but her breath steadies… slow, controlled. The mask hisses softly as it regulates each inhale. Her fingers twitch. She isn’t beaten yet.

The morning air chills her skin as Paige strides toward the station’s ruined exit. Smoke lingers, curling from shattered debris, the scent of burned wood thick in the air.

Then she sees it.

A glint of metal, straps, and tubing ran across Paige’s back… something humming, pulsing faintly beneath his coat. The machine looks similar to the one Gothetta used, yet… different. Smaller. More refined. The air around it wavers ever so slightly, like heat rippling off the pavement.

Warp energy.

Power that shouldn’t belong to him.

Her fingers curl. With a single thought, she pulls.

The machine rips free.

A tangle of wires and steel snaps apart, the device yanked from Paige’s body and flung to the ground with a clatter. The humming stops.

Paige roars.

He stumbles forward, dropping her. His arms twitch violently, veins bulging beneath his skin. He whirls, eyes wide with fury… and panic.

Elizabeth lands on her feet, staggering back, the mask hissing in rhythm with her breath.

“You—” Paige’s voice is ragged.

He clutches his arms, fingers flexing, twitching. The fire at his fingertips sputters, flickering weakly before vanishing entirely.

Elizabeth’s lips curl into a smirk. “You can’t do it, can you?”

Paige snarls, baring fangs. “You bitch.”

“Vampires can’t have psychic powers,” she breathes, eyes narrowing. “Not without whatever it was you were wearing.”

Paige straightens, shaking out his limbs. His expression shifts… anger melting into something sharp, calculating. Then he chuckles.

“And?” He steps forward. “You think that changes anything?”

He lunges.

Elizabeth’s hands snap forward.

The entire station trembles.

A force tears through Paige’s body, warping the very air around him. His arms twist unnaturally, his coat shreds and his limbs bend in ways they shouldn’t. His body stretches and contorts, the fabric of his being unraveling like a paper doll caught in a storm.

He screams.

Blood sprays in the air.

The first slivers of dawn break over the horizon.

The light washes over him. His scream turns to a shriek of agony as his flesh ignites. Flames lick up his arms, consuming his twisted, broken form. His shriek rattles the ruins of the station, but Elizabeth stands firm, watching as the fire devours him.

Paige stumbles back, clawing at his burning skin. “No—NO!”

The sunlight grows stronger. The flames rise higher.

Then, in an instant—

He is nothing but ash.

The streets stretched quiet under the pale morning light as Elizabeth made her way home. The fight had drained her, leaving her limbs heavy, her breath steady but slow behind the mask. Smoke still lingered in the distance where the train station had burned, but the city itself moved on, indifferent.

She rounded the corner to her street… and stopped cold.

Figures in dark coats and silver-trimmed hats moved through her home like carrion birds. Witch Hunters. Their black sigils gleamed under the sun, their boots trampling over the threshold she had once called safe. One of them turned, sifting through Annabelle’s books, another tore open drawers with rough hands.

Elizabeth took a slow step back, heart hammering, before slipping into an alley. She didn’t need to see more. If they were here, they were looking for her.

Her gold was gone, taken by Dr. Chen, but she had enough left for one thing. Sleep.

She found a motel near the outskirts, the kind that didn’t ask questions. The air inside was reeked of dust and old wood. The woman at the counter barely looked up before tossing her a key. The room was small, the bed stiff, but Elizabeth collapsed onto it without hesitation.

Sleep took her fast.

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She stood in a field of violets. The wind stirred her hair, cool and gentle. A figure stood ahead, bathed in golden light.

Her mother.

The woman’s face blurred in the glow, features shifting like water. Elizabeth reached out, but the figure stepped back, further, fading like a ghost into the endless flowers.

"Wait," Elizabeth whispered.

The wind picked up. The violets trembled. The golden light flickered, darkening.

The field vanished.

A long table stretched before her, draped in deep crimson. Figures sat around it, dressed in fine suits and gowns, their faces shrouded in shadow… except for one.

Eriel Ravenholm.

He sat at the head, fingers laced together, expression sinister. Across from him stood a man… thin, trembling, eyes gleaming with something unnatural. The air around him pulsed, distorting like heat over a flame. A psychic.

Their hands met over the table. A pact sealed in silence.

A sickening pull yanked Elizabeth forward. The psychic turned, and for a fraction of a second, his face became her own.

A sudden snap.

Elizabeth bolted upright.

The motel room pressed in around her, dim and cold. Her breath rattled behind the mask. A dampness clung to her skin. She reached up, touching her cheek… tears.

She didn’t remember crying.

The dream clung to her like mist, its meaning slipping through her fingers. But one thing sat heavy in her chest.

The Ravenholms. The psychics.

What had they done?

Elizabeth stepped out onto the street, pulling her coat tight against the damp morning air. The city still drowsed in the aftertaste of night—fog curling through alleyways, lamplight flickering dimly as dawn crept in sluggish and gray.

She lifted a hand, fingers stiff from the cold, and hailed the first carriage she saw.

The coachman reined his horses to a stop, casting her a wary glance from beneath his wide-brimmed hat. His coat was worn, patched at the elbows, his gloves fingerless. A man who had seen better days but worked regardless.

"South of the city," she said, voice muffled behind her mask. "Where the factories are."

The man hesitated, his gaze flicking to the bronze mask strapped to her face. Suspicion wavered in his expression before he grunted and jerked his thumb toward the step.

"That’ll be extra."

Elizabeth sighed, reaching into her coat. She pulled out a few coins, dropping them into his waiting palm. He counted them with calloused fingers, then nodded.

"Get in."

She climbed inside, the door groaning on its hinges. The seat was stiff, the air thick with old smoke and damp leather.

With a snap of the reins, the carriage lurched forward.

Elizabeth leaned back, watching the city bleed past through the murky glass window. The grand stone buildings of the merchant district gave way to tighter, uglier streets. Shops with broken signs. Alleys cluttered with crates. A few morning workers shuffled along, collars pulled high, hands stuffed in pockets.

She kept an eye on the shifting scenery, but more than that—she felt something.

A weight on her shoulders. A lingering, pressing presence.

It followed.

A flicker of movement… she turned sharply but saw nothing. Only the blurred reflection of her own masked face in the glass.

Then, a shape against the rooftops.

Not a person.

A raven.

It perched on the edge of a building, feathers sleek, head tilted as if watching.

The carriage rattled on. The bird took flight.

Elizabeth exhaled, fingers tightening around her coat.

Something was coming.

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The carriage left her at the alley leading to Dr. Chen’s pharmacy. The green mist curled thick over the streets, rolling in from the factories, leaving the air sharp with the scent of metal and oil.

Elizabeth stepped out. The door creaked under her touch as she pushed it open.

The pharmacy was too quiet.

Shelves stood untouched. Bottles lined the walls in neat little rows. The air smelled of dried herbs and bitter medicine.

Then she saw it.

A pair of legs sticking out from behind the counter.

Elizabeth rushed forward, breath sharp behind the mask. She stopped as soon as she saw him.

Dr. Chen lay still, slumped on the floor, his coat dark with blood. His throat was cut deep, his chest hollowed, as if something had been taken. His eyes—half-open, empty, lifeless.

Elizabeth’s stomach twisted.

But his hands…

Something rested in his grip: a notebook. The leather cover was stained with dried blood, and the pages were yellowed with age.

She knelt, prying it free. The edges were stiff but opened easily, revealing names and addresses scrawled in tight, careful script. Some were crossed out. Others underlined.

Her eyes scanned the page—

Psychics. Occultists.

People like her.

Elizabeth clutched the book tight, pulse hammering. A flutter.

She turned.

A raven perched atop a shelf, its talons clicking against the wood. Its beady black eyes locked onto hers, unblinking.

It wasn’t an ordinary bird. She could feel it.

The air grew thick. The room felt smaller.

The raven let out a slow, deliberate caw.

The air thickened, turning sharp and brittle. A crackling sound filled the pharmacy as frost spread across the floor, creeping up the walls like grasping fingers. Glass bottles snapped, their contents spilling as ice seized them. The scent of herbs and medicine faded, replaced by the biting chill of winter.

Elizabeth’s breath shuddered against the inside of her mask. Her fingers stiffened as she clutched the notebook, the leather growing rigid with cold.

Dr. Chen’s body—what was left of it—began to pale unnaturally. A thin layer of ice coated his skin, stretching over his open eyes. The blood on his chest crystallized, turning dark and jagged. His corpse let out a soft creak as it stiffened.

A flutter of wings.

The raven hopped forward, talons clicking against the frozen counter. Then, it cawed… long, low, reverberating.

The air around the bird shimmered, folding in on itself like a collapsing mirage. Feathers stretched, bones twisted, and in an instant, the raven was gone.

In its place stood a figure cloaked in black, their breath curling in the frigid air. Their face was obscured, hidden beneath a mask of bone-white porcelain, cracked along the edges. But their eyes—icy, pale, unnatural—pierced through the cold.

Elizabeth barely had a moment to react before the figure flicked their wrist.

Shards of ice burst forth, gleaming like jagged spears. They tore through the air with a shrill whistle, aimed straight at her.

Elizabeth threw herself to the side. The spikes slammed into the shelves behind her, shattering bottles, and sending glass and liquid flying. She landed hard, the cold biting through her coat, her breath fogging in short gasps.

Another flick of the figure’s wrist—another volley of ice.

She twisted, dodging again, but this time, a shard struck her mask.

A sharp crack.

The bronze split apart, a jagged piece clattering to the floor. The straps loosened, and before she could stop it, the mask slipped from her face.

Cold air rushed over her skin.

For the first time since she had donned it, Elizabeth could breathe…. fully, deeply. Her lungs filled, no longer constricted by the careful rhythm the mask enforced.

And in that moment, something shifted.

Heat stirred beneath her skin, coiling like a waking beast.

The freezing air no longer felt sharp. It felt alive.

The cold still clung to the air, ice crackling along the wooden floorboards like splintering glass. The masked figure straightened, tilting his head slightly as if examining her. His voice, when it came, was smooth and empty, like the wind through a graveyard.

"You’ve been quite troublesome, Mademoiselle."

Elizabeth rose to her feet, wiping the blood trickling from her lip. Her mask lay in pieces on the ground, but she ignored it. The air felt different now—sharper, charged.

The figure stepped forward, boots crunching against frost-covered wood.

"I am the Headless Cross. Enforcer of the Ravenholms. You will come with me."

Elizabeth’s hands curled into fists. Another one. They just kept coming, demanding her surrender, demanding she bow.

"No."

The Headless Cross sighed. "Defiance was expected." He flexed his fingers, and the frost around him thickened, creeping toward Elizabeth in slow, living tendrils.

"You should know by now. The Ravenholms always collect what belongs to them."

Elizabeth’s eyes narrowed. "I don’t belong to anyone."

The ice surged toward her, sharp as fangs.

Elizabeth moved.

The floorboards cracked beneath her as she propelled herself forward, power surging through her limbs. She thrust out her hand, and an unseen force shattered the ice mid-air, sending splinters flying.

The Headless Cross reacted instantly. He raised a hand, and a jagged wall of frost erupted from the floor, blocking her path. Elizabeth skidded to a halt, pivoted, and lashed out again. The barrier shattered, shards whipping past her as she lunged.

The Headless Cross sidestepped, graceful despite the thick cloak he wore. He flicked his wrist, and the moisture in the air solidified—icicles forming above, then crashing down like falling daggers.

Elizabeth wove through them, breathing steady, focused. She reached out… not with her hands, but with her power. The broken shelves behind him groaned as wood and glass twisted into motion, hurling toward him.

With a flick of his fingers, the debris froze mid-air, suspended in thick layers of ice. Then, with a sudden gesture, he sent them hurtling back toward her.

Elizabeth ducked, rolling aside just as the frozen wreckage slammed into the floor where she had stood.

She landed on her feet, breath steady, power thrumming beneath her skin.

The Headless Cross adjusted his gloves.

"Perhaps you are worth the effort after all."

Elizabeth smirked. "You're just figuring that out now?"

And then they clashed again.

Elizabeth’s breath came sharp and controlled, her power surging through her veins. She raised her hand, fingers curling like claws, and the air itself seemed to tremble.

The Headless Cross barely had time to react before an unseen force gripped him. The wooden floor groaned as his boots lifted off the ground. His thick cloak flared as he was wrenched into the air, his limbs stiffened against an invisible grip.

Elizabeth clenched her fist.

The room pulsed. The walls quivered. Every fiber of his being should have been unraveling. Bones should have splintered, flesh should have twisted. But instead—

He laughed.

A deep, hollow sound that echoed off the frozen walls.

"Fool." His voice was calm, almost amused. "You know nothing of your own nature."

Elizabeth’s eyes narrowed. "What?"

"You cannot break me any more than I can freeze you."

The realization struck like ice water down her spine.

He wasn’t resisting.

He wasn’t fighting against her power.

He simply wasn’t affected.

With a sharp jerk, the Headless Cross wrenched himself free, dropping onto the frost-bitten floor with unnatural grace.

"Psychics are beyond their own gifts," he continued, brushing ice crystals from his sleeve. "Your power is useless against me, just as mine is against you."

Elizabeth’s fists clenched, her mind racing.

"Then I’ll just find another way," she muttered.

The Headless Cross tilted his head.

"You can try."

Ice surged across the ruined pharmacy, creeping up walls, and swallowing the floor in jagged spikes. The Headless Cross moved with the storm, his cloak billowing like smoke, his eyes locked onto her through the swirling frost.

Elizabeth’s breath clouded in front of her, thin and wispy. Cold gnawed at her bones, but she steadied herself, fingers curling, body low and ready.

The Headless Cross flicked his wrist.

Shards of ice tore through the air, sharp as daggers, hissing as they closed in.

Elizabeth twisted, her boots scraping against the slick floor. She ducked low, barely slipping past a spike meant for her throat. A second shard slashed through her sleeve, slicing skin. She gritted her teeth and kept moving, kept breathing, her heart hammering against her ribs.

Ice snaked toward her feet, thickening, locking her in place.

She reached, fingers splayed. A pulse rippled outward… an unseen force lashing through the air. The frozen chains shattered.

The Headless Cross was already on her.

A fist crashed into her stomach. A cold so deep it burned spread from the impact, locking her muscles in agony. She gasped, stumbling back. Another blow came, this time to her ribs. The breath whooshed out of her.

She reached again, her power flaring. She grabbed at his body… nothing. No pull. No break. Just dead weight refusing to move.

"You’re a fool," he muttered, voice like cracking ice. "Psychic force won’t work on me."

Elizabeth wiped blood from her lip, her breath fogging in front of her. Fine. Then she wouldn’t break him. She’d break everything else.

She flung a hand to the side. Shelves groaned. Glass jars trembled, then burst.

The entire wall came crashing down.

The Headless Cross lifted a hand… ice formed in an instant, shielding him. Heavy wood and metal slammed into the barrier, breaking apart but not breaking through.

Elizabeth was already moving.

She reached out… not for him, but for the ceiling beams above.

A sharp pull. A splintering crack.

The rotten wood gave way.

An avalanche of debris thundered down, swallowing him whole.

Dust choked the air, mingling with the frost. Bottles shattered. Shelves collapsed in on themselves. The ice shield crumbled under the sheer weight of it all.

Elizabeth stumbled back, chest rising and falling, waiting.

Then—

A hand, pale and clawed, burst free from the wreckage.

The Headless Cross dragged himself up, frost spilling from his skin, his cloak torn. A gash streaked across his forehead, dark blood freezing against his temple. He fixed his hollow gaze on her.

"Clever," he murmured. His voice was lower, edged with something dangerous. "But not enough."

Ice formed again, rising like a wave—

Elizabeth yanked downward, not at him, but at the floor beneath his feet.

A deafening crack split through the room.

The ground caved in.

The Headless Cross barely had time to react before the weakened boards splintered apart. His body dropped, swallowed by the collapsing floor.

The last thing Elizabeth saw was his wide, frozen stare before he vanished into the darkness below.

The crash echoed, wood snapping, ice shattering. Then… silence.

Elizabeth exhaled slowly, blood trickling from her lip. Her breath steadied. Her hands ached.

One battle down. But the war was far from over.