Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

A radiant key hung suspended in a bed of mist, casting a soft, golden light that pierced every facet of the void. 

Around it, three pale white snakes interlocked, held on a delicate web of fine strings. Each moved in slow, deliberate loops, weaving a seamless, never-ending braid.

The star-laden darkness pressed against the light, pulsating inward, a silent, creeping threat that edged into the scene before the vision faded into nothingness.

***

Chapter 1: The Key’s Reasonable Developments

A hiss—sharp and jagged—ripped through the air, echoing off unseen walls, bouncing off his skull. The sound warped, shifting direction like a group of snaking insects too hard to follow.

No. It wasn’t the wind. It couldn’t be. After all, I can’t feel anything. There’s no—there’s nothing?

Where am I?

The space, if it even was a space, felt fluid, bending and stretching with every pulse of sound. He was there, but not there.

The walls hummed with an alien vibration, scratching at his consciousness, pulling him in a thousand directions.

In this nothingness grew a faint smell—a mossy, damp vicious scent, like a decomposing something forgotten deep in the earth. The scent twisted, fleeting, before vanishing, exchanged with a new noise.

“☼⌘☽ ☿✠✪☿♂ ☻☿✬ ✶✾♀ ☂♂ ✢⧫”

The voices came, sharp and biting, male and female, their words so strange, so distant. They tumbled over each other, slithering through the air.

They didn’t make sense. They couldn’t make sense. They rattled through his head, as a thousand broken, scattered thoughts crashed into him.

“Ͽϻϼϻ϶Ͽϻ, ϿϟϾϙϠ, ϡϞϽϛ”

The woman’s voice was louder now, strained, reaching across an unseen chasm.

The air thickened with her desperation, but he couldn’t move, couldn’t speak. There was no feeling—no hands, no body. Just noise.

The wind had stopped. No, not stopped. It was distant now, a whisper, far behind the chanting.

And then—a string, high-pitched, thin. A single note plucked from nowhere, cutting through the air like a sharp blade. It rang out, filling the space, shredding it, pulling at the edges of his mind.

A moment passed in the infinity of the present.

From the right, a low grunt escaped the man— not from his mouth, but from his chest. 

With this noise the woman's voice ceased, leaving an empty silence behind.

A cloth fell in their place, soft and muted, landing on the dampened ground.

A thud broke the stillness—a lute crashing to the ground, its echo swallowing everything else. All the noise, all the sound, was absorbed by the sharp clang.

Another second passed.

The air shifted. The mossy scent, once faint, became stronger. Now, it was real—almost choking, but a comfort in the mystery of the present.

A golden light flooded his vision. Bright, almost blinding, yet it didn’t hurt.

It filled his mind, blocking out everything—thought, emotion, sense—until the presence slowly receded. But it lingered as a blur, solely nesting in his eyes.

The golden light flickered and faded. His vision cleared, but it was still blurry. The world was dark, almost pitch black. 

Then, an oval patch of white and bluish light appeared in the center of his vision. It wasn’t solid. It seemed to be a door, something finally tangible, glowing faintly. Beyond it, there were vague colors, a mix of aqua and white, swirling together, stretching out into something he couldn’t grasp. 

Despite just gaining the ability to see, the space felt emptier than before. The woman was gone from the left. 

The man groaned from the right, straining as if fighting something within. His breath ragged, he collapsed to the ground. 

As he fell, it wasn’t the sound of a person hitting the floor. It was more a stick rattling against the earth.

The golden light flickered, fully fading, and his vision began to clear. It was blurry at first, but soon it sharpened, revealing a rough, gray surface beneath him—stone, cracked and weathered, like an ancient altar.

His gaze traveled down his body, and he froze. It was… wrong. 

His body—whatever it is —was a crude imitation of flesh, a strange mix of meat, mud, and creeping vines. Tendrils of moss made up his arms, pulsing as if alive. Parts of him were thick with decaying leaves, half-submerged in filthy, glistening muck.

In a mixture of fascination and horror, he watched as his body began to change. Pale, thin flesh twisted over the rough patches, forming muscles, bone. Bit by bit, the numbness faded, replaced by a prickly warmth, and his body slowly became his own.

He felt alive again, though weak—as though born anew from the earth.

The mossy scent lingered, now merging with a faint metallic tang that clung to the back of his throat.

He sat up, his legs still dangling from the stone altar, and glanced down. The vines and fleshy mass that had made up his legs were now slowly transforming into human limbs. Flesh and skin knitted over rough textures. It felt foreign, but finally real.

The dirt and stone floor stretched before him, damp and cold, silent except for the faint breeze and his own shallow, frightened breathing.

His eyes moved to the left and right, where the two chanting figures had once stood. Now, in the woman's place, a bundle of graceful clothing lay—delicate, finely made, untouched by grime. 

The fabric was soft and flowing, an odd contrast to the grim surroundings. 

Above them, discarded and broken, was a shattered lyre, the strings scattered like a cheap shirt's loose threads. 

To the right, in stark contrast, lay a pile of ragged ‘clothes’, rough and faded, with a simple, sturdy staff placed beside it. The staff was worn, its wood weathered, laying there abandoned.

He stood, feeling the weight of his body. The cool stone beneath his feet grounded him. For a moment, he felt a fleeting sense of peace—until he realized he was standing there, completely nude.

His eyes flicked to the clothes lying nearby. The woman's garments were delicate and graceful, but something about them felt wrong to him. He couldn't bring himself to wear them. 

Instead, his gaze shifted to the rags and sandals on the right, their tattered appearance a stark contrast. They looked worn and imperfect, but they were something he could understand. 

He hesitated, caught in a brief internal battle. The fine clothes were tempting, but they belonged to a world he wasn’t ready to step into. 

Meanwhile, the rags, far from perfect, felt more like a choice he could make on his own terms. 

After a moment, he moved toward the rags, picking them up.

Once dressed, he sat back down on the stone slab, his mind racing. His body felt so real, yet so alien. The transformation, the strange moss, the decaying earth—it all felt like a dream, but it wasn’t.

He touched his arm, feeling the smooth, solid skin beneath his fingers. It was real—nothing out of place.

A shiver ran through him, not from the cold, but from surprise. The body he now inhabited—it was his, yet somehow not. It felt both familiar and utterly foreign.

He ran his fingers over his hands and arms, confirming the normality of the skin beneath his touch. Nothing strange. Just flesh. Just him.

The world around him was quiet now. For the first time, a strange peace washed over him, though it was distant, unsettled.

Who even am I?

A strange question but no weirder than the circumstances he had found himself in. 

He searched inward, feeling for a name.

Asher Jewel

Chapter Text

“. . .”

“Yelling curses into the uncaring void hasn’t done anything. Now what?”

Asher’s frustration hung in the air, his voice swallowed by the vast silence that enveloped him. He stood motionless, staring at the dark cave wall, unsure where to turn next. He exhaled sharply, buzzing his lips in frustration, the sound faintly vibrating through the stillness. 

There's a doorway in front of me, but it's at least -10° C. I’ll freeze out there. But staying in here isn’t much of an option either…

Do I go while the sun’s shining, while the winds are calm? Maybe if I—

A rustle broke the quiet—soft at first, but growing louder. Asher’s heart skipped a beat. His gaze darted to the source of the sound.

From the folds of the woman’s clothing, a snake emerged. Its pale scales shimmered faintly in the dim light, and its amber, unblinking eyes fixed on him.

He froze, a chill creeping up his spine. The creature studied him for a long moment, its flickering tongue tasting the air between them.

His breath caught in his throat. 

“W-What the—?”

Before he could finish the thought, instinct kicked in.

He scrambled back, feet stumbling over the stone floor. His heart pounded, pumping adrenaline through his veins. His hand shot out, desperate for something to defend himself with.

It doesn’t matter if it’s the size of a ruler—it’s a snake, a probably venomous one. There’s no hospital or antidote for miles.

His fingers found the stick nearby. As soon as his grip tightened, a rush of unnatural strength surged through his arm. The weight of the stick, once insignificant, now felt solid, almost empowering.

With a shaky breath, he lunged forward, jabbing at the snake with frantic, distant, panicked swings. His aim was off—way off. The stick flailed through the air, missing every time.

The snake hissed, looking confused as it reared its head back slightly, holding its ground. It seemed to linger, its slit eyes locked on Asher's with an irregular intensity.

It appeared to be in a trance the way it stared at him, its body unmoving as if it were mesmerized, enraptured even, by the connection between their gazes. Asher’s heart raced as he stared back, unsure whether to take this as a threat or something else entirely.

Taking this as a chance, he swung again, this time catching the snake’s side. It crashed into the wall with a sickening thud.

The creature slithered once, twice, then lay still, crumpled against the rock. Asher stood, chest heaving, staring at the lifeless form. The adrenaline drained from his body, leaving a shaky, confused feeling in its wake.

 His hands were still trembling, but his mind was starting to clear.

“That… wasn’t me,” he muttered, staring at the stick in his hand. He ran his fingers over its rugged surface, trying to understand the sudden surge of strength.

His eyes flicked to the woman’s abandoned clothing and the dead snake at his feet. The cave was quieter now, the air less tense.

He exhaled slowly, his breath steadying. The snake had been a threat—but now, it was gone. And in that moment, he had been capable of more than he thought possible.

Taking a deep breath, he considered his next move. He needed to get to civilization. 

I’ve got some heat from that exercise and a feeling the weather’s gonna turn worse tonight.

“No time like the present… not that I have a choice.”

After grabbing some of the other clothing to cover his ragged attire, Asher hesitated. The clothes were a mix of mismatched styles, but they were warmer than what he’d been wearing.

He stepped out through the entrance of the surprisingly well-insulated cave, his breath misting in the cold air. 

As he stepped into the snow-covered landscape, something struck him. The tracks leading into the cave had faded past a few feet, as if they had never been there at all. There were no footprints coming out of the cave either. 

He shook off the strange thought and marveled at the frozen beauty around him. 

Just down a small hill, a dense coniferous forest stretched beyond sight. The towering mountains loomed in the distance, and a river, frozen in parts, wound its way half a mile away. 

In that instant a vague recollection of survival knowledge surfaced. 

Downstream, rivers usually lead to larger bodies of water—and quite possibly settlements.

Making up his mind he made his way toward the river, the rough sandals strapped to his feet skimming over the snow. 

Each step took effort. The makeshift sandals, little more than wooden frames with string webs, weren’t designed for comfort. They worked, though, keeping him from touching and sinking into the snow, even if they didn’t offer much for traction.

He took a step, his weight shifting too far forward. The frame snagged on a buried root. Pain shot through his ankle as he stumbled, barely catching himself on the weight of the weathered staff.

“These things are a menace.”

Whatever these tennis racket-shoes were, atleast they worked.

Glancing back, he saw the shallow tracks he’d left behind—wide and odd-looking, but far better than the deep trenches his bare feet would’ve left in the snow.

The river sparkled in the distance, its icy surface glistening under the sun. It was a reminder of hope, a glimpse into possibility, even as the cold seemed determined to slow him down. 

***

Asher finally reached the edge of the river, squatting down to peer into the reflection. The ice was so clear it looked like glass. His breath fogged the air as he gazed at the pristine surface.

When he saw his own eyes, he froze.

Amber.

Not the blue he’d known, but amber. The shift in his appearance was jarring. His reflection, however, seemed more… focused. His features were still sharp, but there was something undeniably mystical in his gaze.

His skin, though cold and weathered, still looked decent, as though his body had adapted to the harsh environment.

He lingered, staring at the river’s clarity and the unfamiliar amber eyes. It should have shocked him, but after everything else, it barely fazed him. 

His determination was stronger than any surprise.

Looking downriver, the terrain grew steeper, and the snow thickened. The trees were denser, the landscape less hospitable.

The cold gnawed at his skin. Each breath felt like inhaling shards of ice. The wind whipped mercilessly, cutting through his thin clothes.

His limbs began to feel numb, his extremities lost to the freezing air. Each step was harder than the last.

It was a battle against the frost. Every motion felt slower, heavier. His face twisted in a grimace. The cold pressed in, relentless.

But then, in the distance, something glimmered—a thin wisp of smoke rising from the snow. It was faint, barely visible, but to Asher, it was everything. A promise of warmth. Of shelter.

His body moved instinctively, each step fueled by the thought of that smoke. His weight shifted forward as each step became lighter, hope lifting him. For a moment, it felt like he was gliding over the snow, weightless and free, focused only on the smoke.

For a brief instant, it was euphoric. The ground blurred beneath him, and it felt like he was floating, no longer tethered by the weight of the world.

Then, a sharp snap.

The ground disappeared from beneath him. Before he could react, he was yanked upward, the rope biting into his ankles. His blood rushed to his head as his world turned upside down. 

His body swayed slightly, suspended in mid-air, the tension of the rope holding him like a trapped animal.

The smoke seemed impossibly far now.

A calm biting wind engulfed him, accompanied by the creaking of the rope and his ragged breath.

Then, heavy footsteps—slow, deliberate.

Someone’s approaching!

Asher’s heart skipped. His head twisted, trying to see through the haze of snow.

Chapter Text

His body swung, the rope twisting with his frantic movement. Slowly, his vision sharpened.

And then he saw it—crystal clear, like a scene rendered in 4k.

A brown bear stood before him, massive and curious. Her dark eyes studied him intently. Two cubs trailed close behind, their small forms dwarfed by their mother. The bear’s head tilted slightly, as if trying to make sense of the strange creature hanging above her.

The bear sniffed curiously at him, its large snout twitching as it examined the strange, swaying figure above.

“G-Good bear?” Asher said weakly, his voice trembling.

The bear stared with indifferent eyes, then rose onto its hind legs. It stretched upward, sharp claws glinting as it swiped at him.

Asher flinched, his heart racing. The claws missed by at least a meter, but the sheer size of the bear made the gap feel much smaller.

Bears don't like loud noises. This has gotta make it leave!

“BAD BEAR!”

The bear, undeterred, dropped back down, only to lunge again. Its massive body leapt upward, coming closer each time.

With this it dawned on him:

The only reason it would stay this determined is if I'm its next meal...

Asher flailed in the rope, his movements frantic and uncoordinated. The swaying became erratic, his fear adding to the chaotic motion.

The cubs, still at a safe distance, sat on their haunches, watching the scene unfold with wide, curious eyes.

“Bad bear! Bad bear!”

The mother bear continued her attempts, undeterred by his protests, each leap making the rope creak ominously. Her cubs remained still, captivated by the strange, swaying man and their mother’s determined antics.

The mother bear plopped down onto the snow with a huff, her massive body settling in a mound of fur. Her head tilted as if thinking, her eyes meeting Asher’s upside-down gaze. 

For a moment, there was an unsettling calm.

The swaying motion of his body slowed, the creak of the rope blending with his ragged breaths.

Was it black bears you fight or brown ones? 

How is anyone expected to fight this thing?!

Asher blinked hard, his vision starting to blur. The pressure in his head was building, and the pounding ache behind his eyes was impossible to ignore. 

A faint throbbing buzzed in his ears, and his face felt hot and swollen, despite the icy wind biting at his skin.

“Please just stay down there.” he muttered through shallow breaths, his voice strained.

The bear didn’t oblige.

Its gaze sharpened, with a faint intelligence, before it strode toward the tree holding the rope. 

The bear leaned against the tree, scratching its back with slow, deliberate movements. 

At first, it seemed innocent—just a bear getting an itch. But with each rub, the trunk shuddered, and the rope jerked slightly.

Asher rocked back and forth, his head spinning. His arms flailed instinctively, trying to steady himself against the pull of gravity. 

He could feel the blood rush to his head now, dizziness intensifying. His vision clouded over, dark spots dancing in his sight, bursts of color flashing like a chaotic kaleidoscope.

The bear let out a low rumble, rubbing harder, mocking him. Each movement sent vibrations through the tree, the rope creaking ominously.

“Bad bear! Very bad bear!” Asher shouted weakly, the words sounding pitiful even to himself. 

His leg ached from the rope’s grip, tingling crawling up his calf, his foot feeling numb and icy.

His fingers twitched in search of something to grasp, but there was nothing.

His head throbbed harder, vision dimming at the edges. The bear scratched one last time before getting on all fours, nodding its head as if admiring its work.

Asher groaned, swaying helplessly against the snow-covered backdrop. He slapped his forehead with his right hand, trying to clear the dizziness.

Then, his vision spiraled again. The familiar tangle of colors blurred before his eyes—reds spilled across the snow below him, vibrant like liquid fire, stretching out and mixing in the air.

They bled into streaks of deep blue and black that twisted through the trees like oil on water.

The whole scene shifted as if caught in a whirlpool, and Asher felt as though he was drowning in a vivid, overwhelming tide of vibrant colors.

Yet his attention snapped to his hands. 

The strange, glowing greenish-aqua hue seemed to rush toward his fingertips, pooling unnaturally beneath his skin.

It was like seeing the blood inside his body, the fluid pushing toward the tips of his fingers with an intensity that made him feel as if his very veins were on fire.

He blinked hard, confusion and fear washing over him.

No way…

He realized it couldn’t be something external. It was the blood in his body, rushing with the dizzying pressure to his brain, distorting his perception.

It must have been an illusion, a trick of the blood pressure. But it was so vivid, too real, too strange to ignore.

What… what… the hell.

Focus. Don’t lose it now.

With a forceful jerk, he tore his gaze away from his glowing hands. Slapping his head again, causing the colors to slowly fade.

The vibrant reds of the snow dulled, settling into a pale, almost ghostly white. The deep blues of the trees lost their surreal depth, becoming a simple and solid brown once more. 

His vision, though still rattled, returned to a muted clarity.

The bear was still watching, its head looking on in mild curiosity, while the cubs pawed at the snow beneath him, eyes fixed on their next meal.

Asher’s limbs began to tingle, a cold numbness creeping upward from his extremities. First his toes, then his legs, and now his arms felt distant, as though they were no longer part of his body. Panic surged through him as the weight of his predicament hit harder than ever.

He twisted and flailed, desperate to shake off the creeping sensation, to force circulation back into his failing limbs. But the motion made him sway dangerously. His foot, swollen and raw from the rope’s relentless grip, began to slide ever so slightly through the knot.

Asher froze, his heart pounding in his chest. The realization clawed at his mind—he was slipping.

“No, no, no!” he gasped, his voice cracking. Desperation overwhelmed him as he threw back his head and screamed into the biting cold, his throat straining against the frost.

“HELP! SOMEBODY, HELP ME!”

The sudden noise startled the bears below. The cubs flinched and stumbled backward into the snow, their wide eyes filled with an instinctual wariness. 

The mother, however, reacted with irritation. She reared her head, letting out a loud, guttural growl before thrashing her massive body against the tree trunk once more.

The vibrations were violent. Each jarring impact sent a sharp tremor up the tree, loosening the frayed tension in the rope. Asher felt his foot slipping further, the coarse knot unable to hold against the weight of his body and the strain of his struggling.

“Stop!”

But the bear’s irritation only grew. It slammed its broad shoulder into the tree one last time, and with a sickening lurch, the knot gave way.

Asher plummeted toward the snow below, his fall broken by the freezing, powdery surface. The impact sent a shockwave through his body, knocking the wind out of him.

For a moment, he lay there, stunned, his chest heaving as he gulped down the icy air.

Asher barely had time to process the freezing impact before the bear, seemingly emboldened by his fall, reared onto its hind legs. The creature’s roar tore through the cold air, primal and deafening. 

He flinched, curling into himself as the shadow of the massive beast loomed closer.

It lunged.

Every muscle in Asher’s body screamed in protest as he braced for the end, his arms instinctively shielding his face. Time seemed to slow, the rush of blood pounding in his ears drowning out the world.

But… nothing happened.

Instead of teeth or claws, he heard a guttural grunt—human, not animal—followed by a strange, muffled struggle right in front of him. Slowly, hesitantly, he cracked an eye open.

The sight that greeted him was as surreal as the colors that had filled his vision earlier. 

The bear, in all its hulking fury, was lifted off the ground. Its legs flailed comically in the air, its roar cutting off in a startled growl. 

Two powerful arms were wrapped tightly around its midsection. With a tremendous effort, the unseen figure twisted, slamming the beast backward in an impossibly clean suplex.

The bear landed with a dull thud in the snow, legs sprawled out awkwardly, its ferocity replaced by a dazed and bewildered expression. For a creature that moments ago was the embodiment of primal terror, it now looked utterly ridiculous, flopped over like a giant, furry toddler in mid-tantrum.

Asher blinked, his mind struggling to process the absurdity of what he'd just witnessed. 

Who—or what—had just turned that death sentence into a circus act?

Chapter Text

Asher lay in the snow, his breath shallow, eyes barely open as he tried to make sense of the absurdity before him. 

The bear, once terrifying, was now sprawled on the ground, legs flailing comically, its ferocity gone.

“Well, ain’t that something.”

The sharp voice jolted him from his daze.

Asher turned his head sluggishly, catching sight of a craggy old woman standing over him. Her silver hair was in a wild curled bob, and she was wrapped in layers of furs.

Her piercing red eyes met his, her expression a mix of exasperation and irritation. 

“Well, well. A perfectly good bear trap ruined by some idiot who can’t hang onto a rope.” She shook her head with a deep sigh.

“What the hell were you thinking, boy? There’s no faster way to get yourself eaten than wandering this forest during migration season.”

Asher opened his mouth to respond, his voice strained. “I—I was just... I didn’t—”

“Street urchin,” she interrupted sharply, cutting him off with a knowing glance. “Looking for a silver mine to turn your luck around, am I right?”

“I—no, I...” he stammered, blinking as his thoughts struggled to keep up.

“Forget it.” She waved a hand dismissively, her tone sharp. “There’s no mine worth the trouble around here. It’s all just rumors and lies. You’re better off starving than chasing that fool’s errand.”

With a huff, she turned her attention to the still-dazed bear, its legs twitching like a bug on its back. With a heavy sigh, she lifted her boot and gave the beast a firm kick to its side.

The bear let out a startled grunt, scrambling to its feet and stumbling backward. With one last disgruntled growl, it turned and lumbered into the trees, retreating with surprising speed for its size.

Asher’s heart pounded, the tension that gripped him slowly easing as the bear disappeared into the woods. 

Relief washed over him, but it came too fast and too strong. His limbs went heavy, his vision blurred, and his breath evened.

“Badheil bless me...” the woman muttered under her breath, her tone a mixture of annoyance and disbelief.

Before Asher could make sense of her words—or even the fact that he was now safe—his vision spiraled into darkness.

***

The sharp click of polished shoes echoed down the wooden corridor.

A tall butler, his uniform crisp and immaculate, led a young man through the halls.

The young man’s blonde hair was combed to perfection, each strand aligned with almost military precision. Not a single one was out of place, glinting faintly under the warm light. 

He carried himself with the kind of fastidious care that suggested appearances mattered far more than the world around him.

His eyes scanned the high walls, lingering briefly on grand paintings and the soft glow of ornate gas lamps.

The butler’s pace was steady, his steps deliberate as he guided his charge toward a large office at the end of the hall.

Inside, a man sat behind a cluttered desk. His disheveled red hair matched the exhaustion in his bloodshot eyes. Books and papers were scattered across the surface, many half-open, some spilling onto the floor. A forgotten cup of cold tea sat at his elbow.

The butler knocked briskly before stepping inside. “Sir, your guest is here.”

The red-haired man blinked as he looked up, fatigue momentarily replaced by sharp assessment. His eyes landed on the blonde, who greeted him with a smug smile.

“You know how hard it is keeping your little mess under wraps.”

The blonde smirked, straightening his posture with deliberate pride. “I imagine it hasn’t been easy. But not impossible, right?”

The red-haired man sighed, his voice heavy with irritation. “Don’t twist this. You made the mess. I’m just cleaning it up.”

A cold chuckle escaped the blonde, his amusement evident. “Fair enough. But everyone has their secrets—things that could be... inconvenient if exposed.”

The red-haired man stilled, his sharp gaze narrowing. He refused to rise to the bait.

“What do you want?”

The blonde leaned forward slightly, his tone calm but insistent. “Feysac and Loen’s personal accounts of the Konotop Sea battle—and the discrepancies in the reports. Also, insight into the next sequence of Hunter.”

The red-haired man leaned back, rubbing his neck. “The Konotop reports? What’s so important about that?”

“You’re telling me you haven’t noticed the discrepancies?”

“The story doesn’t add up—especially with the involvement of ‘that’ organization.”

The red-haired man pressed his fingers to his temples, his frustration mounting. “The upper echelon of the church is falling apart, and you’re asking me about a naval battle?”

“You’re in the know,” the blonde pressed. “You’ve seen the chaos. The church is one thing, but this goes far beyond us.”

The red-haired man glared at him. “And why would I help you with that?”

“Because you owe me,” the blonde replied smoothly. “And because you know what’s coming. The chaos at the top won’t stay there forever.”

A tense silence stretched between them before the red-haired man exhaled sharply. “Fine. I’ll look into it.”

The blonde’s lips curled into a sneer. “You’d better.”

The air between them grew thick with tension, but it only deepened when the blonde added with a glint of malice, “How’s your sister been lately?”

The red-haired man’s eyes darkened, a flicker of anger flashing across his face. 

"You’re walking a very fine line." 

His voice was icy, filled with menace. 

"I’ll count to three. By the time I get to three, you’d better be out of my office."

With that, the red-haired man deliberately rose from his chair, his stance shifting as he leaned over the table, palms flat against the surface. His voice dropped, a low, controlled growl. 

"One."

The blonde didn’t react, his gaze firmly on the red-haired man.

"Two." 

The red-haired man’s voice was tight, each word laced with impatience. He stood there, unwavering, watching the blonde with a gaze that demanded compliance.

The blonde's face hardened, his lips curling in disdain. With a sharp motion, he turned and stormed out of the room, slamming the door behind him with a force that rattled the ornate paintings.

The red-haired man exhaled, his fists still clenched. He sank back into his chair, the tension in the room dissipating. 

Reaching for his cold, bitter tea, he took a long sip, the drink doing little to settle his nerves. His gaze drifted toward the window, the last traces of daylight fading into dusk.

"I’m sorry, sister."

Chapter Text

Asher woke with a jolt, his body jerking upright as he inhaled sharply, chest rising and falling with panic.

His heart raced, adrenaline still coursing through his veins, despite the bear’s absence. Cold sweat clung to his skin, and the remnants of his terror lingered in his thoughts.

For a moment, the world around him was a blur—dim, unfamiliar shadows cast by a flickering fire. 

His limbs ached, as though he'd been dragged through the forest and beaten by the cold.

He looked down. Blankets were wrapped around him, the warmth from the fire on one side staving off the chill that lingered in his bones.

As his senses returned, the room came into sharper focus. The cabin was cluttered with all manner of gear—knives, bows, traps of various designs, and makeshift tools scattered haphazardly across the room.

It wasn’t the kind of disorder you might expect in a homey cabin; this was a space built for survival, not comfort.

Weaponry leaned against the walls, hung on pegs, and the floor was littered with crude traps—some finely crafted, others abandoned mid-assembly.

The scent of pine wafted from the left, sharp and fresh, mingling with the faint tang of metal.

His throat burned, dry and raw, and his body ached as though it had been pulled apart and stitched back together.

He let out a soft groan and turned his head, eyes landing on a low table beside him. There, perched precariously on the edge, sat a wooden mug. Steam rose in delicate swirls, and he could smell the bitter tang of tea.

His hand trembled slightly as he reached for it, his movements slow and stiff, but driven by desperation. The sharp scent of pine seemed to draw him toward it. He grabbed the mug, lifting it to his lips. The hot liquid burned down his throat—harsh but soothing, quieting the dryness that had settled there.

What the hell just happened? It all felt like some kind of nightmare that bled into reality.

The transformation—how the hell did that happen?

My body shifting, vines and moss crawling over me, taking root in my skin.

The bear—that goddamn bear—lunging at me like I was its next meal. I’d barely been able to react, caught in that trap, and then everything went south so fast.

And then there was the woman. What was her name?

She showed up out of nowhere, like she'd been watching the whole damn thing unfold.

I’d barely had time to process anything before she was kicking the bear away like it was just an inconvenience, like I wasn’t seconds away from being torn apart.

The whole thing was surreal, just... jumbled.

A creak from the front door suddenly cut through his thoughts.

The sound of heavy boots scraping against the floor echoed through the cabin as the door slowly creaked open, letting in a gust of cold air. The warmth from the fire flickered, fighting back the chill that seeped through the gap.

The woman stepped inside, closing the door behind her with a soft thud. Without hesitation, she threw her heavy coat haphazardly onto the floor. It landed in a heap by the door, the thick fabric crumpled into an unceremonious pile.

Then, with a fluid grace that seemed at odds with the disarray around her, she maneuvered through the cabin. Her boots clicked against the wooden floor as she navigated the scattered traps and weaponry, stepping nimbly over sharp edges and crooked designs, moving with the ease of someone who had done this countless times before.

Her gaze was fixed on Asher now, sharp eyes calculating as she made her way toward him, purposeful and unfazed by the chaos surrounding them.

Asher’s confusion deepened as the woman spoke again. The words spilled from her lips in a string of garbled sounds, completely unintelligible to him.

“ϸϷϻϴϺϮ, ϹϼϿϽϯMϡϝ,” she said, her tone soft but firm.

He stared at her blankly, struggling to make sense of what she was saying. His mind couldn’t process the jumbled sounds.

“What... what are you saying?” he muttered, his voice hoarse. “I don’t... I can’t understand.”

The woman seemed to notice his confusion, and without missing a beat, she reached into her pocket. Her fingers fumbled briefly before she pulled out a small feather. It was strange—its colors shimmering in iridescent shades, like the oily rainbow sheen of gasoline in sunlight. The color shifted subtly, reflecting light in odd ways, like it didn’t belong in this world.

She placed the feather gently to her ear, and her lips parted again, repeating the same string of gibberish.

“Are you okay?”

This time, however, something in the air seemed to shift. Asher’s mind registered the meaning of her words, even though he still couldn’t grasp the language itself. It was as if the words weren’t just sounds—they were feelings , direct and clear, cutting through the noise and confusion.

He blinked, caught off guard. “Wait... I... I can hear you. I don’t get the words, but... I understand. How?”

The woman’s lips curled into a small, almost amused smile, but she didn’t explain. Instead, she spoke again, and Asher felt the same strange understanding wash over him, even as the words remained incomprehensible. It was like the language bypassed the need for translation, speaking straight to his mind.

“It’s magic, just leave it at that,” she said with a hint of sharpness. “And because of that, if you tell anyone about this... a bear will be the least of your worries.”

Asher blinked, the weight of her words sinking in. The unsettling magic, the strange feather... He swallowed hard, meekly nodding in agreement.

“Alright,” he said, his voice a little shakier than he intended.

“After seeing you dispatch that bear, I’d have to be a fool to dare do that.”

The woman gave a slight nod, satisfied with his response. She then eyed him curiously, as if taking in something else about him.

“By the way, what language are you speaking?” she asked, her tone surprisingly casual.

“Uh... English,” Asher replied, his brow furrowing in confusion. “You... you don’t understand it?”

She shook her head, the frown deepening. “Never even heard of it.”

“Then... what are you speaking?” Asher asked, his curiosity piqued despite everything.

“This?” she said with a shrug, her gaze drifting as if the answer were obvious. “This is Feysac.”

Asher’s mind raced, but he pushed forward with the next question, his voice laced with disbelief. “Where... where am I then?”

She scoffed, rolling her eyes as though his question were one of the most obvious things in the world. “The Feysac Empire, of course. In the small town of Kyrmsk.”

“A logging town,”

She continued, her tone suddenly pitch-perfect, as if delivering a grand speech, “with the finest timber in the world. Do you have any idea the quality of wood we harvest here? The straightest, strongest pine, untouched by the blight of time. We produce timber that can withstand anything, no cracking, no splitting, just pure, dense material—perfect for construction, crafting, the finest shipbuilding. You’ll find no better wood anywhere else, no matter how far you go.”

She leaned forward, her intensity now bordering on the obsessive. “It's not just wood, you understand. It's a cornerstone of this empire, a part of what keeps everything standing, a part of the soul of Kyrmsk itself!”

Asher stared blankly, slightly taken aback by the unexpected fervor in her voice.

 He hadn't anticipated a lecture on timber, especially not one delivered with such passion, as if the timber itself were a sacred artifact.

She paused for a beat, then blinked, her sudden intensity faltering as if she only just realized she’d gone off-track. “…Anyway, that’s the town. Kyrmsk. Logging. Best timber. You get it.”

Asher, still trying to process the abrupt shift, gave a small, cautious nod. “Yeah, I... I get it.”

She awkwardly placed a hand on her neck, as if unsure what to do with it, and glanced out the window with a look that seemed distant, lost in thought for a moment.

"Anyway," she muttered, shaking her head slightly, "you’ll want to get comfortable. You’ll be living here for a while."

Asher blinked, confusion washing over him.

"Living here? Why?"

She straightened up, her eyes narrowing slightly as she looked at him with that same intense, no-nonsense gaze.

"I follow a code.”

Asher blinked, absorbing the weight of her words. There was a quiet certainty in her tone, like this code was something sacred, something she would never compromise on.

"One should never go halfway in helping someone," she continued, her eyes scanning the room, "because it’s disrespectful to both yourself and the one your helping.”

“If I’m going to help someone, I’ll do it properly. And that means I’ll help you until you’re back on your feet, until you can stand on your own."

He looked at her, his mind still foggy from everything that had happened. Too drained to argue, he simply nodded.

"Okay... I guess that makes sense."

She gave him a sharp nod in return.

"Good. Now, stop looking so lost. You’ll be here a while, so take your time getting adjusted."

Asher stayed silent, his thoughts still swirling like the smoke rising from the fire. His body ached, his mind was a blur, but somehow, the woman’s presence, her words, seemed to ground him in a way he couldn’t quite explain.

His gaze drifted around the room again, his eyes falling on the knives against the walls, the traps scattered across the floor. The chaotic disorder of the cabin, the raw tools of survival, struck him in an unexpected way—almost comforting.

"Yeah," he muttered quietly, more to himself than anyone else. "I’ll get comfortable."

It wasn’t much, but in a place that felt so alien, it was a nice feeling to hold onto.

Chapter Text

Asher’s eyes fluttered open, and this time, there was no panic, no terror. His body felt lighter, more rested, the dull ache now a faint hum in the background of morning clarity. 

He stretched under the blankets, enjoying the warmth from the crackling fire. The pain was gone, replaced by an unfamiliar vitality.

A rhythmic thump from outside caught his attention, drawing him towards the front window. Each impact, heavy and deliberate, was followed by a brief pause before another powerful strike.

Curiosity piqued, Asher pushed himself up, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. He moved carefully through the cabin, avoiding the clutter of weapons, traps, and hunting gear. The space felt like a battlefield, with sharp edges and snares scattered across the floor.

He clung to the walls as he moved, careful not to disturb the tangled ropes or the set of daggers on the table. Every step was calculated, his hand brushing against the rough wood for balance.

Reaching the window, he peered outside and saw Samantha Grubs, her weathered hands gripping an axe. With each swing, she split logs with a sharp, decisive thud. Her movements were strong, fluid—surprisingly spry for her age.

Asher stared, amazed. “How does she do that?” he murmured. “She’s… spryer than I feel.”

His gaze lingered on her a moment longer before a thought struck him. 

That strength reminds me of that stick from the cave. 

Did I end up dropping it when caught in that trap?

His eyes were drawn to the foot of the bed, where the stick lay waiting, perfectly placed.

"Ah, my beloved," he muttered, a mix of joy and longing in his voice. "How I’ve missed you."

Just then, the door by the window creaked open, and Asher jolted in surprise. In his fluster, he nudged a rope, setting off a loud clink as a bear trap snapped shut in the middle of the room. 

His heart raced as he froze, realising his mistake.

“Oh…”

Samantha, unfazed, raised an eyebrow. “Nice reaction time,” she quipped. “Now, go grab a set of clothes by the fire. We’re heading into Krymsk. And do yourself a favor—get out of that mismatched disaster you’ve been wearing for two days.”

Feeling a mildly annoyed stare, Asher scrambled toward the fireplace, narrowly avoiding more traps. He snatched the clothes from where they hung, his movements awkward and clumsy. Samantha watched him, arms crossed, eyes sharp.

“You’d better hurry, I’ve got things to do and better places to be. Don’t make me regret saving you back there.” she said, closing the door.

After changing into the clothes by the fire, Asher glanced into the small, cracked mirror on the mantle, momentarily impressed with how dapper he looked—at least, compared to his previous mismatched outfit. 

Not forgetting the amazing stick, he used it as leverage to navigate around the traps scattered across the floor.

Finally making it past the maze of hazards, he glanced back at the large pile of discarded clothing near the door, mildly disgusted by the sight. He had no intention of staying in this mess much longer.

Stepping outside, he squinted against the daylight, and his eyes immediately fell on Samantha. 

She was kneeling beside a massive, pitch-black dog, petting its thick, absurdly fluffy fur with a contented expression. The dog’s fur was so voluminous that it was hard to make out its features—its eyes were completely covered, and it was slobbering incessantly, leaving a trail of drool across its owner's hand.

The dog resembled a Newfoundland, but its fur was so thick and exaggerated that it looked less like a dog and more like a massive, furry puffball. Asher blinked in surprise.

"Is that a dog, or a living storm cloud?" he asked, eyeing the creature.

“He’s Nimbus, and he’s your senior,” Samantha replied, grinning.

“My senior?”

Samantha chuckled as she scratched Nimbus behind the ears. The dog rolled onto his back, exposing his belly in a display of both affection and laziness. His fur fluffed out even more, making him resemble a cloud drifting in the breeze.

“Yeah, senior," she said with a smirk, glancing up at Asher. "Nimbus is about ten years old. He’s seen more than his fair share of hunts, and don’t let that fluffy exterior fool you—he’s as tough as they come. More than a few wolves have met an unfortunate end because of him."

She gave him a knowing look. "He’s already one-upped you on surviving wildlife. Plus, there’s some surprising wisdom in that furry head of his. You, on the other hand…”

Asher sighed, raising a dismissive gesture. "I get it already. Let’s just get going."

Asher’s sigh was barely out before Nimbus gave a loud, drawn-out whine, looking up at Samantha with what could almost be described as a reproachful gaze. 

The dog’s thick, drooping fur barely shifted, but his eyes—well, despite being hidden behind the mass of fluff—seemed to follow Samantha with a deeper intensity than Asher expected from any animal. It was as though Nimbus was silently pleading with her to stay, his gaze sharp, almost human-like, beneath the layers of fur.

Samantha gave a small chuckle, shaking her head. "Yeah, yeah. Don’t get all mopey on me, old guy. We’ll be back soon enough."

With one last pet on his thick head, she stood up, brushing off her knees, and motioned for Asher to follow. Nimbus let out one final soft whine before rolling back onto his belly, resigned to the fact that he wouldn’t be accompanying them.

The journey to Krymsk was a brisk one. The air was crisp and cold, the kind that nipped at the skin but didn't quite bite, characteristic of the lingering chill before the thaw of spring. 

Asher adjusted to his formal shoes with each step, careful not to trip on uneven ground, while Samantha moved ahead with ease, her boots crunching lightly over the glistening snow.

The landscape around them was dominated by the dense, towering conifers of the northern wilderness. Tall pine trees stretched toward the sky, their branches heavy with the remnants of melting snow, leaving pockets of slush around their bases. 

The occasional low-hanging branch scraped against Asher’s shoulder as he kept pace with Samantha, his attention split between the path ahead and the wilderness that surrounded them.

 The light filtering through the trees was soft, casting long shadows on the ground. Despite the frozen ground, there was a palpable sense of life waiting just beneath the surface—tiny buds on the trees, the smell of wet earth, the occasional scurry of unseen creatures.

As they walked, Asher noticed how effortlessly Samantha moved through the terrain, navigating the uneven path like she’d done it a thousand times before. 

He, on the other hand, was still adjusting to the feeling of his formal shoes, the stiff soles making each step feel awkward. His grip on the strength-enhancing stick was firm, the only reason he could keep up with the irregularly fit granny.

"This is the easy part," Samantha said with a sideways glance. "You get used to walking in this kind of cold. And trust me, you’ll learn to appreciate the warmth more once we’re in town."

Asher nodded but didn’t respond, focused on not falling above all else.

As they walked the last few paces toward the town’s edge, the outlines of the buildings became clearer. They were tall, well made structures, built to withstand the harsh northern winters, with few windows yet large doorways—practical, not comfortable nor pretty.

It wasn’t the kind of place that prided itself on aesthetics, but it exuded a quiet strength, much like Samantha.

By the time they reached the outskirts, Asher’s legs were starting to ache. The unfamiliar shoes weren’t making it easy to push forward, but he tried not to show it. 

He glanced at Samantha, who seemed unaffected by the long trek, her breath visible in the cold air. 

Asher tightened his grip on the stick, using it again to push through the discomfort in his legs. He wasn’t sure how he could’ve made it this far without its assistance.

"Almost there," Samantha said, her voice softer now as the town loomed closer.

The sun hung high in the sky, its rays bright and unfiltered, casting long, sharp shadows over the snow. 

The sky above was an uninterrupted expanse of pure blue, not a cloud in sight, creating a crisp, almost surreal stillness in the air. 

It was the peak of the day—when the sun held its highest position, offering warmth but not yet enough to melt the stubborn frost clinging to the ground.

Asher squinted against the sunlight, feeling the full weight of the cold and the effort it had taken to get this far. 

While the sky stretched above them, a vast, unblemished expanse, the town ahead grew closer, its promise of warmth drawing him ever closer.

Chapter Text

The carved out dirt path transitioned into the worn streets of Kyrmsk, where tall, practical buildings loomed above, their steep roofs shedding the remnants of snow. Despite its modest size, the town buzzed with life—woodcutters hefting freshly split logs with rhythmic thuds, their sweat glistening in the pale light. 

The sharp scent of pine and sawdust filled the air, mingling with the earthy aromas of fresh bread and the faint tang of animal hides being worked at nearby shops. 

Shopkeepers arranged their wares with practiced hands, their voices calling out to prospect customers. Occasionally, the sharp bark of a dog punctuated the sounds of the busy streets, adding to the lively chorus. 

The cobblestone streets were well-worn, the stones slick from melted snow and the foot traffic of the townsfolk.

Samantha strode ahead with confidence, her boots making a steady crunch on the frosty ground, and called out to a burly man stacking firewood near a shop front. 

"Luka! Still upset about me scaring your customers?"

The man straightened, his towering frame nearly eclipsing the pile of wood behind him. 

His beard, peppered with streaks of gray, twitched as he barked out a hearty laugh. 

The words that flowed from his mouth were a stream of foreign syllables that Asher couldn’t follow, but the warmth in his tone was unmistakable.

"Oh, come on," Samantha replied, smirking. She crossed her arms, her posture a mixture of defiance and humor. "They were spineless to begin with. I did them a favor, making sure they didn’t come back."

Luka responded with another booming laugh, shaking his head, his calloused hand sweeping toward a few logs set aside by the shop wall. 

"Yeah, yeah," Samantha said with a mock sigh, her voice tinged with affection for the man. "I’ll take a couple when I swing back." She gave him a light tap on the arm before leading Asher further into town, her pace steady and sure as if the street itself belonged to her.

They passed a few more stalls, each one bustling with activity—traders haggling, children chasing each other through the streets, and dogs darting in and out of the crowd. 

Asher couldn’t help but feel a little out of place, his eyes darting around, trying to take it all in. 

***

The butcher’s stall was next, where a stout woman with forearms strong enough to bend iron gave Samantha a sharp look from over her workbench. Asher couldn’t help but notice how the woman’s calloused hands moved with precision as she sliced through a slab of meat. Her eyes, sharp and calculating, flicked from Samantha to Asher, sizing them up.

"Don’t start," Samantha said, raising her hands in mock surrender, her voice light but laced with a familiar tension. "I’m just saying hi."

The butcher grunted something in response, her blue eyes narrowing. 

Asher noted the slight twitch of a smile, the woman’s lips barely lifting. There was history here, something beyond the casual banter they exchanged.

"Hey, you still owe me for that week I covered your shifts. Customers were still alive by the end of it, weren’t they?" Samantha quipped, crossing her arms with a hint of pride.

The butcher barked out a short laugh, shaking her head before muttering a retort, her tone half-scolding, half-amused. 

"Fine, fine. I’ll admit I came on a little strong," Samantha said, shrugging. The apology was casual, but the sincerity behind it was unmistakable. "Still don’t think it was my fault they couldn’t handle a bit of honesty."

The butcher snorted and waved them off, already returning to her work. Asher was left standing there for a moment, watching how easily Samantha navigated the town, almost like she was a part of its very bones.

***

As they moved deeper into Kyrmsk, the pattern repeated: Samantha’s animated conversations, her teasing jabs, and the responses Asher could only guess at through body language and context. 

A woodcutter wiped his brow and gestured broadly, his face breaking into a grin.

A passing shopkeeper waved with a knowing smirk, replying in the same foreign tongue. 

Asher felt like a ghost walking beside them, disconnected from the flow of life around him. He couldn’t understand the language, couldn’t fully follow the rapid-fire exchanges, but the warmth in the townspeople’s reactions was undeniable. 

Samantha had clearly left her mark on the town, even if it came with a few singed bridges.

"You really pissed off a lot of people here, didn’t you?" Asher asked, falling into step beside her.

"Nah," Samantha replied, a mischievous glint in her eye. "Just told people the truth they didn’t want to hear."

She nodded toward the steeple of a church that rose above the clustered rooftops, a towering structure that seemed to cast its shadow over the whole town. 

A triangle fitting three gears stoop atop its peak.

"Speaking of which, this little tour should’ve taught you the necessity of learning how to speak Feysac. How about taking some charity?"

"Charity?"

"Yeah," she said, jerking her thumb toward the triangle symbol where a cross would typically sit. 

"That church up there? They’re not just good at tinkering with gears and machines. They’ve got a knack for knocking some basics into thick skulls like yours."

Asher frowned, unsure whether to be offended or curious. "And they just do this out of the goodness of their hearts?"

"Something like that," Samantha replied, smirking. "Now, come on. I’d rather not waste the whole day waiting for you to stop gawking at the scenery."

With a resigned sigh, Asher followed her up the cobblestone incline, the looming church casting long shadows across their path. 

Chapter Text

The scent hit him first—a heavy, choking mix of coal dust and metal shavings, clinging to the air like an unwelcome guest.

The church's interior bore little resemblance to the serene sanctuaries Asher had known. Though rows of pews stretched toward a modest altar, they were dwarfed by the sprawl of workbenches and tools that filled the space. 

Pipes crisscrossed the walls and ceiling, occasionally hissing out small jets of steam. Gears and pulleys of various sizes turned lazily in the background, powered by a roaring furnace tucked into one corner. It was as if the church had been overtaken by an industrious madness, every surface dedicated to the worship of invention rather than divinity.

Asher hesitated in the doorway, overwhelmed by the organized chaos. “This... is a church?” he asked, glancing at Samantha.

“Don’t let the pews fool you,” she replied with a wry grin. “The Church of Steam and Machinery is more workshop than holy ground. Try not to touch anything unless you want to get yelled at—or worse.”

As if on cue, a loud clang echoed from somewhere in the workshop. 

A figure emerged from behind a towering contraption, wiping their hands on a grimy rag. It was a teenager, their wild, soot-streaked hair sticking out in all directions. A pair of filthy goggles sat crookedly on their face, so caked with grime that Asher wondered how they could see at all.

The teen paused when they saw Samantha, then broke into an animated grin. They barked something in Feysac that Asher couldn’t understand, their tone light and teasing.

Though the words were lost on him, the playful banter between them was clear enough.

Samantha gestured toward Asher, saying something that included the word tagalong .

Kaspar tilted their head toward him, their expression becoming curious behind the opaque lenses of their goggles. They muttered something else, their tone skeptical, before Samantha replied with a quick retort that earned a laugh.

“Care to share with the class?” Asher interjected, glancing between the two of them.

“Kaspar wants to know if you’re one of my ‘projects,’” Samantha said, smirking.

Asher raised an eyebrow. “Should I be insulted?”

She waved him off. “You’ll survive. Kaspar’s taking us to see Father Otto. Keep up, and try not to trip on anything.”

Kaspar gestured for them to follow and darted back into the maze of machinery, their movements quick and practiced. Samantha followed without hesitation, leaving Asher to stumble after them, doing his best to avoid the cluttered tools and precariously placed gears.

What kind of “Father” presided over a place like this?

Asher stepped into the dimly lit library, feeling the shift in atmosphere from the workshop outside. The faint smell of ink and old parchment mixed with the ever-present metallic tang of machinery. Shelves of books, some leaning precariously, lined the walls. 

At a desk near the back sat a gruff, middle-aged man with reading glasses perched on his nose. His left hand, a gleaming mechanical prosthetic, rested on the desk as he read, it's quiet clicks and whirs barely audible over the stillness. 

The man didn’t look up immediately, seemingly engrossed in the book. When Samantha called out a greeting, however, he finally raised his head, sliding his glasses down to peer at them.

Without a word, he picked up a shard of polished glass and held it to his eye, scrutinizing Asher with unsettling intensity. 

Asher shifted uncomfortably under the gaze, unsure of what exactly the man was looking for. He felt like a curiosity on display. Before anything else could be said, a loud clang echoed from somewhere in the building. 

Kaspar cursed in Feysac, their words lost on Asher but their tone unmistakably irritated. 

The teen bolted back out the door, muttering what seemed to be an apology. 

The clang from the workshop receded, leaving the room eerily quiet once more. 

Otto returned his focus to Asher, the gleaming shard of glass still held to his eye. His scrutinizing expression remained inscrutable, though Samantha appeared perfectly at ease as she leaned against a nearby shelf. 

Finally, Otto set the shard down and muttered something in Feysac, his tone clipped but not unkind.

“What’s he saying?” Asher asked, glancing at Samantha.

“Patience,” she replied, smirking. “He’s asking a lot of questions. Nothing you need to worry about. Yet.”

Asher frowned but said nothing as Otto continued speaking to Samantha. Their conversation was rapid and fluid, Samantha responding with her usual bluntness, occasionally punctuated by a wry grin. Asher could only catch glimpses of their intent through her tone and body language, the words themselves incomprehensible.

At one point, Otto gestured toward Asher’s stick, raising an eyebrow as he spoke. Samantha tilted her head, then looked at Asher with something between amusement and mild exasperation.

“You know the term Beyonder ?” she asked suddenly.

Asher blinked, caught off guard. “Maybe? I’ve heard it before, I think.”

Samantha snorted, clearly unimpressed with his answer. “He has no idea,” she said to Otto, shaking her head.

Otto sighed, muttering something under his breath before returning to their rapid conversation. Samantha seemed to be enjoying herself, her smirk widening as the exchange went on.

Finally, Otto asked a question that made Samantha throw her head back and laugh.

 It wasn’t a polite chuckle—it was a full, uncontrollable fit of laughter that left her gasping for breath. She even wiped at her eyes, tears forming from the force of it.

“What?” Asher demanded, his patience wearing thin.

“Oh, nothing,” Samantha said, still laughing as she turned to him. “Just... trust Otto, okay? He’s the one who made the feather for me. Speaking of which...”

She reached behind her ear and pulled out the feather, holding it out to Otto.

The gears on his hand whirred as he picked up the feather placing it in his other palm.

Otto’s voice, previously an unintelligible murmur, suddenly snapped into clarity. 

“... stick you’re carrying. It’s going to turn you into an eunuch if you keep holding onto it.”

Asher froze. “Excuse me?”

Samantha, who had been watching him with barely contained glee, burst into laughter again. 

Otto adjusted his glasses and spoke again, his tone calm but firm. 

“The stick contains the characteristics of a Sequence 9 Planter. It grants you enhanced strength, but at the cost of... well, your reproductive faculties. Among other things.”

Asher tossed the stick onto the floor as he tried to process the unintelligible information. 

“You couldn’t have mentioned this earlier?” he said, shooting a glare at Samantha.

Otto nodded solemnly. “Don’t worry, we can seal its negative effects. You’ll still have to part with it for a bit though.”

Asher looked at the stick again, torn between unease and disbelief. “For what kind of price?”

“It’s really no prob-”

Samantha, clearly unbothered by Otto’s irritation, snatched the feather off his head with a mischievous grin. She didn’t wait for him to speak, answering on his behalf.

Otto pinched the bridge of his nose, sighing heavily, his expression one of resigned defeat.

“Just volunteer here for a while,” Samantha continued, undeterred. “One of their priests ran off to the city, and this place is a mess. They could use an extra pair of hands.”

She threw in a playful wink. “It’ll be fun~ Just some physical labor and lessons in Feysac. You’ll thank me later.”

Asher glanced at Otto, who muttered something under his breath in Feysac that Asher didn’t need to understand to recognize as frustration. Samantha’s antics clearly weren’t new to him.

Looking back at the stick in his hand and then at the smirking Samantha, Asher sighed. 

“Doesn’t seem like I have much of a choice.”

Chapter Text

The moment Samantha left the room, the air shifted, carrying a weight of lingering tension.

With a soft click, Otto’s mechanical hand adjusted the supernatural stick, the cold metal fingers wrapping around it with precise control. For a moment, everything felt still. The workshop’s machinery hummed in the background.

“So, when do I start my internship?”

Otto shifted his weight and glanced up at Asher, his eyes sharp behind the glasses. He placed the feather he had been fiddling with behind his ear for ease, his expression never wavering as he began.

“So, what are you trying to do, exactly?” Otto’s voice was calm but carried an edge of something almost clinical. “And who’s behind you?”

Asher’s eyes narrowed in confusion. The question caught him off guard. “What do you mean, who’s behind me? What kind of question is that?”

Otto didn’t answer right away. Instead, he reached for the shard of glass that had been resting on the desk, holding it up to Asher's neck.

The sharp edges caught the light, almost gleaming with intent.

What the fuck!? I thought this was just some job interview!

“This,” Otto said, his tone shifting to something colder, “is from a Sequence 7 Warlock. I can use it to peer into the ether bodies of others.”

Asher froze, an uncomfortable feeling spreading through him.

Warlock, like the D&D class?

What does that have to do with anything?

More importantly, what's this sequence everyone’s talking about?

Otto's eyes remained trained on him, scrutinizing his every movement, his every breath.

“What does that have to do with anything?” Asher muttered, trying to hold his composure.

Otto’s gaze sharpened further. “You’re a Beyonder,” he stated flatly, as if it were the simplest thing in the world.

Asher stared at him for a moment, his mind racing. “A what?”

His voice wavered with disbelief, frustration curling in his gut. “What are you talking about? I have no idea what a Beyonder is.”

Otto leaned back slightly in his chair, the gears of his mechanical hand clicking softly as he crossed his arms. “Samantha thinks you’re a poor street urchin, just another beggar passing through. But,” he paused, his eyes never leaving Asher, “when I look at you, I see the soul of a Beyonder.”

Asher’s confusion only deepened, his head spinning with the weight of Otto’s words. “Again, what does that even mean?”

Otto continued, not bothered by Asher’s growing confusion. “I can see the signs. Your ether body. The way it’s layered, like it’s not entirely human. It’s fractured and reforged. You’re not a normal person.” He picked up the shard again, his fingers drumming lightly against the smooth surface as he continued. “I’m sure of it. You’re from one of the following pathways: Seer, Marauder, Apprentice, Monster, Mystery Prier, or Savant.”

Asher shifted uncomfortably. He didn’t understand the words, but something about the way Otto spoke made his skin crawl. Otto’s eyes narrowed, and he continued to break down his thoughts as if inspecting a puzzle.

“Now, being a Savant and knowing a Mystery Prier, I can rule those out. You don’t have the necessary traits. Apprentice is out as well—your ether body’s too different for that.”

He tilted his head as if considering, tapping the shard against his fingers thoughtfully. “That leaves Seer, Marauder, or Monster.”

Asher’s heart began to pound in his chest. “I can help you, I just need to know what you're saying?”

Otto’s voice hardened. “The signs are here, Asher. You’re no simple street urchin. You’re one of us.” He tapped the glass again. “The Seer would have items for divination, tools that guide their sight. You don’t have that. So, I can disregard that.”

Asher blinked, his mind reeling. “Marauder? Monster? What are you talking about? Plus, she’s the one who came to that assumption that I’m an urchin!”

Otto’s gaze intensified as he focused on Asher’s expression, still disregarding everything he said. “You’re probably not a Monster. I haven’t met one, but you're too human. Meanwhile the Marauders… they have a certain... vitality. Do you have any criminal tendencies?”

“A Sequence 9 Planter characteristic, like the one your stick possesses. Someone had to die for that.”

The words struck Asher like a slap in the face, his breath catching in his throat. 

“You’re saying… I killed someone?”

Otto shrugged, a nonchalant motion that only added to the weight of his words. “It’s not certain. But the signs point to it. You have the hallmark of a Marauder.”

Asher’s pulse raced, and for a moment, he felt like he might collapse under the weight of the accusation. He didn’t know what he was anymore or what he was supposed to be. But standing there, in the oppressive heat of the church/workshop, he knew that something was terribly wrong.

The silence that followed Otto’s final words hung heavy in the room, pressing down on Asher like a physical weight.

He tried to gather his thoughts, to make sense of everything being thrown at him, but his mind was a whirlwind of confusion and panic. If what Otto said was true—and that was a big if—then his entire reality was being pulled out from under him.

His fingers dug into his palm out of nervousness, and he forced himself to take a steadying breath.

If I’m going to survive this conversation, I need to probe him all the same.

I can use some of the cryptic nonsense Otto has been spouting to probe for info!

“Alright, let’s say you’re right,” Asher started, his voice shaky but firm. “Let’s say I’m... whatever you called it. A Beyonder. Would that explain why I keep seeing weird colors after hitting my head? Or why my gut keeps screaming at me to run or fight at the weirdest times?”

Otto’s mechanical hand froze mid-adjustment of the stick. His sharp eyes locked onto Asher, his expression shifting slightly. 

It wasn’t quite a surprise—it was more like the look of someone who had just stumbled across a particularly interesting clue to a puzzle.

“Colors?” Otto repeated, his tone cautious. “Intuition? Dreams, perhaps?”

Asher nodded slowly, uncertain. “Yeah. And not just dreams—more like nightmares. They don’t make sense, but they feel... real. There’s this glowing key trying to fight the darkness, like it’s trying to tell me something.”

Otto set the stick down, leaning back in his chair with a contemplative look. The gears in his mechanical hand clicked softly as he tapped the desk with his metal fingers. “Interesting,” he muttered, almost to himself. “You could be a Monster pathway Beyonder after all.”

The words hit Asher like a punch to the gut. “Monster?” he repeated, his voice rising slightly. 

“You’re calling me a monster now?”

Otto waved a dismissive hand. 

“Not in the way you’re thinking. The Monster pathway deals with fate, intuition, and perception. Seeing colors with spirit vision, sensing danger, vivid dreams... these are hallmark traits.”

Asher tightened his eyes, pondering the sudden revelation, but Otto held up a finger to stop him.

“Or,” Otto continued, “this could be a clever attempt at misdirection. A Marauder masquerading as a Monster would explain the contradictions. Marauders thrive on deception and confusion.”

“What contradictions?” Asher snapped, his frustration boiling over. “I don’t even know what half of this means! You’re the one making all these wild assumptions about me.”

Otto leaned forward, his eyes narrowing. “Exactly. You’re either a Marauder trying to manipulate me, or you’re genuinely confused as a newly awakened Monster Beyonder. Either way, your presence here is far from coincidence.”

Asher’s heart pounded in his chest, his mind racing. If Otto was right—if he was one of these Beyonders—then what did that make him? A freak? A killer? Someone destined to die in this very room? The thought was terrifying, but one that needed confronting.

“I don’t know what I am,” Asher admitted, his voice quiet but firm. “But I know I didn’t ask for any of this.”

Otto studied him for a long moment, his sharp gaze finally relaxing. He leaned back with a small sigh.

“Perhaps not. But the fact remains: you are something , Asher Jewel.”

Chapter Text

“You are something , Asher Jewel.”

The words still echoed through his mind. The weight of them pressed down on him, making it harder to breathe. What did Otto mean? What was he really saying? Asher's pulse quickened, a mix of confusion and fear stirring within him.

After a moment, he gathered himself, his voice shaky but determined.
“Can you explain… what that something is?” he asked, his eyes never leaving Otto’s.

Otto’s gaze didn’t waver, and he didn’t seem at all surprised by the question. Instead, he responded with the same calm, almost detached tone.

“As I’ve been saying, we’re Beyonders.”

He paused, watching Asher’s reaction closely. 

"Guardians, but also a bunch of miserable wretches who are constantly fighting against threats and madness.”

 “You’ll understand this concept more and more if you climb the sequences.”

“It’s hardly a pleasant path,” Otto chuckled, the sound carrying a blend of nostalgia and quiet sorrow, as if recalling something long past.

Asher blinked, trying to process Otto’s words. Climbing the sequence? Guardians? What kind of madness was Otto talking about? His mind reeled, but for the first time in a while, he wasn’t just scared. He was... curious.

“Fighting madness?” Asher repeated, trying to wrap his mind around it all. 

Otto remarked, his voice less sharp now, more thoughtful. “This has clearly been a bit much. Tell me your story and I’ll get off your back for now.”

***

Asher finished telling the odd tale, his voice soft and raw, the absurdity of it all weighing down on him.

Otto’s expression didn’t change much, but his eyes sharpened with an unknown glint. For a long moment, he just stared at Asher, as though considering the story. Then, slowly, a chuckle escaped him.

“No self respecting marauder could ever come up with a lie that bad”

Asher sat back slightly, his mind still reeling. What Otto said made no sense, and yet it made perfect sense. 

Barely focused on the conversation any more, Asher began looking inwardly.

The thought came up more than once but I’m really not on Earth anymore…

I'm in Feysac, some empire that didn’t exist on any map. 

A place with magic feathers, suplexing grannies and these people named Beyonders who I’m apparently one of. 

His thoughts all over the place he asked half-mindedly:

 “So this really isn’t the planet Earth?”

Otto paused, clearly not understanding the weight of the question. His brow furrowed as if he couldn’t quite process what Asher was asking. For a moment, there was silence. Then Otto tilted his head, a flicker of confusion crossing his face.

“What do you mean, ‘planet Earth’?” Otto asked, his voice slow, almost playful, as if he didn’t quite grasp the idea. “This is the world, just... the world. We live here. Why would it need a name?”

Asher blinked, the words not making sense. “What?” He stared at Otto, trying to make sense of the absurdity of it. “You don’t—don’t you understand? This world— your world—has to have a name, right? Like... like Earth is for me. Earth is where I came from.”

Otto gave him a blank look, scratching the side of his head with the whirling mechanical hand. 

“Earth? This world? Nah. It's just the world. That's all we need.” 

He waved his hand, as if dismissing the very concept.

“The sun’s the sun. The trees are the trees. Names are for those who need ‘em.”

Asher’s mind reeled even harder. What kind of place was this, where the very notion of a planet's name didn’t make sense? 

This place didn’t just lack a sense of structure—it rejected it. He found himself laughing, despite the frustration gnawing at him. The absurdity was overwhelming.

“Guess so,” Asher muttered, shaking his head. The words sounded strange in his mouth, but they were all he had to go on.

Otto leaned back in his chair, casting a quick glance toward the window, where the dimming light of the setting sun filtered through the cracks in the wooden frame. He straightened up, his expression turning a little more serious.

“The sun’s already going down,” Otto said, nodding toward the outside. 

“You’re gonna want to get some rest. Share a room with my apprentice, Kaspar. He’s a good kid. Don’t mind him, he should be quiet enough, but make sure you’re up before the sun hits the horizon. You won’t want to miss that.”

Asher blinked at him, still digesting everything Otto had just said. But before he could respond, Otto’s tone shifted, more pointed.

“And, look,” Otto continued, his eyes narrowing slightly. “If you think you’re gonna escape, feel free to try. But I’d advise against it.”

Softening his ever-shifting gaze he added:

“If you’ve still got any lingering questions, ask Kaspar. He’ll know more than I do about how things work around here.”

“I’m rather independent these days so he’s been taking on most of the maintenance since the last guy left.”

Asher didn’t reply, still processing Otto’s words. 

Otto stood up, moving toward the door.

“Get some rest, Asher. Tomorrow's the first day of your internship. You’ll need it.”

***

After locating the dorm room assigned to him and Kaspar, Asher paused at the door.The unmistakable clicking and whirring of tools echoed from the other side

Stepping inside was like crossing between two entirely different worlds. 

The left side of the room was immaculate—everything in its place, from the neatly folded bedspread to the organized closet and a modest nightstand. In stark contrast, the right side was utter chaos.

Books lay haphazardly across the floor, a toolkit spilled over the desk, and the gas lamp on that side had been modified to blaze with a blinding intensity. 

In the center of this disorder sat Kaspar, his soot-streaked hands busy amidst an assortment of tools, springs, and scrap metal. Nestled in his lap, resting on sheets stained with dirt and grime, was a peculiar creation: a small patchwork rabbit cobbled together from mismatched metals, gears, and springs.

Kaspar looked up with a wide grin, waving enthusiastically. 

Whether he had forgotten or simply didn’t care that Asher couldn’t understand a word he said, his greeting was brimming with uncontainable joy.

Before Asher could even reach the nearby bed, Kaspar launched into an animated display of gestures, motioning urgently toward the rabbit in his lap. 

His excited babbling filled the air, a chaotic melody of incomprehensible words that made Asher feel more like a spectator than a participant.

Then, without warning, Kaspar tossed the contraption in Asher’s direction. Startled, Asher jerked back as the rabbit tumbled to the floor with a loud clatter.

To his surprise, the little device sprang to life almost instantly. Gears clicked into motion, and the rabbit rose unsteadily on its spindly legs. Then, with remarkable precision, it began to hop back and forth, its balance maintained by subtle shifts in its mechanical frame.

Asher watched in awe as the rabbit moved, each hop smooth and deliberate, as though it were alive. It wasn’t just functional—it was ingenious.

Before he could fully process the display, a faint screeching sound emerged from the rabbit. One of its gears suddenly shot loose as it hopped, flying across the room and ricocheting off the wall. 

The gear struck the modified gas lamp, which shattered instantly. The brilliant flame flickered and died, plunging half the room into shadow.

Kaspar barely flinched. With a casualness that suggested this wasn’t his first mishap, he leaned over and turned a valve on the wall. The faint hiss of escaping gas stopped as the supply cut off.

Meanwhile, the rabbit performed one last, lopsided hop before collapsing in a heap of twitching parts.

Kaspar scratched the back of his head, letting out a sheepish laugh. 

His expression was a mix of pride and regret, as though acknowledging both the brilliance and chaos of his invention.

Finding himself unable to care about the world around him, Asher stumbled towards his bed.

The day’s events weighed heavily on Asher, his mind a chaotic swirl of confusion, awe, and sheer fatigue. 

Without a word, he crashed onto the bed, the springs creaking under the sudden weight. Reaching out with a tired hand, he flicked off the remaining gas lamp, plunging the room into a soft darkness illuminated only by the faint moonlight. 

With a dismissive wave toward Kaspar, he muttered something unintelligible, his tone making it clear: Go to sleep!

Kaspar, however, had other plans.

Just as the haze of sleep began to claim Asher, a faint glow flickered on the other side of the room. Groaning, he cracked one eye open to see Kaspar wearing a peculiar contraption—a headband with a candle attached to the front, trapped in a brass frame. The design was bizarre, almost comical in its oddness. The candlelight spilled through the frame, casting a warm, flickering glow across the cluttered space.

Kaspar hunched over the broken rabbit, his tools glinting in the soft light as he meticulously tinkered with its inner workings. 

Mumbling to himself—or perhaps to Asher—he launched into a steady stream of words. Though Asher couldn’t understand a single thing, the rise and fall of Kaspar’s voice was oddly soothing.

It was like listening to the low hum of a distant river, the rambling cadence blending with the soft scratching of tools and the occasional creak of the floorboards. Against his better judgment, Asher found himself relaxing. The tension in his shoulders eased, and the swirling thoughts of suplexing grannies, death, and hopping rabbits began to fade.

Somewhere between Kaspar’s unintelligible chatter and the comforting glow of the makeshift lantern, sleep finally claimed him.

Chapter Text

The silence seemed to pulse.

Distorted whispers brushing the edges of his mind. 

A sense of dread grew ever larger as a basement door flew open, causing everything to go black.

***

Chapter 11: Together

Asher woke to the faint sound of clicking gears. Blinking groggily, he saw Kaspar hunched over the table, illuminated by the dawn outside. The soft light illuminated Kaspar's focused expression as he tinkered with a collection of small mechanical parts.

The mechanical rabbit from the previous night sat upright on the desk, restored but now sporting a comical limp as it tried—and failed—to hop smoothly.

Kaspar noticed Asher stirring and turned with an eager grin. Before Asher could get a word in, Kaspar held up the same rainbow feather, mumbling something in his native tongue. Asher squinted, confused, until the words shifted into a clear understandable form.

“This... make speak the same,” Kaspar said proudly, tapping the feather before tucking it behind his ear.

“Okay,” Asher muttered, sitting up. “What are you even doing?”

Kaspar launched into an animated explanation, waving his hands at the desk cluttered with strange devices. “Fix machines. Church work! Gears. Springs. Pipes.”

“You're trying to say you're fixing all the machines around here by yourself?”

“Yeah!” Kaspar exclaimed with glee, practically bouncing on his feet.

Before Asher could respond, Kaspar grabbed a tool case and shoved it into Asher’s arms. “Come! I show!”

“Wait, what?” Asher protested, but Kaspar had already dragged him toward the door.

The church turned out to be larger than Asher expected, a labyrinth of dimly lit halls and creaky staircases. Kaspar led the way, pointing out various spots with rapid-fire explanations that the feather struggled to keep up with.

“These dorms,” Kaspar said, gesturing to a long hallway. Most of the doors were shut and covered in dust, save for two near the end. “Only one used now. Quiet. Lonely.”

Next, they entered the main church area. The vaulted ceiling arched high above rows of worn wooden pews, bathed in multicolored light from stained glass windows. At the front, Otto stood addressing a small group of listeners, his tone calm but charged with energy. Kaspar paused briefly, waving at Otto, who nodded in acknowledgment without breaking his flow.

“Biggest machine here,” Kaspar whispered, pointing to the assorted pulsating machinery lining the walls “Pipes, gears connect... everywhere.”

They moved on, passing by Otto’s quarters—a spartan room with a neatly made bed and a desk piled with ledgers—and into the library. The space was modest but packed with books that seemed impossibly well-organized compared to the rest of the church.

“Library,” Kaspar said, picking his nose. “Mostly boring. Too many not machinery.”

Asher smirked but held his tongue.

Finally, they reached the kitchen. It was a disaster zone. Pots and pans were stacked haphazardly, ingredients spilled across the counters, and the smell of burnt breakfast lingered in the air.

“Kitchen! Best place.” Kaspar grinned proudly, kicking a stray wrench under a cabinet as if that would help the chaos.

Through it all, Kaspar kept up a running commentary on the machinery, pointing out levers, gears, and valves hidden in walls and corners. His explanations were vague at best, often derailed by enthusiastic tangents about unrelated gadgets.

By the time they returned to the dorm, Asher’s arms ached from carrying the tool case, and his mind swirled with half-formed questions.

One question, however, bubbled to the surface—a question he’d been ruminating on since Otto’s cryptic remarks the day before.

“What’s even is a Beyonder?” Asher asked, his voice tentative.

Kaspar froze, his wide grin fading into something more subdued. He scratched the back of his head, avoiding Asher’s gaze. “Beyonder...” he repeated slowly, as if testing the word on his tongue.

After a moment, he rustled his hair trying to think. Before gesturing for Asher to follow him again. They stepped back into the library.

Kaspar motioned for Asher to sit, then pulled a battered notebook from a nearby shelf.

“A Beyonder...” Kaspar began, his tone uncharacteristically serious, “is someone... not normal. Not human. Or... maybe too human? I don’t explain well.” 

He flipped through the notebook, stopping at a page filled with sketches—figures surrounded by strange symbols, their forms shifting and warping.

“We take... magic potion. Change inside,” Kaspar continued, pointing at one of the drawings. “Not just body—mind, soul. Become more... or less. Strong, yes, but danger always. Madness close. Lose yourself... become monster.”

Asher stared at the sketches, his throat dry. The images were crude but haunting, each one depicting a transformation more grotesque than the last. He thought of Otto’s words from the night before— guardians, but also miserable wretches.

“Why?” Asher asked, his voice barely above a whisper. “Why would anyone do this?”

Kaspar shrugged, his expression unreadable. “Some want power. Some... no choice. Me? I do because...” He paused, searching for the right words. “Because the world need fixing. Machines break, people break. Beyonders must fix. Or try.”

Kaspar stood abruptly and rummaged through a drawer in Otto’s desk, pulling out a small stack of cards. He placed them on the table: The Wheel of Fortune, The Hermit, and The Paragon.

“These,” Kaspar said, tapping the cards. “My idol Emperor Roselle made them. Correspond to paths—ways of being Beyonder. You Wheel. Otto and Me, Paragon. Man who gone? Hermit.”

Kaspar got up pacing back and forth, running his hand through his hair as he muttered to himself, clearly frustrated.

“Otto say, nine steps, 9 to 1. But these cards... No card name match! No ‘Wheel,’ no ‘Hermit,’ no ‘Paragon.’ Why? Why these cards?” He waved the cards around, his voice rising with confusion.

“Cards should match, right? But no. No match.” Kaspar’s eyes narrowed in frustration, staring at the cards as if they would explain themselves. “Roselle... he make these cards. He link to pathways. But no match! What mean?”

Asher watched, trying to make sense of the mess Kaspar was unraveling. “So, it’s just a title? Does it need to mean anything?”

“Yeah, title! Symbol!” Kaspar threw his hands up in exasperation. “But wrong! Why call it ‘Wheel’ When no wheel? Why? No make sense! Title not match path!” He kicked at the ground, his agitation growing.

As Kaspar paced back and forth, muttering to himself in frustration, Asher could feel the tension in the room building.

It was as though the chaotic jumble of thoughts in Kaspar’s mind was spilling over into the air, leaving the whole space thick with confusion.

“Kaspar,” Asher said softly, standing up from the chair. “Hey, it’s okay.”

Kaspar froze mid-pace, his eyes snapping up to meet Asher’s. His hands clenched at his sides, but Asher could see the tension slowly draining from his shoulders.

“Look,” Asher continued, taking a step closer. “I don’t get all of this either. The Beyonders, the paths, the cards, it’s supernatural nonsense, sure. But freaking out like this isn’t going to help anyone.”

Kaspar’s gaze flickered to the cards on the table, his frown deepening, but he didn’t say anything. Asher gave him a moment to collect himself before he added, “We’ll figure it out. I’ll help you—just... breathe for a second, alright?”

Kaspar let out a long breath, his shoulders sagging as the tightness in his posture began to ease. He nodded slowly, though he still looked somewhat defeated.

“Good,” Asher said, feeling a sense of relief as the atmosphere lightened.

As the room settled into a quiet calm, Asher gave Kaspar a moment to regain his composure. He could see the turmoil still bubbling beneath the surface, but for now, at least, Kaspar seemed to be in a slightly better place.

"Kaspar," Asher said, breaking the silence. "I need your help with something."

Kaspar blinked, looking up at Asher with a mixture of surprise and curiosity. "Help? What need?"

Asher hesitated for a moment, glancing down at the small book in his hands. "Well, I’m starting to realize that, uh... I don't really understand this place. I don’t speak the language—Feysac, right?"

Kaspar nodded, his expression thoughtful. "Yes. Feysac language." He frowned slightly, clearly thinking. "Hard to learn. But... you want to try?"

"Yeah. I mean, I don’t exactly have a choice," Asher said rubbing his shoulder awkwardly. "If I’m going to be stuck here, I might as well get better at it."

Kaspar chuckled, though it was a lighthearted sound, more in line with his usual exuberance. “You learn fast. You understand quick.” He seemed to think for a moment before nodding decisively. 

“Okay. I help. But machines might explode. I'll fix… later, you learn!”

***

Asher and Kaspar continued their small lesson in silence, the only sounds in the room being the scratch of pen on paper and the occasional muttered word of encouragement from Kaspar. It was a slow process, each new word feeling like a small victory, each syllable a step further from confusion and toward some kind of understanding.

For a while, it felt like they were in their own little world—isolated from the complexities that hung over the church like an ominous cloud.

Eventually, Kaspar tapped the table, breaking the quiet. "Enough for now," he said, his voice surprisingly calm. "You rest. Machines... I go check."

“Hey, Kaspar… thanks. For helping me. I really appreciate it.”

Kaspar turned, eyes lighting up with that same enthusiastic grin. “No problem! We learn together! We fix world!”

Asher smiled.

“Yeah. Together.”

With that, Kaspar gave a final wave and headed out the door, leaving Asher standing in the quiet room, a sense of calm settling in for the first time since his arrival. There was still a long way to go, but at least he wasn’t alone in it anymore.

Chapter Text

A week had passed since Asher’s arrival at the church, and each morning had fallen into a rhythm, though it was still far from ordinary. The early sunlight filtered through the narrow windows, spilling over the worn floors. 

Asher stretched, his muscles still sore from the previous day's exertions, but he pushed the fatigue aside. The morning quiet was something he had grown to appreciate, a moment of solitude before the chaos of the day began.

Kaspar and Otto were both early risers, the former already absorbed in tinkering with his mechanical contraptions, while the latter had his nose buried in a stack of books, as he usually did. 

Today, like most days, the responsibility of food was shoved onto him. As much as Kaspar’s enthusiastic suggestions had thrown him into the deep end in the past, Asher had started to find a strange sense of peace in preparing food. 

The kitchen, though not much to look at, had become a space where he could let his mind wander, concentrating on chopping vegetables or stirring broths without distraction. 

Kaspar and Otto had their own work to do, and Asher was content with the isolation.

With a few days of trial and error under his belt, Asher was becoming more confident.

Today, he had decided to surprise the two of them with a meal, not just the usual haphazard attempts they had been making together. He was getting better at using the strange local ingredients, the ones that didn’t make sense at first but somehow worked together once he figured them out.

Asher’s hands moved through the motions of preparing the food, cutting the familiar-looking lamb chops, which were much like the ones he would have seen back on Earth, their tenderness enhanced by a careful sear. The carrots were the same as he remembered them, their orange hue vivid and sharp, a comfort in their simplicity. 

But there were the oddities, too—vegetables that didn’t quite match what he knew.

The blue vegetable, for instance, resembled an Earth potato in shape, but its insides were an eerie shade of cobalt. When thrown into soups, it turned the broth an unappetizing shade and left a lingering bitterness, ruining the flavor. But when prepared properly, cut into thin slices and roasted, it made an excellent side dish—salty and firm, a surprising complement to the rich lamb.

Then, there was the nut, strange in its appearance with a thick, spiky shell that could only be cracked open using a special tool that Asher had only recently learned to wield. Inside, it revealed a sweet, soft centre, unlike any nut he had known before. At first, he’d mistaken it for something inedible, but once he got the hang of it, he had learned to treat it like a delicacy.

The most interesting ingredient of all was the purple salt—extracted from the same blue vegetable, but only after it had been processed in a machine located in the very church. The machine crushed the blue tubers into a fine powder, which then crystallized into a deep purple salt that tasted indistinguishable from any real salt. Asher had learned that a pinch of this made a meal feel more complete, adding depth to even the most basic of dishes.

Asher worked in silence, the steady rhythm of chopping and stirring filling the quiet air.

His hands were becoming familiar with the tools in the kitchen, and he no longer fumbled with the unfamiliar gadgets Kaspar had introduced him to. The ingredients—though still strange—had begun to make sense in his mind, and the process felt more instinctive than before.

An hour passed before Asher was finally satisfied with the dish. It wasn’t a grand meal by any means, but it was something that might pass as decent, and he wasn’t about to hold back from his newfound sense of pride. He set the pots and pans aside, wiping his hands on a rag as he surveyed his work.

Before beginning his sermons, Otto always made sure to have his fill. Despite the fervor with which he delivered his speeches, he remained a reserved figure outside of them, still carrying an air of skepticism towards Asher.

Kaspar, on the other hand, was a whirlwind of energy. Though they struggled with verbal impairments, they never seemed able to stay quiet about anything. Whether it was excitedly explaining how a doohickey and thingamabob had accidentally improved efficiency in sector A2, or boasting about their latest animal-themed robot, Kaspar’s enthusiasm knew no bounds.

While his chatter was endearing, it was often less than appetizing—especially as every tangent came with bits of finely crafted meal spilling from his mouth.

After the meal, the two went about their day. Otto spent most of his time brooding, only breaking his silence to pray or deliver grandiose speeches to an adoring audience.

Though Asher never actively converted to the church—being a firm atheist—the messages in Otto's teachings were undeniably captivating. The god this church follows is known as the God of Steam and Machinery, though Asher had heard it used to be called the God of Craftsmanship before the name change. 

Otto delivered these teachings in a rather neutral, public-relations tone, devoid of personal opinion. They also referenced several other religions from this world: 

The Church of Evernight,

The Church of the Earth Mother, 

The Church of Storms,

The Church of Knowledge and Wisdom, 

The Church of the Eternal Blazing Sun, 

and The Church of the God of Combat, which seemed to be Feysac’s dominant religion.

After these sermons a peculiar habit Asher noticed was Otto’s suspicious, almost paranoid behavior towards the basement connected to his room. This strange conduct gave Asher a sense of déjà vu, though he couldn’t pinpoint why.

Kaspar, on the other hand, spent the majority of his day obsessively tinkering with the machinery around the building.

Around noon, after Otto finished his sermon and Kaspar took a short break, Samantha often stopped by to check in, inquiring how things were going.

One day, she brought Nimbus along on a trip into town, and Asher witnessed an unexpected side of Otto. The usually composed man appeared genuinely terrified of the fluffy creature. Whether it was due to a severe allergy or a phobia, it was hard to say.

After that, Asher rarely saw the dog again, having received an earful from Otto after Nimbus chased some kids who had been throwing rocks at him. 

From what Asher gathered, Samantha had given the parents a stern talking-to, though it was a surprise that she didn’t escalate things further.

Every other day, Asher found himself sent into town to gather food and necessities for the church. It was a routine task, but one that often led to interesting encounters. Alongside the usual bread, meat, and vegetables, the errands included picking up trinkets and scrap metal from a sketchy homeless man in a shadowy back alley.

This man, who seemed to have formed an unlikely friendship with Kaspar, always had something metal related on offer—often through means that were better left unquestioned. Today, he presented a replacement gas lamp, one that perfectly matched the one in the church that had recently broken.

"Where you get?" Asher asked in shoddy Feysac, inspecting the lamp’s surprisingly good condition.

The man simply grinned, his toothy smile both unsettling and oddly disarming. "Don’t ask too many questions, kid. Just tell Kaspar it’s top quality. Honest work, you know?"

Asher doubted the "honest work" part but handed over the gold hoorn coins anyway. Kaspar would be thrilled to have the broken lamp replaced, and despite the man’s dubious methods, his trinkets were undeniably reliable. Kaspar often claimed the man's finds were more useful than anything bought from a proper store.

On the topic of money, Asher had come to understand that Feysac’s currency system was, at the very least, more practical than the neighboring Intis and Loen’s convoluted denominations.

A gold hoorn was equivalent to 10 feysilver, which in turn was broken into 10 kopeks. This decimal structure made calculations straightforward. However, the currency's weakness created its own set of problems.

For instance, a single feysilver was barely enough to purchase a loaf of bread, and carrying large sums of coins became cumbersome quickly. 

As a result, many merchants and traders in Feysac preferred Loen pound notes for high-volume transactions, as the gold-backed currency held far greater value and stability. This reliance on foreign money only devalued the native currency further, a sore spot for many Feysac nationals.

The church, on the other hand, largely sustained itself through donations. Some came from the townsfolk, while others arrived in the mail from the head cathedral. 

These contributions were Otto’s primary source of funding, but they had been shrinking recently. Otto often ranted about this during quieter moments, his temper flaring as he muttered about being disrespected after everything he had done for the faith.

Later, he helped Kaspar with some mechanical repairs, mostly handing them tools while they animatedly explained what each gadget did. Though much of Kaspar’s rambling went over his head, their enthusiasm was infectious.

Asher also spent some time cleaning the main hall, rearranging the pews and sweeping up the endless layers of dust that seemed to settle overnight. By the time the sun dipped below the horizon, his arms ached, but at least the place looked presentable for Otto’s next sermon.

In the evening, it was back to his Feysac lessons with Kaspar. Setting up candles on the desk, their warm glow illuminating a battered old textbook and Kaspar’s scribbled notes. Asher found the language challenging but strangely rewarding, especially with Kaspar’s enthusiastic, if sometimes scatterbrained, tutoring.

When Asher’s questions veered too close to Beyonder topics, Kaspar grew uncharacteristically hesitant. “Otto said not to, uh…. go there again,” they said, their usual chatter subdued. “He give rundown later… probably.”

Asher didn’t press. He had the feeling Otto’s “rundown” would be anything but simple and figured it was best not to poke the bear for now.

After lessons, Asher took over the kitchen again, determined to spice up the usual fare. He added a pinch of dried herbs to the stew and tried his hand at roasting the blue, salty vegetables with a dash of oil and some crushed nuts for texture. The result wasn’t groundbreaking, but it was a welcome improvement over the bland meals they’d been eating previously.

Finally, he tried to settle in for the night, though Kaspar’s endless racket made that easier said than done. Between the clang of tools and the occasional muttered exclamation from their workbench, the noise echoing through the room. 

Asher sighed, rolling onto his side and stuffing a pillow over his head. It was another exhausting, chaotic day.

But at least it was his chaos now.

Chapter Text

The morning air hung heavy, the sky clouded over in a pale gray haze. Asher put on the first pair of gloves he could find, the crispness of the season creeping through the cracks of the church walls, defying its intricate heating systems.

Hailstones, small and harmless, tapped against the windows in a rhythmic melody.

Another day had passed since his arrival, and Asher had reluctantly fallen into the church's odd routine. He couldn’t call it home—not yet—but the structure of each day was grounding.

Kaspar was already at their bench, fiddling with a cluster of tangled wire and gears, their muttered curses interspersed with the occasional triumphant cheer.

“Ah-ha! It work now! Or... soon work. Yes, soon!” Kaspar announced to no one in particular.

“Morning, Kaspar,” Asher said, fighting a yawn as he exited into the hall.

Kaspar glanced up, their goggles making their wide eyes seem even more exaggerated. “Morning, morning. You do food now, yes? Go. Food not make itself. And try red root today! Make soup sing!” They emphasized before diving back into the project.

The kitchen greeted him like an old acquaintance—still cramped, still cluttered, but familiar. He rummaged through the makeshift pantry, pulling out the ingredients they’d managed to scavenge or trade for in town. The hail disappeared as he worked, leaving a growing storm to take its place.

With a bubbling pot on the stove, Asher stirred a simple broth, chopping a mix of vegetables, both familiar and foreign. 

Now he was left focusing instead on the odd red roots Kaspar had mentioned before. Dropping it into the aromatic mix. 

It did not in fact make the soup sing.

Asher gagged the moment the root’s bitter tang hit his nose. “Kaspar!” he shouted, setting the spoon down with a clatter.

The eccentric poked their head into the kitchen, a grin plastered across their face. “What? You ruin soup?”

“You said this root was good!”

Confused, Kaspar snatched the offending vegetable from the counter, sniffing it before licking it. Their grin widened. “Good for... other things. Not soup. You learn now!”

Asher groaned, dumping the ruined broth out the window, where it was promptly carried away by the growing storm.

The bitter red root’s overpowering tang still clung to his nostrils, making him wince. 

The storm had grown fiercer, its rhythmic tapping against the windows now a relentless drumming, as if the world itself mocked his culinary failure.

Kaspar, oblivious to Asher's frustration, was back at their workbench in the main hall, humming a tuneless melody as they fiddled with gears and wires. Asher sighed, rubbing his temple. “You’re on your own with breakfast,” he called over his shoulder.

Grabbing a few salvaged vegetables and some bread, Asher managed to scrape together a bland, serviceable stew alongside some dry toast. It wasn’t much, but it would keep them going. He set the bowls on a dining table in the dimly lit kitchen, the usual clamor of the church noticeably absent.

The storm had seemingly emptied the building of visitors.

Otto, normally an imposing presence bustling between sermons and prayers, had been scarce all morning. When he finally appeared, the priest’s mood was as grim as the storm outside.

Otto sat heavily at the table, his black cassock slightly rumpled, and muttered a half-hearted blessing over the meal before digging in. The usual quiet reverence of mealtime was replaced by an uncomfortable tension. Otto’s movements were sharp and irritable, his knife scraping loudly against the plate as he cut into his toast.

“Storm’s keeping them away,” Otto finally muttered, more to himself than anyone else. His tone was bitter, and his gaze darted toward the windows, where the snow pelted relentlessly. “They’ll come crawling back when the sun’s out again, fair-weather flock that they are.”

Asher didn’t respond, focusing on his own bowl. Kaspar, undeterred by Otto’s mood, chattered about their latest invention—a “self-stirring pot” that had, so far, only managed to fling soup halfway across the kitchen.

When the meal ended, Otto excused himself without a word, his footsteps heavy as he retreated down the hall. Kaspar gave Asher a conspiratorial grin. “Otto mad. Like, mad-mad. You see him drink soon, I bet.”

“Is he always like this when it’s gloomy?” Asher asked, standing to clear the table.

Kaspar shrugged, gathering their tools. “Not storm. Donations slow, too. He worry too much. Always do.”

Asher’s cleaning duties took him down the main hall of the church, where the dim light from the high windows barely illuminated the stone walls.

As he passed Otto’s room, a faint sound caught his attention—a low, irregular knocking. It came from the direction of the basement. He froze, listening closely as the sound repeated: knock... knock... knock.

The rhythm was too deliberate to be the storm.

Curiosity prickled at him, and he took a hesitant step toward the stairwell opposite Otto's bed. Before he could get closer, a sharp voice cut through the quiet.

“Don’t.”

Asher turned to find Otto standing in the doorway of the room, his dark eyes fixed on him with a warning glare. The priest’s face was pale, the lines of stress etched deeply into his features.

“It’s nothing you need to concern yourself with,” Otto said firmly, his tone allowing no argument.

“What is it?” Asher asked, his voice quiet. “It sounds like—”

“Drop it,” Otto snapped. His gaze softened for a brief moment, but only enough to replace anger with a weary sort of resolve. “Just... stay away from the basement. That’s an order.”

Asher nodded reluctantly, stepping back as Otto disappeared into his room. The door shut with a thud, followed by the distinct clink of glass on glass.

For the rest of the afternoon, Otto remained holed up in his room. Every so often, Asher heard the faint sound of a bottle being uncorked, followed by the soft slosh of liquid being poured. Kaspar was right—Otto was drinking.

The church felt emptier than ever, the usual hum of activity replaced by the muffled storm outside and the faint, unsettling rhythm of the knocking beneath the floor.

The blizzard raged on, growing heavier as the hours crept by. The windows rattled in their frames, the pale gray light outside fading into a dreary dimness. 

With Samantha absent and the shopping trip no longer an option, the church felt more isolated than ever.

Asher found his thoughts drifting to the scrap-selling homeless man who occasionally passed by the church. 

We offer a roof for the weary so it’s odd to see no one here today.

On that topic, how's that scrap scammer doing?

***

With little else to occupy himself, he wandered back into the nave where Kaspar was still engrossed in their latest project.

“You look bored,” Kaspar said with eyes in the back of there head, their fingers deftly twisting wires into place.

“I am bored,” Asher admitted. “Teach me something.”

Kaspar’s head shot up, their goggles making their excitement all the more exaggerated. “Ah, yes! You learn! But... I not explain good. You watch. Watch and... uh, copy!”

What followed was a chaotic, borderline incoherent lesson in mechanics. 

Kaspar worked at breakneck speed, muttering to themselves in broken sentences, leaving Asher to piece together their methods. 

He managed to fix a loose hinge on a box and even bashed a small clock that had stopped ticking into operation.

“Good! Not useless!” Kaspar declared with a grin, slapping Asher on the back. “You stay with me; I make you genius!”

Asher smirked. “Sure. Genius in training.”

***

By late afternoon, the storm showed no signs of letting up. Asher, still restless, remembered the bitter red roots and decided to experiment. He fetched Kaspar’s salt-making contraption—a rickety machine of whirring gears and sputtering steam—and fed a few chunks of the root into it.

The machine chugged loudly for a moment before spitting out a fine red powder. Tentatively, Asher scooped a bit onto his fingertip and tasted it. To his surprise, the flavor was rich, with a subtle sweetness that would work well in tea.

Kaspar wandered over, sniffing the air. “What you make?”

“Red root powder. It’s... actually not bad.”

Kaspar’s eyes lit up. “Ah! Genius already!”

Encouraged, Asher brewed a pot of tea using the powder. The warm, spiced aroma filled the kitchen, cutting through the church’s damp chill. It wasn’t quite enough to erase the morning’s culinary disaster, but it was a start.

Dinner was another simple affair—vegetable stew with a side of hardening bread. Asher set the table but quickly noticed Otto’s absence.

He knocked on the priest’s door, balancing a tray of food in one hand.

“Leave it,” Otto’s groggy voice called out from within.

“You sure? It’s not much, but—”

“Just leave it at the door, Asher.”

The sharp edge in Otto’s tone left no room for argument. Asher set the tray down and retreated, the sound of Otto’s sighs trailing faintly behind him.

After dinner, Asher joined Kaspar in the library for another round of Feysac language lessons. The two sat huddled over a tattered textbook, Kaspar’s donning and doffing the feather for Asher to better understand.

“Now, now,” Kaspar said, wagging a finger. “Serious! You not sound Feysac, people think you tourist. Or spy. Or worse—stupid.”

Asher grinned. “Can’t have that.”

The lessons dragged on until Asher’s head began to ache from the unfamiliar sounds and structures of the language. Finally, he set the book down and leaned back in his chair.

“Do you know what’s going on with Otto?” he asked, his voice low.

Kaspar hesitated, their usual cheer dimming. “Otto... he worry too much. Church not same. People not same. He—” With a strange knock they stopped, glancing toward the library door as if expecting Otto to appear. 

“Creepy basement. Very not help.”

Chapter Text

The air in the library was heavy with the smell of old paper and faint traces of Kaspar’s oil-stained tools. The soft hum of Kaspar’s voice filled the room as they tried their best to teach Asher the Feysac language, but the words still twisted awkwardly in his mouth. 

It wasn’t that he didn’t care—it was just hard to focus on anything other than the constant, unnerving sound from the basement. The rhythmic knocking had been like a drumbeat in his mind since he’d first heard it, and it wasn’t getting any easier to ignore.

Kaspar was in the middle of attempting to explain the difference between two nearly identical words in Feysac when Asher interrupted them.

“Kaspar,” Asher said, leaning forward in his chair. “I’ve been thinking. About the basement.”

Kaspar paused, goggles shifting downward to eye Asher with exaggerated suspicion. “Why? You not learn enough, Asher. Too creepy down there. Better you stay up here, yes?”

“I don’t know. Something’s off about it. I’m going down there. You should come with me. We’ll figure out what’s going on.”

Kaspar gave an almost dismissive wave. “I stay here, work. I not go basement. But... you curious, yes?” They smirked, clearly entertained by the idea. “Fine. Go. I not stop you. But if you find monster or ghost, not say I didn’t warn you.”

“Right,” Asher muttered, pushing himself to his feet. He had been expecting this, and Kaspar’s dismissal didn’t do anything to dampen his excitement. If anything, it only fueled it.

I’m going to figure this out. It’s been driving me crazy. I can do this. I’m not some scaredy cat being hung on a tree, almost eaten by bears. I’ll find out what’s going on, and when I do, I’ll—

The thought was cut short by a sharp, sudden pain blooming in his head. It felt like his skull had been split open, the pressure building until it was unbearable. His vision blurred, and the world seemed to spin. He staggered, his hands gripping the edge of the table for support, but everything around him felt out of focus. The walls seemed to sway, the floor beneath him shifting like water.

Kaspar’s voice pierced through the haze. “Asher? You okay?”

“Ahh… I—” Asher’s words slurred.

The words were incoherent, his thoughts swirling in nonsensical fragments. He couldn’t even finish the sentence before the pain overwhelmed him completely, and he collapsed to the floor.

***

When Asher came to, he was lying on the cold floor of the library. Kaspar hovered over him, their expression somewhere between concern and curiosity.

“You... you were saying strange things, Asher,” Kaspar said, voice oddly quiet. “About a doll? I think... maybe you rest? But you okay now… odd.”

He sat up, his head still fuzzy but the sharp pain gone. “What was I saying?”

Kaspar shrugged, clearly uninterested in the details. “Something about... a doll. Not clear.”

Asher shook his head, still feeling out of sorts, but the pounding urge to investigate the basement hadn’t diminished in the slightest. If anything, the strange experience had made him more determined.

“Thanks for the help,” he muttered, brushing himself off. “I’m going.”

Kaspar didn’t try to stop him, simply turning back to an interesting book he found with a dismissive wave. “Go. Not my problem.”

*** 

Asher crept quietly down the hall, pausing at Otto’s door. The priest had been unusually absent, and now that Asher thought about it, he had never actually seen Otto leave his room that day past lunch. The door was slightly ajar, the dim moonlight inside casting long shadows across the floor.

He pushed it open cautiously, his heart skipping a beat when he found Otto slumped at his desk, face buried in his arms. A half-empty bottle of liquor sat beside him, its contents spilled across the surface. 

The priest was out cold, either drunk or exhausted, and Asher couldn’t shake a looming fear, shaking it off as the poor weather.

He had no intention of waking Otto. Instead, he pressed on, his mind buzzing with anticipation. 

His instincts—something he couldn’t quite explain—led him straight to the floorboards. He stepped lightly, avoiding the creaky spots with a near-perfect accuracy that felt oddly... natural.

Every step was calculated, deliberate. He wasn’t thinking, just moving . His body seemed to know exactly which floorboards would give him away and which wouldn’t. The downward staircase was just ahead.

Asher paused, his hand on the railing. The staircase itself was a narrow, dark thing, leading to a door that looked out of place—oddly ornate for the utilitarian steampunk style of the rest of the church. There was a strange symbol carved into the wood, the emblem of the God of Steam and Machinery. It seemed to glow faintly in the dim light, casting eerie shadows across the stone walls.

With a quiet sigh, Asher continued down, heart pounding as the door loomed before him. He reached for the handle, only to realize there was no handle—just a physical lock that looked old, but secure.

Without thinking, his hand moved to the floorboards beneath him, pushing aside the loose slats as if guided by something beyond his conscious mind. There, nestled between the boards, was a key—rusty and worn, but it fit perfectly into the lock.

The door creaked open, its hinges groaning in protest. Asher stepped inside, the basement stretching out before him in shadowy silence. His eyes immediately went to the rows of cages lining the walls—each one containing strange, unsettling objects. Some were mechanical, others... organic in a way that made his stomach twist.

Directly in front of him was a stuffed bear, its eyes wide and glassy, its fur worn with age. There was something about it that made Asher’s skin crawl.

But as he stepped closer to inspect it, the world seemed to shift beneath him. His body no longer felt like his own.

He tried to move, but it was as if he were being moved by the bear itself.

The moment he reached out to touch it, the air seemed to freeze, the basement holding its breath.

The bear’s eyes locked onto his, and he felt his limbs twitch involuntarily, as though something was pulling the strings.

I can't move, I can't even scream!

Something was in control now.

The frigid air wrapped around him, oppressive and unyielding, as his hands reached for the key still resting in the lock.

The rusty metal scraped against his palm as his fingers curled around it. Asher’s mind screamed for control, but his body obeyed only the bear. 

Slowly, deliberately, he withdrew the key and turned it in his grip.

No, no, no...

His arm rose, the key's jagged edge glinting faintly in the dim light. The tip hovered just inches from his neck, the pressure building in his hand as though the bear itself willed him forward. Asher could feel the cold bite of the metal against his skin, drawing a thin line of blood.

The sound of hurried footsteps broke through the suffocating silence, accompanied by a frantic voice he could vaguely understand a few words of.

"Goddamnit Asher, ϸϷϻϴϺϮϷϸϴz!"

In a blur, Otto descended the staircase, his robes billowing behind him. The priest’s weathered hands seized Asher by the shoulders, yanking him back with a force that sent him stumbling onto the staircase away from the bear. 

The door slammed, the key clattered to the ground, and the invisible strings binding Asher seemed to snap.

Asher gasped, his chest heaving as he regained control of his limbs. The throbbing in his neck was sharp but shallow, the wound thankfully minor.

Behind them, a low, resonant banging began to reverberate through the room. Asher turned, his heart sinking as he saw the bear—no longer lifeless. Its spectral form, a translucent and ghostly visage, strained against the confines of the basement door. The straining grew louder, more erratic, as the bear lunged again and again, only to be pulled back by some unseen force. 

It was as though a shimmering, ethereal net held the creature at bay, but the tension in the air suggested it wouldn't hold for long.

Otto moved with purpose, stepping between Asher and the door. He raised a trembling hand gripping a triangular symbol, his voice steady despite the chaos.

“Embodiment of Essence,

Guardian of Craftsmen,

Brilliance of Technology,”

The symbol carved into the door began to glow, its light pulsing with each word Otto spoke. The banging grew more desperate, the spectral bear thrashing violently against the barrier.

" (unintelligible) you, seal this gate!" Otto shouted, his voice carrying a force that resonated deep within the stone walls.

The glowing symbol flared brightly, blinding Asher for a moment. When the light subsided, the knocking ceased. Silence enveloped the basement, broken only by the sound of Asher's ragged breathing.

Otto turned to him, his face pale but resolute. "You are a fool, Asher," he said, his tone harsh yet laced with concern.

"You should have stayed away. These forces are not to be trifled with."

Asher swallowed hard, his legs trembling beneath him. "What was that?"

Otto didn’t answer immediately, his gaze lingering on the now-sealed door. “A sealed artifact… artifact  2-53, similar to your magic stick”

The priest’s expression darkened, and for the first time, Asher saw genuine regret and fear in Otto’s eyes.

"Come," Otto said, pulling Asher out of the stairway. 

"We will speak no more of this tonight. But you will listen to me, boy. The basement is forbidden. Do you understand?"

Asher nodded, too shaken to argue. As they ascended the stairs, he cast one last glance over his shoulder. 

The basement door stood ominously still, the glowing symbol faint but present.

And somewhere deep within, Asher thought he could hear a faint, rhythmic knocking—like the heartbeat of something waiting, biding its time.

Chapter Text

The sharp, medicinal tang of alcohol lingered in the air, stinging Asher's nose as he sat on the edge of his bed. His hand rested lightly against the gauze wrapped snugly around his neck, the faint dampness betraying its recent dousing. With his other hand, he traced the coarse stitching of the blanket beneath him, his fingers moving in a restless rhythm as he tried to make sense of everything.

Kaspar was sprawled out on their bed across the room, tinkering with a small, intricate device in their hands. The soft clink of tools was soothing in its familiarity, a steady backdrop to the storm raging outside. 

Snow battered the window panes, the howling wind a constant reminder of the harsh world beyond their fragile shelter.

Kaspar paused, goggles shifting downward to eye Asher. 

“Why? You don't sleep? Neck hurt? You think of basement now?”

“I don’t know,” Asher muttered, shaking his head. “Something about it... it’s stuck in my mind. I can’t stop thinking about what happened.”

Kaspar tilted their head, clearly trying to read him. “You still scared, yes? Or curious? Maybe both? Otto explain tomorrow. He explain... better than me.”

Asher frowned, frustration bubbling up despite his exhaustion. 

“You’ve been here long enough. You know something. Can’t you just tell me what this supernatural stuff even is?”

Kaspar gave a half-hearted shrug, reaching for the small device they’d been working on.

“Not my thing. Too much magic, too much trouble. I stick to machines. No ghost, no curse. Easy life, yes?”

"Easy," Asher echoed sarcastically, brushing a hand against his neck. "You mean just ignore it and hope it goes away?"

Kaspar smirked faintly, their fingers deftly twisting a piece of wire. "If it work, then yes. But for you... no sleep, no calm. Head full of noise. Maybe I help, yes?"

Asher sighed, lowering his hands to his lap. “Help how?”

Kaspar held up the half-finished mixer, its gears faintly glinting in the low light. “I explain! Good distraction. You listen, not think about bear or blood.”

And so Kaspar launched into their explanation, voice animated as they described the mixer in disjointed but enthusiastic phrases. The clinking of tools and the occasional dramatic hand gesture punctuated their words, drawing Asher’s focus away from the storm in his mind.

The blizzard outside wailed, but Kaspar’s voice softened its edge, the warmth of their enthusiasm pulling Asher closer to sleep. The mixer’s mechanics blended into the snow’s rhythm, and Asher’s head dipped, finally succumbing to the pull of rest.

***

The blood-red moon hung low in the sky, its surface veined with dark cracks like an injured heart. 

It loomed over a barren wasteland, casting everything in hues of scarlet and shadow. 

Blood and pus oozed up with each step, seeping through cracks in the ground. 

A distant howl echoed—a deep, guttural sound that resonated in his chest. 

He turned to look for its source, but the horizon was empty except for the moon, growing larger and larger as it bore down on him.

The howl morphed into a whisper. It spoke no words, only feelings: hunger, pain, rage. 

The shadows stretched toward him, 

Seeing his right arm disappear.

***

Asher moved sluggishly through his morning routine, his body still heavy with fatigue. The dorm room felt emptier with Kaspar still asleep, sprawled across their bed with an arm dangling off the side.

In the small shared kitchen, he rummaged through the sparse pantry. The options were dismal: a few potatoes, a heel of bread, and a small slab of butter that looked like it had seen better days. 

With a resigned sigh, he boiled the potatoes and fried up thin slices of bread in the butter.

The aroma of frying bread filled the dorm, but Asher’s mood didn’t lift. He stared out the window as he ate, watching the snow-coated streets begin to stir with life. Despite the weather, a handful of people were braving the cold to make their way to Otto’s sermon.

The sight of the small crowd gave him pause. Yesterday, the church had been nearly empty, the storm keeping most people away. Today, however, a modest group had gathered, their movements slow and deliberate, as if the cold had seeped into their very bones.

***

Otto’s voice carried through the church, his sermon subdued compared to his usual fiery energy. The priest’s face was pale, and the bags under his eyes gave him a haunted look.

His words were no less eloquent, but the exhaustion was evident in the slight tremor of his hands as he gestured.

Asher sat in one of the back pews, letting the droning sermon wash over him. His gaze drifted across the congregation, settling on Samantha Grubs near the back. She was bundled in thick, practical layers, her sharp eyes scanning the room. 

When her gaze met Otto’s, she gave him a small nod, her expression tinged with pity.

Why is she here?

Samantha rarely attended church, and seeing her in the congregation felt as out of place as the uncharacteristic sympathy in her eyes.

***

By midday, the snow had tapered off into a light dusting, and the church was quiet once more. Kaspar, for once, had little to do—no broken machines, no minor repairs to keep them busy. Instead, they hauled out the worn Feysac textbooks and set them on the table.

“Today,” Kaspar declared, “we study much. You learn lots. No escaping, yes?”

As the last echoes of Otto's sermon faded, the heavy wooden doors of the church creaked open, signaling the end of another mass. 

Kaspar was already gathering the Feysac textbooks, muttering under their breath about something they’d been meaning to fix, but Otto’s presence suddenly loomed beside them.

"Kaspar, out," Otto said abruptly, his tone colder than usual. The sharp command made Kaspar pause, then sigh in a long, exaggerated fashion before scooping up their things and slinking out of the room. 

The door clicked shut behind them, leaving the two alone.

Otto, his eyes carrying a distant, worn look, didn’t take a seat across from Asher right away. Instead, he reached into his robe and pulled out the stick Asher had seen him with earlier.

He held it in his hands for a moment, inspecting it before offering it to Asher. 

It looks almost exactly like the one I gave him before—same size, just a little smoother, newer?

He hesitated for a moment, as if weighing his words. Then, his voice broke the silence, low and deliberate.
“Let’s start with the basics. We’re Beyonders—individuals who’ve consumed potions. It changes us, fundamentally, in ways most people can’t even begin to comprehend.”

Asher shifted uncomfortably, still uncertain about the full scope of what he was hearing. He rubbed the gauze on his neck absently, recalling the strange way he came into this world, infused with an unfamiliar power.

Otto noticed the movement but didn’t comment, instead continuing. “There are 9 sequences, from 1 to 9. I’m an Artisan, Sequence 6. We’re craftsmen—creators of both ordinary and mystical objects. We can forge items that transcend the limits of the world’s material nature. That very stick you’re holding? Sealed by this power.”

Fiddling with a wrench Kaspar had accidentally left on the table, Otto added, “Kaspar is a Sequence 9 Savant, a lower sequence of my pathway. Their knowledge of mysticism and mechanics is vast—almost unnervingly so. They have near-perfect recall of every piece of information they’ve ever encountered. If you needed to understand how a machine works, they could explain it to you with unnerving clarity.”

Asher nodded slowly, his brow furrowing. He could see Kaspar’s personality fitting that description well enough.

“So how do you get from Sequence 9 to 6?”

Kaspar, almost laughing at himself, responded, “You wait. As you live as a Beyonder, you become more in-tune and adept at using the power until you realize there’s no more progress to be made.”

He leaned back in his chair, his tone shifting with a certain bitterness. 

“Then you fork over every ounce of money you’ve ever saved—or sell your soul to the devil—just to make it to the next Sequence.”

Confused, Asher asked, “What do you mean by that?”

Kaspar grinned in a way that sent an odd chill through the room. He gauged Asher’s reaction before adding, “A Sequence 9 potion alone costs the Church 1000 gold hoorns.”

Asher blinked, stunned by the staggering sum. "A thousand gold hoorns?" he echoed, his voice catching in disbelief. He shifted the stick Otto had handed him, as if the weight of it had suddenly become more apparent. "That's... insane. For a sequence that's—what? Just the lowest?"

Otto's eyes narrowed, his gaze sharp and cold. "It's not just 'the lowest.' A Sequence 9 is a cost in both resources and reality itself. You're not just paying in gold, you're paying with the core of your being. The moment you reach the bottom of the ladder, you are already far beyond what any normal human can comprehend. You become... something else entirely." He paused for a moment, then added, “Something that can’t even die in the conventional way.”

Asher blinked in confusion, trying to wrap his mind around the meaning behind Otto’s words. "What do you mean by that? You can’t just die?"

Otto’s gaze turned distant, like he was reliving something unpleasant. "When a Beyonder dies they don’t just fade away. No. They often become objects ... infused with fragments of their powers. It’s like their essence—what made them them—gets transferred into something else, something that can still serve a purpose. But it’s not the same."

Asher shuddered, the thought of becoming some kind of... object was deeply unsettling. "So, they just turn into things? What kind of things?"

"Anything," Otto replied, his voice dark. "Usually something related to their Pathway, but not always. It’s not a clean process. Take this stick, for instance." He motioned toward the object in Asher's hand, which now felt heavier with the weight of Otto's words. "This was once a Sequence 9 Planter . A person who specialized in physical strength, weather prediction, and farming. The stick you're holding is infused with some of their powers. Its original owner was someone who could enhance their physical abilities, someone who had mastery over the earth—growing crops, predicting storms, and understanding the land. But now?" Otto paused, as if the next part was hard to speak. "Now, it’s just a remnant . A fragment of what was once a person. It’s not the same. Not even close."

Asher’s grip on the stick tightened. It still felt alive in his hands, but now it seemed as though the very fibers of the wood were pulsating with a strange, forgotten power. "So... this stick is just a piece of someone who... died?"

Otto’s eyes darkened, and he leaned back in his chair, his fingers tapping the surface of the table rhythmically as he spoke. "No, Asher. There’s nothing left of the person who was once a Beyonder. It’s not just the body that dies—it’s the soul, too. When a Beyonder dies, their essence dissolves into the world, but they are no longer the individual they once were. What you hold now in your hands is just a piece of that power, a fragment that still serves a function, but it’s devoid of the spirit that once gave it life."

He motioned toward the stick again, his voice growing more detached. "This thing—it simply enhances your physical strength. It doesn’t come close to what a real Planter could do. It might make you a little stronger, but it doesn’t touch their depths. Even then it carries a cost."

Asher felt a shiver run down his spine, the weight of the stick seeming to grow even heavier in his hands. "A cost?"

Otto nodded, his gaze unwavering. "Yes. You won’t feel things like lust while you’re wielding it. It’s not just a side effect—drawbacks are a part of what happens when someone dies and their power lingers like this."

“I emphasize this not just to let you know about the Beyonder characteristics, but because the bear down there is different .”

Chapter Text

Otto sat behind his desk, his hands clasped tightly as if holding back the weight of his thoughts. Before him, Asher leaned forward, his attention sharp despite the ache in his neck and the heaviness in his limbs. Otto’s voice, low and measured, broke the silence.

“You’ve heard of spirits—ghosts, wraiths, shadows. But do you know what an evil spirit truly is?”

Asher shook his head, and Otto exhaled slowly, as if bracing himself. “Evil spirits are the most dangerous of their kind. While shadows and wraiths are born of fleeting emotions—vengeance, injustice, loss—evil spirits are the remnants of something far more profound. They are often what remains of High Sequence Beyonders after death.”

He leaned back in his chair, his gaze distant. “When a High Sequence Beyonder dies, their soul undergoes a mutation. Their psyche, infused with divinity and immense power, may persist long after their body has failed. If their will remains unbroken—if they carry obsession, hatred, or… some unresolved desire—they become something that defies natural order.”

Otto paused, his voice growing heavier. “These spirits linger, drawing strength from the spirit world or the Underworld, corrupting their surroundings to sustain themselves. Most are bound to their place of death, but given enough time and power, they can escape—often by possessing the living. Ordinary humans rarely survive such possession; their bodies are drained of spirituality and warmth in moments.”

Asher shivered, the memory of the spectral bear flashing in his mind. “So... the bear... it’s one of these spirits?”

Otto’s jaw tightened, and he hesitated. His usual sternness gave way to something softer—something wounded. “Sort of,” he admitted. “The bear is a sealed artifact, yes. But unlike most, it holds... an evil spirit.”

Otto’s hands gripped the edge of the desk as though anchoring himself. “The spirit is that of an old colleague. A friend, once. Before the madness consumed her.”

His words faltered, and for a moment, the weight of his grief threatened to overwhelm him. He looked away, his eyes glistening in the dim light. “I don’t want to burden you with an old bat’s foolish tale,” he said finally, his voice rough. “It’s not something you need to carry.”

Asher opened his mouth to press further, but Otto raised a hand, cutting him off. “No more questions about the bear. Not now.” His tone was firm, though the cracks in his resolve were evident.

***

After taking a moment to collect himself, Otto continued, his voice steadier but still tinged with weariness.

“I hope that clarifies some of what you saw with the bear yesterday. We keep artifacts with... complications like that one down in the basement for safekeeping.”

He paused, his gaze briefly drifting toward the door as if he could still sense the presence of what lay below. “As for the truly dangerous ones—the kind that could threaten an entire city or even a nation—those are secured in the main cathedrals. I’d be surprised if even a deity could breach those vaults.”

After a moment of lampooning, he shifted his attention fully to Asher. “But enough about artifacts for now. We should talk about you.”

“Me?” Asher asked, startled. His pulse quickened as Otto’s dark eyes seemed to weigh him, studying him as though searching for something hidden just below the surface.

“Yes. Your Sequence. You’re most likely  a Sequence 9 of the Fate pathway, referred to—rather bluntly—as a Monster.” Otto allowed the word to hang in the air before continuing. “It’s a pathway I’m not particularly familiar with. I’ve only met a Sequence 7 of your pathway once, decades ago. They were called a Lucky One.”

“What were they like?” Asher asked, leaning forward, curious.

Otto’s lips pressed into a thin line, as though the memory wasn’t one he particularly enjoyed revisiting. “Let’s just say they had a talent for making things work out in their favor. They could gamble away a fortune and still walk away a winner. But their luck... it was erratic, unpredictable. It wasn’t something they could depend on, and when it failed them—” He stopped, shaking his head. “That’s a story for another day.”

Asher frowned. “And a Sequence 9? A Monster? What does that mean?”

Otto leaned back, rubbing his temples as if trying to summon details from the recesses of his mind. “I don’t know much, only fragments of information and speculation. But I can tell you this: your pathway is deeply tied to fate, probability, and luck. At Sequence 9, a Monster begins to sense the threads of destiny, though they may not understand what they’re seeing or feeling.”

He began ticking off points on his fingers. “You’ve likely experienced prophetic dreams—vague, cryptic visions of the future. If interpreted correctly, they can guide you to favorable outcomes. But more often than not, they’re riddles, frustrating and incomplete.”

Asher’s heart skipped. The blood-red moon from his dream flashed in his memory, its fractured surface vivid and unsettling. He nodded slowly but didn’t interrupt.

“You’ll also notice a heightened sense of intuition,” Otto continued. “Monsters are said to instinctively navigate danger, avoid traps, and uncover hidden things—a needle in a hay stack, an escape route in a dire moment. It’s a combination of the Spirit World and River of Fate.”

“That doesn’t sound so bad,” Asher said cautiously.

“Perhaps not,” Otto admitted. “But there’s more. At pivotal moments, you may experience debilitating headaches or even black out briefly. In those moments, you’ll utter cryptic mutterings—warnings, insights, or fragments of the near future. These words can be significant, but they come at a cost of leaving you paralyzed, thus vulnerable.”

Asher shifted uncomfortably. The memory of collapsing in the library and muttering about a doll flashed in his mind. “That’s already happened,” he murmured.

Otto’s expression darkened, his gaze sharpening. “Then you’ve already begun tapping into the pathway’s potential. But your abilities come with risks. A Monster’s heightened spirituality is a double-edged sword. It lets you perceive the unseen—spirits, mystical auras, even the emotions of those around you—but without proper control, it can overwhelm you.”

Asher felt a shiver run down his spine. “So... what am I supposed to do?”

Otto sighed, leaning forward. “Learn. Observe. Survive. You’re at the very bottom of a dangerous ladder, and every step forward demands sacrifice. You’ll need guidance—guidance I can offer only in part, as this is not my path to walk. Kaspar might be of some help; their intuition for machines shares similarities with the cryptic nature of your abilities. But tread carefully. Fate is fickle, and fate does not take kindly to arrogance.”

Breaking the weight of the moment, Asher yawned, which seemed to pull Otto back into the present. 

With a faint chuckle, Otto said, “The last lesson for today is Spirit Vision.”

He leaned forward slightly, his tone shifting to one of quiet intensity. “You’ll start noticing the spiritual auras of people and objects. These auras reflect their emotional state, health, and vitality. As your vision sharpens with practice, you’ll begin to see these spiritual signatures more clearly. But it’s not automatic—it takes focus. You’ll need to separate these auras from the physical distractions around you.”

Asher nodded thoughtfully, trying to absorb the meaning of Otto’s words. “So... it’s like seeing a hidden world?”

“Exactly,” Otto said, his voice gaining a trace of enthusiasm. “You’ll see beneath the surface, a world layered over the physical one. With enough training, you may even be able to sense the past and future.”

Asher’s curiosity piqued, but Otto’s expression grew more serious as he leaned closer. “But be careful, Asher. The stronger your spirituality grows, the clearer your vision will become. Without control, it can overwhelm you. And you... you have a great deal of spirituality. It will come with its own challenges.”

Asher felt a weight settle on his shoulders, but there was also a strange sense of potential. “How do I start?”

Otto’s voice softened, guiding him step by step. “First, calm your mind. Take slow, deep breaths, and clear away all distractions. Focus only on the present moment, then focus on one thing— something that doesn’t exist. Be it a day without financial burden or a collage of multiple objects. Don’t rush. Let the vision come to you.”

Asher closed his eyes briefly, taking in a slow breath and exhaling just as deliberately. He allowed the world to quiet around him, focusing on his own inner rhythm.

The air in the room felt different, thicker somehow, and he could sense a faint pulse in the world around him—a strange but subtle energy, like the whisper of something just out of reach.

Otto’s voice broke the silence. “Good. Now, expand your focus. Don’t force it. In time, you’ll begin to see the outlines of those auras, like halos surrounding everything.”

Asher followed Otto’s instructions, his mind stretching beyond the confines of his body. Slowly, the world around him began to shift. At first, the change was almost imperceptible—until it flashed. Even with his eyes closed, the entire room seemed to pulse with unseen life.

It was overwhelming.

The auras were everywhere, constantly shifting and overlapping. Asher felt a tightness in his head, a dull ache creeping up his skull as the flood of sensations overwhelmed him. His eyes darted around, seeking something to anchor him, but the sheer volume of the spiritual world was too much to bear.

Focus. Focus on just one thing amidst the thousands.

He turned his attention to Otto, grounding himself in the one steady presence in this storm of lights and colors. Slowly, the chaos started to settle. He saw a slurry of colors representing Otto’s emotions.

But then something caught his eye—a strange, greenish glow beneath Otto’s mechanical arm. It was as if the veins themselves pulsed with a life force, an eerie, faint green glow that seemed to be alive, stretching and contracting as though it were breathing.

The headache grew more intense, as if the pain was a consequence of seeing something too intricate. But Otto’s voice sliced through the overwhelming sensation.

 “Focus, Asher. Control your vision.”

Asher squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, grounding himself again, feeling Otto tap his forehead. 

He then opened his eyes slowly.

The overwhelming flood of colors and energy began to recede, retreating into the background. Otto’s mechanical arm was just a normal, solid thing again, its once-vibrant aura now invisible.

“That was... a lot,” Asher said, his voice breathless, the strain still fresh in his mind. “It’s like... switching it on and off.”

Otto’s faint smile returned, and he nodded with approval. “Exactly. With time and practice, you’ll learn to control it—when to see, when to shut it out. But it’s not something to rush.”

“Well done,” Otto added quietly, his voice filled with quiet pride. Asher wasn’t sure whether the compliment was for his skill or Otto’s teaching, but either way, it felt reassuring.

Chapter Text

A fractured dream, memories of Earth flashing like dying embers—ruined cities, torn skies, faces that can’t be placed.

The dream slips away, leaving only an empty darkness, thick with an unshakable sense of loss.

Suddenly, there is a road of light, stretching endlessly into an inky void, with no past to follow.

Behind, only an oppressive darkness, where no trace of light can be found—fear grips the mind.

The light beneath urges forward, though there is no clear destination.

As the path stretches on, it begins to split—first into two intertwining paths, then three, winding together and apart in a dizzying dance.

Chapter 17: A Spark

Asher woke up, the soft light of morning filtering through the window, but something felt different. His neck, which had been aching for days, was barely sore anymore. In fact, it was fully gone—a few days faster than projected. He stretched, rolling his shoulders and massaging the spot where the pain had lingered. It seemed almost too good to be true, but as his hand moved along the muscle, he felt no sharp twinges.

Huh… must be this Beyonder thing.

It had been a week since he’d started adjusting to his new abilities. The dreams had become more vivid, the intuitive sense of things more precise, and though the process was still strange, he was getting the hang of it.

Feysac wasn’t exactly unfamiliar with stories of Beyonders; tales of knights who could shatter boulders and priests who invoked blessings with a single word were whispered in bars and to children. Yet, for the average person, those tales remained just that—stories. Rarely did anyone actually meet a Beyonder, let alone become one.

Asher couldn’t decide if that made his situation cooler or more isolating.

“Morning, Kaspar,” Asher called, getting dressed for the day.

Kaspar didn’t look up from their workbench, busy slotting a gear into place. “Ah, Asher! Morning, morning. You cook today, yes? No disaster?”

“I hope not,” Asher replied with a grin before hopping over to the kitchen.

The kitchen had become his own small domain, a place of focus amidst the chaos of the church.

A sudden flutter broke the silence, and Asher looked up just in time to see a bat flitting around the kitchen, its wings buzzing aimlessly. Without hesitation, he darted to the window, quickly yanking it open in an attempt to usher the creature outside.

After a few frantic moments, Asher watched as the bat finally zipped through the opening and into the morning air. “It’s gone,” he said, closing the window behind it with a satisfied nod, shaking his head in amusement.

Shaking off the brief distraction, Asher refocused on the task at hand. Today, he was determined to step up his cooking game. He started with pork, the cheapest meat, carefully searing the meat until its rich aroma filled the kitchen. Alongside it, he prepared an assortment of vegetables—some familiar, some strange, but all full of potential.

As the pork roasted, Asher turned to the ingredients he’d grown to know all too well: the sweet nut and the powdered red root. Mixing a small pinch of the red root powder with roasted then crushed nuts, he brewed a drink that filled the air with a warm, spiced fragrance. It was an unusual combination, but somehow, it worked—rich and subtly sweet, with a delicate bite from the root.

By the time the meal was ready, everything had come together. The pork was tender, the vegetables crisp, and the nut-root drink was surprisingly comforting, balancing the richness of the dish. He set the table with a sense of quiet satisfaction, eager to see Kaspar and Otto’s reaction.

Asher set the table, the rich aroma of pork and roasted vegetables filling the room. Kaspar, as usual, was already at the table, eagerly eyeing the meal. Otto, ever the creature of habit, entered a moment later, silently moving to his seat as he muttered a quiet prayer, his ritual before every meal.

Kaspar dug in immediately, making an enthusiastic noise of approval. “Good, good! No disaster today, yes!” he exclaimed, the joy in his voice unmistakable.

Otto, as always, took his time, his lips barely moving as he chewed slowly, savoring the flavors. Asher watched, anticipating the usual silence from the older man, but instead, Otto set down his fork, his gaze thoughtful.

“It’s rare that a meal both grounds and elevates,” Otto said, his voice smooth and measured. “The pork is tender, the vegetables crisp—unexpected, considering the local produce. And the drink…” He paused, a trace of surprise crossing his face, “A peculiar balance. The sweetness of the nut, tempered by the bite of the root. Unusual. Yet, it works remarkably well.”

Asher blinked, taken aback. Otto’s rarely shared thoughts were always deliberate, articulate, and often cryptic, but hearing him offer such a thoughtful, direct compliment was a first.

Kaspar let out a laugh. “Otto spoke! You hear, Asher? Food really good!” they teased, clearly thrilled in Asher’s stead.

Asher sat back, still processing Otto’s unexpected compliment. It wasn’t every day that the usually reserved man voiced an opinion, let alone a compliment, so it took a moment to sink in. 

With a slight grin, Asher realized Otto’s words had struck a chord.

Otto, clearly uncomfortable with the attention, muttered under his breath, “Please stop looking at me like that.”

Asher’s grin widened slightly. “Guess I did alright,” he muttered to himself, ignoring Otto’s comment, and finally dug in, savoring the flavors.

***

Asher had spent days adjusting to the strange new dimension his spirit vision revealed, a skill he was still learning to control. Now, he could invoke it with only a dull ache pressing against his temples, though the sight itself still unnerved him.

The world seen through spirit vision was utterly unlike the one Asher had always known. Colors bled together in ways that defied logic, textures rippled and shifted in impossible patterns, and living beings glimmered with an otherworldly luminescence. Most auras were faint and unremarkable—a dim haze clinging to their forms, reminiscent of fog on a damp morning.

Each aura shimmered with a spectrum of subtle hues, as if the colors mirrored the emotions coursing through their owners. Shades of joy, anger, fear, and sorrow wove together in delicate, ever-changing patterns. 

Those burdened by illness or injury carried an additional mark—a faint ember of black that lingered within their glow.

Kaspar’s aura had been one of the first to truly catch Asher’s attention. It gleamed with an intricate silver light, like clockwork mechanisms illuminated by moonlight. The precision of it was unnerving, as though every piece of their being fit into some grand design. Kaspar’s aura felt cold, detached, yet undeniably alive in its methodical brilliance.

Otto’s, in contrast, was a tempest of energy. The silvery glow radiating from him was wild and overwhelming, shifting in ways that seemed to defy Asher’s understanding of form or function. It was a force of nature, vast and unrelenting, and standing near him under spirit vision felt like staring into the eye of a storm.

Samantha’s aura, though, was unlike either of theirs. It burned with a burgeoning red flame, raw and untamed, flickering as if stoked by some inner conflict. It seemed to radiate an illusory heat, carrying a sense of indomitable will and passion. 

A wandering priest of the Eternal Blazing Sun carried another unique aura. Under his spirit vision, a graceful, golden flame surrounded the man, steady and restrained, flickering with a quiet rhythm. Unlike the raw intensity of others’ auras, his flame exuded a soothing warmth, like the first light of dawn after a long night.

Samantha’s fire, as impressive as it was, paled in comparison to what he had seen on another occasion. A man with perfectly styled blonde hair had gone the direction of Samantha’s home a few days prior, his aura unmistakably similar to hers but far more intense. 

His flame wasn’t burgeoning but roaring, a raging inferno of power and authority that seemed to claim dominion over everything around it. It was blinding, suffocating in its brilliance, and where Samantha’s aura burned with sincerity and resilience, his carried an overwhelming sense of self-assurance, confidence, and dominance.

The encounter had left Asher unsettled. Something about the man’s presence didn’t sit right with him.

The next day, he noticed a subtle shift in Samantha’s own flame—its red glow flickered with streaks of black, shadowed by what he could only describe as frustration or anger. He hadn’t dared to ask her about it, though the change lingered in his mind like an itch he couldn’t scratch.

Asher still didn’t fully understand what he was seeing or why, but the more he explored this new perspective, the clearer it became that auras weren’t just passive reflections of a person’s being. They told a story, revealed pieces of someone’s essence in ways words couldn’t. 

***

The market buzzed with its usual blend of chatter and clamor, the air thick with the mingling scents of fresh produce, baking bread, and the abhorrent wolf-fish scent wafting from the fishmonger’s stall. Asher moved between the booths with practiced ease, exchanging coins for goods and navigating the familiar faces of vendors and townsfolk alike.

“Morning, Asher,” a wiry old man from the bakery called, tossing him a loaf of bread wrapped in paper. “Careful with the crust; it’s sharper than your tongue today!”

Asher smirked, catching the bread mid-air. “Thanks for the warning, Alrik. I’ll be sure not to bite too hard.”

He continued on, weaving between the crowded stalls, offering polite nods and the occasional wave to passing townsfolk. The errand was largely routine, but there was comfort in its predictability, a rare moment of normalcy in his increasingly unusual life.

At the butcher’s stall, the familiar hulking figure of Olaf waved him over, his broad face set with an unusual grimness. “Oi, Asher. A word?”

Curious, Asher stepped closer, his arms already laden with goods. “What’s up, Olaf?”

The butcher leaned over the counter, his voice low despite the noise around them. “It’s about my wife… You know she’s been sick a while, yeah?”

Asher nodded. He’d overheard bits and pieces about her condition in passing but had never pried.

“Well, a few days back, I found her on our front stoop,” Olaf continued, his voice heavy. “Anorexic, pale as death, barely breathin’. Like she’d dragged herself there from the grave. Took her straight to the ward in town, but she’s not woken since. The doctors—bah, they’re useless! They don’t know what’s wrong, only that she’s alive… for now.”

Asher felt a pang of sympathy for the man. Olaf was a gruff, no-nonsense type, but the worry etched into his features betrayed the depth of his concern.

“What can I do?” Asher asked, though he already suspected the answer.

“Tell Otto,” Olaf said, his tone pleading. “Maybe he can… I don’t know, pray over her or something? Anything. The ward’s not far; he could visit tomorrow.”

“I’ll let him know,” Asher promised, his voice steady.

“Thank you,” Olaf murmured, his usual bravado subdued. He handed Asher a wrapped package of salted meat. “Here. For the church.”

Asher nodded, accepting the offering before turning back toward the church.

***

The walk back was uneventful, save for a few idle exchanges with passing townsfolk. By the time Asher returned, the sun had dipped lower, casting long shadows over the churchyard. He found Otto seated in the main hall, flipping through a worn tome by the dim light of a single candle.

“Otto,” Asher called, setting the groceries on a nearby table. “Olaf asked me to tell you about his wife. She’s in the ward—been there since he found her half-dead on their doorstep. He’s hoping you might visit her tomorrow.”

Otto paused, his gaze lingering on the book for a moment before he closed it with a heavy sigh. “The butcher’s wife… I see.” His expression darkened briefly, the faintest trace of worry flashing across his face before he pushed it away.

“I’ll go,” he said at last, his tone firm. “First thing in the morning, before Kaspar or you stir.”

Asher nodded, relieved. “Thanks. Olaf seemed pretty desperate.”

Otto waved a hand dismissively, his gaze affixed to the text. 

“Desperation often seeks the divine. I’ll do what I can.”

Chapter Text

The dimly lit chamber was thick with tension. Six figures sat around the heavy wooden table, their faces shadowed by the flickering candlelight, the air heavy with an unspoken urgency. The recent death of Velior had sent ripples through the Fate Council, and now they were grappling with the aftermath.

"Velior’s death from the Aurora Order has been a blow," Thaddeus said, his voice rough with frustration. "But the real issue is their apprentice. The 'artificial vampire'— Sequence 7 of the Moon Pathway lost control and went missing. If the Sanguines find out, this will be more than a political nightmare. It'll be our heads."

Nyx leaned forward, her sharp eyes scanning the group. "The Sanguines are already on edge. If they find out we've had one of their kind—an 'artificial vampire'—we won’t just be dealing with them."

There was silence as the gravity of their situation settled over the room. The eyes of the councilors met, each one weighing the cost of their next move.

Finally, Orin spoke, his voice low but carrying an eerie certainty. "There’s an out."

Everyone turned to him, an air of disbelief hanging in the room. "An out?" Althea’s voice was tinged with skepticism. "And what do you propose?"

Orin’s lips curled into a cold, calculating smile. "The Primordial Moon."

The moment the name left Orin's lips, the room was flooded with a sickly crimson moonlight, as if the very air shifted in response.

Beside him, another council member, a tall woman with sharp features, matched his intensity. Her hand slid beneath her cloak, drawing out an orb of darkness, crackling with energy as though it was being shaped into something weaponized.

“What’s the use in pretending?” Orin spat, his voice rising. “The president’s been gone for months, and now we’re left in the dark! No, we’re too close to unraveling the truth, and the Primordial Moon is our guiding light!”

At his words, the other members, seated across the table, shot up from their seats. Firearms gleamed in their hands, and they aimed them at Orin and his companion, their eyes burning with resolve.

Without warning, the room erupted into chaos. Gunfire, darkness, and shouting filled the air.

***

In the kitchen, the shepherd’s pie he’d prepared the night before was ready for its final touch. Asher just had to heat the dish, his eyes drifting to the fresh cut on his finger. He hissed softly, flexing it. 

The damn sweet nut had fought back when he tried to crack it open earlier, the shell slipping and nicking him with just enough force to draw blood.

Otto entered a moment later from his trip to the hospital, his movements precise as ever. He sat down without a word, murmured a quiet prayer, and began eating.

Kaspar, ever the chatterbox, was the first to speak, eyeing Otto. “So? We like, yes? Good food?”

Otto set his fork down, his sharp eyes glancing at Asher. 

“It’s… acceptable,” his tone carrying a grudging approval.

With Kaspars endless enthusiasm he smiled, staring at Asher. “Otto say, ‘Great job!’”

Asher grinned, though his amusement faded as Otto’s gaze lingered on his bandaged finger. “What happened there?” Otto asked, his voice calm but probing.

Asher glanced down at his hand. “Just cut myself on one of those nuts this morning. They’re tougher than they look.”

Otto’s expression darkened slightly. “Be more careful. Blood is valuable, Asher. Many Beyonders can use it to craft curses, bindings, or other unnatural things. Leaving it behind—intentionally or not—can be a risk.”

Asher rolled his eyes at Otto’s words. “I mean, sure, I’ll be careful. But why would I want to be wounded in the first place?”

Otto gave him a long, unreadable look before returning to his meal. “See that you remember,” he said simply.

Asher chewed on Otto’s advice—both literally and figuratively—as he ate. 

Once the meal was finished, Otto cleared his throat to address them. “After lunch, you and Kaspar will head to the hospital. They need extra hands.”

Asher blinked, caught off guard. “Why the hospital?”

Otto replied, his tone firm. “You’ll learn some useful skills. I’ve already made the arrangements.”

Kaspar perked up, though their enthusiasm seemed tempered. “You stay?”

“Yes,” Otto said, adding with a note of finality, “Bring the music box with you.”

The mention of the music box shifted the atmosphere in the room. Kaspar’s usual energy dimmed, replaced by something more subdued. “Box! You sure?”

Otto nodded. “Please contact me if anything goes awry.”

***

Asher finished packing, folding his clothes into a neatly organized suitcase. Across the room, Kaspar was less meticulous, shoving clothes and odd trinkets into their bag with reckless abandon.

Asher’s attention lingered on the small, ornate box Kaspar was carefully tucking away. Its intricate carvings shimmered faintly in the dim light, a hint of mystery clinging to its surface.

“What’s with the box?” Asher asked, raising an eyebrow.

Kaspar’s head shot up, their eyes gleaming with excitement. “Music box! Special. For Otto.” They cranked an invisible handle with one hand for emphasis. “You crank, make cloud. Can’t see cloud—no, need spirit vision. Cloud listens. Takes words to Otto.”

Asher squinted, trying to parse the explanation. “So, it’s like… a phone?”

Kaspar tilted their head, their expression puzzled. “Phone? What… phone?”

“It’s a thing people use to talk to someone far away,” Asher explained, gesturing vaguely.

Kaspar’s face brightened. “Yes! Yes, that. Like phone! But better. Cooler. Spirit-y.”

“Of course,” Asher muttered under his breath. 

Kaspar’s explanations always seemed to raise more questions than they answered.

***

Asher and Kaspar strolled through town, their suitcases in hand. Vendors greeted them warmly, and townsfolk called out with curiosity.

“Off somewhere, Asher?” the butcher’s son asked as he unloaded a cart.

“We're gonna check up on your mother,” Asher replied, offering a polite nod.

Kaspar added with a grin, “Big trip! Exciting!”

Asher ignored the comment, their mismatched pace leading them down a quieter street. Suddenly, Kaspar stopped abruptly.

“Wait. You stay here,” Kaspar said, their tone unusually serious.

“What are you—”

“Back soon!” Kaspar interrupted before darting into a narrow alley.

He craned his neck, trying to catch a glimpse of Kaspar, who had vanished into the narrow alley moments earlier.

The street was quiet here, the market’s lively hum reduced to a faint murmur in the distance. Asher’s impatience grew with every second.

“Kaspar, what are you doing in there?” he muttered, glancing around.

From his angle, he could see only Kaspar’s silhouette, shifting as they spoke with someone further in the shadows. A familiar hunched figure—dirty and indistinct—loomed just out of clear sight. 

Their muffled voices didn’t carry far enough for Asher to make out the words, though Kaspar’s occasional gestures, animated as always, were unmistakable.

Asher frowned, leaning forward slightly. Kaspar extended their hand, and the shadowy figure passed something small and metallic into their grasp.

A sudden glint of light caught Asher’s eye, reflecting off whatever Kaspar was holding. 

Is that… a gun?

A few more seconds passed before Kaspar finally emerged, grinning ear to ear and swinging their suitcase as though nothing unusual had occurred.

“Back!” Kaspar announced cheerfully, walking up to him.

“What was that about?” Asher demanded, glancing toward the alley.

“Friend,” Kaspar replied cryptically, brushing off the question.

Asher’s gaze dropped to their hand, where the faint outline of a pistol was just visible before Kaspar slipped it into their coat pocket.

“What’s that then?”

“Gift,” Kaspar said, as if it explained everything.

“From that sketchy homeless man?”

Kaspar shrugged, their tone unconcerned. “Best friend. Good man. No coins needed.”

Asher raised an eyebrow, his unease deepening. “And you just… took it?”

Kaspar grinned, seemingly oblivious to the bloodied streaks faintly visible on the weapon’s handle. “For me. Perfect match!”

“You can’t just—” Asher started, but Kaspar waved him off, already rambling about the gun’s features in their disjointed, excited manner.

“It’s old. Strong! Bite still sharp. Lovely barrel—perfect shape, see?” Kaspar mimed holding the gun up. Thankfully they didn’t draw it again before terrifying any nearby passersby.

Asher shook his head, too tired to press the issue further. “Right. Just… keep that thing away from me.”

Kaspar laughed, their suitcase swinging as they resumed walking. “Safe hands! Best place, yes?”

“Sure,” Asher muttered under his breath, falling into step behind them.

As Asher and Kaspar continued down the road, the buildings of the town gradually began to thin, their once neat facades giving way to more weathered structures. The quality of the cobblestone beneath their feet began to deteriorate, the smooth stones replaced by cracked patches and uneven surfaces as the road slowly turned to dirt.

A sudden clattering sound interrupted the quiet, and a hurried carriage thundered past them, its wheels kicking up dust and gravel. The horses, frothing at the mouth, strained with all their might, their muscles trembling with exertion as they sped by. Blood dripped from the carriage’s door, splattering across the dirt road as the terrified driver whipped the horses relentlessly.

Asher’s gaze lingered on the chaotic scene for a moment before he turned away, uneasy. The frantic pace of the carriage contrasted sharply with the peaceful rhythm of the nearby wilderness.

In the distance, the road twisted around a bend, and there, looming on the horizon like a grand monument, was the hospital. The three-story building was imposing, its brickwork aged but still grand, rising up from the uneven path like a dark sentinel guarding the town’s edge. 

Despite the sun, casting long shadows that seemed to stretch unnaturally, the building held an almost eerie, yet ornate, presence—its walls etched with designs that whispered of wealth and power, even in their decay.

It stood there, silently waiting, as Asher and Kaspar approached, the tension in the air palpable as they neared the hospital.

Chapter Text

As Asher and Kaspar entered the hospital's bustling hallway. Overcome with a foul stench, a stream of blood made its way up the stairs.

The head nurse, a tall woman with a sharp gaze and a stern air about her, looked them over with a mixture of curiosity and judgment. She quickly shifted from her duties to address them.

"Ah, you must be Otto’s apprentices," she said, inspecting them closely. "I was informed that followers of the God of Steam and Machinery had arrived."

Asher paused, unsure how to respond. He wasn’t a priest, and he wasn’t entirely sure he believed in the God of Machinery that Otto and Kaspar followed. But before he could speak, the nurse continued.

"Now, I ask for your patience. Some of the people here..." She faltered for a moment, glancing around as if searching for the right words. "Many of them come from factories. They’re sick from poor conditions, or they’ve been injured in accidents and lost their jobs as a result. Some of them are bitter towards the God of Steam and Machinery. They’ve seen the cost of progress firsthand, and they’re not always kind to the ones who worship that god or follow ‘His’ teachings."

She looked pityingly at the rows of people maimed or ailing throughout. “It can be difficult for some of them to reconcile their suffering with the idea of machinery and industry as a divine blessing.”

Kaspar grinned, his voice light and nonchalant. "It's whatever." He shrugged as though the words were no more than a passing breeze. "Follow the machine, eh? We all do, one way or another."

Asher shot Kaspar a glance, still unsure about the whole situation. Kaspar leaned closer, lowering his voice just enough for Asher to hear. "I know, I know. No belief. But just follow along, eh? ‘S what I do. Easy."

Asher muttered something that sounded like a reluctant thanks, but before he could say anything else, a loud, angry yell echoed from above, followed by the sound of frantic footsteps.

The nurse’s eyes flicked toward the stairs. "Wait here. I’ll be back in a moment."

She quickly ascended the stairs, leaving Asher and Kaspar in the hallway. They exchanged glances, and after a moment, both of them followed.

***

Upstairs, the scene was chaotic. Two wealthy individuals—clearly out of place in the hospital's stark, utilitarian corridors—argued heatedly with the staff. Their fine clothes and expensive jewelry were a sharp contrast to the rough surroundings. Between them, a servant stood holding a young girl in his arms, her skin pale, her face twisted with pain as an arrow jutted from her chest.

The nurse was trying to reason with the couple, but her words were lost in the heated exchange.

"She needs the room to herself!" the father bellowed, his face flushed with indignation. "She’s the only one that matters here. The rest of them can wait!"

His wife, standing next to him, added with an icy sneer, "These filthy workers can’t be in the same space as my daughter. Do you know who we are? We fund this place!"

The servant shifted uneasily, clearly uncomfortable with the tension but holding the young girl tightly as the wound threatened to worsen.

"Time is critical!" the head nurse insisted, her voice sharp.

"You can’t just demand a room while your daughter is losing blood."

But the father, now ignoring his daughter’s condition entirely, raised his voice again, this time even more venomous. "We’ll withdraw our funding. Do you think you can run this place without our support?" He glanced over his shoulder, as if dismissing the nurse’s concerns like an inconvenient fly.

Kaspar, standing just behind Asher, grimaced at the scene, his voice a low whisper. "So much noise, so much… annoying."

Asher’s gaze flicked between the girl’s injury and the increasingly tense argument. His discomfort grew as he watched the entitled parents tear into the staff, all while their daughter bled out in the servant's arms.

"They don’t even realize they're killing her, do they?" Asher muttered under his breath.

Kaspar’s answer was matter-of-fact, almost bemused. "Nope. Not really. Money good for stuff, not brains."

Asher’s eyes locked on the girl, heart pounding. He couldn’t just stand by and let them continue like this. 

His Spirit Vision told him everything he needed to know: if the arguing didn’t stop soon, she wouldn’t make it.

The father’s shouting reached a fever pitch as he raged against the staff.

“You can’t just take her onto those shit-stained boards you call beds!” The father’s voice cracked with frustration, his face nearly purple with rage. “We’re funding this whole place! You owe us a private room!”

The nurse opened her mouth to respond, but it was clear she was losing the fight. The arguments were getting louder, more disconnected from reality.

Asher’s mind raced.

Spirit Vision helps, but it doesn’t do anything if I can’t help stitch a wound or magically heal them. 

Nor does this have anything to do with a crimson moon or path of light. 

Intuition can probably help, but what can I even use it for here?

If only I could remember how to treat a wound like Kaspar...

Kaspar!?

In a burst of inspiration, Asher whispered urgently to his right. 

“I’ve got this, just help her alongside the nurses.”

With a mildly confused nod of acknowledgement, Kaspar began weaving his way through the small crowd toward the girl.

Asher stepped forward in front of the small crowd. “Excuse me, Your Highnesses,” he began, his voice loud enough to cut through the shouting. “But could you maybe take a moment to notice the fact that your daughter is bleeding out in front of you?”

The father turned to him, his face contorted with rage. “Who do you think you are, interrupting me? This is none of your concern!”

“Oh, it’s definitely my concern,” Asher shot back, his voice laced with mock cheer. “See, I’ve got this awful habit of not staying quiet when people act like total idiots.”

The father spluttered. “You—how dare you—”

“And that jacket,” Asher interrupted, pointing at the man’s shiny coat. “What is it, made of gold threads? Reflecting your wealth back at all us poor folk? Very subtle.”

The man’s face reddened further. “You insolent little—”

“Meanwhile,” Asher continued, ignoring him, “your daughter’s over there, about to die because you’re too busy playing dress-up and shouting about your status.”

The mother turned on him, her eyes blazing. “You have no idea who you’re speaking to. Do you think a nobody like you could ever—”

“Save it,” Asher cut in, his tone sharpening. “You want to throw insults? Go ahead. But it won’t change the fact that while you’re busy defending your pride, the doctors and nurses are the only ones trying to save your daughter’s life.”

Asher’s voice dropped, his words slower now. “Look, I get it. You’re scared. You’re worried about losing her. But this isn’t helping. Let them just do their job.”

Behind him, Kaspar had already moved to assist the nurse. While Asher kept the parents distracted, Kaspar worked quickly, extracting the arrow with steady hands under the nurse’s clear instructions. 

He moved seamlessly into suturing the wound, his focus unwavering despite the tense atmosphere.

The father’s voice began to falter as the weight of Asher’s words sank in. His gaze shifted to the blood-soaked bench his daughter had been forced to lie on due to his own antics. 

His eyes lingered there, shame etched into his features, before moving to Kaspar and the nurse, who continued working with calm precision.

When Kaspar finally stepped back, wiping his hands on a rag, the tension in the room broke. The mother’s shoulders sagged, and the father took a shaky step toward his daughter, who was now stable, though still pale.

The mother’s voice was quiet, almost a whisper. “Thank you,” she said, her eyes moving from the nurse to Asher. “I… I’m sorry for what we said.”

The father nodded, his expression heavy with guilt. “We were… overwhelmed.”

Asher crossed his arms, his voice firm but measured. “Don’t thank me. Thank the nurses you were arguing with, the ones who worked alongside Kaspar to save your daughter. If it weren’t for their patience and skill, we wouldn’t even be having this conversation.”

The mother blinked, looking toward the nurse who had held her ground earlier. Her lips trembled as she stepped forward. “You’re right. I—thank you. I don’t know how to repay you.”

The nurse gave a wry smile, the corners of her mouth twitching. “Well,” she said dryly, “we do accept apologies in installments. And maybe a little less yelling next time.”

The father hesitated, his cheeks flushing, then bowed his head. “I’m sorry for our behavior. It was inexcusable.”

The father hesitated for a moment, then reached into his coat and pulled out a thick wad of notes, quickly selecting a 10-pound note before handing it to the head nurse. 

"For your trouble," he said stiffly, his voice carrying an edge of forced gratitude.

A 10-pound note?  

That’s one hell of a tip, even for saving a life.

Otto would probably be salivating if he were here to see this.

The nurse took the note with a polite nod, her stern demeanor softening just a touch. 

"Thank you," she said, although the way she said it made it clear that it wasn’t about the money—it was the principle of the gesture.

The parents, now visibly exhausted, exchanged one last glance over their daughter's unconscious form, then turned to leave. The father’s shoulders were stiff, but his steps were slower, more deliberate now, as if the weight of the situation had finally begun to settle on him.

"Keep her company, will you?" the father called to the servant, who nodded quickly and moved to sit by the young girl’s side.

As the parents finally departed, their tension lingering in the air, the room felt quieter, more settled. The head nurse finished cleaning up, her movements deliberate and efficient. Asher stood nearby, admiring her quiet strength.

“Hey,” he said, stepping closer. “You did great. I don’t think she would’ve made it if it weren’t for you.”

The nurse glanced up, eyebrows raised. There was something soft in her gaze now, though she kept it professional. "We do what we can. But I’m not the only one who kept that girl alive," she said, looking pointedly at Kaspar, who was still standing near the door, tinkering with a small contraption. "You’re the one who worked that magic."

Kaspar shifted uncomfortably at the attention. His usual nonchalance faltered, his cheeks flushing a bit. “Uh, first time I’ve, uh, done that… not much to it, really. Just... hands work, y’know?”

The nurse studied him for a moment, clearly impressed. “First time? Then we’ve got a superman on our hands. Not many would have done the extraction and suturing that quickly—apart from me, of course,” she added, a hint of pride in her voice. "We could use hands like yours around here."

Kaspar shifted his feet awkwardly, looking down. "It’s just... follow the steps, yeah? Not too hard."

Asher chuckled quietly at the scene, watching Kaspar squirm in embarrassment. He couldn’t help but feel a flicker of pride. Kaspar, the reluctant hero, had just saved a life without even breaking a sweat.

The nurse turned her attention back to Asher. “Don’t think I forgot about you. Thanks for helping to calm them down. It’s been a long day, and she probably wouldn’t have made it through that without you.”

Asher grinned, feeling a bit of warmth at the compliment. “No worries, I barely broke a sweat.”

Her tone lightened, but there was a playful challenge in her voice. “Then it’d be a shame to let someone who barely breaks a sweat just stand around, wouldn’t it?”

Asher chuckled again, the weight of the day momentarily lifting, but then it dawned on him.

This day is going to be a long one.

Chapter Text

The morning after the chaotic events at the hospital, Asher and Kaspar found themselves in a quieter section of the building. The hallway was less frantic now, though there were still plenty of people moving, their faces lined with exhaustion and concern. 

The clatter of metal trays and the low murmur of medical staff filled the air as they passed rooms filled with workers injured in the factories or plagued by illness.

They were led to a small staff area, noticeably calmer than the wards. The beds were more neatly arranged, and the scent of antiseptic was almost overpowering in its sterility. Kaspar stretched, his movements languid, clearly more comfortable with the change in atmosphere. 

Asher, however, couldn’t shake the feeling that there was always something urgent lingering just beneath the surface—an unspoken hum of tension that the staff didn’t let show.

A nurse caught their attention as she walked past, nodding at them in recognition. Asher was still adjusting to the nature of their presence in the hospital—he had expected to simply observe, but being a fake spiritual guide was surprisingly exhausting.

I expected this place to be full of cold efficiency, but the exhaustion hanging in the air feels more... human than I anticipated.

Though he was tasked with praying for patients, Kaspar was the only one truly religious, making their heartfelt shows of faith awkward to endure.

He reached the ward where the young girl from the previous day was recovering. She lay in a bed, looking even smaller and paler than before, an array of tubes connected to her arms and chest. Her pale face was now flushed with the effects of the transfusion, the blood from her father circulating in a desperate attempt to save her life.

Asher’s gaze lingered on her for a moment before he noticed the movement around her—nurses adjusting machinery, checking vitals, their faces drawn with concern. Her father, who had been so imperious the day before, stood quietly at her bedside now, his expression one of quiet guilt. His eyes rarely left her, but he didn’t speak. He merely stood there, an imposing figure whose wealth and status seemed meaningless now.

Asher tapped his forehead subtly, letting his vision blur and shift, watching as the world around him pulsed in faint colors and shapes. Illness and injury stood out as dark splotches here and twisting patches there. The darkness overtaking her body was receding, replaced by a sprouting vibrance—her aura stabilizing.

Asher studied her aura for a moment, but something in his peripheral vision caught his eye. He turned his focus to a middle-aged man, who appeared to be struggling with chest pain. Asher’s gaze shifted to the man’s chest, where dark energy swirled in an unsettling way.

With little else to do, they could always use their spirit vision to help the undiagnosed.

The nurse, already engaged with the patient, didn’t seem to notice. Asher cleared his throat and spoke up casually. “Don’t heart patients sometimes end up with stomach issues, too? This guy’s been talking about something growing in his stomach.”

The nurse glanced at him, mildly distracted. “Just stress, probably. He’s a little older. Probably indigestion or gas.”

Asher shrugged, undeterred. “Sure, maybe. But I’ve seen it happen—heart issues can sometimes mask other problems, like appendicitis or a twist in the intestines. Could be more than just indigestion.”

Asher was about to turn back when the nurse, clearly irritated, gave him a sharp glance. “Mind your damn business, alright?” she snapped, her voice carrying a hint of exhaustion. "I'm just trying to do my job."

Asher raised his hands in mock surrender. “Just offering some advice,” he said, shrugging nonchalantly. "Wouldn't want the guy to get worse if I’m right."

The nurse, her patience worn thin, glanced around for an escape from the argument. “Fine, fine. I’ll go see the doctor. But only if you stop rambling.”

She turned away, muttering something under her breath, clearly not pleased but unwilling to argue further. Asher watched her go, his eyes flicking between the man, the nurse, and the growing blackness in his intestines.

***

Asher noticed a young boy sitting on a freshly cleaned bench, his pale face and anxious posture immediately catching his attention. The child’s vacant stare suggested more than simple nervousness. Asher crouched down in front of him, offering a smile, though the boy barely seemed to register his presence.

There’s something off about him. Something I can’t ignore.  

Asher turned on his Spirit Vision, the flickering black splotch near the child’s temples confirming his suspicions.

He stood up, motioning to a nearby nurse who was passing by. “This kid’s acting a lot like my cousin did when he was younger,” Asher said, keeping his tone casual. “He had a really bad episode once—headaches, dizziness, zoned out. Sometimes he’d lash out, like he didn’t even know what was happening.”

The nurse walked over, eyeing the boy’s blank stare and twitching hands.

“You’re probably overthinking it,” she said, though there was a slight uncertainty in her voice. “Kids can get anxious sometimes, especially in strange environments.”

Asher didn’t back down. “Yeah, sure, but my cousin wasn’t just anxious. His body would... react. He couldn’t control it. He’d get violent when the pain was too much, and afterward, he couldn’t even remember half of what happened.” He took a slow breath, then added, “The symptoms match. This kid’s definitely got something going on.”

The nurse paused, studying the boy’s distant expression. Asher’s persistence had an effect, and she crouched down beside the child, gently feeling for his pulse. After a moment, her expression shifted, and she looked back at Asher, more intrigued than annoyed.

The nurse studied the boy for a moment, her expression thoughtful. “This behavior isn’t typical. It could be inflammation of the brain, or even a severe infection. Children can sometimes act out when their brain isn’t functioning normally, especially if there’s swelling or pressure.”

Her expression shifted to mild skepticism, though she didn’t dismiss him outright. “There may very well be something to what you’re saying. Kids can be unpredictable, and these things don’t always look like we expect them to.” She paused, her voice taking on a more professional tone. “I’ll check with the doctor. We’ll see what they say and get a proper diagnosis.”

***

Asher wandered through the hospital’s quieter hallways, the weight of the whispered conversations lingering in the air. 

He couldn’t help but notice the nurses and doctors stealing glances in his direction, their voices hushed when they thought he wasn’t paying attention. There was something about it that felt off, like the atmosphere had shifted ever so slightly. He couldn’t put his finger on it, but he knew he’d become the subject of some hushed discussions.

Ignoring the uneasy feeling, Asher found himself in another patient room, a place he hadn’t intended to visit but had somehow drifted toward. The elderly man lying in the bed was visibly uncomfortable, his face pale, and his leg oddly swollen. Asher’s instincts kicked in, and without thinking, he moved closer, examining the situation with quiet scrutiny.

The nurse, busy with the charts at the end of the bed, didn’t seem to notice him at first. Asher’s eyes flicked back to the man’s leg, where the swelling seemed to be spreading in an unnatural way. Something about it didn’t sit right with him.

"Hey," Asher said casually, his voice level but with a tinge of uncertainty, "that swelling's a bit strange, right? It seems like it’s spreading a little too quickly. Could be something more than just a bruise or sprain."

The nurse didn't seem to acknowledge the possibility at first, continuing with her task. But then, just as Asher began to turn away, she raised her eyes to meet his. There was a subtle shift in her expression, a change he hadn’t anticipated. Something in her posture straightened, almost as if she had suddenly become more alert, more attentive.

“Thank you for pointing that out,” she said, her tone warmer than Asher had expected, tinged with a note of respect he hadn’t asked for. “We’ll make sure to inform the doctor immediately. It’s good that you noticed.”

Asher blinked, thrown off guard. He had expected the usual polite brush-off or at best, a distracted acknowledgment. But her response was different—she treated his comment like it was a senior physician offering valuable input.

He glanced over at her again, unsure of what to make of it. "Oh, uh, sure, no problem," he muttered, scratching the back of his neck. "I just figured it might be worth looking into."

He glanced down at the elderly man again, his mind still trying to comprehend the situation. The nurse was already moving away, heading toward the doctor’s office, her every step marked with purpose. 

Asher was left standing at the foot of the bed, a little aloof, still piecing together what had just happened.

Chapter Text

Kaspar had, in his own cryptic way, quickly become part of the hospital staff.

It had been just over 24 hours since they’d arrived, yet Kaspar already seemed to belong. His quick learning and vast knowledge made him an invaluable asset to the overworked staff. Whether assisting in procedures or offering prayers to the God of Steam and Machinery, Kaspar’s presence was everywhere.

When they first arrived, the staff had eyed him warily—his odd speech and devotion to a controversial deity clashed with many traditional workers. Some mocked him, calling his prayers blasphemous, while patients, especially those who mistrusted his god, verbally attacked him.

But something had changed. His unorthodox efforts were paying off. His prayers comforted those in need, and the staff, initially skeptical, now sought his help more often. Kaspar had become, almost unnoticed, a fixture in the chaos, and the verbal assaults had slowed. Even some nurses treated him with respect, seeing him as a valuable ally.

Meanwhile, Asher took a more passive role, often observing rather than contributing. He tried to help when he could, but he preferred to stay in the background.

While wandering, nearly getting body-checked by a doctor, Asher found himself outside the room of the man with intestinal issues.

Peering inside, he saw the man sitting up, pale but calm. The man looked up as Asher stepped in, recognition flickering across his tired face.

"Hey," Asher said casually, leaning against the doorway. "How’s it going?"

The man gave a weak chuckle, voice hoarse but steady. "A little better now that they figured out what’s wrong. You’re the one who kept telling the nurse to check me out, right?"

Asher shrugged and moved closer. "Yeah. Glad they listened."

The man nodded, expression softening. "I owe you for that. Name’s Alex, by the way."

"Asher," he replied with a faint smile, leaning against the bedframe. "So, what’d they say?"

Alex’s face fell, but he kept his tone steady. "Cancer. Lower intestines, they think. They’re prepping me for surgery soon. Doc said… if they hadn’t caught it, it could’ve gone bad fast."

Asher let out a low whistle, running a hand through his hair. "Damn. At least they caught it in time."

"Yeah." Alex hesitated, glancing at Asher with a mix of gratitude and nervousness. "Your eyes make you seem a spiritual man. Or at least, you’re with that guy who is. Think you could… I don’t know… pray for me? For the surgery?"

Caught off guard, Asher shifted on his feet. He wasn’t the religious one—that was Kaspar—but he couldn’t bring himself to say no. He nodded, voice softer. "Yeah, of course. I’ll say one for you."

Alex’s smile returned, faint but genuine. "Thanks, Asher. I mean it."

Awkwardly, Asher stood by the bed, closed his eyes, and mumbled something that barely resembled a prayer. His words tumbled out, a mix of vague sentiments about health and strength, ending with a clumsy motion of tracing a triangle over his chest.

Alex watched him with a flicker of amusement but said nothing, holding back a chuckle as Asher opened his eyes.

"Thanks," Alex said again, voice steady but kind.

Asher gave a small nod, patting the bedframe before stepping back into the hallway. He couldn’t shake the feeling he’d embarrassed himself—but at least he seemed to have lifted Alex’s spirits.

*** 

The faint hum of activity filled the hospital as Asher stepped into a quieter room. The boy with the brain inflammation lay there, his small chest rising and falling steadily. 

A nurse nearby whispered updates to a colleague, mentioning the use of ether to sedate the child and a bark-based anti-inflammatory to ease the swelling. The boy’s pale face was calm now, a stark contrast to the earlier vacant terrified stare that had unnerved Asher.

He watched for a moment, letting the quiet serenity of the scene settle over him. At least here, something seemed to be going right. 

The tension in the air was momentarily replaced by a sense of fragile peace.

***

A few rooms away, Kaspar knelt by the bedside of a woman with a heavily bandaged arm, his hands clasped together as he murmured a prayer. His fragmented words flowed softly, his odd cadence almost melodic as he called upon the God of Steam and Machinery to grant the woman strength and healing. A faint clatter of metal trays echoed in the distance, but the room itself remained still—save for the man across from him.

“You’re wasting your breath,” the man barked, his voice sharp and biting. He sat hunched on a neighboring cot, his face drawn with pain but his scorn cutting through the room like a blade. “That mechanical blasphemy you call a god won’t help anyone here. This isn’t a factory.”

Kaspar didn’t respond, his focus unwavering as he continued to pray. The murmurs of other patients grew louder, some shifting uncomfortably while others glared at the man.

“Shut it, will you?” an older woman across the room snapped, her stern tone silencing the murmurs. “Let him do what he needs to. It’s not hurting you.”

A younger man chimed in, his voice steady but firm. “He’s been helping more than most of us could. If he wants to pray, let him.”

The dissenting man scowled but said no more, his head turning away as if to block out the sight of Kaspar. For his part, Kaspar remained composed, his fragmented words flowing uninterrupted. 

Yet, there was a tension in his posture—a slight hunch to his shoulders, a flicker of something vulnerable in his usually unreadable expression.

***

In another corner of the hospital, Asher stood by the bedside of the elderly man with the swollen leg. The man’s condition had deteriorated rapidly—his skin was pallid, and his breathing came in shallow gasps. The swelling had darkened, spreading up his leg with alarming speed. Asher tapped his forehead again, his Spirit Vision activating, but it offered little comfort. The swirling blackness was thicker now, almost suffocating in its intensity.

He clenched his fists, frustration bubbling within him. For all his newfound abilities, he felt useless in the face of this. He couldn’t diagnose the man, couldn’t ease his pain, couldn’t halt the encroaching darkness.

Kaspar appeared at his side, kneeling without a word. He placed a hand gently on the man’s shoulder, his fragmented prayer beginning anew. The cadence of his voice was steady, the words carrying a strange warmth despite their disjointed nature.

Asher hesitated, glancing between Kaspar and the elderly man. Finally, he sank to his knees beside them, clasping his hands together awkwardly. 

He wasn’t sure what to say, wasn’t even sure he believed in what he was doing, but the weight of the moment compelled him.

His prayer was clumsy, stumbling over words as he tried to emulate Kaspar’s calmness. Yet, even as he fumbled, there was sincerity in his tone—a desperate wish for the man to find relief, for his suffering to ease.

The man stirred faintly, his eyes fluttering open for a brief moment. His gaze landed on Kaspar and Asher, a flicker of gratitude crossing his face before exhaustion pulled him back under.

Asher exhaled slowly, his hands trembling as he let them fall to his sides. He felt small, powerless against the enormity of the suffering around him. 

But in that moment, kneeling beside Kaspar, he found a strange solace in the act of prayer—a beautiful sense of relief for patients even if he himself didn’t fully buy it.

***

Asher slumped into the rickety wooden chair, the weight of the day pressing down on him. 

The coma unit he found himself in was thick with the stench of unwashed linens. 

To his right, the butcher’s wife lay on a narrow cot, her frail body swallowed by a tangle of blankets. Her skin was stretched tight over sharp cheekbones, and her breath came in labored, wheezing bursts—each one a struggle for life.

Across the room, Kaspar knelt at the bedside of another patient, his gaunt figure outlined in the dim light of an oil lamp. His hands were clasped in prayer, but his shoulders sagged, betraying his exhaustion. 

Slowly, his head drooped lower and lower until it came to rest against the edge of the bed. The proto-priest had fallen asleep mid-prayer, still gripping the patient’s hand.

The room was still, save for the occasional creak of his chair and the rasp of the butcher’s wife’s breath. 

Asher fought to stay alert, but his thoughts wandered to tomorrow—the church, its machines, the comforting rhythm of routine. The thought lulled him into a haze, and before he realized it, his eyelids fluttered shut.

***

The blood-red moon hung low in the sky, its surface veined with dark cracks like an injured heart. 

It loomed over a barren wasteland, casting everything in hues of scarlet and shadow. 

Blood and pus oozed up with each step, seeping through cracks in the ground. 

A distant howl echoed—a deep, guttural sound that resonated in his chest. 

He turned to look for its source, but the horizon was empty except for the moon, growing larger and larger as it bore down on him.

The howl morphed into a whisper. It spoke no words, only feelings: hunger, pain, rage. 

The shadows stretched toward him, 

Seeing his right arm disappear.

***

Asher woke with a violent start, his breath ragged and his chest heaving. The room was suffocatingly still, the pale glow of moonlight slicing through the darkness like a cold blade. His eyes darted to the right—Kaspar remained hunched in prayer, and the butcher's wife lay motionless, her labored breathing unchanged.

Then, his gaze snapped to the window.

There, perched like a grotesque gargoyle, was a figure bathed in the sickly moonlight. Its skin was deathly pale, marred by pulsating tumors that oozed pus down its emaciated frame.

Its eyes glowed a faint, malevolent red, cutting through the gloom with an unnerving intensity. 

The creature’s face was skeletal, with sharp, angular features and lips twisted into an unnaturally thin grin, revealing long, jagged teeth. Without a sound, it slipped through the window, its movements fluid and unnatural, landing with a soft thud beside the frail man lying unconscious in bed.

Asher’s gaze snapped to the patient. His chest rose and fell in shallow, labored breaths, oblivious to the horror now looming over him. The creature hovered above him, its eyes fixed intently on the helpless figure.

A low, guttural sound rumbled from the creature's throat—a mix of a growl and a whisper—as if it was savoring some heavenly scent. Its head tilted slightly, and Asher could have sworn he saw a glimmer of saliva dripping from its lips, thick and viscous, falling to the floor with deadly silence.

The creature’s form rippled unnervingly as it leaned closer, inch by inch. Its sharp teeth gleamed, elongating in the dim light, the promise of something darker than hunger lingering in its movements. 

Asher’s instincts screamed at him to move, to act—but he was frozen, paralyzed by an icy terror as the creature loomed closer, lowering its grotesque form over the frail man.

Chapter Text

Asher’s heart hammered in his chest, and cold sweat slicked his skin. The creature—a twisted vampire—hung over the unconscious man, its grotesque pale skin glowing eerily under the full moon’s light. Its red eyes glinted with predatory hunger, fixed on the frail man’s shallow breaths. The stillness in the room was suffocating, punctuated only by the occasional rasp of the man’s breath, who remained unaware of the horror stalking beside his bed.

Asher’s thoughts raced, each more frantic than the last:

What if I just let it happen? What if I walk away and leave him to die?

But even as his mind led towards the idea, he knew he couldn’t.

No matter who this man was, I can’t just stand by and let this creature claim a life.

I won't let anyone die when I can stop it!

“Hey shit-bag, get the fuck away from that man!”

The monster’s head slowly turned toward him, its grin wide and sickening. It hissed, showing off jagged teeth, claws flexing in anticipation. Asher could feel its hunger in the air—thick, toxic, and suffocating.

He wasn’t a fighter. He’d never been one to engage in combat, but he couldn’t abandon a life in the balance.

His eyes darted across the room, landing on the stick propped against the wall. It wasn’t much, but it was all he had. He grabbed it quickly, feeling the weight of it settle into his hands. Solid. Heavier than expected. As he gripped it, a strange surge of strength flooded his body, a raw power emanating from the very wood itself.

It was as if the stick gave him something— not just strength but a sense of confidence.

He held it in front of him, trembling, but steady. “Hey, what’s wrong, McFly? Chicken?!”

The creature hissed, and in an instant, it lunged.

Asher barely had time to react. The vampire’s claws slashed toward him with terrifying speed. He swung the stick up just in time, meeting the strike with a force he hadn’t known he possessed. The stick groaned under the impact, splinters cracking from the pressure, but it held firm.

The vampire let out an animalistic growl, its claws digging into the wood, tearing through it with unnatural strength. Asher grit his teeth, pushing back, but the creature didn’t relent. It twisted, dragging its claws across the stick, splintering it further. His arms burned with effort as he fought to hold the line, but he could feel the wood weakening with every second.

“Kaspar!” Asher shouted, his voice cracking. “Wake up! Please!”

Kaspar stirred in the corner, blinking in confusion. He rubbed his face, eyes half-lidded as he took in the chaos around him. His gaze locked onto the vampire, and his face drained of color.

For a moment, he seemed frozen—too stunned to react. Then, his eyes met Asher’s, and the urgency in Asher’s voice seemed to pierce through his fog.

“Gods… Monster?” Kaspar whispered, his voice shaking.

“We don’t have time for this!” Asher’s voice cracked again, his frustration clear. “Help me, Kaspar!”

Kaspar’s eyes flicked wildly around the room, his panic rising. His hands fumbled, finally settling on the gun he’d acquired earlier. He clumsily aimed it at the vampire, but in his haste, he pulled the trigger—and heard only an empty click.

“Damn barrel… barrel no bite!” Kaspar swore, cursing as he tossed the useless weapon aside.

In desperation, he reached into his satchel and pulled out several of his mechanical creatures—the clockwork animals meant for amusement. With a quick flick of his wrist, he hurled them at the vampire.

The tiny automatons skittered and buzzed around the vampire’s feet dancing with a harmonious hum. 

The vampire screeched, swiping at them with terrifying speed. Its claws tore through them with ease, smashing through metal and gears, leaving nothing but shattered pieces scattered on the floor.

Kaspar’s face twisted with grief. “Carla, Fred… nonononononono...” he muttered, his words coming in jagged bursts, overcome with emotion..

The vampire’s attention snapped back to Asher. Its glowing red eyes narrowed, and with a sickening hiss, it lunged again, claws extended, its mouth opening to reveal razor sharp, jagged fangs.

Asher stepped forward, tightening his grip on the stick, the surge of strength still coursing through his body. “Fucking bastard,” he spat, voice trembling with determination. “We have no choice but to fight.”

Kaspar’s face faltered, his eyes wide with terror. “Asher, no—this madness!”

But Asher didn’t waver. He wasn’t going to let this thing hurt another soul.

The vampire struck in a blur of movement. Its claws tore through the air, slashing across Asher’s side. 

Pain bloomed instantly, sharp and biting. His shirt shredded as its claws left bloody tracks along his skin. The pain was intense but manageable. He gritted his teeth, refusing to buckle, and raised the stick once more to block the next strike.

The vampire paused, its eyes scanning the bloodied wound. It sniffed the air, its red eyes widening with hunger. A sickening glee spread across its face as it stepped closer, its anticipation palpable. The air around them thickened with its hunger.

Euphoria.

Asher saw it in the vampire’s twisted expression, the unholy joy as it prepared to feast.

Terrified, Kaspar clutched the music box Otto had given them. The once charming trinket now felt like a fragile thread connecting him to sanity. His hands shook as he held it tight against his chest.

“Sorry… I sorry, Asher…” Kaspar’s voice broke, thin and ragged as he turned toward the door, his feet faltering with each step. “I can’t— I can’t…”

His words trailed off as he fumbled with the music box, his trembling fingers turning the crank on the side. Its faint melody filled the silence, but it was clear the song wasn’t meant to calm the situation. 

The room seemed to gain an invisible presence with this action.  

“Otto… get… get here... come... it… emergency... need... now…”

His voice was a broken plea, wrapped in a rhythm too erratic to follow. He pressed the music box harder to his chest and bolted for the door, running for salvation.

Asher barely registered the words before the air around him seemed to freeze. 

The shadows deepened, and a terrible pressure bore down on the room. Kaspar was halfway to the door when the vampire reacted. From the darkness, a shadowy shackle shot out, chains snapping with lightning speed. They wrapped around Kaspar’s legs before he could react.

The vampire’s wings—formed of swirling darkness—unfurled in an explosion of movement. It was too fast, too powerful. As Kaspar lifted his hand, trying to defend himself, the vampire was upon him.

In an instant, it tore through Kaspar’s hand with a sickening crunch, severing it with brutal precision. Kaspar screamed, a sharp, agonized sound that echoed in the air. The music box fell from his grasp, tumbling to the floor, its faint melody stopping abruptly as if silenced by the carnage.

Asher’s stomach churned, his mind racing in panic as Kaspar crumpled to the floor, clutching his bleeding wrist. His eyes were wide, filled with disbelief and raw agony. The vampire stood over him, grinning with twisted delight, savoring the destruction it had wrought.

And Asher—helpless, terrified, and unable to do anything to stop it—was left with the crushing realization that things were spiraling well beyond his control.

Chapter Text

Kaspar’s scream ripped through the air as he stared at the bloody stump where his hand had been. He clutched at the wound instinctively, blood pooling around him as his breathing turned shallow and frantic. 

The vampire’s claws held Kaspar’s severed hand over its mouth as if savoring a fine wine. With a sickening crunch, it devoured the appendage, licking its lips as though relishing the foul feast.

His voice was shrill with agony, the sound reverberating through the chamber like a dirge. Blood gushed from his wrist in rhythmic pulses. 

He collapsed to the floor, clutching the stump, his face ashen. 

Tears streamed down his cheeks, but behind the agony flickered a stubborn defiance. Gritting his teeth, he refused to give in.

Asher’s breath hitched, a cold wave of horror crashing over him as he watched the gruesome spectacle. His side throbbed with the wound he’d taken earlier, but the sight of Kaspar’s blood loss drowned his own pain. 

My mind is fading, but I can’t just stand here. 

I have to do something. Anything.

Desperate, Asher smeared his bloodied fingers across his side and hurled the crimson streak at the vampire. The blood splashed across its pale skin, and for a moment, the creature recoiled. Its crimson eyes narrowed, and a twisted ecstasy contorted its face. It inhaled deeply, trembling as though drunk on the scent, before grinning ferally.

With a soundless burst of motion, the vampire launched itself at Asher. Wings of darkness unfurled, swallowing the dim light of the room. The speed of the attack nearly tore the stick from Asher’s trembling hands, and the air around him seemed to warp, its oppressive strength making his fingers ache as if they might snap from the pressure.

Kaspar, trembling from blood loss and on the verge of collapse, forced his remaining hand to move. With agonized effort, he dug through his satchel, fumbling past scattered vials and powders. 

His breath came in sharp, ragged bursts, and his vision blurred, but he pressed on, his mind focused on a single thought: stopping the creature.

Asher’s cries of pain filled the room as the vampire’s sadistic onslaught brought fresh wounds to his already battered form.

Kaspar’s fingers closed around a match, securing it between his teeth, and he pulled out a set of vials with a trembling hand. He hastily mixed the powders into a torn piece of cloth, jerky and uncoordinated, but determined. 

His chest heaved with the effort, his blood-soaked shirt clinging to him like a second skin.

The vampire cornered Asher, its wings flaring out in triumph as it prepared the fatal blow. 

Asher’s wide mystical eyes met its crimson gaze, fear etched into every feature. 

He raised his makeshift weapon one final time, though his grip wavered. It wouldn’t be enough.

With a cry of defiance, Kaspar struck the match with his thumb, igniting the cloth bundle. The makeshift bomb flared to life, casting the room in an almost blinding light. Summoning the last of his strength, he hurled the flaming bundle toward the vampire.

The light exploded like a miniature sun, engulfing the vampire. It screeched in agony, its pale skin blistering and blackening. Its metaphysical wings thrashed wildly, a desperate attempt to extinguish the burning light. The air filled with the stench of charred flesh, and the shadows recoiled as if burned alive.

Asher stumbled back, collapsing against the wall. His breath came in ragged gasps, his chest rising and falling in a frantic rhythm. Kaspar slumped to the floor, his head tilting back as he fought to remain conscious.

For a moment, silence hung in the room, save for the creature’s dying groans. The vampire’s form lay motionless in the light, its once-imposing presence reduced to a smoldering, blackened husk.

Asher’s shoulders sagged in relief. They’d done it.

But then the husk twitched.

The blackened flesh began to bubble and writhe, new skin surging forth as if the flames had never touched it. The charred remains of its form cracked, reforming into sinewy, unblemished sickly white. 

A guttural growl rumbled from the vampire, low and menacing, as its crimson eyes snapped open, burning brighter than before.

Kaspar’s heart sank as he watched the impossible. His trembling hand groped for another vial, but his strength was fading fast. Asher gritted his teeth, forcing himself to his feet, even as his legs threatened to give out.

The vampire rose, its body a grotesque mockery of rebirth, and it fixed its gaze on them.

Its sinewy, sickly white form was unnervingly perfect, unmarred by the inferno that had consumed it moments before.

From the hallway, hurried footsteps echoed, and then the doorway filled with the figure of the head nurse. Their tired eyes, ringed with dark bags, widened in shock, their expression frozen as they took in the carnage before them. Blood-soaked walls, Kaspar clutching his stump in agony, and the creature looming over Asher like death incarnate.

The vampire’s torso contorted grotesquely, its claws stretching toward Asher with deliberate, almost playful menace. The nurse stammered, their hand trembling against the doorframe, unable to process the unfolding nightmare.

A deep, booming sound swelled in the background, echoing through the walls like a haunting choir heralding the credits to his story

Asher’s back pressed against the wall, his breath shallow, each exhale forming small clouds in the chilled night air. His head lolled against the empty window sill, the breeze biting into his skin as his vision swam.

This is it,
This is my end.

A sudden, radiant blue light engulfed the room. The vampire froze mid-lunge, its crimson eyes narrowing as it turned toward the open window. 

Asher, his vision fading, barely registered the figure that flew through the frame like a phantom.

In a split second, Otto grasped the vampire’s face with his mechanical arm. The creature thrashed, its claws raking against Otto’s frame, but it was no match for the strength of the mechanical grip. 

The scene faded to black for Asher as his consciousness slipped away, leaving Kaspar and him slumped on the floor unconscious.

***

From the head nurse’s perspective, time seemed to slow as she slammed the door shut behind her. 

"Stay back!" she barked at the approaching staff, her voice firm despite the tremor in her chest. She turned back to see the unfolding chaos inside.

Otto’s mechanical hand began to rev, the faint hum escalating to a deafening roar. Blue light arced from the arm, lightning surging across the room and enveloping the vampire. It screeched, its body convulsing as the electrical storm tore through it. Its sickly white form blackened and cracked, finally disintegrating into a pile of fine dust that scattered across the floor.

The room went silent, the blue glow fading, leaving only the sound of Otto’s labored breathing.

“What…what was that?” the nurse asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

Otto straightened, brushing dust from his coat as though the event was nothing more than an unpleasant chore. His words came measured, calm, but with an undercurrent of exhaustion. 

“A psychotic patient,” he said, “managed to grab a knife and stab workers. Threatened to blow the place up. They were stopped by two heroes—brave men.” He gestured subtly toward the unconscious forms of Asher and Kaspar.

The nurse’s brow furrowed, but she caught the unspoken warning in Otto’s tone. “I’ll handle the staff,” she said, her voice steadying. “Nobody will know the truth.”

Otto nodded, turning his gaze back to the pile of ash, his mechanical hand still faintly sparking with arches of electricity. 

“Good,” he murmured. “Some stories are best left untold.”

Chapter Text

The groan of the wooden dorm bed stirred Asher from sleep, each creak resonating faintly through the still air. Above him, the faint hum of the gas lamp cast a soft, flickering glow, its intricate design shimmering like a heartbeat against the wall.

Asher’s eyes fluttered open, disoriented. He inhaled sharply, bracing for the sharp pain he remembered. The claws raking across his chest, the suffocating pressure of fear. Instead, a chilling stillness surrounded him.

Instinctively, his hand shot to his chest. The memory of the vampire's claws haunted him, but his fingers found only smooth, unbroken skin. His breath hitched as he pulled back the hem of his shirt, confirming the impossible. No wounds, no scars—nothing to mark the battle that had nearly claimed his life.

Beside him, resting against the small table below the lamp, was the strength-enhancing stick. It was whole, its surface polished to a sheen that hadn’t existed before. He stared at it, a knot of gratitude and unease tightening in his chest.

Did Otto do this? Or is this some more beyonder nonsense?

A dull ache thrummed through his head, an echo of the torment he had endured ringing in his mind. He squeezed his eyes shut, willing his mind to calm, but the scene wouldn’t stop.

Taking a moment to distract himself, he engaged in thought. The torrent of memories abated as he stowed them away to focus on the present.

He opened his eyes again, a realization striking.

His gaze drifted across the room, and his chest tightened at the sight of Kaspar’s bed. It was empty. The covers, usually a tangled mess, were neatly folded, the pillow undented. The space felt sterile, abandoned, a void where Kaspar’s chaotic energy had once been a constant force. Asher’s stomach churned as unease gripped him.

He swung his legs over the side of the bed, his bare feet brushing the cool wooden floor. His body still ached, but he pushed the discomfort aside and rose unsteadily to his feet. His gaze fell on the gas lamp fixed to the wall above Kaspar’s side of the room.

It wasn’t like his. Asher’s side of the room was lit by a simple, utilitarian gas lamp, chosen to match the rest of the décor, with a soft glow that fit the humble surroundings. But Kaspar’s lamp was different.

It stood out—not just in design, but in its intensity. The base was more intricate, adorned with archaic drawings he carved, their faint glow pulsing in strange rhythms.

And while Asher’s lamp flickered in a dull, calm way, Kaspar’s was unnaturally bright, glowing with a harshness that seemed to burn brighter than the room’s needs.

The brightest flame burns quickest.

The words echoed in his mind, a quiet, dissonant note that brought with it an unexpected pang of grief. Kaspar—his brilliance, his unpredictability, the way he burned so fiercely in everything he did… it made sense, in a way.

The lamp, so much more intense than it needed to be, seemed like a reflection of Kaspar’s nature. And that proverb, spoken long ago, struck him with cold clarity.

Was this how it ended for him?

Kaspar had always been a force of nature, a blaze that never hesitated, that never held back.

But now, Asher wondered if that very intensity had burned him out too quickly. The harsh light of the lamp, burning brighter than anything in the room, now felt like a cruel reminder.

Where is Kaspar? What happened to him?

The questions gnawed at him as he stumbled toward the door. His feet carried him quickly, nearly knocking into Otto as the man approached, balancing a tray in his hands.

Asher took a step back, blinking up at Otto, who was holding a bowl of shoddy, watery soup.

“About time you woke up,” Otto said with a small frown, glancing down at Asher like it had taken far too long.

Asher rubbed the back of his neck, feeling the weight of Otto’s words hang in the air. “It’s noon…”

Otto’s expression soured. “A day and a half after the incident.”

Asher’s heart skipped at the mention of time, the memories of what happened still lingering in fragmented flashes. He cleared his throat, trying to shake off the lingering unease.

“Kaspar… Where is he?” Asher asked, leaning forward, his voice tight with urgency. He stepped closer, his gaze glued to Otto’s. In his haste, his hand brushed the tray, nearly knocking the soup from it.

Otto, normally so composed, flinched slightly, his grip tightening on the tray. His face softened, a shadow of something unreadable passing across his features. “He…” Otto paused, his gaze dropping to the soup before looking back up at Asher, his voice quiet and tinged with sadness. “Doesn’t want to talk to you right now.”

A chill ran down Asher’s spine.

What the fuck is that supposed to mean?

Confusion tightened Asher’s chest as he blinked. “Is he alive?” His voice cracked slightly as he asked, the thought of Kaspar’s death creeping into his mind despite his best efforts to push it away.

Otto’s eyes shifted, and he gazed at Asher with a hint of confusion. “Of course he is.” He sighed, shaking his head. “He just regrets how he acted during your scuffle.”

Regret. That word hit Asher like a slap.

Kaspar’s regret? What’s there to even regret?

Without thinking, Asher shoved past Otto, ignoring the man’s protests. His heart pounded as he moved quickly down the hallway, each step feeling like it took him closer to an answer he wasn’t sure he wanted.

He reached another dorm room with the door shut tight, his hand already on the handle. Without hesitation, he flung the door open, his eyes immediately landing on Kaspar.

Kaspar sat in a strangely neat bed, the edges of his features tight with frustration. He was holding a bowl of soup, but he was struggling.

His fingers curled awkwardly around the spoon, the unfamiliar weight of his newly acquired metal hand making each movement feel strange.

It was almost identical to Otto’s, save for the fact that it was just a hand, not the full arm of Otto’s.

The hand, while possessing almost natural movement, still looked stiff and unfamiliar to Kaspar, who was struggling to adjust to its delicate precision.

Each movement seemed awkward and slow, his hand slipping occasionally as he tried to lift the spoon. The sight of Kaspar’s usual chaotic skillfulness, now so clumsy, was almost painful to watch.

The fire that usually burned so brightly in his eyes was dimmed, and the energy he always seemed to have was noticeably muted.

Asher’s stomach churned at the sight. Kaspar, once the storm of chaotic brilliance, was now reduced to this—frustrated, unsure, and so far removed from the unshakable force he once was.

“Kaspar…” Asher’s voice caught in his throat, the words hesitant but desperate.

The sound of his name was like a spark, and Kaspar’s head jerked up, his eyes wide with surprise before quickly narrowing.

He fumbled with the spoon in his metallic hand, the awkwardness of the movement only making the situation worse.

The soup sloshed slightly, a few drops spilling over the edge, but he quickly set the bowl down on his bedside table, his face flushed with a mix of embarrassment and frustration.

He took a moment, looking anywhere but at Asher, his mechanical hand now resting on the edge of the table as he tried to compose himself.

When he finally spoke, his voice was tight and almost sharp.

"Eh—leave it, Asher, leave. Just go 'way. Not now." Kaspar's words stumbled over each other, almost as if he was trying to hold himself together, but the cracks were showing. "Don’t—don’t look me, okay? Just—"

He couldn’t meet Asher’s gaze, his focus entirely on the soup, his metal hand still gripping the table tense.

Kaspar’s embarrassment radiated off him in waves. His fingers twitched involuntarily, still unfamiliar with the sensations of the new hand, and he covered his face with his good hand in an effort to cover his discomfort.

"Just—just go," he muttered again, but there was something quieter in it now.

His usual fire had become a fragile ember, barely flickering—vulnerable to being snuffed out by the slightest breeze.

Chapter Text

Asher hesitated in the doorway, watching as Kaspar’s mechanical fingers fidgeted against the edge of the table. The tension in the room was thick enough to choke on, but Asher stepped in anyway, unwilling to leave things unsaid.

“Kaspar…” he started, his voice soft but insistent. “Why… why are you embarrassed to even look at me?”

Kaspar flinched at the words, his head snapping up before quickly darting away again. His fingers twitched, metal scraping faintly against the wood. “Embarrassed? Me? Nah. Never!” he blurted, his voice too loud, too quick. Then, quieter, almost inaudible, he muttered, “...Ran, Asher. Left you. Me fool.”

Asher blinked, confused. “Kaspar, you didn’t just run . You threw a bomb at that thing while you were bleeding out ! You lost a hand ! You’re calling yourself a fool for that?”

Kaspar let out a bitter, stuttering laugh. “Ha! Yes. Fool, coward. Big bad monster, and me? Poof. Gone! Like wind.” He waved his good hand vaguely, still avoiding Asher’s gaze. “Should’ve stayed. Should’ve fought. Like you.”

“You think you failed ?” Asher took a step closer, his confusion giving way to frustration. “Kaspar, if anyone failed, it was me. I dragged you into that fight in the first place. If I’d just run with you instead of standing my ground like an idiot, maybe you’d still have—” He cut himself off, glancing at the metal hand Kaspar was trying so hard to hide.

Kaspar’s head shook violently, his voice rising in a disjointed ramble. “No! Stop! Not you—me. Left you! Stupid hand gone, stupid bomb—still useless! Should’ve dragged you out, not… not run!” He trailed off, his words crumbling into fragments. His mechanical fingers clenched, scraping against the table as though trying to crush it.

“You didn’t leave me!” Asher snapped, stepping closer. “You saved me, Kaspar. That bomb of light bought Otto just enough time to kick ass. I’d be dead without it. Stop twisting it around.”

Kaspar’s good hand moved to cover his face, his voice muffled. “Still ran. Still failed.” His tone was hollow now, the fight draining out of him. “Not like you. Brave, strong. Stupid, maybe. But strong.”

“Strong?!” Asher laughed bitterly, shaking his head. “Kaspar, I’m telling you, I should’ve run too. I’d trade a dozen so-called brave moments for the sense to get out alive. Next time, drag me with you, okay?”

Kaspar lowered his hand, staring at Asher like he’d just said something absurd. “Drag you? Pfft. Funny joke. You? Eat much! Too slow!” He snorted, but there was a flicker of amusement in his eyes now.

Asher sighed, his frustration giving way to relief. “Yeah, yeah. Call me slow all you want. Just don’t you ever think you’re a fool, a coward, a deadweight. Kaspar. You aren’t. Not then, not now.”

For a moment, Kaspar was silent, his gaze shifting to the mechanical hand resting on the table. Then, to Asher’s surprise, a grin split across his face, sharp and oddly cheerful. He held up the metal hand, flexing the fingers experimentally. “Cool, though, huh? Rip, gone hand—shiny new one! Maybe do this more, eh? Lose another? Two shiny hands!”

Asher gawked at him, completely thrown by the shift. “You’re… joking, right?”

Kaspar’s grin widened, his eyes gleaming with a strange excitement. “Joke? No joke! Look—grip like iron! Good for all sorts. Best hand now. Better than old squishy one.”

Despite himself, Asher let out a huff of laughter, shaking his head. “You’re unbelievable, you know that?”

“Unbelievable!” Kaspar agreed, his voice bright and triumphant, like he’d won some kind of contest. “Best word for me. Perfect word!”

And as the tension in the room finally broke, Asher couldn’t help but think that, for all Kaspar’s strangeness, he really shined far too bright.

***

With a sigh, Asher turned toward the door, stepping away from the cluttered space and closing it behind him. The soft click of the door latch was enough to signal the end of the conversation.

Asher’s relief was short-lived, however, as Otto was standing directly by the door. 

“Ah, what a coincidence seeing you here. I’m glad to see that... sorted. That was exhausting to deal with.” He responded half heartedly with a hint of exhaustion.

“In any case, I believe my soup has shown my abilities in that area. Would you be so kind as to handle the current state of the kitchen?” His voice remained polite, but the request was undeniably a plea.

Asher chuckled, shaking his head. “What, you can’t handle a few pots and pans now?”

“I am more than capable in many things,” Otto said, his voice calm and detached, “but kitchen duties... have never been one of them. You are better suited for the task.”

Asher sighed, glancing at the disorder before him—the clutter of bread, half-moldy and not, strewn about in the chaos. He shook his head and began sorting through the bread, letting the conversation slip into a comfortable silence as Otto stood there awkwardly.

“So, any explanation for my new magic healing factor?” Asher asked, his tone dry as he picked through the loaves.

Otto didn’t respond immediately, his eyes moving from the simmering pot to the mess in the room. Finally, he gave a slow, almost reluctant sigh. “Ah, yes. That.” His voice grew quieter, more measured. “The vampire... the one you fought. It became an item, a limited healing artifact in particular. A gem necklace, of all things. It retains some of the regenerative properties, but only to a certain extent.”

Asher paused, his brow furrowing. “Wait, so you mean that necklace... healed us?”

Otto nodded slightly. “In a manner of speaking, yes. It channeled the remnants of that creature’s power. It’s certainly not a full-on restoration. The healing is... contained, more limited in scope than you might expect.”

Asher tilted his head, still confused. “So why didn’t it heal Kaspar’s hand? It could have restored his...”

Otto shook his head, cutting him off with a sigh. “The necklace’s powers are very specific. It can help with wounds, but only those that are still healing naturally. It cannot regenerate lost body parts, especially something as severe as Kaspar’s injury. The abilities are far from perfect. It's... temperamental.”

Asher’s heart sank at the thought of Kaspar’s loss, but Otto continued before he could speak again.

“And, well, there’s more. The vampire you fought—well, not truly a vampire. It was an 'artificial' one. An unauthorized sequence 7 vampire of the Moon pathway.” Otto’s gaze shifted as he adjusted his stance, clearly not thrilled about what he was about to say. “It... lost control of its powers, and that’s what you encountered. But that’s not the end of it.”

“What do you mean, not the end of it?” Asher asked, now genuinely concerned. He stopped sorting through the bread to give Otto his full attention.

Otto sighed again, looking uncomfortable. “After I... removed the necklace, I put it in the basement for the bear to play with. Trying to get it out of sight for a while. But it wasn’t long before emissaries from a group known as the Sanguine arrived to collect the artifact.”

Asher blinked. “Sanguine? You’re telling me there’s more of these... things out there?” His voice had a tremor to it, the weight of the idea crashing down on him.

“Not ‘things,’” Otto corrected, his tone a little more serious now. “They’re... Beyonders. Very different from what you encountered, but no less dangerous. The Sanguine are a group who specialize in this Moon pathway. They deal with creatures like that artificial vampire, seeking to reclaim what was lost and... what was left behind.”

Asher’s stomach dropped, a feeling of dread creeping up his spine. “So, you just… got robbed?”

Otto’s expression remained grim, but there was a hint of regret. “Not exactly. They came for it, and I handed it over willingly. The Church of the God of Steam and Machinery has... surprisingly close relations with them. Their people can be unpredictable, but they're not inherently hostile. At least, not in the way you think. The Sanguine mostly deal with matters of... life, death, and...uh… mmh… oh, the spirit world!”

Asher blinked, the term catching him off guard. “The spirit world? What’s that supposed to mean?”

Otto looked thoughtful for a moment, as though piecing together the fragmented memories. “The Spirit World...” he began slowly, “it’s a realm of colors and abstract concepts, inhabited by spirits of various types. It overlaps with our world, influencing it in subtle ways. It’s also the source of all contracted creatures, just like the cloud messenger that the music box summons.”

Asher frowned, trying to process what he was hearing. “So it’s like... a place of all knowledge?”

“Not exactly,” Otto replied, shaking his head slightly. “It’s more like a sea of information, where the past, present, and possible future all converge. It doesn’t follow normal rules of space or time. Knowledge, illusions, and spiritual manifestations can all exist in the same space. And... every person is connected to it. You see, your Astral Projection resides there, and it’s probably how you obtain abstract knowledge. Divination, revelations... all of it comes from the Spirit World.”

Asher, already lost, scraped a potato’s skin off absentmindedly, not fully paying attention to Otto’s explanation. He squinted at the vegetable, his mind wandering to the mess still scattered around the kitchen. “So... the Spirit World is where all these crazy revelations come from?” he muttered, more to himself than Otto.

“Most likely,” Otto said, his voice slightly more serious now. “The Sanguine, in their abilities, often seek to interact with it. Their expertise lies in crossing the boundaries between the physical world and the Spirit World.”

Asher’s knife slid awkwardly through the potato as he tried to focus on what Otto was saying. 

He barely heard Otto continue: “Plus damn, can they hold a grudge. You’d think living hundreds, if not thousands of years, would make you a little less... worldly.”

“Huh...” Asher said absentmindedly, peeling the next potato with a little more force than necessary, just barely not nicking himself.

Otto sighed dramatically, realizing that Asher had probably tuned out a good portion of the conversation. 

“...”

“Did I ever tell you what our Beyonder organization is called?” he asked, trying to fill the silence.

Asher blinked, finally looking up, his attention slowly snapping back to Otto. “No, you didn’t.”

“Well,” Otto began, “since you were found as a Beyonder and joined the Church, you're technically an official member of the Steam and Machinery faction.” 

His eyes gleamed with a hint of pride. “More specifically, the Machinery Hivemind.”

Asher paused, knife hovering in the air. He stared blankly at Otto for a moment before snorting. “Machinery Hivemind? That sounds like a bad sci-fi villain name.”

Otto shrugged casually. “It’s not great, but it gets the job done.”

Chapter Text

Asher woke up, feeling the familiar weight of the room settle around him. His eyes scanned the space, noting the strangely orderly bed on the opposite side of the room.

Kaspar, still not comfortable with his actions or the tension from the aftermath of the vampire incident, had opted to sleep elsewhere again.

Asher couldn’t help but feel a sense of distance, though he didn’t dwell on it for too long.

It was already past ten. He stretched, the remnants of his restless dreams lingering in his mind. His focus quickly shifted to the task at hand—brunch.

He scoured the kitchen with practiced efficiency. His eyes narrowed at the meager offerings. Otto, apparently a meat enthusiast, had eaten every last bit that lay dormant—he’d devoured all the lamb and pork while they volunteered at the hospital.

Guess we’re going vegetarian today, Asher thought, silently cursing Otto’s lack of foresight.

He grabbed a few vegetables and worked them into a quick soup, using the watery remains of Otto’s prior concoction as the base.

His thoughts flickered back to the previous days—especially the aftermath of their encounter with the vampire Otto had cared for. The vampire's presence had explained the butcher's wife’s strange condition—anorexic, comatose, and trapped in a life half-lived.

As Asher finished the soup, he shook off the thought. There was no time to dwell on it now. He called out to Kaspar and Otto, "Brunch is ready."

The two of them shuffled in, groggy and thankful for food. As they sat down, a brief silence fell between them. The moment stretched uncomfortably.

Kaspar opened his mouth, about to complain about the blandness of the meal, but stopped himself. He looked at Asher, a flicker of guilt in his eyes. The tension between them was palpable, but Kaspar stayed quiet, his guilt keeping him from voicing his dissatisfaction.

Otto, his usual lack of sensitivity somewhat muted, took a deep breath. He was probably thinking of the reasons why Asher’s meal wasn’t more exciting. He gave Asher an apologetic glance, then glanced at the soup again.

"It’s fine," he muttered, not meeting Asher’s gaze. "I’ll get some extra meat for later."

Asher watched them both, a knowing smile tugging at his lips. He could feel the weight of the unspoken words in the air. Kaspar didn’t want to argue, not after the things that happened with the vampire. Otto, on the other hand, knew he was the one who deprived Asher of the choice to make a better meal.

They both took their first bites in silence. Asher noticed how neither of them could bring themselves to say anything more. Instead, they quietly finished what was before them, swallowing their discomfort along with the soup.

***

After finishing the meal and leaving the others to handle the dishes, Asher decided to head into town. The sun hung high in the sky, its warmth cutting through the lingering chill of the morning.

The town was already alive with its usual bustle. As he made his way down the uneven cobblestone streets, he passed a few of the church’s regulars. They offered polite nods as they hurried by, presumably heading to the noon service.

The marketplace was in full swing. Vendors shouted over one another, competing for attention.

"Fresh produce! Best prices in Kyrmsk!" bellowed one man, waving a particularly plump turnip in the air. Another called out about fresh fabrics while a third peddled knives, claiming they were sharp enough to split hairs.

Asher weaved through the crowd, the voices around him blurring into a cacophony. Snippets of conversation drifted his way, fragments of everyday life that painted a picture of the town’s mood.

"I swear, Viktor’s cow gave birth to the strangest calf I've ever seen," one man said, his voice tinged with excitement.

"Another one? What's in his feed? That makes three this year!" his companion replied skeptically.

Further along, two older women stood by a stall selling dried herbs.

"Did you hear about Mikhail? Found a ring buried in his field," one whispered.

"A ring? What sort?"

"Old. Real old. Said it had ancient markings he didn’t recognize. Took it to the church to see if they could identify it."

Asher couldn’t help but smile at the mundanity of it all, despite the occasional odd detail. Kyrmsk had its peculiarities, but that’s what made it home.

He turned a corner and passed a pair of women chatting animatedly near a baker’s stall.

"Alexei has been acting strange lately," one woman whispered to her friend.

"Strange how?" the other asked, leaning in.

"Skittish. Won't look anyone in the eye, barely speaks. It's like he's scared of his own shadow."

"Think it has something to do with his family's deaths?"

"Shh, not so loud!"

Asher’s pace slowed. Alex had always been a quiet sort, but this sounded like proper grief. He made a mental note to keep an eye on him, though he didn’t linger on the thought for too long.

As he walked past the baker's stall, a couple of men nearby caught his attention. One of them had a puzzled look on his face.

“Whatever happened to that one guy who worked at the church, the one with the odd gait?”

“The one with the limp?” the other man asked, his voice low. "Last I saw, he was muttering something about a wolf, kept saying it was watching him."

"A wolf?" the first man frowned. "That's...weird. I never liked him much. Always had the strangest look in his eyes."

Before he could dwell on the odd rumors, a pungent odor hit him like a slap, making his stomach lurch. The stench was thick, fishy, and bitter—an acrid, cloying presence that filled the air with its suffocating weight. It was the smell of rot and salt, of something decaying in the sun.

Up ahead, a familiar sight came into view—a rickety cart laden with fish, their slimy, wolffish forms glistening under the harsh light. The grayish-blue scales shimmered like wet stone, but the bloodshot eyes and jagged teeth made them seem unnaturally monstrous.

The fisherman behind the cart worked with practiced efficiency, his hands deftly gutting one fish while his eyes scanned the crowd. A line of locals stretched from his cart, each waiting eagerly to purchase the day’s catch. They leaned in, grinning in delight as the scent rolled over them.

Asher’s stomach churned. How anyone could stand the overpowering stench of fish, sweat, and decay was beyond him. He pressed his hand over his nose, his breath shallow, and quickened his pace, desperate to escape. His heart raced as the smell clung to him, sharp and insistent.

In a matter of seconds, he was past the cart, holding his breath until he was safely out of range. Once he reached the next street, he exhaled, shaking his head in disbelief.

The distraction didn’t last long. His thoughts quickly turned inward, replaying the moments of helplessness during the vampire attack. The fear, the danger, the inability to do anything—it lingered like a bad taste in his mouth.

He stopped in the middle of the road, took a deep breath, and straightened his posture.

You’re already doing this, Asher, he reminded himself. You decided to go to Samantha. You need her help. This is the right call.

But doubt still lingered in the back of his mind. Would she even be there? And if she was, would she even bother to give him the time of day? He thought about her odd demeanor and sighed, rubbing the back of his neck.

No use worrying now. Just go.

Steeling himself, Asher adjusted the strap of his bag and tightened his grip on the stick, the rough wood grounding him as his fingers pressed into it. He pressed forward, his steps brisk and purposeful. Each stride felt like a push against the doubts clawing at the edges of his mind.

The path ahead was uneven, littered with stones and shadows cast by the mid-morning sun. It stretched toward uncertainty, but Asher kept his gaze forward, refusing to waver.

You can’t keep running from this, he thought, jaw tightening. If you want to protect anyone, you have to start here.

The resolve burned steady in his chest, carrying him onward. One step at a time.

Chapter Text

The path to Samantha’s cabin was as treacherous as ever, winding through jagged outcroppings and uneven terrain. Each step required careful placement, and Asher often found himself grasping at overhanging branches for balance. 

Yet, as he descended further from Kyrmsk, the cold grip of winter seemed to release its hold on the world.

Gone were the heavy drifts of snow that had once buried the trail. Patches of earth peeked through, dark and damp, while the snow that remained clung stubbornly to shaded corners and crevices. 

Water trickled along the edges of the path, the sound of melting snow mingling with the soft rustle of branches in the gentle spring breeze.

Asher paused to catch his breath and leaned against a weathered tree. The air was cool, but the sun's warmth filtered through the bare branches, coaxing life back into the forest. 

Tiny buds dotted the trees, a hint of green against the dull browns and grays. Purple flowers pushed their way through the melting snow, their delicate, vibrant petals a promise of the season to come.

He smiled at the beauty around him. The forest felt alive, as though it, too, was shaking off the long months of frost.

Samantha’s cabin was still a ways off, and he knew better than to lose focus. Tightening his grip on his walking stick, he pressed on, careful with each step as the path grew steeper.

***

It was nearing noon when the cabin came into view, its familiar shape nestled amidst the trees. Smoke rose from the chimney in lazy tendrils, a sign that Samantha was home. 

The clearing around the cabin was less stark now, with patches of grass beginning to show and wildflowers tentatively blooming along its edges.

Asher’s eyes were immediately drawn to the figure in front of the cabin. Samantha stood near a chopping block, her movements steady and precise as she split a log with a single swing of her axe

The sharp crack of wood splitting echoed through the clearing, a rhythm that matched the determined look in her eyes.

Just as he stepped closer, a sudden burst of noise shattered the relative quiet. A low, rumbling growl, rough and gravelly, rolled through the air like distant thunder. 

It was followed by a series of slobbery snorts and sharp, irregular barks that seemed to echo with distrust. Asher froze mid-step, his heart leaping to his throat.

From the side of the cabin bounded Nimbus, Samantha’s hulking black-haired dog. The massive fluffball strained against its chain, teeth bared, drool flying as it barked incessantly at Asher.

Its fur caught the sunlight, making it look more imposing despite the comically round shape of its body. 

The barking was loud and insistent enough that Asher winced in shock.

“Whoa there, big guy!” Asher called, his voice louder than intended over the racket. “I’m just passing through!”

Nimbus was having none of it. The dog lunged forward, the chain rattling violently as it held firm. The barking only grew more chaotic, punctuated by slobbery, wet sneezes that left a glistening mess on the ground around it.

Samantha’s head snapped up at the commotion, her sharp gaze immediately locking onto Asher. She set the axe down with a huff, wiping her hands on her worn trousers before marching toward the noise.

“Calm down, you big idiot!” she barked, her voice carrying a surprising authority. Nimbus hesitated for a moment, his ears twitching at the command, but his growling didn’t stop entirely.

“Funny thing about Nimbus,” she said, her tone casual but her sharp eyes fixed on Asher. “He’s got a good judge of character. Don’t usually take to strangers barking up a storm like this unless he’s sensing something… off .”

Asher chuckled nervously, trying to appear calm under Nimbus’s unrelenting glare. “Maybe he just doesn’t remember me?”

Samantha tilted her head, scrutinizing him for a moment before leaning on the axe handle. “Could be. Or… maybe it’s got somethin’ to do with that vampire artifact Otto used on you.”

The casual mention caught Asher off guard. His brows furrowed in confusion as he asked, “The sealed artifact? What about it?”

Her eyes narrowed slightly, her expression unreadable as she answered. “Vampires are hated by all wildlife—always have been. Their smell rubs animals the wrong way, makes ‘em uneasy. If that artifact healed you, it might’ve left some kind of… stench behind. Don’t worry, it’ll fade in a few days.”

Asher instinctively sniffed the air around himself, then raised a skeptical eyebrow. “You’re saying Nimbus is barking because I smell like a vampire?”

“Exactly what I’m saying,” Samantha replied, smirking faintly as she crossed her arms. “Animals are funny like that. They don’t care about logic—just instincts. Lucky for you, Nimbus’ll forget all about it soon enough.”

Curiosity flickered in Asher’s gaze. “How do you even know about this stuff?” he asked, gesturing vaguely between her and the dog.

Her smirk faded, replaced by a stony expression. “Otto told me about the attack,” she said curtly. “As for how I know about vampires and artifacts, that’s not something I’m gonna share. You’ve got questions, fine, but don’t expect answers for everything.”

Asher hesitated but nodded, realizing it wasn’t a battle worth fighting. Samantha’s tone had a finality to it that discouraged further probing. “Right… well, thanks for clearing that up, I guess,” he muttered, rubbing the back of his neck.

“Don’t thank me yet, kid,” she said, turning back to her pile of firewood. “Now, are you just here to chat, or do you actually need something?”

Asher took a deep breath, steadying himself as the weight of his thoughts pressed against him. 

Samantha stood still, her attention fully on him, though she kept a firm grip on Nimbus's collar as the dog continued to growl and shift, clearly restless.

“I…” Asher began, his voice uneven. He hesitated, clenching his fists before forcing himself to continue. “I came here because I need help. Back in Kyrmsk, when we were dealing with that vampire…” His voice wavered, and he shook his head as if to clear the images from his mind. “I thought I was going to die. I froze. One second I was trying to help, and the next, I was almost gutted.”

His mind flashed to the bear—the flimsy rope and the terrifying distance between him and its claws. Then to the stuffed animal, its control over him rendering him helpless, saved only by chance. And the vampire… how he had fought with everything he had, yet was utterly overpowered.

Samantha didn’t move, but she gave him her full attention, her eyes locked on him. Nimbus continued to struggle, but she remained in control, her hand tight on the dog’s collar as she watched Asher.

“I’ve never felt so helpless,” Asher admitted, his hands trembling as he gripped the stick. “I can’t stop thinking about what would’ve happened if Otto hadn’t been there. If Kaspar hadn’t stepped in. I want to be better—to put up more of a fight. I need to keep myself—and the people around me—safe.”

Nimbus barked suddenly, jerking at his chain with a burst of energy. Samantha’s grip on the dog tightened, but her focus remained on Asher. She studied him carefully, her face unreadable, before asking bluntly, “So, you want to quit being a Beyonder?”

Asher’s mouth went dry, and his eyes widened. He blinked in disbelief. “Quit… being a Beyonder?” he asked, his voice a little sharper than he intended.

Samantha didn’t immediately respond. Instead, she tilted her head slightly, watching him closely. The stillness between them stretched, and for a moment, the only sounds were Nimbus’s low growls and the wind rustling through the trees.

Shaking off his surprise, Asher quickly asked, “Can you even do that?” His voice was thick with confusion and a touch of hope.

Samantha raised an eyebrow, clearly unfazed by his reaction. “High-level Beyonders of the Sun Pathway at the Church of the Blazing Sun can get rid of Beyonder characteristics in your body,” she explained, her tone matter-of-fact.

Asher’s heart skipped a beat at the thought. He stared at her, trying to digest what she’d just said. "Their church... It's just a few days' trip to the capital, right? To St. Millom?”

Samantha nodded. “Kyrmsk is halfway between Midseashire and the capital. It’s not far.”

Asher’s thoughts swirled, each one more tangled than the last. The terrors still gripped him, and the weight of his vulnerability hung heavily in the air. But as he looked at Samantha, standing firm and unwavering in her own way, a thought lingered at the back of his mind.

“Terrified,” he muttered under his breath. His gaze dropped to his hands, still trembling slightly. “I’ve never been more afraid in my life. I didn’t know what I was doing out there. I didn’t know how to fight. How to protect myself…”

Samantha said nothing, but her steady gaze encouraged him to continue. The wind whispered through the trees, carrying with it the sharp, crisp scent of the sprouting forest. 

Asher clenched his fists, his resolve slowly hardening. “But... being a Beyonder... there’s something about it. Something about what I could do with this. It's...”

He hesitated again, as if weighing his words. “It’s just too cool an opportunity to pass up. I can’t be letting it go.”

Samantha’s quiet chuckle cut through his thoughts, and Asher flinched slightly, surprised by the sudden sound. 

She studied him with a mixture of amusement and something deeper, a hint of a wry smile playing at the corners of her mouth.

“Naive,” she muttered, shaking her head slightly. But there was no mockery in her voice. It was more… appreciative. “But that’s a naivety I can respect.”

Her eyes lingered on him for a moment longer, as if weighing his words and his spirit. 

Then she exhaled slowly, looking out over the land, her grip tightening on Nimbus’s leash as the dog bounced restlessly at her side.

“You don’t see much of that these days,”

“People like you... still full of fire, still seeing the world through fresh eyes. It’s rare. And sure, maybe it’s a little foolish, but...”

She turned her gaze back to him, her expression softened by something like nostalgia. 

“That kind of optimism—it’s something you’re gonna need to keep, no matter how hard the world tries to wake you up.”

Nimbus let out a low growl, still straining against the leash, and Samantha briefly glanced down at him. She tightened her grip, pulling him back from his excitement, but her attention remained fixed on Asher. Her words hung in the air, quiet but firm.

“You’re stepping into a world that’ll chew you up, kid. People like me? We’ve seen what happens when you let that fire burn out. But if you can keep it—hold onto that positivity, that hope—then maybe, just maybe, you won’t lose yourself in the darkness.”

Asher met her gaze, a mixture of awe and uncertainty rising in his chest. For a moment, he wasn’t sure if she was warning him or encouraging him. Her eyes were hard to read, but there was a clear message in the weight of her words.

She gave a final tug on Nimbus’s leash, resulting in a mild yelp, and gave Asher a look that seemed to be both a challenge and a plea.

“Don’t let this world kill that part of you,” she said quietly, her voice carrying the weight of every bitter lesson life had taught her, as though each word was forged from years of survival and regret. It wasn’t just advice—it was a reminder of the light she wished she could’ve kept alive in herself.

Chapter Text

Samantha loosened her grip on Nimbus, allowing the dog to trot back toward his doghouse with a final, disgruntled snort in Asher’s direction.

She crossed her arms and studied him, her gaze as sharp as the blade resting on the chopping block beside her.

“You’ve got a wonderful fire in you, kid,” she said, her tone even but firm.

She pointed the axe handle at him, the smirk growing just enough to seem challenging.

“If you’re serious about learning, be here at ten sharp tomorrow. No excuses. And don’t show up looking like a scared rabbit—I’m not here to hold your hand.”

Asher blinked, caught off guard by the sudden declaration. “What if I—”

“You’re late, you’re out,” she interrupted briskly, raising an eyebrow. “And if you’re thinking about skipping, let me save you the trouble: I’ll drag you out of bed myself if I have to.”

His protests caught in his throat, but her no-nonsense delivery left no room for negotiation—he couldn’t even muster an argument. 

After a beat, he nodded, a nervous grin spreading across his face despite the knot forming in his stomach. “I’ll be here.”

“You’d better be.” Samantha turned her attention back to her chopping block, hefting the axe with practiced ease. “Now get moving. You’ve got a lot of thinking to do before tomorrow.”

With that, the conversation ended. Samantha’s focus shifted entirely to splitting the next log, leaving Asher standing there, half-excited, half-terrified at what he was about to face.

***

Asher stumbled over a protruding root, clutching a small knife and single glove. Sweat stung his eyes, and his legs ached from the trek. Samantha’s instructions echoed in his mind:

“Find what you need. Use what you have.”

He hadn’t expected ‘training’ to mean being dumped in the middle of nowhere with nothing but a knife and a deadline.

“I tried to protest,” Asher muttered under his breath, his feet dragging as he trudged through the soon to bloom underbrush. "I really did."

He could still hear Otto’s voice in his head, pleading on his behalf as if it might make a difference. “You can’t just leave him out there, Samantha! What about my meals? Think about how sad Kaspar will be!”

But that all changed when Samantha handed Otto a bag of freshly butchered jerky and a bottle of wine. 

The moment he’d seen those, Otto’s complaints vanished like smoke in the wind. The old man didn’t hesitate, practically skipping away with a wave of his hand. “Best of luck, kid!”

Asher shook his head, still baffled at how easily Otto had abandoned him. Then there was the part he’d never live down. The sack over his head.

He grimaced as the memory surfaced. When she’d grabbed him by the collar and slipped the cloth over his face, he’d tried to argue, tried to push against her grip, but her strength was like a mountain. She’d lifted him up onto her shoulders without breaking a sweat, and he hadn’t had the slightest hope of escaping.

“You’re not going to pull any tricks, kid,” she’d said, her voice almost playful despite the firm grip she had on him. “The quicker you stop complaining, the quicker we can get this over with.”

He could still remember the strange mix of helplessness and frustration as the world had gone dark under the sack.

Ten minutes—or maybe an hour—later, Asher found himself stumbling through the woods, the absence of Samantha pressing in around him like a weight he couldn’t escape.

No tracks, no helpful parting words, just the chill of the breeze and a carving knife, small enough to be useless in a fight but perfect for sculpting wood.

Not that it would make much of a difference. The trees here weren’t like the ones he knew; the wood of Kyrmsk had been artificially strengthened through selective breeding practices with the local dioecious species.

Even with a sturdy blade, it wouldn’t be easy to carve, let alone break through the thick bark of them.

Worst of all, there’s no strength-enhancing stick to help my frail constitution.

Without it, I’m barely a 10-strength commoner—completely out of my depth in a place like this.

She could have at least given me something to work with, some kind of edge.

Especially before dumping me in the middle of bumfuck nowhere for some inane reason.

…

What even was that again…

…

Oh yeah! 

Something called a ginseng.

She hadn't exactly explained what it was, just a cryptic description that barely made sense and brought more questions than it answered:

"Look for a root, shaped like a person. The older, the better. You’ll know it when you see it—because it’ll see you first. Don’t go thinking you can just grab it, either. It’s got a mind of its own, and it’s got some nasty claws."

Why did she have to make this so difficult?  

He winced at the thought of his frailty, but then something shifted. He let out a long, slow breath and closed his eyes.

Samantha’s gotta have her reasons.

She wouldn’t just toss me into the wild without a plan. 

She thinks I’m ready for this. And I—I have to believe that too. I’ve got to stop focusing on what I don’t have and start thinking about what I do.

His eyes flicked open. He stopped looking at the wilderness with disdain, and instead, his gaze hardened with resolve. The trees stretched out ahead of him, not as obstacles, but as the way forward. 

His body ached, sure, but that didn’t matter. He wasn’t going to let it stop him.

You can do this, he repeated quietly in his mind, the mantra grounding him in the moment. 

You’ve made it this far. You’ll make it further.

As soon as the calming thought took root another began to worm its way in.

The towering evergreens stretched above him, their branches casting long, dark shadows on the ground. 

The forest wasn’t entirely silent—birds called to each other, and the wind shifted the boughs above, but the ground beneath his feet seemed to absorb every sound. The earth was soft, just beginning to thaw, but the trees loomed, seemingly endless.

Asher's boots sank slightly into the newly spring thaw, each step feeling heavier than the last.

The forest felt full of hidden movement, even though he could see no signs of life around him. There were the faintest tremors in the ground, the soft rustling of dry pine needles underfoot, and the occasional snapping of a brittle branch.

It was becoming impossible to ignore the slow, creeping anxiety that threaded through his chest. He had grown up in a suburb, not a forest. 

These trees didn’t care about him. He wasn’t a part of their world, and he didn’t belong here.

Focus, he repeated under his breath, but the unsettling silence of the woods only made him feel smaller. His stomach churned as the wind shifted, carrying the scent of pine, damp earth, and something… else. Something wild.

The ground beneath him shifted, the soft tremors sending a ripple of anxiety through his chest.

And then, suddenly—

A twig snapped behind him.

Asher froze. His heart skipped a beat. He spun around, eyes wide, searching the forest for any sign of movement.

It’s just the wind. Just the wind... His brain tried to convince him, but his body was already reacting, flooding him with panic.

Bear. It’s a bear. His thoughts screamed it, his mind flashing back to the past. The terror, the helplessness.

Don't run. Don’t make noise. Stay still. Think.

But his heart was hammering in his chest, and all his instincts screamed to run, to escape, to get away from whatever invisible predator was stalking him. His breath came faster, his muscles coiled, ready to spring at the slightest sound.

Another twig snapped.

Closer this time.

He took a step back, eyes darting wildly, searching for any sign of movement. The forest seemed to close in around him. 

The trees felt suffocating, pressing in from every side, the shadows now a maze that led only to unknown danger.

But there was nothing there. Just the wind. Just the forest. Just him.

Chapter Text

Just him.

Asher tapped his glabella, the small motion sparking a cascade of light and color to flood his vision. 

The dull browns and greens of the forest around him sharpened, the world taking on an otherworldly vibrance. The trees, still cloaked in winter’s grip, stood stark against the faint glow of life waiting to erupt from the forest floor. A faint red aura shimmered at the horizon—but when he blinked, it was gone.

“Great,” he muttered.

Focusing on his surroundings, he swayed slightly, squinting to pick out any signs of unique auras. 

Above him, two squirrels darted through the branches, chattering as they chased each other. 

A rabbit, ears twitching, nibbled at stubborn blades of grass that peeked through the frozen earth.

No monsters. No lurking predators. Just the indifferent wilderness.

Exhaling in relief, Asher’s attention fell to a gnarled, rotting tree nearby. Its bark was brittle, curling away from the damp, pulpy wood beneath.

It leaned awkwardly, half-decayed but still standing, a stubborn remnant of the forest’s harsher seasons.

"A walking stick," he muttered, the idea forming as he approached it. "At least give me something."

The small carving knife felt absurdly inadequate as he pressed it against the dead wood. Asher gritted his teeth, sawing back and forth. Bits of bark flaked off in tiny, unsatisfying chunks. He adjusted his grip and tried again, putting his weight into it. The blade barely made a scratch. The wood, despite its decay, resisted stubbornly.

“Come on,” he growled through clenched teeth, his arms already aching. He struck harder, only for the blade to bounce back. His hands stung from the shock, and the knife slipped from his grip, landing in the dirt.

Defeated, he slumped against the tree, glaring at it as if his frustration alone could topple it. His breath came in shallow bursts, the growing ache in his chest a painful reminder of his own limits. “Useless,” he muttered, kicking at the base of the tree, though it barely even shuddered.

A breeze stirred, carrying with it the faint, damp scent of thawing earth. He noticed an incline in the distance—a rocky escarpment rising sharply from the forest floor. It wasn’t much, but it was higher ground, a vantage point. Maybe it would help, in finding whatever that thing is.

***

The escarpment looked easier to scale than it was. The mud beneath his boots was slick, each step forward sliding him half a step back. Asher lunged for a handhold, only for the wet stone to betray him. His fingers slipped, and he fell hard onto the incline, the impact knocking the air from his lungs.

For a moment, he just lay there, panting, staring at the canopy above. "This is ridiculous," he mumbled, wiping his face with a muddy sleeve.

He scrambled back to his feet, gripping a nearby tree root jutting from the escarpment’s side. It held firm as he pulled himself upward. Another slip. 

His knees scraped against the rock as he scrambled for purchase, his heart hammering in his chest. Each attempt felt more desperate than the last, but he refused to give up.

After what felt like hours, his fingers finally wrapped around the edge of the cliff. With a final, exhausted push, he hauled himself over the top, collapsing onto the ground. 

Mud caked his hands and knees, and his chest heaved with each breath.

***

Sitting there, knees drawn to his chest, the realization hit him like a weight. He had no idea what he was doing. 

Every action felt like fumbling in the dark, guessing at survival techniques he’d only ever read about. The sun, now dipping low on the horizon, painted the trees in hues of orange and shadow.

A shiver ran down his spine as the temperature dropped with the approaching night. The forest, which had seemed indifferent before, now felt almost hostile in its silence. The distant cries of birds were gone, replaced by the faint rustling of branches.

He wrapped his arms around himself, staring out at the horizon. The red aura hadn’t returned, and his vision was back to the mundane shades of the waking forest.

“What am I even doing here?” he whispered, the words carried away by the wind. For the first time since his journey began, a small, quiet part of him admitted the truth: he wasn’t ready for this.

***

The weight of the moment pressed harder as the sun dipped below the horizon, casting the forest into twilight. Asher couldn’t just sit there. He needed shelter—something, anything—to shield him from the creeping chill of night.

Pushing himself upright, he stumbled through the trees, his legs heavy and sore. The brittle crackle of leaves and branches underfoot filled the silence, an unsettling contrast to the stillness around him. 

Spotting a few loose, dead branches scattered on the forest floor, he began gathering them in a clumsy bundle.

As he worked, his eyes landed on a crooked, lifeless tree nearby. 

Its bark was flaking and brittle, its branches thin and spindly. Perfect—or so he thought.

He gripped at the bark, expecting it to come away easily, but it clung stubbornly to the dead wood. 

Growling in frustration, Asher dug his fingers into the cracks and pried at it, splinters biting into his palms as his hands went numb.

A small strip finally peeled off with a dry, crackling sound, leaving his hands raw and trembling. 

He inspected the brittle bark, its fibers fraying in his grip. It was barely usable, but it was all he had. He managed to pull another strip loose, then another, each one coming away smaller and weaker than the last.

It was a pitiful collection, yet he clutched it like a lifeline as he returned to the fallen branches.

His hands trembled as he worked, propping the branches against the crooked tree to form a haphazard lean-to. 

The structure sagged the moment he stepped back, one side collapsing into the dirt. Frustration bubbled up, but he gritted his teeth and tried again, using the strips of brittle bark to tie the branches together. 

They tore with the slightest pressure, forcing him to weave and twist the fibers tightly to hold anything in place.

It held, barely.

Crawling underneath, Asher lay on the cold ground, shivering as the brittle sticks above him groaned under their own weight. The bark ties frayed and creaked, threatening to snap at any moment. It wasn’t much, but it was better than nothing—or so he told himself.

Then he heard it.

A long, mournful howl echoed through the forest, distant but unmistakable. The sound froze him in place, his heart pounding against his ribs. 

Another howl answered, this one closer. 

His breath quickened, and his fingers instinctively moved to his glabella. Tapping it, the world shifted again, the colors of the forest bleeding into ethereal hues.

Scanning the trees, he searched for signs of danger. The distant howls carried a haunting resonance in the spirit vision, faint traces of life rippling through the air like invisible waves. His gaze darted from shadow to shadow, expecting something—anything—to emerge.

But nothing came. Just the oppressive silence and the eerie glow of the forest in his altered vision.

Defeated and exhausted, Asher let the vision fade and stumbled back toward the escarpment.  When he finally reached the edge, he collapsed beside it, his body caked in a thin layer of mud.

Above him, the night sky stretched out in a breathtaking expanse of stars. The sharp, icy air carried a clarity that made the constellations seem impossibly close. 

The moon hung low on the horizon, casting a soft silver glow over the forest below. For a moment, the world felt vast and still, an indifferent but beautiful witness to his struggle.

Asher hugged his knees to his chest, shivering as the cold seeped through his thin clothing. 

The howls came again, faint and far below, a haunting reminder of the dangers lurking in the dark. He exhaled slowly, his breath misting in the chill air, and let his gaze linger on the sky.

“I’m not ready,” he admitted quietly, the words stolen by the wind. But as the stars shimmered above him, their light unwavering, a stubborn part of him refused to let go of hope.

He would endure. Somehow.

Chapter Text

The world greeted him with cold.

Asher woke, shivering uncontrollably, his body protesting the frigid dawn. His breath came in rapid puffs, misting the air like smoke, as a sharp sneeze forced his head forward, followed by another. Each sneeze left him groaning, his muscles aching from the strain.

The sun rose slowly, spilling golden light over the forest, painting the trees in amber hues. Long shadows stretched across the frost-covered ground, the beauty lost on Asher, who could only focus on the biting cold. If he had been in a better mood, he might have appreciated the view, but today it only reminded him of how much he didn’t belong here.

Shaking his head, he tried to clear the fog from his mind. His body, stiff from the uncomfortable night, protested with every movement. Another shiver wracked him, his teeth chattering involuntarily.

His eyes unfocused as he scanned the ground, wishing for relief from the chill. Then something caught his eye. It seemed like a trick of the light at first—a faint glimmer, a pale thread twisting across the rocky ground.

He blinked, confused, and looked again. It was still there, clear and real, like a path laid out just for him. But when he focused, it vanished, leaving only the cold silence of the forest.

Frustration swelled in his chest. Of all the things he could have missed, it had to be something like this. He rubbed his eyes, trying to clear his thoughts. Then, his gaze shifted downward—toward the base of the escarpment.

That’s when he saw it.

He hadn’t looked closely enough before. The glimmer had led him right to it—a sizable gap in the cliff, one he hadn’t noticed the night before in his exhaustion. It wasn’t a narrow crack or hidden crevice, but a space big enough for him to slip through.

Cursing under his breath, he realized how stupid he’d been. He had been too tired to see it earlier.

Something was waiting for him inside that gap. Whether shelter or some deeper mystery, he couldn’t say. But there was a pull, an undeniable feeling drawing him toward it.

He grunted as he made his way down the escarpment, carefully avoiding loose rocks that could send him tumbling. With each step, his feet found more stable ground. Soon, he reached the base and stood before the gap. For a moment, he hesitated, taking in the dark entrance.

He crawled inside, the space gradually widening into a small chamber. The light filtering through the treetops cast a faint glow over the rough stone walls, and beams of sunlight flickered across the floor, illuminating the farthest corners.

In the farthest corner, something caught his eye. At first, he thought he saw eyes staring back at him, their dark pupils glinting in the dim light. A chill ran down his spine, and his heart raced. He instinctively took a step back.

But as he blinked and rubbed his eyes, the image became clearer. What had seemed like eyes was actually a strange, face-shaped clump of vegetation.

He frowned, studying it carefully. It was unlike anything he had seen before—a bulbous, root-like plant, its shape vaguely human but entirely alien in design.

Samantha’s words about the ginseng came back to him.

His fingers tightened around the root, and he reached down to grab it. The strange texture of its surface sent a shiver up his spine as he pulled it free from the ground. The effort was exhausting, but there was something undeniably satisfying about holding the plant in his hands, its odd shape gleaming in the dim light.

With a pained grunt, he yanked it free, stepping back to catch his breath.

Suddenly, a heavy footfall echoed in the cave, followed by the rush of air. Asher spun around, pulse quickening, expecting danger.

But instead, a familiar figure stumbled into the cave—Samantha.

She stood, breathing heavily, scanning him quickly, her eyes assessing him for injuries. For a moment, her expression softened with concern, her brow furrowed.

But as she took in the scene—the ginseng in his hands and the lack of any immediate threat—her expression shifted. Confusion mixed with surprise flickered across her face.

"You’re... you’re fine?" she asked, her voice a mix of disbelief and frustration.

Asher, still catching his breath, blinked at her, confused. "What—how are you—?"

Before he could finish, Samantha cut him off, quickly regaining her composure. "It actually—" Her voice trailed off, and her concern vanished as she stepped forward. "You found it. The human-shaped ginseng, which I totally knew existed all along!"

She glanced at the plant in his hands, muttering to herself. "I definitely thought the ginseng plant existed, but... I just made up that mystical version." She sighed, exasperated. "But to think you actually found one that looks human-like. What are the odds?"

Asher’s frustration flared, and he gripped the ginseng tighter. "Wait a second—"

He stepped toward her, ready to demand an explanation, but exhaustion hit him like a wave. The cold, the long night, and the stress of everything that had happened drained him in an instant. His body ached, and the last thing he wanted was another argument with her.

With a sharp exhale, he rubbed his temples, the irritation slowly giving way to resignation. "Can we just go back to the church?" His voice was quieter now, tinged with defeat. He wasn’t in the mood for more games.

Samantha studied him for a long moment, her brow furrowed. Finally, she gave a short, sharp nod. "Fine. Let’s go. You’ve clearly had enough."

Too tired to say anything more, Asher followed her without another word, occasionally glancing down at the oddly shaped root in his hands.

Chapter Text

Asher barely noticed when they reached Samantha’s cabin. The haze of exhaustion blurred the sight of her rough, worn sanctuary tucked into the woods.

He stuck to the wall of the cabin to avoid the strewn-about traps, plopping down on one of the chairs by the fireplace.

The heavy smell of pine and metal mingled with the musty aroma of old leather and worn fabric. Asher wrinkled his nose as he glanced around the room again. It was just as chaotic as he remembered—knives haphazardly strewn across surfaces, traps littering the floor, and bows hung at precarious angles.

“Why am I here again?” Asher groaned, shifting uncomfortably on the creaking chair. He winced as a rusted nail dug into his back. “The church was fine. Clean, even. This place is—”

“A pigsty?” Samantha interrupted, unbothered as she brushed dirt off the adjacent chair before dropping into it. “Yeah, I’ve heard that before.”

“No offense,” Asher muttered, though his tone betrayed a lack of sincerity. “But seriously, why?”

Samantha smirked. “Told Otto I’d keep you under my care for a week and a day.”

Asher froze, his eyes narrowing. “Huh?”

“Oh, and morning training starts after that,” she added casually, leaning back in her chair as if she hadn't just dropped a bombshell.

Asher’s heart sank as he pictured the gruelling training ahead, his mind already retreating to the relative safety of the church. It involved a lot of pain. Probably yelling, too. And definitely an unreasonable amount of endurance drills.

“You’re kidding,” he said weakly.

Samantha grinned, the look of a predator enjoying its prey's discomfort. “Oh, I never kid about training. It's character-building.”

She leaned forward, her voice taking on a sinister sweetness. “You’ll thank me one day.”

Asher groaned, the thin wood squeaking in protest. “Yeah, sure. When my legs are broken, and I’m crawling back to the church, I’ll be singing your praises.”

Samantha snorted, crossing her arms. “If your legs break, it’s because you’ve got twigs for bones. That’s what the training’s for, twig boy.”

Asher muttered something under his breath, glaring up at the ceiling pelted by arrows and loose clothing strung on the beams. “I miss the church…” His eyes searched for any semblance of peace in the chaos around him.

“You’ll live,” Samantha replied, her tone brisk. “Now drink your tea before it gets cold. You’ll need all the strength you can muster.”

Reluctantly, Asher sat up and grabbed the mug from the rickety table beside him, steam rising from it. 

The sharp tang of soil hit his nose again as he sipped. He could also taste something earthy, familiar—ginseng.

It was a bit bitter but nice, its warmth offering a fleeting sense of calm. 

His thoughts, however, spiralled into dread. If this was Samantha’s version of care, he didn’t want to know what her training regimen looked like.

***
Thursday, April 4th, 1341

She wants me to be writing this stupid journal to mark my progress with training and also to better my Feysac writing skills. 

As if I’m not already busy enough with the actual training. But whatever, I guess.

First day was rough. Really rough. Samantha didn’t ease me into it at all. I spent hours doing basic endurance drills—running through the woods, jumping over logs, crawling through mud. 

Not a single break, just constant movement. And then she had me practice fighting with a wooden practice sword. 

The thing weighs a ton. By the end of the day, my arms were shaking like I’d been holding a boulder all day. 

She said this was just the beginning. 

“The first day’s always the worst”

She said it with a grin. I don’t believe her.

***

Friday, April 5th, 1341

Well, Samantha's definitely not going easy on me. 

More endurance drills today. But she also had me do some weird stretches to loosen my t̶h̶o̶r̶a̶c̶i̶c̶, t̶r̶o̶p̶s̶i̶z̶i̶c̶, trapezius muscles after training. I don’t know why she insists on making everything sound so complicated. 

I could barely keep up with the stretches, let alone the drills. My body is already sore, and we’re only two days in.

At least I haven’t cried yet. That’s progress, right? She keeps pushing me, saying that "feeling like you’re about to die means you’re doing it right." 

At least, I’m still alive, so I guess that’s something.

***

Saturday, April 6th, 1341

I’m done. I can’t take any more. I’m supposed to be toughening up, but this feels like something else. 

Today she made me hunt. I spent hours running around, trying to trap something. I eventually caught a rabbit—not a proud catch, mind you, considering it basically tripped and fell into my hands. 

But the moment I held its head in my hands, something inside me broke.

I just couldn't do it. I couldn’t kill it. I looked at it in my hands, and all I could think about was how stupid it was that I was so afraid of doing something that had to be done.

It wasn’t even a matter of mercy, it was just… too much. I ended up leaving it there, running off before I could finish the job.

Samantha found me a little while later and immediately started yelling. “If you’re not willing to finish what you started, then don’t start it at all!” 

She shoved me back toward the woods. “You’re not here to cry over a damn rabbit. Get your head in the game!”

Yeah, well, my head’s in pieces damn it.

***

Sunday, April 7th, 1341

I’m still caught up on that rabbit the look in it’s eyes its-

Anyways, today I felt like I was drowning. 

More endurance drills. More practice with the sword. I swear, I can barely look at them the same after this. 

Every damn part of my body hurts, but Samantha says that’s the point. She doesn’t care about how tired I am, just that I’m getting better.

She didn’t say anything about the rabbit from yesterday, which I’m thankful for. But there’s this nagging feeling in my chest every time I think about it. 

I’m supposed to be learning to handle death, learning to make decisions that are difficult, but I’m not sure I’m cut out for it. What if I’m never able to make those choices when it counts? What if I freeze up when someone’s life is on the line?

***

Monday, April 8th, 1341

More of the same today. I can’t keep up with all of this. I feel like I’m constantly behind, like no matter how hard I push, it’s never enough.

And yet, there’s a part of me that just doesn’t want to stop. I hate this, but I’m not sure I can give up either.

Was that one guy named Sisyphus?

Samantha keeps telling me that I need to be stronger. She doesn’t care if I’m tired or hurt, she just wants me to get better. Maybe she's right.

Maybe I do need to push past this. I don’t know. What I do know is that this feels like it’s breaking me down… and maybe that’s exactly what’s supposed to happen.

I can’t wait to get out of this place and not have to deal with Samantha’s snoring from across the room.

The more I think about it, the more I realize I’m not sure who I am anymore. All this talk about strength—it's like it’s becoming everything. 

If I’m not strong enough, if I’m not tough enough, what does that leave me? Maybe I’m just a joke. I don’t know if I’ll ever be good enough for this beyonder stuff.

I’m exhausted. I’m confused. And I think I’m starting to break…

***

The pen hovered above an empty page, as if caught between the words that weren’t there and the frustration that flooded Asher’s chest. 

The ink smudged as his trembling hand gripped it tighter, pushing down with an urgency that felt wrong. His heart raced, but it wasn’t from exertion. 

Tears welled up in his eyes, but they weren’t enough to stop the ink from spilling out, blending with the smudged blotches on the paper.

The pen seemed to fight back. It dug into the paper, the scratch of metal against the rough surface almost mocking him, before it skipped in a jagged line. 

Asher slammed it down again, the force making the nib scrape painfully, sending ink droplets splattering over the page. Each stroke became a battle, his frustration and helplessness leaving trails of dark splotches, the paper torn where he pressed too hard.

Tears mixed with the ink, hidden beneath the frantic scribbles, as if the paper itself was the only one who could understand the turmoil within him. 

The pen refused to cooperate, but Asher didn’t care anymore. 

The ink bled like the thoughts in his mind—unfinished, uncontrollable, and impossible to make sense of.

Chapter Text

Asher woke with an unexpected, sharp ache pulsing at his temples. It wasn't the kind of dull throb he'd felt before after nights of stress or exhaustion—it was sharper, like a knife sliding just beneath his skull. 

He grimaced, pressing his thumbs to his temples as he swung his legs off the cot.

Then, as quickly as it had come, the headache ebbed away, fading into nothingness. By the time he reached for his shirt, the pain was gone entirely, leaving him with only the memory of it, faint and unsettling. 

He blinked, rolling his shoulders and wondering if the strain of the past days—or whatever dreams his mind conjured last night—was playing tricks on him.

Pulling on his clothes, he shook the thought off and focused on navigating the cabin. Samantha's scattered traps seemed even more numerous this morning, an intricate mess of tripwires, precariously balanced objects, and small snares meant more for animals than humans. 

His movements were automatic now, each step as careful as a dancer's.

Finally reaching the door, Asher cracked it open and inhaled the crisp morning air. It carried the faint tang of wet dog fur and sun drying jerky, a welcome contrast to the stuffy cabin. 

For a fleeting moment, he felt a sense of calm—a rare luxury away from Samantha’s spartan training.

Then his eyes caught movement outside.

Samantha stood in the clearing, her frame silhouetted against the pale light of dawn. In one hand, she held an axe raised high above her head. Her stance was poised, every muscle in her body taut with purpose. 

Before Asher could even wonder what she was doing, she brought the axe down in a powerful, deliberate swing.

CRACK

The metallic head of the axe snapped off the handle mid-strike, soaring through the air with alarming speed and force. 

Asher had no time to think—his body moved on instinct, leaning back sharply. The broken axe head whizzed past him, brushing the tip of his nose before embedding itself in the cabin door with a resonant thunk.

For a moment, Asher just stood there, staring at the quivering metal lodged in the wood an inch from his face. 

His breath came in shallow bursts, and his heart thundered in his chest, as if trying to keep up with what just happened.

Samantha lowered the handle, inspecting the broken wood with a calm detachment.

“Huh,” she muttered, tossing the handle aside like a piece of trash. “Guess it was weaker than I thought.”

Asher’s voice finally returned, cracking slightly as he exclaimed, “You almost killed me!”

Her head tilted, an eyebrow raised as she regarded him with mild amusement. “Almost? You dodged it.”

“That’s not the point!” He gestured wildly at the axe head embedded in the door. “You didn’t think to warn me first?”

Samantha shrugged, leaning down to pick up a new axe from the pile beside her. 

“Didn’t think you’d be dumb enough to open the door right then. Good reflexes, though.”

Asher gaped at her. “Reflexes? Reflexes?! You’re out of your goddamn mind, you old crone!”

She grinned, her eyes glinting with something suspiciously close to pride. “Maybe. But you’re alive, aren’t you? So quit whining and be grateful.”

With a chuckle, she strode past him toward Nimbus, leaving him frozen in the doorway, still trying to make sense of what had just happened.

The morning air, once crisp and refreshing, now felt heavy in his lungs. He turned back to glance at the axe head embedded in the wall, shuddering as the scene replayed in his mind.

“Can we just… can we please get out of here?” he muttered, rubbing the back of his neck.

She glanced over her shoulder while scratching Nimbus behind the ears. “What’s the matter, twig boy? A little scrap of metal too much for you?”

“It’s-”

“I’m not a—”

“Uh-huh. Sure you’re not,” she cut him off with a smirk. “Come on, little twig boy. Let’s get you moving before a gust of wind snaps you in half.”

Asher groaned, muttering a variety of curses under his breath as he followed after her.

***

The path grew narrower, the budding forest pressing in around them.

Samantha walked a few paces ahead, her footsteps sure despite the uneven ground.

Asher, trailing behind, moved with greater stability than before—half from his efforts and the remainder the strength-enhancing stick’s influence.

He glanced at the world around him, noticing how life was beginning to move past the shackles of winter. Tender green shoots pushed their way through patches of stubborn snow, and young leaves shivered on low-hanging branches. 

The earthy scent of thawed soil mingled with the crispness of pine, while scattered flowers, pale and fragile, peeked out as if testing the air.

The woods were alive with sound: the distant chatter of birds calling for mates, the faint rustle of squirrels scurrying through undergrowth, and the whisper of the breeze weaving through the trees.

It was a world on the cusp of growth, each creature and plant making great strides to reclaim the lost warmth.

For a brief moment, Asher felt a sense of awe—fleeting but grounding.

It wasn’t the wild, unforgiving place it had been before. 

This forest, he thought, wasn’t unlike himself: stubborn, hurt, but still fighting.

Then Samantha broke the relative silence.

“Wanna talk about last night?”

Her words hung in the air, casual but deliberate.

Asher froze mid-step, the peace of the moment shattering. His heart sank like a stone into his stomach.

He could barely lift his gaze, his chest tightening with the memory of his panic, his desperation. “There’s nothing to talk about.”

“Kid, I saw what you did. You threw yourself at that paper like it was the last thing in the world. You’re carrying a hell of a lot more than you’re letting on.” 

She paused, her eyes narrowing. 

“It’s eating at you. And sooner or later, it’ll swallow you whole if you don’t start taking care of yourself.”

Asher’s jaw clenched, but he couldn’t speak—his throat was too tight. His body still ached, the weight of the training, the fear, the pain all crashing together. And even now, it felt like he was drowning. 

“I asked for this,” he said finally, voice strained. 

“I wanted to be strong enough to survive and thrive here. But… I don’t know how much more I can take.”

Samantha’s gaze softened just a fraction, but her voice remained firm.

“You don’t have to do it alone, Asher. Not everyone is strong enough to carry everything on their own. Not even me.” 

She studied him for a long moment, her eyes flickering with something akin to understanding. 

“In a month you’ve been put through hell. But you’re still standing. You’ve come farther than you think.”

He didn’t know how to respond. His mind was clouded with the weight of his exhaustion, but her words cut through the fog, leaving something behind. 

He swallowed, struggling to focus on her face. 

“I didn’t ask for any of this,” he muttered, looking down at the stick in his hand, the one that was supposed to make him stronger. 

“I didn’t ask to be thrown into a world like this. To be in a body like this, to—”

“Stop.” Samantha’s voice was sharp now, cutting through his spiraling thoughts. 

“Nobody asks for the shitty parts Asher. It happens anyway. But what you can control is how you deal with it. And you’re definitely not the same person who I found strung up in a snare.”

Her eyes locked onto his, piercing but steady, holding him in place. 

“That counts for something. And I’ll be damned if I’m gonna let you wallow in self pity.”

Asher met her gaze, a sudden lump in his throat making it hard to breathe.

But there was something there—something that hadn’t been there before. A flicker of resolve. 

“I don’t know what I'm supposed to do,” he said quietly, his voice barely above a whisper.

Samantha’s expression softened, but there was still the unmistakable edge. 

“Then you keep moving forward. That’s all anyone can do. You’re not alone, Asher. You don’t have to carry it all yourself.”

With that, she turned, walking forward with a purposeful stride. Asher stood frozen, his thoughts a tangled mess. 

But in the midst of all the exhaustion, all the self-doubt, he felt something begin to shift within him. It wasn’t an answer, not yet, but it was a start.

Samantha had reminded him that he wasn’t alone. That even when everything seemed too much, there was still a way forward. He wasn’t done yet. 

And maybe—just maybe—he could hold onto that fire she had spoken of. 

Amidst the cold remnants of the fire, a glimmer in the coals flickered, a brief warmth in the stillness.

***

As Asher and Samantha reached the final stretch toward Kyrmsk, the town began to come into sharper focus.

The tall, sturdy buildings stood like sentinels against the harsh northern winds. 

With their steep roofs shedding the last remnants of winter’s snow.

There were few windows in sight, their function over form clear in their design.

The dirt path beneath their boots gave way to cobblestone streets, well-worn from the countless footsteps of the town's residents. 

The air was alive with the scent of pine and sawdust, the sharp tang of freshly split logs mingling with the more subtle fragrance of baking bread from the nearby bakeries.

Market stalls crowded the streets, overflowing with fresh produce, animal skins, and handmade goods. The voices of the shopkeepers carried through the crisp air, calling out to passersby.

As they made their way closer to the heart of the town, the towering triangle symbol came into view, rising above the market and shops. 

Its stone walls seemed worn, weathered by time and the elements, but still standing proud and unyielding. 

The church was a focal point, not just spiritually but in terms of the town’s daily rhythm.

But as they neared the church a loud bang shattered the stillness. 

The windows of the church burst open with a violent force, sending plumes of smoke billowing into the air. 

The stained glass of the church flexing under the forces inside.

The heavy wooden doors flew open, and a crowd of coughing townsfolk poured out, stumbling over one another in their desperate escape. 

Their faces were pale, their eyes wide with fear and confusion, as they staggered into the streets, gasping for breath.

Asher’s pulse thudded in his ears, and his thoughts scattered, too jumbled to focus.

“What the hell just happened?” he whispered, barely able to hear his own voice over the rising chaos. 

The crowd kept pouring out of the church, their movements frantic, but there was no sign of what had caused the destruction. 

Is there anyone left inside? 

Is anyone hurt? 

Where’s Kaspar and Otto in all this?

His heart hammered in his chest as his legs surged forward, moving on instinct while his mind struggled to catch up.

Chapter Text

Asher pushed through the panicked crowd, his heart hammering as he forced his way into the smoke-filled church.

The air hit him like a wall, thick with a salty acrid haze that burned his throat and eyes. 

Smoke poured out in curling tendrils, as if the building itself exhaled its last breath. Behind him, Samantha called out, her voice barely cutting through the din of hacking coughs and frantic shouts. 

But Asher didn’t stop.

He had to know.

Inside, dim light from the shattered stained glass cast eerie patterns across the nave, illuminating overturned pews and scattered debris. 

He stumbled to a halt just past the door, his gaze darting around for any sign of life. 

A single cough echoed through the cavernous space, mingling with the groans of wood and stone.

Asher’s pulse thundered in his ears as he scanned for signs of life, his breaths coming short and shallow.

Asher steadied himself, pressing a hand to his forehead and tapping it lightly to activate his spirit vision. 

The world shifted, the mundane dissolving into an ethereal landscape of auras and shadows.

That same recognizable aura—a distinct mix of silver and vintage orange—flickered again, its owner leaning against the front lectern.

That faint shimmer... it was him. 

Relief flooded Asher, but it was fleeting. 

The way Otto slumped there, so still... No, he’s alive. He has to be alive.

"Is that... you, Asher?" came a strained, hoarse voice from the figure.

Asher tried to respond, opening his mouth to call out, but the sharp, salty smoke surged into his throat, cutting him off. 

He doubled over, coughing violently as the acrid air tore at his lungs. The sound of his hacking breaths seemed to reach Otto, who shifted slightly, his gaze unfocused but searching.

“Yeah… it’s you,” Otto rasped, his voice barely audible over the growing chaos. “Point… point out the machine won't you. Where’s it venting?”

Asher's spirit vision sharpened as he focused on the smoke. It was alive with unnatural currents, twisting and flowing with a chaotic intent. 

His eyes traced the ethereal streams, their paths converging and flowing steadily toward the right wall. There, he spotted it: the faint outline of a machine, its spiritual counterpart pulsing with action. 

The smoke spewed from its side like a malevolent tide, filling the church with its suffocating presence.

“There,” Asher rasped, pointing toward the right wall. “The purple salt machine—by the right wall. That’s where it’s coming from.”

Otto nodded weakly, his silver-brown aura flickering faintly as he pressed a rag to his mouth. 

Gritting his teeth against another fit of coughing, he pushed himself upright, his movements slow but deliberate. 

Asher watched as Otto staggered forward, weaving through the thick haze and using the pews for support, the faint light from his mechanical arm beginning to glow.

When Otto reached the machine, his left arm came alive. The light emanating from it intensified, bathing the immediate area in a pale, steady glow. 

Asher’s vision caught the intricate mechanisms within the arm whirring to life, its joints clicking softly as Otto assessed the situation. The smoke poured around him, but his focus remained unshaken as his mechanical hand traced the machine’s vents and controls.

Suddenly, arcs of electricity burst from Otto’s glowing arm, the crackling energy illuminating the scene in sharp flashes. 

He worked swiftly, his mechanical hand adjusting valves, reconnecting wires, and tightening bolts with precise, fluid movements. 

The light in his arm pulsed in rhythm with the energy coursing through it, the arcs dancing like tiny lightning strikes as they soldered damaged components into place.

The smoke began to thin, its flow diminishing as the machine slowed its chaotic dance.

The final arc of electricity snapped through the air with a blinding flash, and the machine sputtered violently before falling silent.

Otto staggered back, coughing as smoke curled around him. The oppressive cloud hung heavy in the air, a choking reminder of the chaos moments before. 

His glowing arm dimmed, the mechanisms winding down with a faint hiss as he leaned heavily against the wall.

“Asher!” Samantha’s voice cut through the haze, sharp and commanding. She gripped his arm, guiding him back toward the doorway where the air was clearer. “Stay low. You’re no good to anyone if you can’t breathe.”

Asher stumbled alongside her, his eyes darting toward Otto, who was still catching his breath. For a moment, Asher hesitated, unsure if he should step forward or keep his distance. 

Samantha gave him a slight nudge. “He’ll be fine. Let him finish.”

The machine let out one final sputter before falling eerily silent. The smoke began to thin, dissipating with agonizing slowness, leaving a tense stillness in its wake. 

Otto straightened, wiping soot and sweat from his face as he glanced at the mess surrounding him.

Before he could say anything, the sound of uneven footsteps echoed from the hallway. Kaspar appeared, his gaunt figure silhouetted against the dim light spilling into the church. 

His goggles reflected the scattered embers on the floor, the fractured machine at their center.

Kaspar’s hands twitched, mechanical fingers locking briefly as he stepped closer. He crouched near the wreckage, his gaze darting over the shattered components. 

One trembling hand reached toward a loose wire, but he froze halfway.

His shoulders slumped, and he let out a tight, fragile exhale. “Ah... disaster,” he muttered, his voice breaking. “So much wrong. Kaspar didn’t... keep it together, no. Not supposed to fall apart.” His head dipped lower, and his voice grew quieter. “I... fail. Again. Always fail. Try, try... never enough.”

He clenched his mechanical fist, trembling with frustration as his head dropped to his chest. His other hand twitched toward the wreckage again, hesitating before retreating.

Samantha’s sharp gaze softened for a brief moment as she looked at him, but Otto’s voice cut through the tension like a knife.

“Enough.” Otto pushed off the wall, his tone clipped and brimming with irritation. 

“You’ve been wallowing for a week now, Kaspar. I’m done with it. We’re all done with it.” He gestured broadly to the broken machine. 

“This—this right here—is your job. And instead of fixing it, you’re standing here feeling sorry for yourself while I’m left to pick up the pieces. Do you think that’s helping anyone?”

Kaspar flinched at the words, his trembling hands falling to his sides. He muttered something incoherent, his voice almost too faint to hear.

Asher’s chest tightened as Kaspar’s voice faltered, the broken man crumbling further under Otto’s barrage. 

Why does Otto always go for the jugular? Kaspar’s already falling apart—does he really need to be pushed harder?

Otto didn’t let up. “We’re drowning in unfinished work. If you can’t pull yourself together, I’ll handle the maintenance myself. But starting tomorrow, you two are taking on some of the low-brow supernatural jobs piling up on my desk.”

“Hold it,” Samantha interjected, her tone sharp as she stepped forward. “Not if it cuts into Asher’s lessons. He’s got enough on his plate without running errands for you.”

Otto turned to her, his jaw tightening. “I’m not asking. I’m telling. Kaspar needs something to get his head out of the smoke. Asher can handle it—it’s not like I’m sending him to wrestle with a Murloc.”

“That’s not your call,” Samantha interjected, stepping forward with her arms crossed. 

Her tone was sharp, but her gaze softened as it shifted between Otto and Kaspar. “But... maybe you’re right this time. Asher’s been cooped up in lessons for weeks. A change of pace could do him some good.”

Kaspar’s voice, shaky but determined, broke through the tension. “I... help. Yes, help. Feysac words... hard for Asher. I teach him. Yes!”

His goggled eyes flicked toward Asher, his nervous energy replaced by a flicker of resolve.

Otto sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. “Fine. Do what you need to. But this isn’t over, Kaspar. You can’t keep hiding in your own head.” 

He glanced toward the hallway. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got smoke to drown out with something stronger than air.”

He walked off, muttering under his breath. The sound of his footsteps faded, leaving an uneasy quiet in the room. 

Samantha’s expression softened as she looked at Kaspar, who was still fidgeting but seemed more present now.

“Asher,” she said, turning toward him with a slight smirk. “You’d better keep up tomorrow. No slacking, or you’ll hear about it.”

Despite how unbearable she could be, she had a point.

Maybe a change of pace would help—both for me and Kaspar.

Samantha could be tough, but the way she pushed me... it made me feel like maybe I actually had a shot at pulling it off.

Asher nodded, the weight of her words sinking in. He exchanged a glance with Kaspar, who gave him a hesitant, yet hopeful smile. 

The despair in his eyes had faded, replaced by a flicker of purpose.

Chapter Text

Asher stood before a mirror, floating in a vast, empty void where the mirror itself seemed to pulse with an eerie light, as if it drew power from some unseen source within. 

He raised a hand, watching it move slowly through the glowing air, and placed it against the cool surface of the mirror. 

The reflection was indistinguishable from himself—every movement synchronized perfectly, staring into the same deep amber eyes.

He ran his fingers lightly across the surface, the glass smooth beneath his touch.

A faint ripple spread out from his hand, distorting the reflection, but it quickly settled back into place.

The light from the mirror flickered, growing more intense with each pulse.

Then, something shifted—his reflection’s motions became ever so slightly delayed, like a second behind his own. 

He furrowed his brow, watching as his mirrored self raised its hand after a beat, its movements just a fraction off.

Asher leaned closer, eyes narrowing. 

The air seemed to grow colder, the reflection stiffening as if struggling to match his movements. A shiver ran down his spine.

The stillness of the void made each imperfection in the reflection more apparent, its movements now stiff, unnatural.

The reflection tilted its head, but it lingered for a moment too long before snapping back to a rigid posture.

Its eyes—once like his—now seemed hollow, vacant, as if staring into something far beyond the void.

The light from the mirror deepened into an unsettling, unnatural glow, casting sharp, angular reflections that didn’t match his own posture.

The reflection’s lips twitched into a grin, not his grin—a chilling, hollow mockery.

Its hand lifted unnaturally, mimicking his own, but with a mechanical precision that made the air grow colder.

Then, the reflection took a step forward, a jagged motion that didn’t belong to him.

It stepped towards him, the mirror cracking like glass shattering under a terrible force, and the reflection leapt from its confines, twisting toward him with hollow intent.

***

The moment the reflection lunged, Asher jolted awake, his heart hammering in his chest. His breath was shallow, ragged, and his body slick with cold sweat. 

He winced, feeling every muscle ache from the brutal exercises Samantha had made him endure. His limbs felt heavy, his back tight, as though his body hadn't quite recovered from the strain.

He pushed himself upright, clutching his head, the remnants of the nightmare still clinging to his mind like shadows in the dark. His pulse thudded in his ears, the echo of broken glass and hollow eyes lingering in the corners of his vision.

Without warning, the door slammed open with a violent force, the crash of metal striking wood filling the room. 

Kaspar stood there, his right mechanical hand still raised, an unusual fierceness in his posture. He had slammed the door with more strength than he'd intended, but the glint of something almost manic in his eyes didn’t go unnoticed.

"Awake, yes? Waking not from rest, no." His mechanical hand flexed in a jerky motion, as though he hadn’t quite adjusted to the power he wielded. 

Kaspar’s head tilted at an odd angle as he stood in the doorway, his mechanical hand twitching. 

“Nightmare, yes?” he asked, his voice pitched higher than usual, eyes gleaming with unrestrained curiosity. 

Before Asher could even think to answer, Kaspar’s expression shifted, and a flood of words spilled out, his excitement palpable.

“Samantha, she—she lets you off today!” Kaspar waved his hand as if dismissing the weight of the previous night's pain. 

“No training today, no pushing! Let’s celebrate! But!” He suddenly leaned forward, all seriousness now. 

“Food! We need food! Brunch! Yes?” Kaspar grinned widely, his teeth almost too sharp in the dim light of the room.

“We can’t waste time, you see. Otto, he has plans. Big plans! Spirit-y tasks, yes! Things that make the air heavy and the soul tingle—exciting things!” Kaspar’s voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper, though there was no one else around. 

“But we need to eat! Otherwise, how will we do the work? How will we summon the spirits?” Asher blinked, still trying to process the sudden flood of Kaspar’s words. 

Kaspar was already pulling away, half-expecting Asher to follow. "So... brunch, yes?" 

Kaspar looked back over his shoulder with wide, eager eyes, as though the whole fate of the day rested on Asher’s decision to cook.

Kaspar’s eager gaze didn’t waver as he paused, waiting for a response. 

Asher let out a groggy sigh, his body aching from the brutal training the day before. "Yeah, yeah, brunch, whatever," he muttered, rubbing his temples.

He shot Kaspar a tired glare, voice heavy with exhaustion. "But get out of my damn room first. I need to change."

Kaspar’s smile faltered, but only for a moment, before he nodded enthusiastically. "Ah! Yes, change. Right!" 

He backed up a few steps, looking almost too pleased with himself. "I’ll be in the kitchen! Don’t be long!"

With that, Kaspar darted out of the room, leaving Asher alone to finally breathe in the silence. Asher leaned back against the wall for a moment, letting the grogginess linger. 

A quick change, then breakfast, and hopefully some peace for the rest of the day.

***

Breakfast was made as simply as possible.

Asher poorly cracked a few eggs into the pan, wincing in pain from his sore muscles. 

He whisked the mixture with the lethargy and mechanical motions of someone half awake, his mind wandering to the ridiculous price on these eggs from the day prior.

When whatever god created the great chicken, they absolutely did not intend them to cost 5 feysilver and 4 kopek for a dozen. 

Cynthia’s an angel, they definitely weren’t trying to fleece me…

Wasn’t it that disease hitting poultry recently? What was it called? 

Oh right—Chickpea's disease!

The image of chickens coughing up half-digested feed, like cats hacking up hairballs, flickered in his mind. The disease had wiped out the cooped-up flocks over the winter, and the farmers were still recovering.

Despite his distractions, Asher managed to cook omelettes without burning them, sliding them onto chipped plates before trudging to the kitchen table.

Kaspar was doing who knows what, but Otto was already sitting there, slouched in his chair, a strange glass in hand.

The liquid inside shimmered pink, a vibrant hue that made Asher’s stomach turn.

Whether it was the thought of Chickpea’s disease, the bizarre drink, or the aftertaste of a week long sadomasochism session, a knot remained in Asher’s stomach, souring both his appetite and mood.

“What… is that ?” Asher asked, narrowing his eyes as he sat down.

Otto grinned and raised the glass with an exaggerated flourish. “Moonshine. Made it myself from the great Yupnik plant—purple potatoes, as you call them. Quite the scientific breakthrough, wouldn’t you agree?”

Asher blinked at him, unimpressed. “Alchohol’s been around since we figured out how to rot fruit. You’re not exactly reinventing the wheel.”

Otto chuckled, unfazed, and gestured toward his drink. “Ah, but this, my dear apprentice, is almost entirely ethanol. A true marvel of brewing, created in the week you were gone. In case you forgot, I used to be a Sequence 9 Savant— Roselle based chemistry was a personal favorite.”

“And now you’re poisoning yourself before brunch,” Asher muttered, stabbing at his omelette with the kind of focus one reserves for avoiding conversation.

Before Otto could respond, the kitchen door slammed open, and Kaspar stumbled in, covered in soot. His face and hands were blackened, and the goggles perched on his forehead had been hastily wiped clean, leaving streaky circles around his eyes.

“S-sorry!” he sputtered, his fragmented speech tinged with his usual odd cheer. “Wasn’t—wasn’t meaning to do a late! Had… had minor accident.”

Asher raised an eyebrow. “What kind of accident?”

“Small kaboom,” Kaspar said, waving a hand dismissively and plopping into a chair. “Not—not big. Only little fire.”

Otto leaned back in his chair, sipping his drink like nothing was out of the ordinary. “You know, in Feysac, it’s rare to find people who aren’t drinking at this hour. Honestly, you two are the odd ones here.”

Asher shot him a flat look. “If that’s true, then why do I rarely see people drinking around town?”

Otto clammed up, his confident smirk faltering for a moment as he swirled the pink liquid in his glass, clearly unwilling to comment.

Kaspar, oblivious to the shift in atmosphere, leaned forward eagerly. “Oh! Oh, that’s easy! During Lent, most folks—most churches, even the Church of the God of Steam and Machinery—abstain! No drinking! Especially clergy!”

Asher blinked, his fork frozen halfway to his mouth. “Lent?”

Kaspar nodded enthusiastically, rubbing at a soot-smudged cheek and smearing the ash further. “Yes, yes! Lent. No drinking—strict rules, you know! And it’s not over for another… hmm… one week! Give or take a day!”

Otto cleared his throat, his face tightening into an exaggeratedly casual expression. “Well, of course, I am no clergyman, I’m a refined Machinery Hivemind member” he said, setting his glass down with deliberate nonchalance. “The rules don’t quite apply to me the same.”

Asher’s lips quirked into a barely restrained grin. “So, let me get this straight—it’s supposedly rare for people not to drink, yet literally everyone’s sober because of Lent… except you ?”

Kaspar tilted his head, clearly trying to piece the contradiction together. “Ah… uh…”

Otto cut in quickly, waving a hand. “Exceptions exist, of course. Like myself! An innovator! A trailblazer of the modern spirit! Not bound by such… inane traditions.”

Asher gave him a deadpan stare. “Right. Trailblazer. With your purple potato moonshine.”

Kaspar brightened again, clapping his soot-streaked hands together. “It’s a very nice drink! Smells… hmm… strong, though. Like it could… maybe strip paint?”

Otto’s grin returned as he raised the glass once more. “Strong? No, Kaspar, it’s refined. There’s a difference. You wouldn’t understand.”

Asher let out a long sigh, pushing his plate away, the remnants of his cold omelette barely touched. 

His muscles still ached, and his mind lingered uneasily on the shattered mirror and hollow grin from his nightmare.

Otto leaned back in his chair, twirling his glass lazily. “You look troubled, Asher. Bad dreams, or just haunted by my superior chemistry skills?”

Asher shot him a flat look, but before he could respond, Kaspar’s head tilted, his eyes narrowing slightly in an uncharacteristic moment of focus. “Dreams, yes? Strange Monster things?”

He reached out for a slice of bread, smearing soot across the table in the process.

Asher frowned, his pulse quickening despite himself. “What do you know about mirrors?” he asked, his voice low.

Kaspar waved a soot-covered hand dismissively. “Mirrors? Oh, not much! Just shiny, breakable things! Little use to me!”

Otto chuckled, setting his glass down with a deliberate clink. “Let me guess, you had one of those nightmares where the reflection gets a mind of its own? Classic symbolism. Probably just means you’re repressing something.”

Asher stiffened, the memory of too many prophetic dreams clawing at the edges of his mind. His voice came out sharper than intended. “Or it’s just another warning wrapped in something I don’t want to think about.”

The room grew quiet, Otto’s smirk fading as he studied Asher. Kaspar, oblivious or uncaring, began stacking plates with exaggerated care, humming a cheery tune.

“Warnings,” Otto said finally, his tone more subdued, “only matter if you can decipher them. Care to share, or should we just assume your reflection’s plotting your downfall?”

Asher shook his head, forcing the knot in his chest to loosen. “I don’t have the time to play guessing games with my subconscious. If it’s important, it’ll show itself soon enough.”

Otto leaned back, folding his arms. “You sound convinced. But let me ask you—how many warnings have you ignored that didn’t come back to bite you?”

Asher’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t answer. Instead, he stood, scraping the chair against the floor. “Maybe none. But I’ve got enough on my plate without adding one more cryptic riddle to the pile.”

“Suit yourself,” Otto said, his grin returning, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes.

Kaspar, entirely unfazed, chirped, “Riddles, dreams, mirrors! All same—best ignored. Unless they talking back, then you have problem!”

Asher cast one last glance at the soot-streaked man, whose cheer seemed impervious to the tension hanging in the air. Shaking his head, he stepped toward the door.

“Don’t wait too long to figure it out,” Otto called after him, his voice light but edged with something Asher couldn’t place.

Pausing at the doorway, Asher glanced back. “I won’t.”

Chapter Text

Asher and Kaspar stepped out of the church’s heavy wooden doors, the cool mid-morning breeze brushing against their faces. Around them, the first attendees of Otto’s lectures began to gather– those of the faith and otherwise. 

Asher glanced back briefly at the small gathering before turning his attention to Kaspar. "So... where are we going?"

Kaspar, as usual, didn’t answer right away. His head tilted slightly, eyes darting as though listening to a voice only he could hear.

"Kaspar," Asher prompted, his voice edged with impatience. "Where exactly are we headed?"

"Uh... not sure," Kaspar replied, the words halting, each one spaced out as if testing its footing. He gave a lopsided shrug.

"You don’t know?" Asher stopped in his tracks, rubbing his temples as if the act would somehow summon patience from thin air. "Then why did we leave the church?"

Kaspar blinked, his brow furrowing in exaggerated confusion. "Felt right. Feet moved. Out we go."

Asher groaned, crossing his arms. "Seriously?"

Kaspar’s expression suddenly brightened, as though a thought had just clicked into place. "Oh! The note! Yes, yes. Otto’s note!" He began rummaging through his satchel with the fervor of a man searching for misplaced treasure.

Asher crossed his arms tighter, annoyance mounting. "What note?"

"Otto gave it. Small. Crumpled. Like a biscuit wrapper." Kaspar muttered, still digging, hands disappearing into the chaos of his bag. Finally, he produced a battered scrap of paper, holding it aloft like a trophy.

"That?" Asher stared at the crumpled, stained, and partially torn scrap. "That doesn’t inspire confidence."

Kaspar shrugged, his face deadpan. "Confidence is dangerous thing." He began smoothing the note against his thigh, its smudged ink spreading further. His eyes scanned the mess of words with surprising ease. "Hmm... appraisal... Anglov... ring with marks..."

"Wait, wait, wait." Asher gestured toward the paper. "How are you even reading that? It’s illegible."

"Not for me. My eyes—better Savant eyes. See the shapes, not the mess." Kaspar grinned, the expression unnervingly wide.

"Fine," Asher relented with a sharp exhale. "What’s it say about the Anglov family?"

Kaspar tilted the note, squinting as if deciphering a secret code. "Otto ignored them. Bad mood, maybe? They want help. Ring with scribbles. Old scribbles."

"Ancient markings?" Asher’s curiosity began to override his irritation. "Does it say anything else?"

Kaspar gave another exaggerated shrug, crumpling the note back into his bag. "Maybe. Maybe not. Who knows?"

Asher groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Where to then?”

Kaspar froze, hands pressing dramatically against their temples, their eyes darting around as if trying to catch an invisible fly.

“Uh… hmmm... wait-wait-wait—yes! Yes! I remember! A left. Or maybe—no! A right! Definitely left first! No, definitely right! A right-after-the-fish-stall—but wait, is stall even open today? Did fish stall burn down? No, no, ignore—then left past two, no, THREE buildings! Before one with blue door, it cursed. Take a sharp right after the post, not lamp—very important—Anglov’s sixth house is on right. Probably. Unless they moved.”

Asher blinked, stunned. “...What?”

Kaspar beamed, looking extremely pleased with himself. “Simple, yes?”

Asher groaned, putting a hand to his forehead. The strain made him accidentally activate his spirit vision. 

The world around him exploded into a chaotic swirl of colors—pulsing, shifting, and spiraling in ways that made his head spin.

“Ugh,” he muttered, squeezing his eyes shut and taking a moment to breathe. With some effort, he managed to deactivate it, the world snapping back to normalcy.

He blinked a few times, still dizzy, before sighing in defeat. “I’ll… I’ll just follow you.”

Kaspar clapped their hands, practically bouncing in place. “Excellent!”

*** 

They walked for several minutes, Asher trailing behind Kaspar’s energetic pace. The stench hit him first, even stronger than before—a rancid cocktail of salt, rot, and decay that sent his head spinning.

Kaspar didn’t seem fazed in the slightest, practically skipping toward the fish stall. “Right here!” they chirped, oblivious to Asher’s growing discomfort.

Asher groaned inwardly. To get to the next street, they’d have to pass much closer to the cart than he liked. The fish looked even worse up close—their grotesque, wolffish features gleaming under the sunlight, teeth jutting from foaming mouths.

The smell wrapped around him, oppressive and suffocating. His vision blurred at the edges, and his stomach twisted violently. Each breath was an act of endurance as he pushed forward, following Kaspar through the narrow path beside the stall.

By the time they reached the next street, Asher’s head felt like it was swimming. He stumbled to the side, taking in deep gulps of the fresher air and pressing a hand against the wall to steady himself.

Kaspar spun around, grinning brightly. “Good smell, yes? Builds character!”

Asher shot him a glare, still catching his breath. “How do people live like this?” he muttered, straightening himself and glancing around at the passersby. Something struck him as odd.

“Wait…” He squinted, scanning the bustling crowd. “Are Feysac people strangely tall?.”

Kaspar tilted his head, amused. “You only noticing? Ha!”

“I mean… I’m 185 centimeters,” Asher continued, frowning. “That’s usually enough to stand out, but here I’m just… average. And the hair too—almost everyone’s blonde. It’s like some weird uniform.”

Kaspar’s grin widened. “Ah, yes! Feysac people! Big folk, strong folk!” He gestured dramatically to the towering crowd. “Legend says—descendants of giants! Long ago, they roamed lands and mountains, stomping us smaller folks like bugs!”

Asher raised an eyebrow. “Giants?”

Kaspar nodded vigorously, his arms flailing in exaggerated gestures. “Yes, yes! Feysac is height land—tallest of all! But elsewhere?” He jabbed a thumb at his chest, puffing up proudly, trying to act comical. “Me? Above average in Intis, Loen, anywhere else! Here?” He slouched. “Small fish, big pond.”

The metaphor earned him a deadpan look from Asher. “Fitting, given the stench.”

Kaspar burst into laughter, clapping Asher on the shoulder. “Notice good joke! You learn well!”

***

The duo continued their trek, winding through Kyrmsk’s streets until they reached a quieter neighborhood. The noise of the marketplace faded behind them, replaced by the gentle murmur of distant voices and the occasional clatter of horse-drawn carts.

Asher’s eyes were drawn to the house Kaspar led them to. It stood out, not because of grandeur but because of its peculiar charm. 

The home was a modest two-story structure, its stone facade weathered but well-kept. The window frames and shutters were painted a soft blue, their peeling edges revealing an older layer of deep green beneath. 

A cast-iron gate surrounded a small garden that seemed caught between neglect and careful tending. Ivy crawled up the walls, framing the windows like a natural decoration.

The roof, made of dark slate tiles, slanted steeply, giving the house a slightly hunched appearance. Smoke curled lazily from the chimney, and the faint aroma of baking pastries mixed with the crispness of the breeze.

Kaspar skipped up the front porch stairs and rapped on the door with an enthusiasm that made Asher wince. The sound of metal on wood echoed, loud enough to rattle the window panes.

For a moment, nothing happened. Then the door creaked open, revealing a girl no older than ten, her blonde hair disheveled and her eyes heavy with sleep. She rubbed them, yawning, before blinking at the strangers on her doorstep.

"Who’re you?" she mumbled groggily, clutching the edge of the door for balance.

Before Kaspar could respond, a sharp voice cut through the air from somewhere inside. "Sybilla! What did I tell you about opening the door without a parent?"

The girl flinched, glancing over her shoulder. "I was just looking—"

"No excuses! Get over here right now!" the voice demanded, firm but not unkind.

Kaspar grinned, bending down slightly to meet the girl’s gaze. “Hello, little one! Is big person Mikhail here? It ring talk time!”

Sybilla tilted her head, confused, before the sound of hurried footsteps grew louder. 

The door swung open wider as a middle-aged woman appeared, pulling the girl back. Her features were sharp, her hair tied in a tight brunette bun, and her expression alternated between suspicion and curiosity.

“Who are you, and what do you want with my husband?” she asked, her voice measured but wary.

Kaspar’s grin never faltered, and he motioned toward Asher with a dramatic flourish. “Talk this one. Mikhail curious boy! Otto’s business! Very important!”

The woman stood in the doorway, her eyes narrowing with suspicion. She blinked at them, confusion etching her face. “Sorry… what?” She glanced between Asher and Kaspar, clearly unsure of their intentions.

Asher, seeing her uncertainty, stepped forward slightly, his voice calm but firm. “Sorry about him, we're from the church. We’re here to help Mikhail identify the ring he found. Otto sent us.”

The woman paused for a moment, her gaze flickering to the inside of the house as if weighing the situation. After a long beat, she sighed, rubbing her temples. “Fine. Come in, but don’t try anything stupid.”

She stepped aside to let them pass, her eyes still watchful as they entered the house.

Asher followed Kaspar into the house, his eyes immediately drawn to its interior. The foyer was modestly decorated, with sturdy wooden furniture, a threadbare rug, and walls adorned with old oil paintings that seemed to capture Feysac’s rugged landscapes. 

A grandfather clock ticked steadily in the corner, its chimes faintly ominous in the stillness.

The woman ushered them toward a sitting room and motioned for them to take a seat. “Wait here. I’ll fetch my husband.”

With them leaving Asher’s eyes wandered back to the clock, fixating on the motion of the pendulum as it swung in its arc, the brass weights gleaming faintly in the dim light. 

Each tick was a reminder of time slipping by, an inevitable march forward, yet it seemed to slow, dragging the moment with it.

Through the thick silence, muffled voices drifted from upstairs, indistinct words blending together in a hum of conversation.

They were too faint to make out, but their presence added a sense of anticipation to the air, as if the house itself was holding its breath.

Tick… tick… tick.

It was as though time itself was counting down, each passing moment bringing them closer to whatever lay ahead.

Chapter Text

The sound of footsteps echoed down the staircase, drawing Asher’s gaze upward. A heavy-set man with short, messy blonde hair descended with deliberate steps. His slit-like eyes gleamed with faint amusement, though his expression remained steady and unreadable. Behind him, his wife followed, still tying an apron haphazardly around her waist.

As soon as her feet touched the landing, she called out sharply down the hallway to the right, “Sybilla! Stay away from the pie until it’s ready!” Her voice rang with a mix of exasperation and warmth.

A muffled groan of protest drifted back, but the woman ignored it, shaking her head before disappearing into the kitchen.

The man chuckled, his deep voice matching his robust frame. “Don’t mind her,” he said, his tone gruff but friendly. “Sybilla’s got a sweet tooth, and the wife’s got her hands full.” 

He turned his gaze to Kaspar, a small smile forming. “Kaspar, huh? Haven’t seen you in a while. Who’s the new kid?”

Kaspar grinned, his enthusiasm as unshakable as ever. “Asher! New friend. Good boy. Here for Otto’s shiny things, yes!”

Mikhail raised an eyebrow, studying Asher for a moment before nodding. “Mikhail,” he said simply, extending a hand.

Asher shook it, feeling the firm grip. “Asher,” he replied. “We’re here to help identify the ring Otto mentioned.”

At this, Mikhail’s faint smile widened into something closer to a smirk. “The ring, huh? Give me a moment.”

He disappeared into an adjacent room, leaving Asher and Kaspar momentarily alone. When he returned, he wasn’t holding a ring. Instead, he rolled in a large, heavy-looking metal wheel. Its surface was intricately engraved with runes and strange markings that seemed to shimmer faintly in the noon sunlight.

Asher stared at it, his brow furrowing. “Where’s the ring?”

Both Mikhail and Kaspar responded in unison, their voices eerily synchronized:

“Right there.”

Kaspar’s eyes gleamed with childlike wonder as he crouched near the massive wheel, running his fingers over the intricate markings. “Oh, very nice! Yes, yes! Likely giant’s ring. Big one, for big finger!” He chuckled, his excitement palpable as he traced a particularly deep groove.

Asher blinked, his confusion mounting. “A giant’s… ring?”

Mikhail nodded, his expression thoughtful. “The markings here… they’re similar to Ancient Feysac script, but not quite. The structure’s off. I can only make out one word clearly: ‘anniversary.’”

Kaspar clapped his hands together, practically vibrating with enthusiasm. “Jotun language, no doubt! Wedding ring, yes? See this crevice here?” He pointed to the top of the wheel, where a jagged indentation marred its otherwise smooth surface. “Held gem before, probably very shiny. Ah, giants knew how to make things last!”

Mikhail chuckled, resting his hands on his hips. “Makes sense. If it’s Jotun, then we’re talking about one of their rituals. Marriage, huh? Wouldn’t be surprised if our own customs came from them. Always thought some parts of Feysac’s customs felt… different to others.”

Kaspar nodded enthusiastically. “Yes, yes! Rituals trickle down. Giants, then Ancient Feysac, then human Feysac now!”

Jotun? Giants? Ancient Feysac? 

He glanced between the two, their animated discussion only deepening his bewilderment. They spoke with such ease, their conversation slipping into jargon he couldn’t hope to follow.

Rather than interrupt, Asher let out a quiet sigh, deciding to keep his questions to himself for now. 

He’d ask later when they weren’t so engrossed. For now, he leaned back slightly in his seat, his eyes drifting back to the enormous “ring” and the strange aura it’s words seemed to emanate under spirit vision.

Throughout the conversation, Asher noticed movement out of the corner of his eye. The young girl, Sybilla, had crept into the room and was doing a poor job of hiding behind the door frame. Her wide eyes and furrowed brow mirrored Asher’s own confusion as she listened, clearly as lost in the discussion as he was.

As the conversation between Mikhail and Kaspar wound down, Asher took the opportunity to steer it in a different direction. “So, where exactly did you even find this… ring?” he asked, gesturing toward the massive object.

Mikhail’s face lit up with a mix of pride and satisfaction. “Ah, one of my forced laborers dug it up. We’ve been working to reforest the northeastern quadrant of Kyrmsk, and this turned up while they were clearing the ground.”

“Quadrant?” Asher tilted his head. “And forced laborers?”

At the mention, Kaspar shifted uncomfortably, his gaze darting toward Asher. Mikhail, however, seemed oblivious to the tension, his tone remaining cheerful as he explained. “Yes, Kyrmsk’s foresting is divided into quadrants. It’s how we keep the land productive. Each year, half a quadrant is deforested for timber, but the cleared areas from the previous year are replanted. The system rotates clockwise, so by the time we return to a quadrant, it’s had about 8 years to regrow. Sustainable and more than enough time for Kyrmsk trees to come back.”

Asher nodded slowly, but his focus was on the other half of the answer. “And… forced laborers?”

This time, Mikhail’s expression shifted to mild confusion, as if he were surprised Asher didn’t already know. “The government provides most of the labor force, mainly criminals. It’s a good system—keeps the scum useful while serving their sentences. War criminals make up a big portion, particularly barbarians who refused to join the Empire. There are also some folks from East Balem of the southern continent, though they’re not as reliable. Bastards can’t handle the cold, most of them at least.”

The words hit Asher like a physical blow. He stared at Mikhail, struggling to keep his expression neutral. 

Beside him, Kaspar scratched the back of his head, his usual cheer dampened as he avoided Asher’s gaze.

Asher’s voice was tight when he spoke. “Right. Well… I think we’ve taken up enough of your time. We actually need to head out—someone else is in need of some uh… Jotun help.”

Mikhail blinked, his earlier confusion deepening. “Oh. Well, if you must. Thank you for your assistance.” 

He glanced at the ring and chuckled. “I think I’ll turn this into a bedside table. An anniversary gift for my wife—seems fitting.”

Kaspar’s grin returned, and he gave Mikhail an enthusiastic wave. “Good idea! Happy help anytime!”

Asher muttered a hasty farewell, barely waiting for Kaspar before making his way toward the door. His thoughts churned, the revelation about this world's customs leaving a bitter taste in his mouth.

Outside, Asher exhaled sharply, the cold air doing little to cool the anger simmering beneath the surface. “Kaspar,” he said, his voice low, “let’s not take any more detours.”

Kaspar hesitated, his usual cheer dampened. “Asher… you okay?”

“I’m fine,” Asher replied, though his tone made it clear he wasn’t. “Let’s just go.”

Kaspar fell silent, his earlier exuberance replaced with uncharacteristic solemnity as they walked away from the house.

***

As they made their way back to the church, the afternoon air seemed heavier than usual, pressing against Asher’s shoulders. 

His thoughts swirled in a storm of discomfort and dismay, the conversation with Mikhail replaying in his mind like a haunting refrain. He couldn’t shake the image of prisoners, stripped of dignity, toiling in the cold under the watchful eyes of their overseers.

Kaspar walked beside him, unusually quiet for once, until he glanced at Asher’s furrowed brow and let out a cheerful laugh. “Why face so bummed, huh? It not big deal!”

Asher shot him a sideways glance but didn’t respond, his pace quickening slightly.

Kaspar, undeterred, fell into step beside him, leaning in with an exaggerated whisper. “Ah, I know! You’re mad you didn’t know Feysac came from ancient Feysac, and Jotun from even older times, yes? That’s it, isn’t it?”

Asher blinked, momentarily taken aback by the misunderstanding. “What?”

“You upset because history confuse you! It’s okay!” Kaspar clapped him on the back with a grin. “Not everyone learns these things. Feysac from ancient Feysac, just like baby from mama! Simple!”

Asher sighed, shaking his head. “Kaspar, that’s… not what I’m upset about.”

Kaspar tilted his head, his grin faltering slightly. “Then why face long like sad horse?”

Asher hesitated, his steps slowing. He glanced at Kaspar, who looked genuinely puzzled, and tried to find the words to explain. “It’s not about the history. It’s…” He struggled for a moment, his frustration bubbling to the surface. “It’s about how they treat people. Those forced laborers, the way Mikhail talked about them—it’s just wrong. In my mind humanity abolished slavery long ago, not that it’s a matter of common knowledge.”

Kaspar’s expression shifted to one of understanding, but it was tinged with a casual shrug. “Ah, that. Yes, not nice. But world not nice, Asher. People always find way to step on others.”

“That doesn’t make it okay,” Asher snapped, his voice sharper than he intended.

Kaspar stopped walking, his usually cheerful demeanor softening into something almost solemn. “No, it doesn’t,” he said quietly. “But you… you different. You care too much. That good, but also hard. You can’t fix everything, Asher.”

Asher turned to face him, his eyes narrowing. “That’s not what you said before.”

Kaspar tilted his head, confused. “What you mean?”

“You said we’d fix the world,” Asher replied, his voice firm but tinged with frustration. “Back at the church, when we first talked. You said you and I could change things, make them better. What happened to that?”

Kaspar blinked, then let out a chuckle, though it lacked his usual exuberance. “Ah, Asher, you remember too much. Kaspar says many things! Sometimes serious, sometimes words to make friend smile.”

“Well I took you seriously,” Asher said, his tone insistent.

Kaspar’s grin faded entirely, and he sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “Kaspar… meant it then. Still mean it. But fixing world not like chair. Not simple. Takes time, and… sometimes, pieces don’t fit together.”

“That doesn’t mean you just give up,” Asher shot back, his voice rising. “If everyone thought like that, nothing would ever change.”

Kaspar studied him for a moment, his eyes searching Asher’s face. Then he smiled again, but this time it was softer, more genuine. “You right, Asher. Maybe Kaspar forgets. Maybe I needed friend like you to remind me.”

Kaspar’s grin widened, and he clapped Asher on the back. “We keep going! Step by step, piece by piece. Fix what we can, when we can. Maybe not everything, but enough to lose sad face. That good start, yes?”

Asher nodded slowly, the heaviness in his chest lifting just a little. “Yeah. It’s a start.”

Kaspar threw an arm around his shoulders, steering him back toward the church. “See? Kaspar knew you smart! Now, no sad horse face, yes? We have groceries then Feysac lesson!”

With a minute shift Asher responded.

“Sure thing bud.”

Chapter Text

Asher and Kaspar strolled down the bustling market street near the church, their task simple: picking up a few provisions. The wolffish stall, a usual offender to the air’s decency, was conspicuously sold out. 

Prospective customers groaned, the faint remnants of the fish’s acrid stench still lingering—a smell Asher found only marginally better in its absence.

Further down, the butcher's house-cum-shop came into view, with sausage links draped like garlands around the serving window. The father and son duo manned the stall, each awkwardly clutching cups they tried to hide, taking quick, nervous sips while glancing around as if expecting judgment to strike.

Asher slowed, suppressing a grin at their clumsy subtlety. He was about to greet them when the shop’s back door creaked open, revealing a familiar figure—the butcher’s wife.

Once hulking, her now-thin frame spoke of past hardships, but her sharp eyes radiated authority. She approached briskly, her disapproving expression freezing the butcher mid-sip. 

In his panic, he fumbled, sputtering tea onto Kaspar, who yelped, wiping his goggles with a dirty rag. Simultaneously, the son dropped his cup, the clatter blending into the marketplace noise as he quickly covered the mess.

“What do you think you’re doing?” the butcher’s wife demanded, her voice slicing through the tension. “Alcohol? At midday? And with Lent not even over!” Her hands found her hips, her glare sharp enough to cut meat.

“It’s not what it looks like, love,” the butcher stammered, flushing red.

“Not what it looks like?” she echoed, incredulous. “Drinking in broad daylight! What kind of example is this?”

Her fury remained on her husband, sparing the son, who quietly straightened and shuffled away. 

Kaspar muttered under his breath, wiping the last of the tea from his face with a sour look at the butcher.

“Good afternoon, ma’am!” Asher interjected nervously. “We’re just here to pick up a few things.”

The butcher seized the lifeline. “Yes! What can I get for you lads?” he blurted, shoving his cup under the counter.

The wife spared Asher and Kaspar a brief glance, her sternness softening slightly. “At least someone knows how to behave properly,” she remarked before returning her glare to her husband.

The butcher, desperate to appease, pulled down various cuts of meat in a flurry of activity. 

Asher placed a modest order, and the butcher, eager to please, bundled the meats quickly, tossing in an extra sausage link “on the house” with a nervous wink.

His wife raised an eyebrow but said nothing. “A rare act of generosity,” she remarked dryly, folding her arms as the butcher handed over the package.

Asher accepted the package with a polite nod, thanked them, and nudged Kaspar to move along. 

Kaspar, still wiping his goggles, muttered something about people and their lack of aim as they continued down the road.

The marketplace was alive with its usual hum of activity: the clamor of haggling, the laughter of children chasing one another, and the rhythmic clatter of cartwheels on cobblestones. Asher let his mind wander until a sharp cry sliced through the din.

“Thief! Stop that man!”

Asher’s head snapped toward the commotion. A gaunt, sickly-looking figure darted through the crowd, a purse slung over his shoulder and several wallets practically spilling out of his pockets. 

The thief moved with surprising agility, weaving between startled shoppers with practiced ease.

Without thinking, Asher stepped into the thief’s path, intending to cut him off. But just as he did, another figure—a man holding a bouquet of flowers—stepped into view. Asher collided with him, and pain exploded in his head.

A splitting headache overtook him, blinding him for a moment. His knees buckled, and he collapsed to the cobblestones, unconscious before he even hit the ground.

***

A dull ache throbbed in Asher’s skull as his eyes fluttered open. The world swam briefly before settling into focus. 

He was still sprawled on the cobblestones, the warmth of the midday sun doing little to ease the chill of the scene before him. 

A woman, holding nothing, sobbed quietly on the side of the road. The rest of the marketplace had already resumed its bustling rhythm, the theft a fleeting ripple in the day’s routine.

Asher groaned and sat up, rubbing his temples. His movements drew the attention of the flower-bearing man, now pacing nearby with a wild, almost feral energy.

"You!" the man barked, his voice sharp and accusatory. He stormed toward the now conscious Asher, his bouquet crumpled on the ground.

"How the hell do you know about that?" the man demanded, his face pale beneath his anger.

Asher blinked, still dazed. "Know about what? I—"

Before he could finish, the man swung a fist with surprising force, landing a solid blow against Asher’s nose. Pain exploded anew, and Asher staggered back, tasting blood.

"Get the hell away from me!" the man snarled, his voice trembling.

His eyes darted nervously to the crowd, as if searching for something—or someone. The man’s wild gaze flicked between Asher and the bustling marketplace one last time before he bolted. 

He wove through the throng with frantic desperation, shoving aside anyone who dared block his path.

Asher stayed where he was, clutching his bleeding nose, too stunned to react. The sharp, metallic taste of blood filled his mouth as his mind scrambled to piece together the chaotic sequence of events.

"What… was that…" Asher mumbled, his voice muffled by his hand as he slumped onto the stone road.

Kaspar sidled up beside him, his expression teetering between curiosity and amusement. With an exaggerated flourish, he rummaged through his satchel and produced a dirt-streaked rag. 

He extended it toward Asher with an air of smug triumph. "Man very angry. You messy. I help. Here."

Asher glared at the rag, his face twisting with distaste, but finally, he snatched it and pressed it against his nose. "Thags," he muttered, his voice nasal and heavy with irritation.

How the hell do you know about that?

The man’s cryptic words rang in Asher’s ears, their meaning elusive but undeniably unnerving. His brow furrowed as he tried to untangle the memory, but it only brought more confusion.

Noticing Kaspar shifting restlessly beside him, clearly eager to speak, Asher tilted his head, managing a muffled, "Whud argh you aboud do say?"

Kaspar’s grin widened as he crouched down, his goggles catching the sunlight at an odd angle. "When fell, you not dream of cobblestones and stars. No, no, you mutter. You spoke betrayal. Family. Sounded important’"

He stared at Kaspar, his mind reeling. "Whad…?"

Kaspar tilted his head, almost gleeful at Asher’s reaction. "Scare man real bad. You make quite first impression!"

Asher let his head fall back against the wall with a dull thud, a groan escaping him. "Greah. Thah's jusd whad I needed."

Kaspar crouched beside him, peering at Asher with an expression that hovered between amusement and mild concern. He gave a dismissive wave, as if brushing aside the seriousness of the situation. "Just Monster things! No worry. You good as new tomo—"

He stopped abruptly, his eyes lighting up in realization. "Wait." Kaspar straightened, patting his stomach dramatically. "I am hungry. Very hungry."

Asher blinked up at him, still clutching the rag to his nose. "Whad doed thah—"

Kaspar raised a mechanical pinky, cutting him off. "Promise me. No blood in food! Messy nose stays away from dinner."

Asher stared at him, completely bewildered.

After a moment, he sighed, raising his pinky to Kaspar’s and using it to push himself up off the ground. "No bloob in foob."

Chapter Text

Asher dabbed at his nose again, the bleeding now stopped. His face, however, still throbbed with a dull, pulsing pain, every beat reminding him of the strange encounter. Kaspar, walking a step ahead, whistled an uneven tune as though nothing unusual had happened.

Asher fell into step beside him, his thoughts swirling.

I couldn’t even stop a thief. What kind of fake priest—no, what kind of person am I if I can’t handle something as simple as that?  

The memory of the bouquet holding man’s face flashed in his mind, twisted in fear. 

Was he scared of me there? Why would I start the cryptic muttering then?

It's only happened that one time before the puppet no? 

How are these supposed to connect to each other?

He brushed his forehead lightly, remembering the moment his powers surged. His legs had buckled beneath him as though the weight of the world had pressed down all at once. 

What’s the point of these powers if they just make me faint?

The image of the dream surfaced next: a mirror, endless and gleaming, a copy of him slowly shifting into a terrifying mimicry. It felt so vivid. Yet now, no matter how he tried to piece it together, it refused to make sense.

The thief, the man, the dream—they’re connected somehow, aren’t they? But how?

Frustration gnawed at him. It’s all useless if I can’t figure it out.

“What do you make of it?” Asher asked, finally breaking the silence.

“Of what?” Kaspar replied, glancing at him sideways. His goggles reflected the afternoon light, making his expression unreadable.

“The man. My… mutterings. He was scared. Angry. It wasn’t normal.”

Kaspar shrugged, his grin twitching at the corners. “Normal? What that? Not market peoples, for sure. Who knows. Maybe he murderer, think you secret government spy, private investigator? Maybe…” Kaspar wiggled his fingers in the air like claws, “you see through soul and find danger in future.”

Asher frowned. 

Danger my ass: why would it activate before those two but not a damn vampire attack?

“You’re not taking this seriously,” he said aloud.

“Oh, I! Very serious!” Kaspar stopped and tapped his temple with a greasy finger. “Man thinks you know much. He spooked. Maybe good, maybe bad. But him running? He guilty of something.”

“Guilty of what?”

“Who knows?” Kaspar said, spinning on his heel and walking backward to face Asher. “Lie. Steal. Cheating on wife or family, maybe. You wake fear in him, that’s for sure. Maybe he fixes mistakes now. Or maybe…” Kaspar’s voice turned teasing, “he get nasty revenge.”

Asher sighed, shaking his head. “Not helping.”

***
As the church loomed into view, its triangular symbol piercing the sky, Asher’s shoulders sagged in relief. The church grounds always had a calming effect, with their orderly rows of burgeoning herbs and flowers lining the cobblestone path.

Kaspar was unusually quiet as they walked to the front door. The familiar scents of metal and soot filled the air, grounding Asher somewhat. 

Walking to the front, the final attendees of Otto’s mass walked out as their discussions came into ear shot.

“Did you hear him today? He just wouldn’t stop ranting,” one woman whispered, her voice teetering between amusement and exasperation.

“Ranting? He always rants. What’s different now?” replied another with a light chuckle.

“No, no,” the first insisted, her tone hushed but urgent. “This was worse. Half of it didn’t make sense. My husband was holding back laughter the entire time.”

A man chimed in, shaking his head. “Irresponsible, if you ask me. Did you see the bottle? Half-drunk and just sitting there at the foot of the pulpit.”

The second woman gasped softly. “A bottle? Otto was drinking during mass?”

“I’m not certain,” the man replied, clearly hesitant to escalate the claim. “But something’s off with him lately. This isn’t the first time he’s seemed… trying to distract himself from something.”

Asher exchanged a quick glance with Kaspar, who raised an eyebrow, his smirk fading slightly. The two stepped aside to let the parishioners pass, their conversation trailing off as they moved further down the path.

The heavy wooden doors creaked as Asher pushed them open, the familiar scent of metal and oil mingling with the faint aroma of incense. The church’s interior was bathed in a dim, warm glow from the low-hanging lamps, their light casting long shadows that danced across the walls.

Asher’s eyes immediately landed on Otto. He was slouched in the center of the stage, leaning heavily against the pulpit. His hand gripped a glass bottle of homemade alcohol, the liquid catching the light as he tipped it back for another swig.

The man’s gaze was fixed on the far wall, unblinking and unfocused, as though he were staring at something far beyond the physical space of the church. The faint hum and rhythmic pulsations of the machinery in the room seemed to echo his state—steady but strained.

A single pipe near the corner hissed softly, releasing a thin but distinct stream of steam that curled and dissipated into the air.

Asher approached the stage cautiously, each step heavier than the last as the weight of the room pressed down on him. The rhythmic hiss of the leaking steam punctuated the tense silence, each burst echoing like a clock ticking toward an inevitable eruption.

“Otto?” Asher called, his voice tentative yet firm.

The man leaning against the pulpit stirred slightly but didn’t respond. His mechanical arm, resting limply on the floor, twitched now and then, faint arcs of electricity sparking at its joints. Otto’s eyes were glazed, fixed on the far wall as if it held secrets no one else could see. The faint amber glow of the church lamps painted his face with shadows that made his gaunt expression seem almost spectral.

Asher’s brow furrowed, his unease growing. “Otto, are you alright?”

The question hung in the air for a moment before Otto blinked sluggishly, as if waking from a trance. He turned his head, his glassy eyes meeting Asher’s. A slow, crooked grin spread across his face, though it didn’t reach his eyes.

“Me?” he slurred, his voice thick with the weight of alcohol. “Oh, I’m... amazing. Absolutely amazing.”

The faint, bitter aroma of homemade liquor wafted over as he raised the bottle in his hand, the liquid inside catching the dim light. He took a slow, deliberate swig, his Adam’s apple bobbing with the motion.

“Otto, you’re drunk,” Asher said softly, stepping closer.

“Drunk?” Otto barked a laugh, the sound echoing off the church walls with an edge of bitterness. “No, no. I’m enlightened. Blessed, even. Best damn sermon of my life today. Told ‘em all the truth. Raw, unfiltered truth. Shook ‘em right to their bones.” He wobbled, his grin turning manic. “You missed it, boy. A performance for the ages!”

Asher exchanged a glance with Kaspar, who was lingering behind him. His smirk had faded, his usual jubilee replaced by a wary silence.

“Otto,” Asher said again, firmer this time. “What’s going on? This isn’t like you.”

The grin faltered. For the briefest of moments, something raw and vulnerable flickered in Otto’s eyes, a shadow of a man trying to hold himself together. Then his expression hardened, and his grip on the bottle tightened.

“What’s going on?” he repeated, his voice dropping to a low growl. “None of your damn business.”

The room seemed to hold its breath as Otto set the bottle down next to him with a deliberate clink. His mechanical arm hissed to life, gears grinding as the blue electricity coursing through it grew brighter, erratic. The hum of the machinery deepened, a low, resonant thrum that made Asher’s chest vibrate.

The air grew oppressive, charged with a tension that felt like standing at the edge of a lightning storm.

“Otto,” Asher tried, stepping forward. “You’re not yourself. Let me help—”

“I don’t need help!” Otto’s voice boomed, echoing through the church like a thunderclap. His eyes blazed with a mix of anger and desperation, his body trembling as though barely containing the storm within. “You think you know me? Think you understand what I’ve been through?”

Asher froze as Otto took a step up, his mechanical arm raised. Bright blue arcs of electricity snapped from the arm to the pulpit, scorching the wood.

Instinctively, Asher pressed his glabella, and the world around him shifted. His spiritual vision ignited, unveiling the chaotic storm of Otto’s aura—a swirling silver maelstrom streaked with a sickly orange, its surface jagged with red cracks.

In Otto’s stomach, the black mass of alcohol churned like living tar, tendrils of its dark energy coiling into his aura and feeding its instability. The green energy from his mechanical arm pulsed like a second heart, its veins expanding with each erratic beat, the red cracks spreading like blood seeping through fabric.

Asher’s breath hitched. 

The arm was being amplified by Otto’s emotions, feeding off his turmoil. As his spirituality was drained by the arm, a chilling, cold purple spread from the core of the blackness, consuming everything in its path.

“Otto,” Asher tried again, his voice quieter, almost pleading. “You’re losing control. Just—calm down. We can figure this out.”

Otto’s gaze snapped to Asher, sharp and burning. For a heartbeat, his silver aura shimmered brighter, tinged with confusion and flickering clarity.

“Calm down?” he barked, his voice rising with a bitter laugh. “You think I don’t know what’s happening? I’m fine! I’ve got it under control!”

The green energy in his arm flared brighter, its red streaks extending like jagged cracks in glass. The power thrummed, dangerously unstable, and Otto’s entire body tensed. 

Arcs of blue electricity snapped erratically through the air, their sizzling energy rippling out, each burst sending shocks through the room. It felt as though the very air was vibrating with the threat of an imminent explosion.

Asher’s heart skipped a beat, a cold pang of fear twisting in his gut. He instinctively stepped back, but before he could react, Otto stepped forward, his glowing arm raised like a weapon poised to strike.

“Otto, stop!” Asher shouted, his voice cutting through the oppressive hum of electricity, desperate to reach the man before it was too late.

But Otto’s eyes remained wide and unseeing, a frantic intensity in them that sent a chill down Asher’s spine. His arm crackled, sending sharp sparks flying in every direction. 

The arcs of energy twisted around him like angry serpents, tearing at the air with destructive force. The static in the room became unbearable, a pressure that gripped Asher’s chest, suffocating him.

Every instinct screamed at him to run, to escape, but his feet felt like they were glued to the ground. His heart pounded in his chest, and he was frozen in place.

The electricity whipped through the room, now growing more erratic and violent. Each flash of blue light seemed to tear through reality itself, and the sharp scent of ozone filled the space, thick and acrid. 

Otto was standing on the edge of something dangerous, something far worse than a mere breakdown. It felt as though he was on the brink of losing himself, the church itself trembling in response to his raw chaotic power.

Then, in an instant, Otto froze. His entire body went still, the frantic energy radiating from him suddenly dissipating as the gears slowed. His eyes cleared, the wild frenzy replaced by a sharp, focused intensity.

Clarity cut through the storm in his gaze, like the calm after a hurricane. The red streaks that had marred his aura flickered once, twice—and then receded with the purple, as if being pulled back into the hidden depths of his being.

The green light in his arm sputtered, dimming until it folded back into the silver glow of his aura, the power fading like a dying ember. The arcs of electricity that had been snapping through the air vanished, leaving only a faint hum that slowly died away.

“Leave,” Otto rasped, his voice raw and barely audible. His mechanical arm dropped to his side with a dull thud, the last sparks fizzling out completely. The room fell into an unsettling silence, as if the storm had never existed at all.

For a fleeting moment, Asher saw past the storm—a man worn thin, his features etched with exhaustion. Otto’s aura, once bright and imposing, curled inward like a wounded animal retreating into itself.

Kaspar moved swiftly, his grip firm as he clasped Asher’s shoulder. “We leave,” he said, his voice cutting through the lingering tension like a blade.

“But we can’t just—” Asher began, his gaze locked on Otto.

“Now,” Kaspar snapped, his tone brooking no argument. He tugged Asher back with a shaky hand, his steps purposeful and quick as he steered them toward the study.

Asher cast one last glance at Otto. The man stood motionless in the dim light, his head peering through the floor to the basement, shadows pooling around him like a cloak.

Chapter Text

Asher couldn’t ignore the raw ache in his arms or the searing burn that flared in his hands with every movement. 

His breath came in ragged bursts, each one more labored than the last, but he pushed forward regardless.

Tightening his grip on the wooden training sword, he forced his trembling legs to carry him into action.

With a final, desperate effort, he lunged forward, channeling all his weight into a straight jab aimed squarely at Samantha.

Yet she moved with an infuriating ease, her reflexes honed far beyond his own. 

In one fluid motion, she ducked beneath his swing, her body twisting low and graceful like a hunter closing in on its prey.

Before he could react, her leg swept out, striking his ankles and sending him tumbling to the ground with a heavy thud.

As he hit the dirt, coughing on the dust he’d kicked up, Samantha didn’t miss a beat. Her hand shot out, plucking the training sword from his grasp as though it were child’s play.

Still sprawled on the ground, Asher groaned in frustration, feeling the sting of both his body and his pride.

“You’re even worse than on Monday,” she said, her words laced with disappointment. “What’s going on now?”

Asher groaned, still sprawled out on the ground, and muttered, “Yesterday sucked.”

Samantha rolled her eyes, crossing her arms as she loomed over him. “If you’re going to bring up a sob story, at least sit up first,” she snapped.

With a wince, Asher pushed himself up, his raw hands protesting with sharp stings. He settled into a seated position, his back slightly hunched as he looked down at his battered palms. The pain in his hands flared anew, and he winced as he tried to find the words. Samantha plopped down opposite him, her sharp gaze fixed on his face, as if silently daring him to continue.

He sighed, rubbing his palms together. “So, my powers didn’t exactly work out for me yesterday. I tried tracking down a thief—figured it’d be simple enough with my abilities—but instead of catching him, I ended up losing the trail completely. And then, to top it off, some random passerby clocked me in the face.” His voice faltered slightly as the memory of the punch came back, but he quickly masked it.

Samantha’s lips twitched, and her shoulders shook with barely contained laughter. She didn’t speak, but the amusement in her eyes was unmistakable. Asher frowned, feeling the heat rise in his cheeks.

“Anyway…” he muttered, shifting awkwardly. He stared down at his hands, rubbing them again, the rawness of his palms distracting him from his thoughts. “It was just one of those days.”

There was a pause, a quiet moment before he suddenly shifted the topic. “Hey, do you know anything about the forced labor around here?” His tone was quieter, more serious.

Samantha’s expression shifted, as she shrugged dismissively. “Sure, I’ve heard about it. But why does it matter? Stuff like that’s been happening for ages. It’s not like you can change it.”

Asher felt a chill at her words. It wasn’t what he’d expected—not the coldness, nor the lack of care. He felt a creeping unease, but he brushed it off quickly. 

She wasn’t someone to probe too deeply.

He cleared his throat, eager to move on. “Right… anyway, yesterday Otto got himself into a drunken stupor, almost losing control of himself.”

Samantha arched an eyebrow at that, leaning forward slightly, her interest piqued. “What day was it yesterday?” she asked, her voice steady but carrying an undertone of curiosity.

“Uh… the tenth?” Asher said, his voice trailing off slightly. He tried to think back, but everything felt hazy. He wasn’t sure if he was remembering the day right.

Samantha tilted her head slightly, a thoughtful look crossing her face as she mulled over the answer.

Then it clicked.

Her eyes widened, a flicker of realization sparking behind them. She leaned back, her arms uncrossing as she let out a long, drawn-out “fuuuuuuuck” that broke the silence.

Asher blinked, his mind not quite catching up. “What?”

With a quiet and somewhat probing tone, she asked, “Did Otto tell you about his dead comrades?”

Asher hesitated for a moment, then shook his head. “Sorta. He didn’t say it that crassly, but… yeah, he mentioned them.”

Samantha’s face darkened even further. “Yeah, well, yesterday was the anniversary of his girlfriend's death,” she said, her voice lowering with the weight of the revelation.

Asher’s heart sank, and he gave a soft, almost reflexive, “Oh…”

The silence between them stretched for a moment, the gravity of what she said sinking in. Asher could see it now—the strange way Otto had been acting, the tension in his every word.

Samantha let out a heavy sigh, her gaze briefly turning distant. "I’ve knocked enough sense into you for one day.”

“Get back to the church, and make sure he's okay."

Asher caught the intonation in her voice—the subtle shift that suggested she was just about done with this conversation. “Thank you!”

Taking the opening she gave him, he scrambled to his feet, a sudden burst of energy surging through him with the promise of escape.

He quickly petted the dopey Nimbus, grabbing the slobber-covered strength-enhancing stick and set off on the trek back.

***

Arriving at the church, his feet dragging slightly from the day’s exertion, the first thing Asher noticed was the crowd—a small gathering murmuring among themselves near the church steps.

Curious, he pushed his way closer, noting the frustration etched on their faces. Then he saw it: a hastily scrawled sign hung on the door, the ink still damp in places.

"Sermons Cancelled Until Further Notice."

Asher frowned. Otto wasn’t the type to leave these unsung, even in his darkest moments.

“What happened?” he asked, addressing an older man standing near the door.

The man shrugged, his expression sour. “I’ve been knocking for the past half-hour. No one’s said anything. Just found this sign here this morning. No explanation.”

A younger woman chimed in, arms crossed tightly. “Otto’s been acting strange for days. Not like him to just disappear without a word. You work here, right? Is he okay?”

Asher’s stomach tightened. This wasn’t good. Otto might have pushed them away yesterday, but this silence felt like something else entirely.

He glanced back at the church door, hesitating. Part of him wanted to barge in and check on Otto, no matter the consequences.

“I… I don’t know,” he admitted, his voice quieter than he intended.

Swallowing hard, his gaze fixed on the door. He couldn’t leave without at least seeing Otto, not with this gnawing feeling in his chest.

A strange, urgent instinct tugged at him, like a whisper in his mind that refused to be ignored. 

Acting on impulse, he gripped his stick tightly and struck the door near its latch.

The force reverberated unnaturally, a faint hum accompanying the splintering crack of wood. The internal lock gave way, and before he could second-guess himself, Asher yanked the door open, heart pounding as he stepped into the eerily unlit nave.

Chapter Text

The dim light in the church was suffocating, more oppressive than comforting. Asher stepped cautiously into the nave, the silence around him almost tangible. 

His breath seemed too loud in the space, a stark contrast to the usual hum of life and machinery that filled the air here. The familiar pulsating vibrations that usually reverberated through the walls were absent, leaving behind a strange, unnerving stillness.

He took a step forward, eyes scanning the room. The intricate gears and pipes that lined the walls, the mechanisms that powered much of the church’s functions, were dormant—unnaturally so. The absence of their usual hum felt wrong, unsettling, like the heart of the place had simply stopped beating.

A faint sound broke through the silence—a soft, rhythmic tinkering coming from down the left hall. Asher's curiosity piqued, and he moved toward the noise, the echo of each step growing louder in the quiet.

As he neared the source, he paused, his heart skipping a beat. There, partially obscured by the shadows, was a door—slightly ajar. It was Kaspar's room.

With a hesitant hand, Asher pushed the door open, peering inside. The dim light revealed a scene far different from what he had expected. Kaspar sat hunched over at his desk, a collection of bouncing animal contraptions scattered before him, their delicate parts in various states of disarray. 

His mechanical hand, usually a marvel of fluid precision, was struggling to apply the right amount of force, twitching and groaning with each failed attempt.

Kaspar’s face was drawn, dark bags under his eyes, his brow furrowed in frustration. He seemed utterly absorbed in his task, trying to reassemble the contraptions, but the more he worked, the more agitated he became. 

With each misfire of his mechanical hand, he let out an exasperated groan, his focus slipping, as though the tinkering was the only thing keeping him grounded.

It was clear he was trying to lose himself in the task, yet no amount of mechanical work could silence the stress coiling inside him.

Asher hesitated for a moment longer, then spoke up, his voice breaking the silence. 

"Kaspar? How’re ya doing?"

The sudden sound startled Kaspar. His mechanical hand jerked sharply, knocking one of the contraptions off the desk. The small device—a pig-faced animal—tumbled through the air, hitting the wall and bouncing back, spinning briefly.

Instead of falling, the contraption righted itself mid-flight, balancing itself in the air as if by instinct. Its egg-shaped body reoriented, ensuring the spring mechanism at the bottom remained upright.

For a moment, it seemed to halt, perfectly balanced, before a soft click echoed from within, and the bottom spring released. The contraption began to bounce rapidly, its pig-like face bobbing up and down in a chaotic rhythm, as though powered by some unseen force.

“I— I—” Kaspar stammered, clearly caught off guard by Asher's sudden appearance. His words tripped over each other as he scrambled to compose himself. “You— you here? How— when—”

He reached for the bouncing contraption, his mechanical hand jerking in a quick, erratic movement. The toy was snatched from midair with a sharp snap, but Kaspar’s attention remained divided, his mind racing to catch up with what had just happened.

Asher, still standing at the threshold, took in the sight of Kaspar’s exhaustion—his dark, sunken eyes and the tense, disjointed way he moved. “Kaspar, you’re not looking so good,” he said softly. “Did you stay up all night?”

Kaspar’s eyes flickered, his face flushing slightly at the question. He stiffened, his mechanical hand twitching involuntarily before he turned his head away. “I—I fine,” he muttered, his voice brittle, almost defensive.

He hesitated, then lifted his goggles to touch the space beneath his eyes as if noticing the shadows there for the first time. A strange expression crossed his face—half embarrassed, half defiant. “It... it’s just a—a medal... a medal,” he stammered, the words tumbling out faster now, as though he needed to explain. “A medal, yes—yes. It... it signify effort. Proof of... work, yes?”

His voice wavered, but there was a flicker of pride in his eyes, as if the dark circles were not a burden but a badge. He gestured vaguely at himself, his movements jerky and unfocused. “See? It... it show I do something. Not... not waste time.”

The words came out too quickly, tangled and unsteady, as if he were trying to distance himself from the meaning behind them. 

He turned his attention back to the contraption in his hands, his movements stiff and almost mechanical.

A tense silence hung in the air, broken only by the soft squeak of the bouncing contraption as it was being reset.

Kaspar’s fingers trembled slightly around the toy, his focus narrowing in on it as if it were the only thing keeping him tethered to the present. Asher watched him for a long moment, before speaking again, his voice soft but insistent.

“How’s Otto been?” Asher asked, his tone careful, as though probing for something deeper.

Kaspar’s eyes flickered at the mention of Otto’s name, and for a brief moment, his shoulders seemed to sag under an invisible weight.

The animation that had briefly sparked in his mechanical hand when it grabbed the contraption faded. His gaze drifted down to the desk, his fingers still hovering over the pig-faced toy but no longer touching it.

“He... he’s... fine,” Kaspar said, but the words were hollow, lacking conviction. The way his voice cracked slightly revealed a deeper truth.

His eyes sank lower, and for a long beat, he didn’t speak, as though he was caught in some moment of hesitation or exhaustion.

Finally, Kaspar let out a long, uneven breath, his voice quieter this time. “He... not well, Asher. I... I-”

“...He not ready to fix.” 

The words tumbled out, each one weighted, as if they physically hurt to say. Frustration cut through the weariness in his voice, sharp and raw.

He slumped forward, planting his head against the desk with a dull thud. After a moment, his hand reached out lazily toward the satchel by his side, fumbling through the chaos within. 

His movements were slow, almost mechanical, yet strangely precise, until his fingers closed around a crumpled piece of paper.

“...He give letter,” Kaspar murmured, not lifting his head. He straightened slightly, holding up the wrinkled note like it was an artifact of great importance. “Apology.”

A thousand thoughts raced through Asher’s mind, leaving him stunned by the revelation.

Kaspar’s mechanical hand twitched as he smoothed the paper out on the desk.

His eyes flickered to Asher, then back to the note. “No no… it say... ‘I leave church for few days.’ Need time... to readjust.” He hesitated, his voice tired before continuing. “Grocery list... and spirit-y tasks meantime.”

As Kaspar finished, the tension in the room seemed to dissipate, the weight in both of their chests fading with the quiet hum of his words.

“That sounded like it was going in a completely different direction,” Asher said with a faint smile, his tone attempting levity. 

“... I’m glad Otto’s taking some time for himself. It seems like he needs it.”

Kaspar tilted his head slightly but didn’t respond, his fingers still toying with the edges of the note.

“So...” Asher leaned in, his voice soft but insistent, “What are you waiting for?” He could feel his patience fraying, the air thick with unanswered questions.

Without warning, a spark of impatience flared in Asher, unexpected and almost foreign. His hand shot out, swift and sure, snatching the note from Kaspar’s desk before Kaspar could even blink.

Unfurling it, Asher’s initial determination wavered as his eyes scanned the paper. The ink was smeared, the writing an uneven scrawl, and the words looked like a drunken cipher more than a coherent message.

“Uh...” Asher blinked, tilting the note as if a new angle would unlock its secrets. “We have to... uh...” He trailed off, his voice faltering. “What the hell does this even say?”

Kaspar leaned back slightly, trying to fight off his exhaustion speaking. “Go to Viktor’s house,” he said, his voice tinged with a mixture of amusement and reluctance. “Rumors... spirally ones.”

“Viktor’s house?” Asher’s brows furrowed, then his expression shifted to one of determined resignation. He grabbed Kaspar by the arm, pulling him up. 

“Alright, come on. No more sulking. Let’s go check out these... spiral rumors.”

Kaspar groaned but didn’t resist, his mechanical hand creaking softly. “Fine, fine,” he muttered, his voice lilting. “But Viktor... always weird. Cynthia nice though.”

Asher smirked, glancing back at him. “Oh? Cynthia’s nice, huh? Didn’t take you for the type to notice.”

Kaspar shot him a withering look, his cheeks darkening slightly. “Not… not like that! No-no, not at all!" His voice wobbled, higher and thinner, like a squeak. “She just— eggs! Eggs, good ones, yesss... that’s all! Nothing more. Nothing else!"

“Right, good eggs, ” Asher said with a sly grin. “I’m sure it’s the yolks that caught your eye, not her smile.”

Kaspar sputtered, his mechanical hand twitching as he tried to form a retort. “They overpriced! I complain every time!”

“And yet you keep buying them,” Asher quipped, grinning wider. “Don’t worry, Kaspar. I won’t tell Viktor you’re sweet on his daughter.”

Kaspar groaned, muttering something unintelligible under his breath as Asher chuckled.

Chapter Text

The noon air felt unusually heavy as Asher stepped out of the church, Kaspar trudging silently beside him. 

Whispers rippled through the clusters of late shoppers lingering nearby, their voices low but urgent. 

Asher caught fragments—mentions of Otto, the church, and the lopsided sign still hanging on the front door. It wasn’t the first time curious looks had been cast toward the church, but this felt different. 

Asher shoved his hands into his pockets, trying to shake off the tension pressing down on him. Instead of turning left toward the bustling market, his feet carried him to the right, a direction he rarely took unless visiting Kaspar’s scrap-dealing friend or the Manchester Farms Cart—a rickety wagon known for selling highly sought-after produce.

“This way?” he muttered, glancing at Kaspar.

“Yeperoo,” Kaspar replied absently, his gaze fixed tiredly on the ground.

The route wasn’t unfamiliar, but taking it now gave the world a strange, almost disconnected feeling. The cobbled streets grew quieter as they left the heart of the market behind. 

In the distance, Asher could still hear the faint clamor of carts being packed up and shopkeepers closing their shutters for the day. He frowned slightly, glancing over his shoulder toward the direction they’d chosen to avoid.

The farmers’ market had its own rhythm—a microcosm of trade and chaos. Viktor and his daughter rarely set up there, though. 

They didn’t need to. 

Their produce was in such high demand that customers willingly sought them out, traveling directly to their farm or off path to their cart. No one wanted to risk arriving late and finding their goods sold out.

It made sense. 

Viktor didn’t need to vie for space among the other vendors when his customers came to him. 

Things had gotten to the point where Cynthia often set up late, taking the opportunity to sleep in, yet people still lined up for hours just to see them.

Kaspar trudged onward, his mechanical hand creaking faintly with every small movement. The weight of whatever was happening with Otto hung between them, unspoken but palpable.

Asher exhaled sharply, quickening his pace—until his eyes caught a familiar face in the crowd.

The man’s appearance was as polished as ever. His neatly groomed hair and immaculate attire stood out sharply against the rough, practical clothing of the townsfolk. He carried himself with an aura of unshakable confidence, a stark contrast to Asher’s current unease. 

Without fully thinking, Asher found his feet carrying him forward.

“Excuse me,” he started, his voice faltering slightly as the man’s gaze turned on him—a glare so sharp it felt like it could cut stone. 

Asher froze, momentarily cowed under the weight of the man’s scrutiny. He swallowed hard, his throat suddenly dry, and forced himself to push through the intimidation. 

Focus, damn it, just speak.

"I, uh..." He stammered, then cleared his throat. "If you’re heading to see Samantha, could you let her know Otto’s out for a couple days? Also, we will likely be at Manchester's for a bit in the meanwhile."

The man’s expression shifted in an instant, so quickly that Asher couldn’t fully process the change. The glaring daggers melted away, replaced by a broad smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“Of course,” the man said warmly, clapping Asher on the shoulder with a gesture that felt overly familiar. “I’ll be sure to let her know.”

Asher blinked, feeling the weight of the man's touch linger longer than it should have. What was that about? His smile felt off, almost too practiced. 

There was something about his eyes—cold, calculating, a flicker of something darker beneath that smile. 

The man’s tone, so light, almost too cheerful, had sent a faint shiver down his back. Asher fought the urge to step back, unease creeping up his spine.

Before Asher could react, the man turned on his heel and strode off, humming to himself as he disappeared into the crowd, leaving an air of unsettling finality in his wake.

I thought I was going to become a statistic for a moment.

Why did he seem so… forced?

Asher blinked, rooted in place for a moment, before shaking his head and muttering, “That was… odd.”

Kaspar, still trudging along nearby, gave a faint grunt of agreement without looking up.

***

Asher and Kaspar made their way through the quieter part of town, leaving the bustle of the main market behind. Up ahead, the Manchester Farms Cart stood out—less of a wagon and more like a small carriage with a weathered, rustic charm.

Its sides were painted with elegant but faded scrollwork, and a hand-painted sign read Manchester Farms in bold, curving letters.

The cart looked quite aged, a Victorian-era version of a food truck, with wooden crates stacked neatly in front, showcasing a modest but vibrant selection of early spring produce. 

Asher spotted fresh asparagus, bunches of yupnik, bright orange carrots, and a handful of spring radishes. There were also baskets of strawberries, their sweet aroma wafting through the air, along with an empty basket where eggs were typically stored.

Kaspar trailed behind, fidgeting with his messy hair in a half-hearted attempt to fix it, though it remained as unruly as before. The soot from his mechanical hand only added to the mess, and he seemed oblivious to the dirt smudging his fingers.

Asher couldn’t help but smirk. "You sure you're fixing it?"

Kaspar grunted, tugging at his hair again with more force than necessary. It only made things worse.

"Doin' great," Asher said dryly.

The exchange went unnoticed by Viktor, who greeted them with a nod as he arranged some crates. "Didn't expect you today."

"I'm full of surprises," Asher replied, eyeing the fresh produce.

Viktor was a burly man with a thick, graying beard and a broad build that made him hard to miss. His eyes, though friendly, held a subtle sharpness, as if constantly calculating. 

A small, dark crimson stain marred the edge of his worn shirt, an odd accompaniment to his otherwise casual demeanor.

Kaspar lingered near the cart, his usual confidence replaced by a subtle hesitance. His gaze wandered absently over the crates, hands fiddling now and then with the edge of his shirt.

He glanced toward Viktor, but his eyes quickly flitted away, avoiding the older man’s steady gaze—as if he weren’t quite ready to face something… or someone.

"Where... uh... where’s Cynthia?" Kaspar asked, his voice cracking slightly, though he quickly tried to smooth it over with a casual tone. It wasn’t quite a question, more of an offhand remark, but it still sounded a little uneven.

Viktor looked up with a soft smile, brushing his hands on his apron. "Ah, she's sleeping in today. You know how it is—she often catches up on rest when things slow down, though it's more than usual today." His tone was casual, unbothered, as though it were nothing out of the ordinary.

Kaspar nodded quickly, his gaze flickering back to the crates, a little too eager to focus on them. He didn’t seem particularly tense, just a little distracted, as though his mind was somewhere else, trying to anchor itself.

Viktor noticed the shift in Kaspar’s demeanor, a quiet observation more than a judgment. 

He raised an eyebrow, glancing between Kaspar and Asher. "You’ve been quiet for a while now, Kaspar. You sure you’re alright?"

Kaspar’s lips parted, but no words came at first. He hesitated, looking like he was trying to pull something together but couldn’t quite get it right. 

"Not sure... just tired, I guess." 

His voice softened, almost absentminded, and he quickly looked down as though searching for something on the ground to occupy his focus.

Viktor, sensing the subtle shift, stepped in with a light-hearted chuckle, trying to ease the mood. 

"Well, everyone needs rest now and then. You’re probably burning the candle at both ends."

Kaspar offered a faint smile, but it didn’t quite reach his bloodshot eyes. He nodded absently, his gaze drifting again, though he didn’t seem overly preoccupied—more like someone mulling over a thought they couldn’t quite grasp.

At the very least say something dude… this is freaking awkward!

"We’ve been uh… hearin’ rumors," Asher butted in, his tone careful, as though testing the waters. "About you, about Cynthia... Folks talkin' 'bout things that really shouldn’t. Thought maybe we could—" He glanced at Viktor for confirmation, unsure whether he was crossing a line. "—check it out together. Viktor, you mind if we come by your place? See if everything’s... normal?"

Viktor paused, his expression unreadable, briefly glancing at Kaspar before giving a small nod. 

"Sure, I don’t mind. I’ll be packing up soon, so just hop on board. But I’ll warn you—there’s no such thing as a free lunch. If you're staying, I’ll be expecting some help around the farm."

"Fair deal," Asher responded with a polite smile.

Kaspar shifted his weight from one foot to the other, his hands brushing nervously against his sides. His gaze darted to Viktor and then back to the cart, his mouth opening as if to protest.

"Uh, I… not sure if—"

Before Kaspar could finish, Viktor clapped his hands on his shoulder with a reassuring grin. 

"Ah, nervous about the ride? Don’t worry—it’s just a short trip. Besides, this is the perfect chance for you to learn how it all works."

Kaspar blinked, caught off guard. "What? No, I—"

"Exactly!" Viktor interrupted, nodding firmly as though Kaspar had agreed. 

"I’ll show you how to get the horses moving and everything. It’s easier than it looks, trust me. Asher, you stay inside. We don’t need too many cooks spoiling the stew."

Asher raised an eyebrow but shrugged, climbing into the cart. 

"Sure thing."

Viktor motioned for Kaspar to follow, and despite his hesitation, Kaspar trudged along.

Once on the front bench, Viktor began explaining the basics of harnessing the horses. His tone was light, almost cheerful, as he guided Kaspar through the steps.

"You see, the trick is in the reins. Keep them steady but not too tight, or you’ll spook them," Viktor said, gesturing toward the horses.

Kaspar nodded absently, his focus elsewhere. He glanced over his shoulder toward the cart, where Asher waited inside, his foot tapping idly against the wooden floorboards.

Viktor’s voice shifted, softer now. "Cynthia used to help with this all the time when she was younger. She’s got a real knack for handling animals, just like her mother did. Always said it was about patience." He hesitated, his hands pausing mid-gesture. "She’d always laugh when—"

He stopped abruptly, his expression tightening for a brief moment before he forced a smile and waved it off. "Anyway, where was I? Oh, right, the reins. They’re your lifeline, see?"

Viktor’s sudden change of tone hung in the air, the lightheartedness feeling slightly forced now.

Asher sat in the cart, casually snatching an onion from the loose crates. 

Peeling it with one hand and leaned toward the window, munching on it as Viktor's voice carried over the sounds of packing. 

Chapter Text

Asher sat in the cart, leaning against the side on a rickety stool. He absently gnawed on a carrot, barely paying attention to the muffled voices of Viktor and Kaspar nearby. His gaze kept drifting to the window, drawn to the heavy gray sky beyond.

The road was rough, each jolt sending the cart creaking and lurching beneath him like an unsteady exercise ball. 

Asher gripped the wooden frame in a futile attempt to steady himself, but the uneven motion left him feeling adrift.

Outside, the clouds thickened ominously, pregnant with the promise of rain. The air felt heavy, a faint chill seeping through the cart’s walls, wavering indecisively between a drizzle and naught.

Below, the land stretched into a patchwork of tilled earth and barren fields. As the farmstead came into view, Asher furrowed his brow. 

Shouldn’t a place feeding all of Kyrmsk look... fuller?

The cart jolted to an abrupt halt, pitching Asher forward. He barely caught himself, gripping the edge of the seat as Viktor’s sharp voice rang out.

“Kaspar! Ease up on the reins—we’re not hauling corpses here!”

A soft chuckle drifted back from Kaspar, unbothered, but Viktor’s tone remained edged with irritation stepping off the cart. 

“Take the horse to the stable,” he added, his grumble heavy with dissatisfaction.

Asher swung his feet over the side and landed with a soft thud. 

He glanced back to see Kaspar leading the horse toward a rickety stable at the edge of the yard. 

The farm itself was modest, the wooden house ahead weathered and worn. Its shutters hung slightly askew, and the door creaked open as a woman stepped outside.

She looked as though she’d just rolled out of bed—hair tousled, a loose shirt barely tucked into her pants—but there was an unmistakable alertness in her stance as her eyes swept across the yard.

Asher felt a flicker of unease as her gaze locked onto Viktor with steely focus.

“Cynthia, sleeping in again? It’s already past noon,” Viktor said without missing a beat.

Her sharp reply cut through the air. “What is it now? Can you ever give it a rest?”

Viktor slipped a golden watch from his pocket and flipped it open, revealing a delicate painting of a woman with a warm, welcoming smile. Asher’s unease deepened as he caught a glimpse of the image—a relic of a life far removed from the present. 

“I’m not the one who rested till two! Just… just help them get used to the farm work before I blow a casket.”

Her eyes flicked between Kaspar and Asher before settling on Kaspar. 

With a deliberate shuffle, Kaspar moved to the far side of the horse, clearly avoiding her gaze.

She let out a small, amused sigh, muttering, “Gimme twenty.” 

Without waiting for a response, she turned and headed back inside, the door creaking shut behind her.

Asher left to contemplate how to pass the time reached into his coat pocket finishing the last bite of his impromptu feast.

***

Asher wandered toward the rickety stable, his shoes scuffing against the hardened dirt. 

Inside, the dim light filtering through the cracks in the wooden planks cast streaks of gold across the stall. 

Kaspar had tied the horse to a post, its sleek coat shimmering faintly as it shifted under the warm beams. The faint scent of hay mingled with the earthy musk of the animal.

Asher hesitated near the stall, glancing toward Kaspar, who leaned against a post, his head nodding forward in a half-asleep slump. 

Clearing his throat softly, Asher asked, “Mind if I… pet it?”

Kaspar jolted upright, his eyes darting around as if trying to catch up with the moment.

“Huh? Oh… uh, yeah, yeah, Bartholomew like pet! Viktor not mind, either. He... intimidate, yeah, but not as... weird as I think. No, no… thought, so... yeah." 

The words stammered out of his mouth, his tone a mix of apology, explanation, and reassurance.

Asher chuckled faintly, brushing off the awkwardness as he stepped closer to the dark horse. 

Its eyes followed him, steady and calm, as though silently granting permission.

“Easy, girl,” Asher murmured, his hand hovering just above its sleek neck. The warmth of its breath puffed faintly against his arm, and the faint rustle of hay filled the air.

Gently, he brushed his fingers along the horse’s mane, marveling at its coarse yet silken texture.

Just as Asher’s touch began to settle into the rhythm of a soft stroke, a sharp yell shattered the stillness.

“Asher! Kaspar! Get out here—now!”

The voice cut through the stable like a blade, snapping both Asher and Kaspar to attention. 

Kaspar blinked rapidly, trying to shake off the fog of his thoughts. "Uh... right, right, Viktor... sorry."

But even as he spoke, something shifted in him. 

His shoulders sagged, his earlier enthusiasm evaporating into self-reproach. The words, barely above a whisper, left his mouth in a rush. “Worthless... can’t even…” He trailed off, his posture slumping further as the familiar weight of self-doubt settled in again.

Asher noticed the change immediately. A quiet tension crept into the air as Kaspar drifted back into his own negative thoughts, the cycle of doubt starting over again.

With a resigned sigh, Asher brushed the dust from his pants and gave Kaspar a quick glance, considering how to drag them out.

Viktor stood at the front door of the stable, arms crossed, a sour look on his face. His tone was sharp, a little less patient now. "What are you two doing in there? Don’t make me wait on you."

Kaspar lowered his head, visibly flustered, muttering something unintelligible.

Asher scratched the back of his head, his mouth dry with awkwardness, but before he could speak, Cynthia’s voice cut through the air from beside him.

“Viktor, don’t give them a hard time,” she called, stepping forward.

Viktor huffed but relented.

“I’m just trying to get them moving. We’re all on a schedule.”

Cynthia commented, shrugging.

“Yeah, well, they’ll catch up. Just give them a minute. I’ll make sure they get it.”

As she spoke, her tone warm and steady, Kaspar’s eyes flicked toward her. Something shifted in him—his posture straightened, his earlier slump easing, and his mood lightened. His voice, once uncertain, now held a hint of eager enthusiasm.

“Y-yeah, uh… thanks, Cynthia,” he stammered, a sheepish smile pulling at his lips.

Cynthia's lips curled slightly at the corner, and she shook her head before turning toward the patch of land behind the house. 

“Work’s late today anyway, so we should get moving. A bit of a breeze with that grey sky; temperatures should be decent. Not too hot. At least, that's the theory.”

By then, Viktor’s voice called on his way to the house, grumbling, “Don’t make me drag you two in. I’ll have a feast ready in a few hours—don’t go complaining about your stomachs.”

***

As they walked, the wind carried the scent of fresh earth, mixing with the promise of rain. Kaspar’s pace quickened as he noticed the heavy sack hanging from Cynthia’s shoulder.

“Here—let me take that,” Kaspar offered eagerly, reaching out toward the sack.

Cynthia paused, lifting her eyebrows. “What? That’s—”

“Please!” Kaspar’s voice took on a hint of desperation, his hands already half outstretched.

She sighed, seemingly accustomed to his antics, handed the sack over without protest.

As they reached the patch of land, Cynthia glanced back at Asher and Kaspar, curioity in her gaze.

“Alright, so... we’ll be working the late shift today. Papa’s an early riser, so he works at dawn, but I tend to wake up a bit later, so I work at dusk. What about you two? You planning on working dusk or dawn for the next few days?”

Without missing a beat, Kaspar answered eagerly, “Dusk!” His voice obnoxiously loud, brimming with excitement.

Asher blinked, his routine of sleeping until noon hard to shake, but the thought of more rest was too tempting to ignore. “Yeah... dusk. That works for me.”

Cynthia smiled and nodded. “Alright, then. It’s settled.”

Chapter Text

Asher couldn’t ignore the raw ache in his arms or the searing burn that flared in his hands with every movement.

His breath came in ragged bursts, each one more labored than the last, but he pushed forward regardless.

Tightening his grip on the hoe, he forced his trembling legs to carry him into the row of soil, determined to make some headway. He dug deep, putting all his weight into the task, hoping for some sign that the soil was giving way.

But the earth was stubborn, refusing to loosen easily. It stubbornly adhered to the hoe. He struck again and again, but each motion felt sluggish, his body too tired to keep up with his intentions.

Cynthia’s voice broke through his dazed focus, gentler this time but still firm.

“Asher, stop for a second,” she said, stepping closer. “You’re putting too much strain on yourself. Take a breath and let’s fix your form.”

He straightened up reluctantly, feeling the full weight of his exhaustion as he looked at her.

“Here,” she said, demonstrating by gripping the hoe in her hands. “Keep your back straighter and let your legs do more of the work. Like this.”

She struck the earth with a precise motion, her movements fluid and practiced. “You’ll tire yourself out less if you don’t fight it.”

Asher sighed and mimicked her, adjusting his stance. The change felt awkward at first, but as he followed her rhythm, the work became marginally easier.

“That’s it,” Cynthia said with a small nod, her voice laced with encouragement. “You’re getting the hang of it. You don’t have to go fast—just steady.”

He gritted his teeth, pushing through another few strikes before his body gave out. 

Exhaustion hit him like a wave, sweeping his legs out from under him.

Asher collapsed onto his back, his chest rising and falling with labored breaths as he struggled to summon even a shred of energy.

The freshly turned soil filled the air with a bitter, yet strangely calming scent, mingling with the sharp sting of sweat.

To his right, Kaspar flopped onto the ground with a groan, his arms splayed out in defeat.

Cynthia didn’t scold them this time. Instead, she knelt down nearby, her expression softening.

“You two’ve been pushing yourselves awfully hard,” she said, her tone quiet but steady. “It may seem like the earth is working against you, but strength isn’t the only factor. It’s about patience. You’re not just fighting the soil; you’re working with it.”

Asher stared up at the darkening sky, his body sinking deeper into the dirt. His arms felt like lead, his fingers twitching uselessly at his sides.

Cynthia offered a faint smile, as if sensing his thoughts. “It’s not easy work. But you’ve done more than you think.”

She extended the strength-enhancing stick toward him, her voice softening further. “Here. This might help you get back on your feet.”

Asher hesitated before accepting it, using the stick to brace himself. 

After a moment’s effort, he sank back into the earth's embrace, deciding to remain where he was.

Behind them, Kaspar’s snoring broke the silence, prompting a faint twitch at the corner of Cynthia’s mouth—a hint of a smile—as she turned her attention back to Asher.

“Well, at least someone’s managing to relax,” she murmured, her tone light, before meeting Asher’s gaze.

“Take a moment to catch your breath. Victor should be calling us in soon, and we’ll call it a day. You’ve earned the rest.”

Asher gave her a weak nod, the weight of her encouragement lifting his spirits, even if his battered body remained rooted in the soil.

Cynthia’s gaze sharpened, watching him carefully, her words drifting over like the rustling of leaves.

“You know, I’ve known Kaspar a long while,” she said, her voice steady yet contemplative. “I worry about what’s troubling him, though he’ll never admit it. He’s never been the easiest to deal with, but there’s always more going on beneath the surface.”

She paused, glancing at Kaspar, who remained sprawled out and oblivious. A faint smile tugged at her lips before she looked back at Asher. “You’ve spent some time with him now, haven’t you? I’d like to hear your take.”

Caught off guard, Asher blinked. “My take? On him?”

Cynthia nodded, pulling a small journal from her pocket and flipping it open. “Kaspar can be... complicated. I’m curious—how do you manage to deal with him? He really doesn’t make it easy on anyone.”

Asher shifted uncomfortably, his eyes darting to Kaspar. After a moment, he stammered, “Honestly, he’s a pain. But... he’s not all bad.” 

He hesitated, glancing at Cynthia before continuing, his voice quieter but sincere. “He’s unpredictable, yeah, but there’s something about him. He’s... competent in his own way. He just shows it differently than most.”

Cynthia tilted her head, clearly intrigued. “Competent, huh? That’s not a descriptor I’d expect.”

Asher shrugged, the motion weary. “He’s more independent than you make him out to be. And... well, he’s good to have around, in his own way.”

Cynthia visibly swallowed, caught off guard by his answer. Her throat bobbed slightly before she glanced down at her journal. “Oh—well… that’s something to chew on.”

Flipping a page, she recovered quickly. “Anyway, next question.” 

She ran a finger along the page. “Ah, here it is. Be honest—I know almost nothing about you apart from those church grocery runs a few weeks back.”

“What’s your story?”

Asher’s demeanor began to shift uncontrollably as he tried to hold back a chuckle. 

This past month’s been one strange roller coaster—bears, vampires, magic prosthetics, a sick world with an archaic system reliant on “indentured servants”.

What’s there not to talk about?

“Well, to start off, before the cave I was—”

“I was uhhhh.”

Why can’t I come up with anything specific?  

Asher’s thoughts jumbled as he tried to focus.

If I organize this… 

I was on a planet named Earth. 

I lived in a democratic 21st-century society. 

I had a job, I think. 

What was it again? IT? No, more like HR… Sales?

“Hello?”

Bah! Why is my memory so fuzzy? 

I’m Asher… no?

Asher Jewel. 

AJ

Tall A. 

What is up with my memory right now?

“HELLO!”

Asher snapped out of his daze, startled to find Cynthia leaning much closer than before. She flicked his forehead lightly, her expression caught between jest and mild concern.

“Glad to see you’re back from that trance,” she said, raising an eyebrow. “Seems like you don’t want to talk about your past, which is fine.”

Cynthia plopped down onto the freshly turned soil, a small cloud of dust puffing up around her. 

They both waved away the pungent cloud before she continued.

“If you want to keep up this mysterious guy act, be my guest. But could you at least tell me when you joined the church?”

Asher took a moment to recollect his thoughts. “Well, you probably know Samantha. She saved me a bit over a month ago and, shortly after, dropped me off at the church to get me out of her hair. From there, it’s been a bunch of weird, terrifying stuff, and now… I’m here.”

Cynthia sighed, shaking her head as she tapped her journal with a finger. “That told me basically nothing. I swear, trying to get information out of you is like pulling teeth.”

She glanced down, quickly skimming through her journal. “Alright, let’s try this. One last set of questions, then I’ll leave you alone for a bit.”

Cynthia looked up, her tone casual but curious. “What animal do you fear the most?”

Asher didn’t even hesitate. “Bears.”

A wry smile tugged at Cynthia’s lips. “Let’s say you were in a situation with a bear—this time, Kaspar’s the one in trouble. Would you step up to fight it for him?”

Asher froze for a moment, his mind flashing back to his earlier encounter with the bears. The fear, the helplessness—it all came rushing back. His throat went dry, and he swallowed hard, trying to push down the memories that rose to the surface.

After a beat, he finally spoke, his voice steady but heavy with the weight of his thoughts.

“I was quite recently in a situation like that,” he said slowly. “And though I can’t specify the details, Kaspar would not... but yes, I would.”

Cynthia raised an eyebrow, clearly not satisfied with the response. “What’s that supposed to mean?” she pressed, her tone laced with curiosity.

Asher gave a nonchalant shrug, waving off her question. “I told you, I can’t explain it. It’s just... complicated.”

Cynthia stared at him for a moment, frustration flickering across her face, but she didn’t push further. Instead, she exhaled sharply.

“Alright,” she said after a pause. “Trying this hard to be mysterious isn’t as cool as you might think.”

Asher blinked, caught off guard by her bluntness.

She gave him a pointed look before continuing. “However this conversation has shown you’re not as distant as you like to act. So, I guess... I can accept you as his friend.”

Asher stood there for a second, his mouth opening and closing in disbelief. He hadn’t quite processed what had just happened. He thought this whole thing was some kind of interrogation—trying to get him to crack or spill his secrets—but instead, this was just some orientation?

Asher blinked a few more times, still processing the unexpected turn. “Wait... is that what this whole conversation was about?” 

His voice carried a hint of disbelief. “I thought you were grilling me for some deeper reason. In the back of my mind, I came up with some considerably worse conclusions.”

Cynthia raised an eyebrow. “Worse conclusions? What do you mean by that?”

Asher quickly waved a hand, dismissing the thought. “It’s nothing. Forget it.” 

He scratched the back of his neck, looking uncomfortable. “Really, it’s not important.”

Cynthia stared at him for a moment, then groaned in annoyance. “You’re impossible. Seriously, what is it with you?”

Asher gave her a half-grin, half-embarrassed look. “I told you, it’s complicated.”

Chapter Text

The aroma of the feast hit Asher like a freight train the moment he stepped into the dining room—rich, savory notes of roasted meat, buttery herbs, and warm, yeasty bread mingled with a faint sweetness he couldn’t quite place. 

His stomach growled in protest, louder than he would’ve liked, but he barely noticed as his eyes adjusted to the soft glow of the gas lamps.

Looking around, he caught sight of Kaspar slumped in his chair, head nodding precariously toward the table. 

Cynthia, on the other hand, sat upright with an almost regal composure, carefully tying a cloth napkin around her neck. 

She took her time, setting a folded serviette on her lap and adjusting the placement of her utensils with a precision that felt absurdly out of place in the rustic setting. 

The full setup felt almost ceremonial, and Asher couldn’t help but raise an eyebrow as he pulled out his chair.

Viktor, meanwhile, was still bustling about, bringing out dish after dish and muttering under his breath as he went. 

The table groaned under the sheer weight of the spread—platters of roasted chicken and steaming vegetables, bowls of thick stew, freshly baked rolls, and even a pie cooling in its tin. 

It looked like a meal meant for a crowd three times their size, but Viktor hardly seemed fazed.

As Asher settled into his seat, his gaze wandered around the room. The dining space had a strange duality to it, a mix of humble simplicity and curious oddities. 

The wooden walls were adorned with family mementos—a smattering of pictures showing Cynthia as a child, a young Viktor smiling proudly beside a plow, and a few candid shots of them together. 

Yet, Asher couldn’t help but notice the odd detail—several of the frames were facedown, their glossy wood reflecting in the lamplight. One in particular, larger than the rest, sat conspicuously at the center of a small shelf, its contents hidden from view. 

None of the upright photos featured Viktor’s wife.

Stranger still were the other objects scattered throughout the room. Mounted above the hearth was a giant fish head, its wide, toothy grin frozen in time beneath a brass plaque that read Murloc. 

Nearby, a silver-plated steam rifle leaned against the wall, its polished barrel gleaming faintly in the dim light. An intricate engraving of a coiled serpent wrapped around its stock, bearing a name that didn’t match any Asher recognized. 

On a side table sat a delicate clockwork sculpture—a mechanical bird singing a soft out of tune song, its wings frozen mid-flap.

The overall effect was jarring, a place that felt equally like a down-to-earth farmstead and a museum of curiosities. Asher shifted uneasily, unsure what to make of the juxtaposition.

“Stop gawking and eat,” Viktor barked, shattering the silence as he dropped two plates, each crowned with glass cloches, in front of Kaspar and Asher. 

Though his voice lacked outright anger, the commanding edge in his tone made Asher sit up straighter without thinking.

As Viktor finally took his seat, the weight of the room seemed to shift. A heavy silence fell between them, thick with the anticipation of what was about to unfold. 

His eyes flicked between Asher and Kaspar, both of whom seemed oddly still, lost in the heaviness of the atmosphere.

Viktor’s lips twitched slightly, and he leaned forward, his tone cutting through the silence like a knife. “Are you even members of the Church of Machinery?” His voice was low, but there was an edge to it that made Asher stiffen. “You forget to pray before a meal?”

The question hung in the air like an accusation, and Asher’s heart skipped a beat.

Viktor’s question lingered in the air like an unspoken threat, and the weight of the room seemed to press down on him, thick with expectation. 

He had to play along, had to mimic the gesture, but the last thing he wanted was to draw attention to himself.

Without missing a beat, Asher closed his eyes, dropping his head slightly as though in reverence, his fingers tracing the motion of a quick triangle. He hoped his actions would seem convincing enough, but he kept one eye ever-so-slightly cracked, watching.

Kaspar, seated beside him, looked about as far from pious as possible. His hand faltered halfway through the triangle, the motion sluggish and disjointed, as though the effort of raising his arm was an afterthought. 

Cynthia, on the other hand, was the picture of devoutness. Asher’s gaze flicked toward her, noting how she pressed her fingers to her chest with care, making the four slow taps before sweeping her hand in a deliberate, graceful circle. 

Each movement was exact, precise, filled with an almost reverent energy that Asher couldn’t help but respect. She was fully immersed in the prayer, a stark contrast to his and Kaspar’s half-hearted attempt.

Then there was Viktor. Asher’s eyes shifted back to him, his heart sinking slightly as he watched the man perform his gesture. 

Instead of the expected clockwise circle, Viktor’s hand moved in a slow, controlled counter-clockwise motion, a subtle yet unmistakable variation. 

There was no tapping, no effort to complete the full four points; 

Viktor bypassed that altogether, completing only the final circular motion. Asher chalked it up to laziness, but a nagging feeling crept into the back of his mind.

As the prayers ended Viktor’s eyes flicked around the table, his gaze lingering just a moment longer on Asher, studying him intently as if weighing his next move. The silence stretched on, thick and uncomfortable, before Viktor’s gaze shifted back to his own plate.

After a pause, Viktor’s voice broke the silence once more, his tone casual but laced with an edge. “Are you going to touch your food, or just stare at it all night?” He raised an eyebrow, clearly expecting an answer.

Looking around Kaspar was picking at the vegetables absentmindedly, not seeming to notice the cloche-covered pork next to him. 

Cynthia was a stark contrast. She was digging in with vigor, her earlier reverence now replaced by a ravenous hunger. 

Her fork clinked against her plate as she devoured the food with a quickness that surprised Asher.

Asher finally turned his attention to the meal before him. The aromas alone were enough to make his stomach growl louder than before.

“Oh yeah…” Asher responded absentmindedly trying to shake off his inexplicable urge to overanalyze the situation.

The roasted chicken glistened under the soft light, its skin a perfect shade of golden brown, crispy and crackling with every movement of the knife. The rich scent of herbs—garlic, rosemary, and thyme—mingled with the savory warmth of the meat. 

Each leg and breast was carved to perfection, the juices pooling slightly beneath the surface of the flesh, a promise of tenderness beneath the crisp exterior. 

Asher couldn't resist reaching for a piece, his fingers brushing the warm skin before cutting into the meat. The first bite was everything he had hoped for: juicy and rich, with just the right balance of salt and herb-infused flavor.

Beside the chicken, an array of steaming vegetables added a pop of color to the table. Carrots, their edges just beginning to caramelize, mingled with parsnips that had been roasted to a delicate sweetness. 

The vegetables were arranged in a haphazard but appetizing way, spilling across the platter as though they had been placed with care but with a sense of casual abundance.

The bowl of thick stew sat at the center of the table, a hearty, steaming concoction that promised comfort with every spoonful. 

The broth was rich and dark, clinging to the chunks of tender beef and root vegetables that swam in its depths. The scent of beef mingled with the earthy aroma of carrots, potatoes, and onions, a grounding, homey fragrance that made Asher’s mouth water. 

He dipped his spoon into the thick liquid, pulling out a hearty portion of meat and vegetables, the tender beef practically falling apart in his mouth, while the vegetables added just the right amount of earthiness.

Freshly baked rolls, their golden-brown crusts giving way to soft, pillowy interiors, were piled high next to the stew. The warm, yeasty aroma filled the air, and Asher could already imagine the sensation of tearing one open, the steam rising from the fluffy bread. 

He reached for one, breaking it open with his fingers. The bread was warm, the inside soft and airy, while the crust had a satisfying crunch to it. Asher couldn’t help but dip it into the stew, letting the bread absorb the rich liquid, each bite a perfect marriage of flavors.

And then, there was the pie. It sat on a small side table, cooling in its tin, its golden crust flecked with just a hint of sugar. The faint scent of cinnamon and apples wafted up from the pie, teasing Asher’s senses. 

He could already imagine how the filling would taste—sweet, slightly tart, and perfectly spiced, the fruit tender but not mushy. His mouth watered at the thought of the contrast between the buttery, flaky crust and the warm, fragrant filling. 

The pie, though it had yet to be cut, was already an unmistakable highlight of the meal, promising a sweet ending to the hearty spread before him.

Asher’s gaze flickered between the dishes, taking it all in, appreciating the simple yet comforting beauty of the meal. The food seemed to carry with it an unspoken promise of warmth, nourishment, and satisfaction, the kind of meal that grounded you, that made you feel as though you were exactly where you needed to be.

Viktor’s voice, sharp but not unkind, cut through Asher’s thoughts. “You forgetting something?”

Asher blinked, his gaze flicking to the covered pork, which he had barely noticed in his eager examination of the other dishes. 

The lid seemed to gleam in the soft light, and Asher’s stomach gave another low growl, protesting the delay. 

He hesitated, a moment of indecision passing through him, before steeling himself. Viktor’s gaze was piercing, and Asher had no intention of angering the imposing man.

With a resigned sigh, Asher grabbed the carving knife and delicately removed the cover, revealing the pork beneath. 

It looked slightly off, the texture just a bit too pale and the edges a shade too pink. Still, he’d eaten worse, and Viktor was watching. Without further hesitation, Asher carved into the meat and took a bite.

The flavor was rich but slightly... odd. The texture, while tender, was a bit tougher than he’d expected, and there was an unfamiliar tang that lingered on his tongue. Not unpleasant, but not quite right either. 

It was a strange, almost metallic aftertaste, like something was subtly off in the preparation. Yet, despite the oddness, the pork was still flavorful, with hints of smokiness and sweetness. He chewed it quickly, hoping to move past the strange sensation.

Beside him, Kaspar, too, reached for the covered pork, his hand moving absently as he picked up a piece. He seemed unfazed by the oddity of the dish, his expression distant as he carved into the meat. 

But before he could take a bite, his eyes glazed over, and with an almost serene slowness, his head drooped forward, crashing straight into his plate with a wet thud.

Asher’s eyes widened in surprise as a soft groan escaped Kaspar’s lips, his head sinking deeper into the mashed potatoes. The others at the table watched the scene unfold in a mixture of disbelief and mild amusement.

Viktor let out a long, exasperated sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose as he muttered, “Wasting food… Kaspar, damn it, you ungrateful-” His voice was heavy with irritation, though there was a strange undertone of resignation. 

He looked down at the unconscious figure slumped over his plate, shaking his head.

Cynthia, on the other hand, couldn’t contain a chuckle, her shoulders shaking with barely suppressed laughter. “Well, that’s one way to enjoy a meal,” she remarked, her voice light with amusement. “You sure you didn’t spike it with something, Viktor?”

Viktor merely shot her a glance, his annoyance not easing in the slightest. “If I had, you’d be face-first on your plate too, plus the ungrateful boy didn’t even touch it.” he grumbled, his sharp gaze flicking back to the unconscious Kaspar.

Asher, still digesting his own strange bite of pork, couldn’t help but feel a slight unease at the scene. 

It was bizarre—Kaspar’s sudden collapse, the odd flavor of the pork—but he found himself shrugging it off. 

He was beyond exhausted, his mind foggy with the aftereffects of a long journey and even longer conversations. 

The food had, in the end, been comforting despite the weirdness, and as much as he wanted to delve deeper into the strange dynamics around him, his body was now betraying him.

Pushing himself to his feet, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, feeling his legs wobble slightly. “Uh…” he muttered, looking to Viktor. “Do you mind… pointing me to the guest room? I think I’m about to pass out.”

Viktor gave him a single, sharp nod, and gestured toward a door at the far side of the room. “Up the stairs, second door on the left. Don’t wander off,” he warned, his voice colder than it had been in the last few minutes.

Asher gave a tired, nodding smile. “Thanks. I’ll… do that.”

With that, he made his way toward the door, feeling the weight of exhaustion pressing in on him. 

As he stepped out of the dining room, the peculiarities of the evening—the strange food, the odd people—seemed to melt away.

Maybe my initial skepticism about this place, about Viktor and Cynthia, was unfounded. 

It’s not perfect, but in its own off-putting way, it feels like a place where I can stay safe.

If only for a couple of days.

Chapter Text

The wind howled against the cabin walls like a feral beast, gnawing the windows with frost-bitten fangs. The only sounds within being the hearth crackling and the faint clatter of traps gathered from the floor.

Asher sat on the floor, legs folded awkwardly beneath him, trying—and failing—to make sense of the bear trap he decided to begin with.

He glanced at the crooked clock on the wall. Still hours before Samantha would return from hunting with Nimbus.

With the lack of stimuli the cabin felt less like shelter and more like a mausoleum of broken, forgotten things.

And Asher—bored, restless, and very much alive—couldn’t help but start digging.

Asher wiped the dust from his hands and crouched beside Samantha’s bed, cautiously lifting the edge of the heavy blanket. He wasn’t sure what he expected—secret documents, a forbidden diary, maybe even a cursed relic. Something interesting.

Instead, he found spears. A whole pile of them. Long shafts of wood, most sharpened unevenly, some with rusted kitchen knives lashed to the ends.

“…Why does she need twelve of these?” he muttered, slowly lowering the blanket like he was tucking a cryptid back into its den.

Already bored again, he returned to the mess of traps near the hearth. A bear trap snapped shut with a jarring clang the moment he picked it up—thankfully away from his fingers. He yelped and scooted back, glaring at it like it had betrayed him.

“Right. That’s going in the pile.”

So went the next hours—or so he thought. 

He disarmed snares, shuffled loose knives and arrows into a drawer that was clearly too full, and stacked tripwire contraptions by size. Each one looked more likely to maim the user than any intruder.

Finally, he slumped into Samantha’s lumpy armchair, sweat on his brow, fingertips sore.

The clock on the wall ticked lazily. Its minute hand had moved once.

“…It’s only been half an hour?”

His body seemed to meld into the chair, limbs sagging like overcooked noodles as he stared blankly at the wall. 

The clock, smug in its slowness, ticked on with malicious leisure. 

If I don’t do something soon, I’m going to lose my mind. 

With a groan, he peeled himself out of the upholstery and made his way to the corner where his things were stashed.

From beneath a bundle of half-dry socks and what might’ve been a preserved rabbit ear, he retrieved the strength-enhancing stick. The wood felt warm in his palm, buzzing faintly with that odd, invisible thrum it always gave off when he held it too long.

He stepped into the cleared space in the middle of the cabin and began to twirl it—sloppy at first, then more confidently.

A swing. 

A pose. 

A dramatic spin that made him look, in his own mind, like a warrior of legend preparing for a duel.

“I am… Asher the Invincible,” he said, twirling the stick like a bo staff. “Savior of the north, bane of bears, conqueror of—”

Thunk.

The tip of the sturdy stick clocked him in the temple with perfectly horrid timing. He staggered with a grunt, dropping it as his vision shattered into a brief kaleidoscope of color.

“Okay then.” he mumbled, falling onto his back with a defeated sigh.

The fire crackled as a light draft swept under the door.

And in the silence that followed, his eyes drifted toward the floorboards beneath her rancid clothing pile—toward a slightly raised plank he hadn’t noticed before.

Asher paused, staring at the plank, his breath deepening to regain some semblance of control over the light dizziness from the stick to the head.

With a resigned grunt, he grabbed the stick, the grip feeling oddly comforting as he used it to gently nudge the pile of stinking clothes aside. 

The foul smell of old wool and sweat hit him, and he recoiled for a moment, shuddering.

“Why does she keep this… stuff here?” he muttered, trying not to breathe too deeply.

Using the stick’s end as an extension of his arm, he shifted the pile just enough to expose the loose floorboard, and without a second thought, he pried it up.

A small click echoed as the plank lifted. Beneath, nestled in the dusty darkness, was a small box—wooden, ornate, and surprisingly well-preserved for something hidden under decades of grime and disuse. 

The box’s lid was engraved with an intricate, swirling design, and right in the center sat an elegant royalty-esque symbol, almost ceremonial, as though it had been branded into the surface with care.

He stared at it for a long moment, pulse quickening. The symbol seemed too deliberate to be accidental.

His fingers hovered over the box, still gripping the stick as though it might offer some protection. 

“…What the hell is this?”

Asher stepped back, and carefully placed the small box on the table by the front window. The frigid storm raged outside, but the warmth of the fire and the soft glow of a lantern gave the cabin a strange sense of calm.

He sat down, fingers trembling slightly as he reached to lift the box’s lid looking inside.

The dagger inside was the first thing that caught his attention. Its blade curved in a way that felt almost unnatural, the metal gleaming faintly even in the dim light, as if it contained a power of its own. 

The hilt was wrapped in dark leather, worn smooth by years of use. There was something about it—a faint aura that made his pulse quicken.

It didn’t feel like a hunter’s tool—it felt like something made to end lives quietly. The craftsmanship was impeccable, and a low ethereal hum seemed to vibrate in the air around it.

Alongside the dagger, a small stack of Loen pounds was carefully tucked in the corner of the box. The crinkled bills had obviously seen better days, but the presence of money felt oddly out of place here, especially in such a hidden spot.

Finally, beneath the money, a leather-bound journal lay nestled in the corner, its cover stained with something dark—a faint, dried splotch of red. Asher’s curiosity overpowered his hesitation. He opened the journal with a creak of the worn leather, eyes scanning the first page.

The handwriting was elegant—crisp and meticulous, like each stroke had been carved into the page rather than written. Asher leaned in, lips moving as he slowly sounded out the characters, one by one. Samantha had given him a few lessons, just enough to recognize letters and piece together simple words.

Most of it was still gibberish to him.

But then his eyes caught a name.

“Samantha… E-i-n-h-o-r-n.”

He said it aloud, just to be sure he had it right. “Einhorn?”

His breath caught in his throat. 

Samantha Einhorn? That’s not her name. She said it was Grubs. Unless…

Maybe she was married once? Maybe… she’s a widow? 

The idea didn’t sit right with her of all people—but it was easier than some of the other explanations creeping into his head.

The bloodstains on the page suddenly seemed to take on a darker significance. 

A name?

 Or an alias.

“…What the hell is going on here?” Asher whispered to himself, eyes darting over the page again. The storm seemed to be calming outside, but the cabin felt colder than it ever had before.

Asher turned another page, squinting at the curling, ink-heavy script. Most of it was still beyond him—Samantha’s brief language lessons had barely gotten him through the alphabet, let alone flowery handwriting and long words with too many consonants.

He flipped a few more pages, hoping for pictures. Instead, he found something even stranger.

Several pages had been glued with yellowing clippings—old newspaper articles, their print faded and brittle with time. He leaned closer. Though he couldn’t read the headlines, a pattern stood out.

Some had crude illustrations: a man hanging from a clocktower, a bloodied carriage, a body sprawled on a cathedral’s steps. In each, a name was circled in red or underlined sharply. The faces changed, but the tone was unmistakable.

Political figures. Religious leaders. Murderers.

Assassinations and serial killers. Executed. Vanished. All deceased.

A chill crawled up his spine.

He flipped more carefully, stopping as something slipped loose and fluttered to the floor.

He bent down, expecting a note or perhaps another clipping—but what he picked up was a small, finely detailed painting on stiff parchment. No bigger than his hand, yet unnervingly vivid.

It depicted a much younger Samantha—her expression unmistakably irritated, if not outright murderous. Her wrists were cuffed in front of her, and she was dressed in a tattered crimson uniform he didn’t recognize. Even captured in paint, her glare practically scorched through the parchment.

Standing beside her was a man: blonde, bespectacled, fitted with a tattoo partially covered on his left arm and far too cheerful for the situation. 

He wore a long cassock and a wide grin, holding up two fingers behind Samantha’s head in the universal gesture of mockery.

Asher blinked at it. The detail was absurd—each strand of hair, each crease in the scowl, painted with precision. Someone had taken their time capturing this moment.

He turned it over.

On the back, written in bold, fluid strokes, was a sentence in the local language—only partially legible to him. His eyes lingered on the finalizing signature:

“– Otto.”

Asher stared at the name.

“…Who the hell is O-T-T-O?”

Samantha in cuffs. That… cheerful man. The cryptic clippings about murders and high-profile deaths.

The name Einhorn.

“…What in the hell is this woman?” he muttered.

The storm outside seemed to ease for a moment, but the silence inside grew heavier.

Asher sat frozen, the painting still in his hands, a dozen questions snarling in his head like starving wolves. None of it made sense, but the pieces were  clearly there.

He inhaled sharply and exhaled through clenched teeth, trying to steady his breathing. The fire crackled softly, the flames no longer warm, just distant.

Like the hearth, like the cabin, like everything he thought he understood about this woman who had just saved his life.

A sound snapped him back to the present—the low crunch of snow outside, heavy and deliberate. He blinked, then scrambled to the window, lifting the curtain just enough to peer out.

There, on the distant ridge of snow, stood a silhouette.

Samantha.

She trudged forward with a slow, brutal rhythm, dragging the hulking carcass of a moose behind her like it weighed nothing. Her figure was lean, cloaked in a ragged coat, the hem streaked dark with old blood.

And beside her bounded Nimbus. The pitch-black fluff ball galloped with glee through the drifts, but it wasn’t cute—his fur was matted with crimson, his little maw slick with fresh gore. 

His tongue lolled, happy as could be, like a demon who’d just eaten a feast.

Asher’s heart seized.

“Shit.”

His fingers moved on instinct—shaking, clumsy, frantic. He gathered the painting, the journal, the dagger, shoved the money back into the box without looking. The lid slammed shut with a click that felt too loud. He crossed the room in two bounding steps, ripped open the floorboard, and dropped the box inside like it burned his hands. He jammed the plank back into place, pressing it down with the heel of his palm until it sat flush again.

Boots crunched closer outside.

He bolted across the room, yanked the rancid pile of clothes back over the plank, and dove toward the bed just as the door handle rattled.

The bed ceased its jostle, just as the door creaked open.

Snow and blood spilled into the room like an unwelcome gust.

Samantha stood in the doorway, covered in half-frozen grime and moose guts, her expression unreadable beneath her frosted greying brows. Nimbus bounding past her, tail wagging, little demon tongue flopping as he beelined straight to the hearth.

Asher lay back on the bed, one hand behind his head, the other very casually wiping sweat off his brow.

“Hey,” he said, voice cracking just a little. “Welcome back. I uh… moved the traps.”

Samantha narrowed her eyes at him while holding the door open.

He swallowed hard.

“Good day?” he asked nervously.

Samantha stared at him a moment longer, eyes narrowed to slits, then without a word turned and yanked the door back closed.

She vanished outside, dragging the moose carcass behind her with a thick, wet scrape. 

A minute later, the sound of chains rattling and metal creaking echoed just outside. 

A dull thunk followed by a clang vibrated through the wall, and the whole cabin gave a slight shudder—like the earth itself winced from the force she used to hoist the beast onto a hook.

Another minute passed, then she returned, snow crunching underfoot. 

“Sorry about the mess,” she muttered, peeling off her blood-caked coat. Without hesitation, she tossed it straight onto the mound of filth and refuse in the corner, where it landed with a wet squelch. Nimbus snorted beside the hearth and shook himself, sending droplets of red speckling across the floorboards.

Samantha didn’t seem to notice. Or care.

She stepped toward the bed with that same slow, deliberate gait, boots thudding on the creaking floorboards, eyes scanning the room briefly—too briefly for Asher’s comfort. 

Then she lowered herself to sit cross-legged at the base of the bed, elbows resting on her knees, hands clasped together.

“So,” she said calmly, almost conversationally, “how was your day?”

Asher cleared his throat, trying to will the sweat back into his skin. “Peaceful,” he said, voice wavering. “Worked out a bit, tidied up, moved the tr—”

Samantha’s hand shot up and latched onto his ear with mechanical precision.

“Now why would you do that?” she growled, twisting just enough to make him yelp.

“They’re there for a reason, dumbass!”

He flailed slightly, trying not to squeal. “I was just—ow—trying to help!”

She let go with a huff, stepping past him to toss the assorted weaponry and traps across the floor, muttering something under her breath about “city brains” and an illegible foreign curse.

Asher rubbed his ear, glaring after her with wounded pride, though he couldn’t quite fight the smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

So much for peaceful.

Chapter Text

The day following passed with little to note. Some light tilling, and watching Kaspar stumble around like a newborn calf after riding into town with Cynthia—his balance wrecked, speech somehow worse than usual. It was almost peaceful.

Today, though, the roles had swapped.

Asher stood near the cellar doors, rubbing the last bits of sleep from his eyes. Morning mist still clung to the grass, curling like fingers around the carts wheels. 

Viktor emerged from the depths of the ice cellar, his breath misting as he climbed the final step, two crates of vegetables balanced with effortless precision in each arm. The older man didn’t say a word, didn’t grunt or groan under the weight—just walked with quiet purpose.

With a low thunk, Viktor kicked the door shut behind him and shifted the crates in his arms. The sharp chill of the cellar still clung to his sleeves.

“I’ll take one,” Asher offered, reaching for the nearest crate.

Viktor gave a small grunt that might have been approval—or just him clearing his throat—and let Asher take it without a word. 

The wood was damp with condensation, biting against Asher’s fingertips as he carried it to the Manchester Farms carriage and hefted it into place.

“Cart's not going to load itself,” Viktor said as he turned back toward the cellar. There was a stiffness to his voice, like someone trying to remember how to sound casual. 

It wasn’t unfriendly—more like a man dragging rusty social gears into motion after years of disuse. The words carried a weightless dryness, like autumn leaves caught in a hesitant breeze. 

An attempt at banter, maybe. Or at least something close to it.

Asher blinked, then moved to grab more.

***

The wheels groaned as the cart trundled along the dirt path, jostling over uneven ruts. Asher sat stiffly on the driver’s bench, clutching the reins with a beginner's needless fervor.

“Loosen up,” Viktor muttered, glancing sideways. “You’re steering a horse, not trying to throttle a chicken.”

Asher shifted his grip, forcing his shoulders to drop. “Sorry. Just… haven’t really done this before.”

“Obviously.” Viktor’s tone was flat, but not sharp. “You’ll get it. Just let her feel you. Reins should guide, not drag.”

Asher offered a tentative nod, though his hands still twitched with every step the horse took. He side-eyed Viktor, expecting another wall of silence. Instead, the older man exhaled like a man forced into small talk against his better judgment.

“Kinda strange,” Asher said. “You’re a lot… chattier today. Yesterday you barely looked at me.”

Viktor grunted dismissively. “The only reason I’m putting up with you is because Kaspar gets under my skin even worse, and you’ve got to earn your keep somehow.”

That drew a blink. “Wait, really?”

“He’s like mold,” Viktor muttered. “Keeps showing up, sticking around where he’s not wanted. The only reason I let him near Cynthia is because she can be far more irritating if she wants to.” He shook his head. “Figure they cancel each other out.”

Asher tried not to laugh. “That’s… generous of you.”

“It’s practical,” Viktor said. “Which is more than I can say for either of them.”

They hit a bump, and Asher lurched slightly, catching himself on the edge of the seat. Viktor didn’t look over, but Asher could swear he almost smiled.

Asher’s fingers tightened on the reins, his heart thudding in his chest. 

Viktor’s voice cut through the air—calm but taut. “Here’s a good place to park.” He reached over and gripped the reins with firm, practiced authority.

Asher tried to follow suit, pulling back gently—too gently. The horses only answered with a shudder, their hooves clattering faster on the hard-packed dirt as they pressed onward.

“Whoa—” Asher stammered, panic threading into his voice. He yanked harder, feeling the reins slip through his fingers, the cart veering left so sharply that his ribs and the bench met with a jarring bump. Dust puffed up around the wheels.

Viktor’s jaw clenched slowly, each breath measured as he fought to rein in his frustration. A low growl rumbled in his chest, but the next words were swallowed by a deliberate exhale. 

He lifted the reins from Asher’s slack hands, muscles coiling beneath his coat as he hauled them back with a firm, fluid motion.

The horses snorted and finally ground to a halt, hooves skidding on the compacted earth. The sudden stop sent a tremor through the carriage, and Asher’s knuckles whitened as he gripped the bench to steady himself.

Viktor stood, boots thudding against the wood floor of the bench, harness in hand. His shoulders were taut; the crease of his brow deepened. He spared Asher a look that hovered on the edge of admonishment and—uncharacteristically—something almost like concern.

“Don’t treat the reins like you’re thrashing a dead snake,” Viktor said, his voice low, each word clipped but not unkind. He ran a hand through his hair, the only sign of his temper’s close call. “Guide her. Feel her. And next time, just say you’re stalling.”

Asher exhaled in relief—and embarrassment—his cheeks burning. “Right. Got it. Thanks.”

He let out a short sigh—not angry, just winded, like the sudden surge of effort had tugged more out of him than expected.

Viktor rolled his shoulders and gave the reins a final tug to tie them off. Then, with all the gravity of a man declaring a religious observance, he hopped off the carriage bench and stretched with a low grunt, arms reaching to the sky.

Asher waited for the inevitable instructions.

They didn’t come.

Instead, Viktor ambled over to a nearby stump, retrieved a dented tin flask from inside his coat, and plopped down with a satisfied sigh.

“What about the crates?” Asher asked, motioning toward the back.

Viktor unscrewed the flask cap with a lazy twist. “You crash it, you cart it.”

“That’s not—” Asher stopped himself. 

He exhaled through his nose and grabbed the first crate anyway. 

“Right. Earn my keep. Got it.”

The wood was slick with remnant condensation and awkward in his arms, but manageable. Could’ve been easier with the stick, he thought bitterly. He hadn’t brought it. 

Still, the past weeks under Samantha’s guidance had forged something hardier in him. The weight still pressed, but it didn’t fold him. His breath stayed even. His balance held.

He hauled the first crate to the folding table they’d brought, then returned for the next. Then the next. Sweat began to gather at his collar, and his hands throbbed from the strain, but he moved without pause.

Inside the crates, the colors of early spring spilled out: Fresh asparagus, purplish-blue yupnik, bright carrots, and rosy spring radishes filled the crates. Strawberries added a sweet scent, while an empty hay-lined basket sat under a sign: “Eggs – Limited Supply,” with “sold out” scratched out above.

The customers started trickling in not long after the table was set.

At first, it was just a few locals—an older man with a string of kopeks tied to his belt, a hunched woman with a woven sack. But soon, more arrived. Young men in soot-covered work shirts. Miners with stone dust on their boots. Even a few off-duty town guards and a cloaked woman who looked like she belonged in a bank, not a market.

Asher found himself packing berries into paper folds, tying bunches of yupnik with twine, and trading produce for a small fortune in coin.

A wiry old man wandered up with a wicker cane and asked for a single carrot, which he paid for with everything on his person: two kopeks and a carved button. Viktor accepted it without comment, and Asher just shook his head in pity.

And the coin…

Asher blinked, the carrot in his hand forgotten as his eyes swept over the contents of the lockbox. It was nearly full—full—with the gleam of coin metal layered in a patchwork of copper, silver, and gold.

First were the kopeks, dozens of them clinking softly with each jostle of the box. 

They were simple, thin disks of dull copper with a hole punched clean through the center—no markings, no stamps. 

They were meant to be strung onto cords and hung at belts or tied to wrists, more convenient than they were secure. Asher had once seen an old man wearing so many they jingled with every step like a walking wind chime.

Humble, forgettable. Useful only in bulk.

Then came the feysilver. The coins shimmered with a pale luster, catching the morning light like shards of frost. Each one bore the image of a giant, arms crossed over a chest as broad as a barn, with mountain peaks tangled in its crown and a beard of rivers carved around the edge.

It was a striking figure, but there was a roughness to it—a slight crudity in the craftsmanship. The engraving was bold, yes, but softened at the edges by years of trade, thumbed smooth by thousands of hands. 

And then—the gold hoorn.

It didn’t just sit in the lockbox—it commanded it. Rich and heavy, its surface caught the light with a buttery gleam, polished by nothing but time and value. The engraving was perfect. Shockingly so. 

Asher leaned in, stunned by the precision—the way each curl of hair in the beard had been struck with near-painstaking detail, the folds of cloth on the collar so fine they looked soft.

The face at the center was noble, proud, deliberate—but not quite natural. There was something off in the symmetry. The cheekbones were too smooth, the chin slightly pointed, the lips subtly fuller than expected. The eyes, while stern, held a nigh feminine tilt. 

And yet, a thick, sharp beard jutted from the jaw like a statement, heavy and coarse in contrast, as though someone had tried to hammer masculinity onto a form that hadn’t begun that way.

Asher tilted his head, squinting. It was Einhorn the Founder, no doubt—the first ruler of the royal line, the name that the hoorn itself drew from. 

Yet the coin didn’t look like a man remembered. 

It looked like a portrait rewritten.

A sharp thwap cracked against the back of Asher’s head, not hard enough to hurt—but jarring enough to knock him out of his reverie.

He jolted, nearly sending the lockbox tumbling off the table. “Ow! Hey—!”

“Eyes on the stand, not the shine,” Viktor muttered, flask in one hand and a half-eaten radish in the other. “You gonna kiss it next, or sell something today?”

Asher rubbed the back of his head, muttering, “Could’ve just said something.”

“I did,” Viktor said, already turning away. “That was me being polite.”

The older man ambled back to his position as cashier, leaving Asher to fumble a bundle of yupnik’s into an old woman’s waiting arms, still blinking away the afterimage of the coin’s strange face. He dropped the hoorn back into the lockbox and slammed it shut, cheeks warm with embarrassment.

***

The sun crawled well past its zenith, casting short shadows across the stall. Heat settled into the earth like a lazy hand, and the earlier chill of morning had long since evaporated. By now, Asher’s shirt clung to his back, and the scent of soil, strawberries, and sweat clung stubbornly to the air.

The crowd had thinned.

Gone were the waves of bustling locals. No more miners jostling for bunches of radish, no more barked orders for asparagus or complaints about the quickly out of stock eggs. 

Asher leaned against the back of the cart, flexing sore fingers. His arms ached with a low, persistent thrum—he hadn’t noticed how heavy produce could get when it came in bulk. Each knuckle felt bruised, and his thighs burned from all the crouching.

Viktor, meanwhile, had spent the last half-hour carving shapes into the side of a stump with his belt knife. The pile of radish ends near his boots suggested he hadn’t entirely wasted the time.

“Looks like the rush is done,” Asher said, trying to keep the fatigue from his voice.

Viktor didn’t glance up. “It’s the lull. Next wave’s the old folks and late drunks. Less coin, more bartering. One tried to pay with a broken pocket watch last week.”

“Did you take it?”

Viktor gave a noncommittal shrug. “Still ticks.”

***

Asher let himself slide down the side of the cart until he was sitting in the dirt, legs splayed out in front of him and back against a wheel.

His whole body sighed. He plucked a bruised strawberry from a shallow basket beside him and popped it into his mouth, not bothering to wipe the dirt from his fingers. The sweetness hit like a reward earned, the tartness a reminder that not all things came ripe.

The sun had passed even farther, obfuscated by a rogue cloud, the edges of the sky remaining soft and golden. Dust motes danced lazily in the escaping rays of light as the wind stirred the market’s strewn about patches of grass.

His jaw tightened around the last bite of strawberry, an odd weight settling in his chest. A prickling sense of unease crept up his spine—like a name half-remembered, or a task left undone.

He tried to analyze it, to pin it down, but the feeling only deepened. Then he saw her…

Samantha stepped into view beyond the thinning crowd, her coat catching the wind like a banner.

Chapter Text

She walked with purpose, not haste—like she knew the path by heart. Her expression was unreadable from a distance, but the set of her shoulders said enough: she wasn’t here to shop.

Asher scrambled into the cart and ducked behind the carriage’s counter—a half-hearted attempt at hiding. He wiped his hands on his trousers, as if that could scrub away the sweat, the dust, or the weight in his chest.

When she reached the edge of the stall, she didn’t speak. Just looked at him—deep, steady—like she could see everything he wanted to hide.

“Where’ve you been?” she asked finally, her voice dry as the wind.

Asher took a moment to gather his thoughts—then realized the mysterious weight in his chest, which should’ve been obvious all along.

“I forgot the bloody training!” he blurted, springing upright.

In a flash, she yanked him forward by the collar of his borrowed work clothes, the fabric tearing slightly in her grasp. His torso pitched halfway out of the cart, and her arm locked around his neck in a chokehold.

A moment later, pain bloomed across his scalp—a brutal noogie, administered with zero restraint.

“Both you and Otto vanish, and I have to piece together the mess through Kaspar’s rambling! You ungrateful bastard! Do you stand by anything you’ve said?” she spat, rapid-fire, her scowl fixed like it was carved in stone.

“I—”

“Well, I couldn’t care less what you have to say right now, you ingrate! You absolute—huh?”

She froze mid-rant, still clinging to him, her eyes narrowing like something had just clicked.

Her gaze dropped to Asher’s hands pulling at her arm—calloused, dirt-caked, the creases of his knuckles darkened by hours of toil.

She blinked. Once. Then turned her head slightly—just enough to spot Viktor behind the counter, about to bite into a raw carrot.

He looked down at them with dry amusement and mild bewilderment, the carrot paused halfway to his mouth.

The absurdity of the scene hit her all at once, tinged with embarrassment.

With a scoff, she released the chokehold. Asher dropped unceremoniously onto the packed earth, landing with a thud and a muttered curse.

“Temporary,” she muttered, brushing imaginary dust off her coat. “This is temporary. A supplement. A warm-up before Otto’s back and you crawl to the church for real training.”

She slapped five kopeks onto the counter, plucked the carrot from Viktor’s hand, and snatched an onion from the nearest basket—a fresh one, roots still dangling.

Then, as if nothing had happened, she turned and walked into the crowd, biting the carrot like it owed her.

As if following along Viktor crunched into a different carrot, still watching the crowd where she vanished. “Feisty. I like that in a woman.”

Asher groaned from the ground, still rubbing his scalp. “Ew.”

Viktor raised an eyebrow. “She’s like thirty. I’m thirty-two. You just think anyone over twenty is decomposing.”

Asher squinted at him. “She’s at least in her seventies. And you’re not far behind, aren’t you?”

Viktor grinned. “After a certain age, birthdays blur. The past is a story, the future’s a guess—but the present’s the only one that demands your attention.”

Asher stared at him, expression somewhere between confusion and mild horror. “That was either wise or deeply unsettling.”

“Why not both?” Viktor said, then paused. 

Viktor’s smile faded. “Truth is… I’m not exactly in the market. My dear Lena’s still here.” He tapped his chest lightly. “Even if she’s not.”

Viktor let the quiet settle for a beat, then stretched his back with a grunt.

“Alright. Go buy something. Wander. Enjoy the crowd. We’re pulling out in half an hour.”

He reached into his coat, pulled out a few feysilver coins, and tossed them toward Asher. 

They hit his chest and clinked into his lap.

Asher blinked down at them, wide-eyed. “You’re actually giving me money?”

Viktor gave a lopsided grin. “Think of it as a small investment. You’ve been gawking at my till like it’s going to sprout wings and fly. Figured I’d spare you the heartache—and maybe earn myself a little peace in the meantime.”

Asher narrowed his eyes, then picked up the coins. “Is this a bribe?”

“It’s a kindness,” Viktor said, already turning back to his seat to continue carving. “But you can call it whatever helps you sleep.”

***

What do I even do with this?

Asher stared at the coins in his palm like they might vanish if he blinked.

  Buy food? But I’m not at the church—I’m not cooking for anyone.

He turned the feysilver over between his fingers, its weight unfamiliar. The butcher’s stall popped into his mind, out of habit more than anything else.

Stew meat… Maybe sausage. Dried liver if it’s cheap?

Then he frowned. 

Oh right. Not cooking right now.

He stood slowly, brushing dirt from his trousers. The familiar ache in his legs reminded him just how long he’d been on his feet, and how unfamiliar all of this was now.

So what do I want?

The thought hit him like a pebble skipping across still water—light, but enough to stir the surface.

His eyes swept across the crowd. Vendors hawking their wares with rhythmic cries, bright fabrics fluttered in the breeze, and the remnant scents of smoked fish, spice, and horses mingled in the air.

Maybe a trinket , Asher thought, gaze drifting to a stand lined with little glass charms—birds, knives, beetles, saints. Something small. Something to mark the day.

He took a hesitant step toward it, then slowed. 

But what kind of trinket? What would I even want?

A beetle seemed childish. A sculpted bear head…

Fuck no!

He considered a charm shaped like a fish, immediately felt stupid, and turned away before the vendor could catch his eye.

He imagined himself holding any of them and cringed.

I really don’t have any preferences, do I?

The thought was too quiet to be self-pitying, but it landed heavy anyway.

He pivoted without aim, wandering past a stall selling dried herbs, another lined with colorful spools of thread.

Maybe I could get something for Kaspar , he thought, trying to make the idea sound generous rather than desperate.

The man had saved his life once or twice—or at least delayed its loss—and while Asher didn’t pretend to understand Kaspar’s logic, he couldn’t shake the sense that the gifted lunatic deserved something.

But what would he even want?

He imagined handing him a bundle of sweets or a clean scarf and being met with a furrowed brow and cryptic muttering about “the wrong flavors of red.”

Asher frowned. Thought harder.

A book?

Unless it was an instruction manual, Kaspar didn’t read.

A tool?

He sure as hell didn’t need any more.

A new pair of goggles?

He already had three strewn about the church, and probably didn’t remember owning any of them.

After a full circuit around a jewelry stall and a particularly aggressive display of polished stones, Asher forced out a resigned sigh.

After thinking hard and long, he couldn’t come up with anything better than scraps from Kaspar’s homeless friend—the wiry one with the limp and the collection of vaguely cursed baubles stuffed into the lining of his coat.

So Asher turned off the main path and ducked into the alley behind the potter’s row, where the air smelled like clay, cats, and stale beer.

The man was usually there by midmorning, setting up a makeshift blanket of odds and ends: buttons, copper nails, bent spoons, coins from countries that no longer existed. A kingdom in ruins had nothing on his pockets.

Asher stepped lightly, boots skimming the uneven stones. He wasn’t sure what he was hoping to find—but with any luck, something weird, cheap, and vaguely meaningful would reveal itself.

The man’s coat looked like it hadn’t been washed since the last epoch, and his eyes darted like he was listening to music no one else could hear.

Asher crouched, glancing over the collection. A rusted badge, a cracked monocle, a feather that might’ve once been blue.

“Just something small,” he said. “For a friend.”

The man nodded, offered a crooked smile, and gestured broadly.

Asher pointed at a pile of gears of varying quality. The man asked for three feysilver. 

Asher gave him one. 

The man shrugged. 

“Deal.“

Following the swift exchange Asher turned to leave.

The man’s hand clamped around his wrist like a trap, fingers cold, dirty, and stronger than they looked.

“Bring Kaspar tomorrow,” he said, low and firm. The twitchy mirth was gone from his voice. “Tell him I’ll be here.”

Asher blinked. “Why?”

The man’s eyes sharpened. “Don’t trust Viktor.”

The words hit like a splash of cold water.

Asher pulled back. “What’re you talking about?”

But the man just shook his head, already retreating into the folds of his coat like a turtle pulling into its shell. Muttering something nonsensical to himself.

Asher shook off the grip and stepped back, mildly creeped out. He eyed the pile of gears in his satchel, then the man, who was once again humming and sorting through a pile of broken clocks.

He muttered a curse under his breath. 

Friend of a friend.

That counted for something, didn’t it?

Chapter Text

Asher stumbled forward, the remnants of the surreal encounter still clinging to his thoughts like cobwebs. The alley behind him reeked of damp stone and things best left unspoken. 

But ahead—light. Real light. He squinted as he emerged, blinking rapidly as the harsh glow of daylight spilled over his face. 

It was almost blinding after the dim murk of the alley, but he welcomed the sting in his eyes. It meant normalcy. It meant life went on.

Finally, back to sanity.

Then a scream split the moment.

His head snapped up just in time to see a blur of motion—a man darting through the crowd, clutching a leather purse. A woman stood frozen behind him, hand outstretched, her mouth still parted in shock.

A thief.

Asher’s breath caught. A flicker of memory surfaced—the old woman on the roadside, weeping quietly, robbed and left to wilt in the dust. 

She had cried for help, but no one had come. He hadn’t. He’d been too incapacitated by these powers. Too... useless.

Not this time.

His feet moved before the thought was finished. Boots slapped against cobblestones as he surged after the thief, weaving through startled pedestrians.

As the gap shrank, two things became clear: the effects of Samantha’s training, and the thief’s short stature.

The hooded figure noticed, too. In a panic, they began hurling anything they could grab—crates, produce, debris—anything to slow him down.

Asher ducked beneath a jutting log in a pile, one hand grazing the cobblestone to steady himself.

He didn’t stop. His focus sharpened to a point. He didn’t need to see the thief’s face—he could feel their rhythm, the twitch before a dodge, the tension before a trick.

The thief clawed at another crate and hurled it behind him.

Asher vaulted it, boots skimming the rim.

A vendor shouted something about cabbages, but it faded behind the chase.

He was gaining again. Every move felt precise. A sidestep before a bystander blocked the path, a leap just before a stool toppled—it was as if he already knew. 

As if he could see the path three steps ahead.

Samantha’s voice echoed in his mind: “Trust your instincts as a Monster. They’ll seem to move before they do.”

I can feel it.

One more lunge. He was almost there.

Then—

The thief twisted, not fleeing—striking. A desperate elbow, fast and low.

Asher felt it coming—but not fast enough.

Crack.

Pain flared white-hot across his forehead. The world reeled. He staggered, catching himself against a market stall. Voices blurred. His breath came shallow and ragged.

He blinked, trying to steady the spinning world.

The thief was already disappearing around the corner.

Getting away.

Asher wiped blood from his brow, jaw clenched, a dull weight of failure pressing against his heaving chest.

Asher cursed under his breath, the pounding in his skull matched only by the frustration in his chest. 

The thief is gone. 

I lost them.

Again…

But then—movement.

Just ahead, the thief veered past a familiar cart stacked with early spring produce.

Asher blinked in stunned silence. 

No way.

In one graceful motion, the old farmer vaulted from behind the stall. 

With the grace of a dancer he twirled, and for a second, he seemed to float in the air. Then— 

Viktor’s body and fist dropped. 

The thief crumpled. 

Silence.

…

Asher staggered forward, still dazed, his breath coming in ragged gasps. 

Blood trickled down his temple, but he hardly noticed. All eyes were fixed on the folded thief—dragged across the street by Viktor’s blow—and the man standing over him as if nothing had happened.

Viktor glanced down, grunted, then turned toward Asher and held out the dust coated purse.

“Here.”

Asher took it with a grateful nod, still trying to wrap his head around what he’d just seen. 

He made his way to the woman, who stood trembling a few paces back, tears welling in her eyes.

“This is yours I believe,” Asher said gently, pressing the purse into her shaking hands.

She managed a soft, “Thank you,” before pulling it close to her chest.

When Asher returned to the scene, the thief still lay sprawled, unconscious from Viktor’s fearsome, oddly elegant strike. 

A law officer in uniform, a bundle of yupniks tucked under one arm, stepped forward from the surrounding crowd. 

He looked down at the boy and let out a heavy sigh.

“Alexei,” he muttered, shaking his head as he bound the thief’s wrists with practiced ease. “This is your last straw.”

He glanced up at Viktor. “Appreciate the help, Mr Manchester. Been chasing this one for weeks.”

Viktor gave a small shrug, brushing dust off his vest. “Was just guarding my livelihood.”

The officer chuckled, then hoisted the unconscious boy with some effort and turned to leave, nodding to Asher as he passed.

Viktor watched him go, then gazed down at his small pocket watch with his wife’s portrait on the roof.

“Well,” he said, stretching his arms with a crack of the shoulders, “that’s as good-a-time to leave as any.”

***

The cart creaked beneath them as it rolled onto the dirt road. The scent of pine and damp earth hung in the late afternoon air, birdsong faint in the trees above. 

Asher winced, pressing a cloth to his brow where dried blood still crusted at the temple.

Viktor gave a gentle click of the tongue as he yanked the reins away from Asher.

“You sit in the back,” he said without looking. “Your head’s seen enough rattling for one day.”

“I can handle it,” Asher murmured, trying not to let the pain show.

Viktor glanced over his shoulder, his expression unreadable beneath the brim of his cap. “Sure you can. That’s why you’re bleeding on my spare blanket.” He gave a short laugh, but his voice held no cruelty. “Go on. Lie down. You’re not proving anything by trying to play statue.”

Reluctantly, Asher climbed into the rear of the cart, settling among sacks of produce and the faint jingle of tools. The ride was uneven, every jolt of the wheel sending a pulse through his skull.

“People’ll thank you for what you did,” Viktor called back. “Well. Maybe not with words. But you’ll see it. How they look at you next time. Little things.”

Asher closed his eyes for a moment. “I didn’t stop him. You did.”

Viktor shrugged, not missing a beat with the reins. “Didn’t say you finished the job. Said you tried. That’s more than anyone else.”

A quiet moment passed, filled only by the steady clop of hooves.

“You ever freeze before?” Viktor asked, voice casual. “When it counted?”

Asher hesitated. “Yeah. A few times.”

“Mm.” Viktor nodded slowly, eyes on the road. “You remember ‘em. Can’t help it. They stick. But let me tell you something…”

He leaned back slightly, one arm draped over the seat behind him.

“You freeze once, and the world calls you weak. You freeze twice, and you call yourself weak. But freeze three times? That’s when you either break—or learn.”

Asher opened his eyes. “Learn what?”

“How to move anyway.” Viktor smiled without showing teeth. “Even when it hurts. Especially then.”

He stared up at the heavens and asked, voice low, almost afraid of the answer, 

“It's rare that I actually move like that, so… what if I never stop freezing?”

Viktor didn’t respond right away. The cart creaked along the path, wheels crunching over dirt. 

A sigh coming from the front filled the silence.

“You won’t.”

Chapter Text

The ringing hadn’t stopped. 

He woke to the throb in his skull and the echo of Viktor’s words—both dull, both lodged much too deep.

You won’t.

But part of him still wasn’t sure.

The guest bed creaked beneath him as he sat up, blinking against the golden slant of morning light pouring through the window. 

The air was still, but a faint smell of extinguished candles drifted through the floorboards—wax and smoke, lingering where no flame should’ve been.

Across the room, nestled in a nest of half-assembled tools and coiled copper wires, Kaspar snored softly—mouth open, one hand clutching one of the gifted gears like a child with a teddy bear.

Peaceful. Chaotic. Typical.

“Up and at it, tinkerbell!” Cynthia’s voice blasted through the room like a war horn as she slammed the door open.

 Kaspar yelped and flailed upright, bolts and springs scattering like startled birds. 

Half asleep he began to mumble.

“No—Fred, wait! Don’t leave, no turn—Carla, don’t—”

He bolted upright with a strangled gasp, gears and small pipes tumbling from his blanket pile. His right hand jerked unnaturally—metal fingers locking and spasming until the joints clicked back into place.

He stared at it, breathing hard.

“Still here,” he whispered, patting the mechanical hand like a cat. “Still me. Still here. Mine. Not gone…”

Cynthia stood in the doorway, hands on hips, annoyance plain as she glared at the waking Kaspar. “Glad to see you’re awake. We’ve got crates to haul, and you’ve got arms. Do the math.”

Kaspar staggered toward her, still half-asleep, tools clinking in his pockets.

“I am—yes! Awake. Fully. Gone! I mean—no. Here. To go… Ha!”

She rolled her eyes and turned. “You too,” she called over her shoulder at Asher. “When you’re done bleeding on the sheets, come help around the farm. My papa’s especially irritating when people are late.”

The door slammed shut behind them.

Asher lay back, staring at the ceiling. 

The ringing continued. 

Something had shifted. The air, the light—something.

***

Asher found Viktor in the western fields, carefully checking the rows of early crops. The morning mist still lingered in the air, thick and damp, curling around the tall stalks of growing vegetables.

The sun, pale and soft, cut through the fog in golden beams, highlighting the dew on the plants and casting a gentle glow that blurred the world around them.

The mist wrapped everything in an almost ethereal quiet, muffling the usual sounds of morning, leaving just the rhythmic, steady movements of Viktor's hands in the soil.

"You're late," Viktor said without looking up, his calloused fingers gently pressing the soil around a young plant.

"Sorry," Asher mumbled, touching the fresh bandage at his temple. The wound had reopened during the night, staining the pillow with a rust-colored smear. "I had to—"

"Stop apologizing for things that don't matter," Viktor interrupted, finally turning to face him. 

His expression softened slightly when he saw the bandage. "Hm. That looks worse than yesterday."

Asher shrugged. "It's fine."

Viktor studied him for a moment, then nodded toward a stack of wooden crates. "Would you mind assisting in setting up some tents around here?"

Asher blinked in confusion. "Tents? What do you need tents for?"

Viktor's expression shifted almost imperceptibly. For a moment, he seemed to weigh his words carefully before responding.

"Mikhail's bringing his workforce over," he said, his tone neutral but guarded. "Spring contract. They'll need somewhere to sleep."

"Mikhail? From Kyrmsk Timber?" Asher's brow furrowed as the memory of their previous conversation surfaced. "You mean... his forced laborers?"

Viktor's jaw tightened at the mention of Mikhail’s workforce, but his expression remained stoic. "It's a contract I'm not at liberty to discuss details of. Been in place for years now."

Asher struggled to keep his expression neutral. The memory of Mikhail’s casual description of his "workforce" – enslaved war criminals, barbarians who refused to join the Feysac Empire, people from Balem – still made his stomach churn.

"I... see," he managed, the words feeling hollow in his mouth.

Noticing the change in Asher's tone, Viktor let out a sigh, straightening up and dusting the soil from his hands. He hesitated for a moment, then muttered, "Look, I know—"

He stopped himself, shaking his head with a weary frown. "You know what, forget it. Don't worry about it, just help with the damn tents. That's all I'm asking."

Asher wanted to press further, to voice the questions gnawing at him, but the subtle droop of Viktor's shoulders told him this wasn’t the time. Viktor was holding something back—something deeper than the matter at hand.

"Alright," Asher said finally, forcing the words out, "Where do you want them?"

Viktor pointed to the far edge of the property. "That clearing by the western boundary. Should be enough space for all of them there."

Asher slung the canvas over his shoulder, head pounding with every step. The cool morning air did little to cut through the fog behind his eyes. 

By the time he reached the western clearing, the ache had settled into a steady throb.

He dropped the bundle with a grunt and stood still, rubbing his temple. The field was quiet—just grass, mist, and a pair of crows calling somewhere beyond the trees. 

Mikhail’s “workforce”…

The words scraped against his thoughts remembering what Viktor said. 

Asher knelt, unrolling the canvas with stiff fingers. 

Each stake he drove into the earth sent a fresh pulse through his skull. 

Fold. 

Spike. 

Tighten. 

Amidst the labor his headache seemed to worsen, the pressure behind his eyes peaking. 

Within, Viktor’s voice returned.

You won’t.

It was as if he was enchanted by the phrase, or perhaps haunted by it?

As he tried to pin down the thought needling at the back of his mind, he drove the last spike into the earth and muttered, “One down.”

Only a dozen more to go.

***

Viktor’s next drudgery would be feeding the live-stock.

The closest pen sat on the south-western edge of the farm, next to the stables, a grim little patch cordoned off with rusted wire and hastily nailed boards.

The chickens inside didn’t cluck—they wheezed, croaked, and occasionally screamed.

Victims of Chickpea’s disease, the plague killing off Feysac’s poultry.

Asher covered his mouth and nose with his sleeve. The stench hit like a slap: rot, ammonia, and something sour beneath it all, like spoiled milk or opened viscera.

One of the hens, cursed with a chipped beak, lurched against the side of the coop and retched up a streak of yellow bile flecked with red. 

“Shouldn’t she be separated from the rest?”

“She is,” Viktor said evenly. “The others caught it before I realized. Can’t cull them all at once—we’d lose the eggs.”

Asher glanced toward the rest of the coop, watching the birds twitch and heave. 

The death felt slow. Cruel.

“And that one?”

"She might last the week—if we're lucky. The only silver lining is that it doesn't pass to people." He paused for a moment.

“Half the reason I’ve been making such massive meals is because of the surge in dead chickens. The market won’t take them—too many complications. And honestly, who’d want to eat poor Daisy over there, given how… visceral this disease is?"

He didn’t answer the comment.

Viktor gave him a curt nod and started down the narrow dirt path that ran between the stables and the tool shed. 

Asher silently followed, his boots crunching on loose stones, the reek of the pen lingering in his nose.

The two moved on in silence, leaving behind the gagging chorus.

Viktor took him through the lower pens where goats nibbled at worn fence posts and pigs rolled lazily in troughs of feed and mud.

They stopped briefly at the cows, who acted dog-like in their friendliness.

Viktor didn’t linger. His stride was brisk, practiced. Purposeful.

Then they passed the sheep.

Asher barely registered them at first. Just a long, narrow paddock beyond a weathered gate, grass cropped to the dirt. He heard the faint shuffle of hooves, the occasional dull bleat. Nothing strange.

But then he noticed how the sheep were standing—almost too still, but for the slow shifting of their heads as they watched him. They weren't grazing. They weren't moving like animals should. They just... stared.

A shiver crawled up Asher’s spine. The sense of something being wrong stirred beneath his ribs, but he pushed it aside, trying to ignore the growing pressure at his temples.

The more he thought about it, the worse the ache in his head seemed to grow. A pulse, a throb, right between his eyes. 

He clenched his jaw and rubbed his brow, willing it to go away.

The sheep shifted again, their deep eyes boring holes into him.

His gaze flickered to one in particular, standing near the gate. It was staring intently, a bit too... expectantly?

Asher blinked.

He stared at the sheep, trying to make sense of it, but the headache was pounding now, and the more he tried to focus, the more it seemed to worsen. 

The moment he stopped caring, the pain began to vanish—as if his mind was punishing him for noticing too much.

By the time the pain subsided, he was already moving away, no longer caring about the sheep. 

Viktor’s voice broke through the fog in his mind as they continued down the path.
“Let’s move on,” Viktor said curtly.

Asher nodded absently, feeling the weight of the headache lift as he forced his thoughts away from any notions of oddness.

It’s interesting that a sheep would have a golden tooth.

A piece of him noticed an oddity in the observation.

A deeper part buried it before he could think to question why.

“Am I forgetting something?”

Chapter Text

The scent rose again—soft, cloying, not quite right. 

Asher lay still, eyes half-open in the dark, listening to the faint creaks below the floorboards. 

Candle wax. Lilac? 

Across the room, a soft metallic clink broke the quiet.

Kaspar hunched over a mess of brass and glass, tongue sticking out in focus. His left eye under goggles twitched as he muttered to himself.

“Do you also smell that?” Asher asked.

Kaspar didn’t look up. “Smell what? Soot. Mostly. Maybe. Is it… smoke? I like smoke. Sometimes.”

“No. Candles. Same as this morning. There’s no reason to have them with gas lamps all around the place.”

Kaspar paused, turned toward Asher like he was trying to line up his thoughts before they got away.

“Viktor maybe.” He tapped his temple. “He say things. Downstairs. Spirit-y ones.”

Asher frowned. “You’re saying Viktor is lighting secret candles at night?”

“No! Yes—maybe? Not about wax. Not candle-things. Just… bad. My friend said.”

“You trust that guy?”

“He fine,” Kaspar mumbled. “Good friend. Anyway. He say—Viktor, too clean. Too shiny. Gun wrong. Laugh wronger. Face like... like soup. Stirred.”

Asher blinked. “...His face is like soup ?”

Kaspar nodded earnestly. “Smiles don’t stay put. Like they slide.”

There was a silence between them. Asher rubbed his hands over his eyes, chuckling softly despite himself.

“You know,” he said, “I’m never sure if I’m supposed to be worried or just entertained when you talk.”

“Both!” Kaspar chirped. “It safe that way.”

Asher flopped back onto his cot. The lilac-smoke scent still lingered—thicker now, maybe. Or maybe he was just tired. 

He muttered, “He hasn’t done anything to us. Just leave it.”

Kaspar whispered something to himself, barely audible, then leaned over his contraption again.

“You sleep,” he said. “I listen. Always hear what real. Or not real. Still count.”

The lamp in the corner flickered once, then died.

***

The lilac-smoke scent lingered in Asher’s thoughts, clinging to his mind like an itch beneath his skin. 

Sleep had slipped away from him, and by the time the first light crept through the cracks in the window, he had long since abandoned the attempt to rest.

He rose slowly, rubbing his face with both hands, the ache in his body a constant reminder that stillness never suited him. 

But it was more than just the physical discomfort—there was an undercurrent of restlessness, a kind of energy buzzing beneath his skin. Viktor wouldn’t be up for another hour, and it wasn’t like Asher had anything better to do.

With a quiet sigh, he grabbed a jacket and slipped into the hall, careful not to disturb anyone. The house was still and silent, the only sound, his boots softly thumping against the floorboards as he moved through it.

By the time he reached the stables, the air still held the bite of early spring chill. He pulled at the rusted lock, his fingers numb from the cold metal.

He fumbled with the dial, murmuring the first numbers under his breath, trying to bring them to mind.

“Eight... two... no. Wait. Uh—three? Yes.”

He paused, his brow furrowing as he struggled to recall the rest of the combination. He’d seen it only once before, and it wasn’t exactly something he had committed to memory. 

His pulse thrummed in his temples as he turned the dial again, hoping for some answer.

The first three digits clicked into place, but the last two... those eluded him. A quiet frustration gnawed at him as he exhaled, trying to shake the uncertainty in his mind.

His fingers moved almost instinctively now. “Six... four?”

The final click echoed in the still morning air, the sound hollow in the cold. The door creaked open, and Asher stepped inside.

“I fucking love being a Monster!”

The temperature dropped sharply as soon as he crossed the threshold, the cold biting at his skin like a warning. The scent of damp stone and preserved goods mixed with the crisp chill, thick and heavy in the space.

Crates stacked high, their edges frosted with ice. The air was laced with the scent of earth and cold, but it was the freezing temperature that clung to the atmosphere.

He grabbed the first crate he could reach, lifting it with relative ease.

The repetition of the task dulled his thoughts, his movements automatic—down, lift, carry on. 

The rhythmic nature of it was almost calming, until his eyes caught something unusual.

A rare batch of eggs tucked away behind a larger stack of crates.

Curious, he approached, lifting the crate gently to add to the cart. But the moment his gaze fell behind it, his heart stopped cold.

A body?

At first glance, it resembled a woman—but only in the vaguest, cruelest sense. 

The limbs were jointed wrong, too long in some places and shriveled in others, skin stretched tight over patches of woolen fleece that clung like a fungus. 

One arm was twisted into a bestial crook, hoofed at the end. Her face—or what was left of it—wore a broken expression, as if mid-scream, the jaw slack and hanging crookedly.

Her human eye was open, bloodshot and glassy, but from the other socket protruded a bulbous ovine orb, unblinking and cloudy.

The merging was seamless in places, as if some unholy artisan had sculpted her from spare parts, but in others it was violently wrong: torn seams, misaligned bones, skin sloppily stitched or melted together. 

The smell hit him next—sweet rot and raw meat, tinged with something sharp and sour, like bile and old copper.

Asher’s stomach lurched violently. He barely stopped himself from retching.

But more than anything, what rooted him in place was the bullet wound at her throat. 

A clean hole, rimmed in black, the surrounding flesh blistered from the shot. Blood had congealed below in a wide, glossy pool that reflected the flickering oil-lamp light like a black mirror.

He froze. His pulse roared in his ears, his breath caught in his chest. His eyes flicked back to the body, then to the door, as though he might somehow still escape this moment. 

But there was something else about her—something familiar.

A flicker of recognition, just out of reach.

Then, like a weight lifting from his chest, the chain in his mind snapped—and the fog cleared. 

Clarity rushed in, sharp and cold.

The unsettling feeling that had hung over every moment, 

The strange flock, one with a golden tooth,

Viktor’s rapidly shifting behavior. 

And now this.

A corpse.

Asher slowly set the crate down, his movements steady despite the churning inside him. The cold no longer seemed to matter—his thoughts were colder than the air around him.

The lilac scent still hung in the back of his mind, a faint thread tying him to something he couldn’t fully grasp.

I might not have all the information...

A flicker of doubt. Maybe this is all just a big misunderstanding?

His thoughts wavered, but he couldn’t shake the questions. I came here to look into rumors about weird sheep, didn’t I? Why did I forget that?

Despite the unease clawing at him, it wasn’t enough to make him act. Not yet.

For now, all he could do was return to the task at hand. The routine. The crates. One step at a time.

***

He didn’t remember what he said to Viktor when he came back up. 

Maybe something about the crates. 

Maybe nothing at all. 

Nonetheless, the rest of the day passed in a blur of routine.

Viktor and Asher made their way to the market just before noon, the usual chatter and clatter of vendors and customers filling the air. 

It should’ve felt familiar. Comforting, even. 

But today, everything seemed just a little too loud.

Asher moved on autopilot—sorting crates, adjusting their placement for the best display. But the weight of the morning’s discovery pressed behind his eyes, impossible to fully ignore.

“Got any eggs today?” a customer asked sharply, peering over the edge of the stall.

“Not today,” Asher said, voice flat. “The hens didn’t lay.”

The man grunted. “What kind of farmer doesn’t have eggs? Ridiculous.”

Viktor stood beside him, arms folded. He gave the man a tight smile, but his tone when he spoke was clipped—almost dismissive. “You want to ask the hens next time? Be my guest.”

The customer frowned, muttered something, and moved on. 

Asher glanced sideways. That wasn’t like Viktor. Or maybe it was, and Asher had just never noticed the edge in his voice before—rough, impatient. Crass, even. Like he didn’t care enough to smooth it out.

Asher caught a glimpse of the coins clinking together as Viktor made a sale. The sound was oddly satisfying, a small comfort in the day’s rhythm. But it faded quickly. Viktor didn’t count the change aloud, just shoved it into the till with a careless hand and a muttered curse under his breath when a coin slipped.

Not dishonest. Just… sloppy. Sloppier than Asher remembered.

He blinked and shook the thought away.

Still, the unease lingered. Customers came and went. Some asked about produce, others about eggs—the lack of which earned grumbles and frowns. 

Asher handed over bags of vegetables, received coins in return, but all the while, his thoughts kept drifting.

Back to the cellar.

Back to the body.

Back to the growing silence between him and Viktor.

It had crept in over the past few hours—this distance. At first, Asher hadn’t noticed. He’d trusted Viktor. Admired him, even. 

Maybe too much. 

But now, with the fog of familiarity lifting, things felt different. Clearer. Sharper.

Had he always spoken that way? 

That quick, defensive bark? 

Had he always looked at people like they were a problem he was too tired to solve?

As the sun fell and long shadows stretched across the marketplace, Asher stood by the stall, watching Viktor barter a sack of carrots for a silver watch. 

The way he haggled—brusque, impatient—was nothing like the calm assurance Asher remembered.

The whole thing felt like theater. But the kind where you suddenly realize the actor forgot their lines, and everyone’s pretending not to notice.

And then, beneath the faint murmur of the crowd and the clink of coins, the words rose again, unbidden and cold:

Don’t trust Viktor.

Kaspar’s homeless friend—his voice raw and certain—echoed in Asher’s head like a bad omen.

He looked at Viktor again. His stomach twisting.

He hadn’t seen it before. Hadn’t wanted to. But the cracks were there now, sharp and widening.

Asher clenched his fists at his sides. The words lingered.

He simply didn’t trust Viktor.

Not completely.

Not anymore.

And as that truth settled in, a new plan began to take shape.

Chapter Text

Asher made his excuse without much thought—something about needing air, or a piss, or whatever Viktor would least bother to question. 

He didn’t wait for a reply. Just turned, hands in his coat pockets, and walked away from the carriage without looking back.

The market was still waking up. Vendors unpacked their wares with cold fingers and tired expressions, steam curling from tin mugs clutched close to chests. Clay jugs clinked softly as the potters set up nearby, their glazes catching the pale morning light in dull rainbows.

He slipped behind one of the stalls, into the narrow alley where brick met shadow. The scent of kiln smoke and damp wool lingered.

The man was there, same as before. Hunched near a crumbling wall, layering his oddities across a threadbare blanket like they were holy relics. 

A rusted spoon, a broken compass, a row of coins too ancient to matter. 

His coat still looked like it had survived an apocalypse.

Asher approached slowly. His boots scuffed stone.

The man didn’t look up. Just muttered something under his breath and adjusted a bent key with trembling fingers.

“Morning,” Asher said, quieter than usual.

The man didn’t respond at first. He adjusted a bent key, muttering to himself in a language that might’ve once been common sense. Then his eyes darted to the side. His body tensed.

“Too many ears,” he hissed. “Too clean this morning. Can’t trust light when it looks too polished.”

Asher hesitated. “I came to talk.”

The man tilted his head, birdlike. “Kaspar should’ve told you the circumstances.”

“Well… he didn’t,” Asher said slowly. “I mean, he tried, I think? Honestly, it didn’t make much sense. Something about soup and... wrong laughs?”

That drew the man’s attention. His eyes, watery but sharp, locked onto Asher’s like he was reassessing something fundamental.

“Soup,” the man echoed, almost offended. “ That’s what he gave you?”

Asher raised a hand. “Look, I’m here now, aren’t I? You told me not to trust Viktor. I want to know why.”

The man gave him a long look, something unreadable flitting behind his expression. Then, slowly, he began folding up the blanket beneath the trinkets, moving with deliberate care.

“Not here,” he muttered. “Eyes in stalls. Teeth behind pots. Come. Talk where the air doesn’t echo.”

He tucked a broken watch into his sleeve like it was currency and stood with a surprising fluidity.

“Walk with me,” the man repeated, already setting off at a brisk limp.

Asher followed, casting a glance back toward the market before ducking after him.

They didn’t take the road.

Instead, the man veered through a narrow drainage gap between two walls, over a fence sagging with rusted nails, then into a half-collapsed yard where laundry lines still hung with shreds of forgotten fabric.

“Where exactly are we going?” Asher asked, stepping over a toppled barrel.

“Through,” came the grunt.

“Right. That clears it up.”

The man kept moving without looking back, slipping through alleyways like water through cracked stone. They passed through a derelict warehouse, broken windows covered with boards that whispered in the breeze. Then another fence—higher this time. The man climbed like he’d done it a hundred times. Asher followed, boots catching on the top edge, landing awkwardly in someone’s abandoned herb patch.

“This better not end with me in a pit.”

Another grunt. Possibly agreement. Possibly indigestion.

By the time they reached the edge of town, Asher had long stopped asking. His coat was streaked with dust, his knees ached, and he was fairly sure they’d trespassed through at least four backyards and one private outhouse.

The man finally stopped at the base of a lichen-covered hill. Wildflowers and thistle crept up the slope like nature was trying to forget what lay above.

It wasn’t marked on any map Asher remembered. A remote graveyard—small, unkempt, and somehow... still.

Asher hesitated. “This is where you kill me?”

The man didn’t laugh. “Would’ve done it already.”

Fair point.

Asher sighed and followed him up the incline, boots crunching frostbitten grass. 

The graveyard loomed quiet, only a dozen or so stones poking up like bad teeth from the soil. Most were cracked, names eroded by rain and time.

The man led him toward a far corner, where a lone headstone leaned sideways against a skeletal tree.

He knelt beside it, running his hand over the worn surface. The letters were barely legible—scratched, faded, and swallowed by moss.

Asher squinted at the name, but the most he could make out was a V .

The man sat back on his heels and finally looked up at him.

“This is why,” he said simply.

He sat beside the crooked grave, his hands rough and still. For a moment, Asher didn’t speak—just stood, watching wind tease dry grass around a stone too old to care.

The man patted the grave once, then looked up. His eyes were clearer than before. Sad, but not broken. Steady.

“Name’s Vas Manchester. The third. Nobody calls me that anymore.”

Asher’s brow creased. He crouched slowly beside the grave, eyeing the faded name again. The letters barely clung to the surface, but now, with the hint... he could almost see it.

V. Manchester II.

“My uncle,” Vas continued, “is Viktor.”

Asher blinked.

“There were four brothers,” Vas said. “Farmers. Owned most of the land outside Kyrmsk—this was before the Kyrmsk timber company cropped up. My father, Vas, had me late. I was nine the year it happened.”

Asher didn’t interrupt. The wind carried only the soft creak of trees and the man’s voice, quiet but certain.

“One night, all the families disappeared. Mine, Uncle Jude’s, Uncle Reynard’s. Just gone. No signs of struggle. No fires. Just silence where there should’ve been life.” His eyes flicked down to the cracked stone. “This was the only thing they buried. An empty box. My father was the only one whose name they gave a grave.”

Asher asked, low, “And Viktor?

“Only one left. Only one who didn’t vanish.” Vas’s voice turned distant. “He inherited everything. All four farms. The land. The houses. The name. Got richer than any farmer deserves. Cleaned up fast. Real fast. Like he was waiting.”

The stone felt cold under Asher’s fingers. “What did the police say?”

“They gave up. Said it was a devil ritual. Marked it closed. Never came back.” Vas looked up, smile bitter. “Said the dirt was cursed. But not him . Never him.”

A silence stretched.

Asher asked, “And you?”

“I lived.” Vas’s eyes were no longer dull—they were sharp, remembering. “Because his god told him to leave one alive. That’s what he told me. Said it with a smile like glass. ‘Every legacy needs a witness,’ he said. So he let me live. Let me watch as he turned them to livestock.”

A chill ran through Asher that had nothing to do with the wind.

“Why didn’t you tell anyone?”

“I tried. Dozens of times.” Vas’s laugh was dry. “Every time—I’d speak, something stopped it. Tell a lawman? A robbery nearby. A scream in the street. Try to tell a merchant? A fly down my throat. Couldn’t even write it down—ink would spill, or my hand’d seize up. Like a joke. Like I wasn’t real.”

Asher muttered, “A curse.”

Vas nodded. “He didn’t think I’d last. Figured I’d starve, or lose my mind. And maybe I did, a little. But I’m still here. And the other day—” he exhaled sharply, a shiver in his breath, “—it broke. I was sitting in the alley, like usual, and I realized... I could talk. For the first time in decades, I could say his name . To someone who might listen.”

Asher stared at the grave. At Vas. At the ragged man who until now he’d barely believed had a name at all.

“I thought you were just paranoid. Or sick.”

“I am,” Vas said. “You’re not wrong.”

They sat in silence.

Then Asher asked the question he hadn’t realized was waiting in his mouth:

“What do you want me to do?”

They sat in silence for a while—long enough for wind to move the grass in lazy waves around them.

“I don’t know what you’re supposed to do,” Vas said eventually, voice hollow. “Truth is, I stopped wanting anything a long time ago. No justice. No retribution. No fire in the night.” He ran a hand across his face. “When you live with a thing that long, it stops burning. Just... festers.”

Asher looked over at him, but didn’t speak.

Vas leaned forward on his knees. “But if there’s proof … something real. A ritual. An altar. A trace of the devil he sold himself to…” He glanced toward Asher. “You find that, you bring it to someone who can’t be distracted by a robbery or a bug in the throat... maybe then, he doesn’t get to keep playing dress-up with normal life.”

There was no passion in his voice—just the bare weight of fact. Something bone-deep and quiet.

Then his gaze drifted to the horizon as he let out a small chuckle. “The silver gun.”

Asher tilted his head remembering the gun he gifted Kaspar.

“I gave one to your friend,” Vas said. “Kaspar. He won’t sell it. It’s… It was my father’s. Part of a set.”

Asher’s breath caught slightly. “And the other?”

“Mounted on Viktor’s wall,” Vas said. “In his parlor. Probably polished to hell. Looks like a family heirloom.” A bitter grin tugged at the corners of his mouth. “Wouldn’t it be something, to shoot him with it?”

His laugh was soft. Not angry. Not hopeful. Just tired. He stared at his hands, like the idea barely mattered.

Asher looked down at the grave again. At the worn stone, the cracked dirt, the life that had stopped long before his ever started.

“I’ll… talk to Kaspar,” he said quietly. “Figure out our next steps.”

He had no idea what that meant—what any of it meant—only that his stomach had gone cold with the creeping horror that he, too, might be under a curse, and had been just as Vas’s curse ceased.

Vas gave a slow nod, the mania from earlier ebbing like a tide that had already known it wouldn’t stay.

Asher stood. “Thank you. For explaining.”

The weary man didn’t look up, just reached into his coat and pulled out a small, wilted bundle of flowers—half-frozen violets and wind-dried reeds. He laid them gently at the base of the stone, pressing them into the earth like they belonged.

Asher turned, boots crunching over a well treaded path. 

He made his way down the hill, toward the town, toward Viktor, his thoughts like smoke—thin, curling, and impossible to hold still.

Chapter Text

The town looked untouched.

Asher stepped through the thinning morning light, backtracking down the same half-forgotten alleys Vas had dragged him through—only this time slower, taking in every window shutter, every dozing cat on a stoop, every pair of boots marching out to meet the day like nothing was rotting beneath it.

Laundry flapped on a line as if no one had vanished in Kyrmsk. Children argued over a stick they’d decided was a sword. An old woman poured yesterday’s broth water into the street.

It was… normal.

And that made Asher’s skin itch worse than blood.

He passed by the corner where a barrel had fallen down, toppled in his mad sprint days earlier.

It still lay on its side, leaking water into the rut below. A silver puddle shimmered in the sun, catching the reflection of the sky, of rooftops, of his own face leaning in.

His pupils glinted amber-gold, wrong, in a way he still couldn’t name.

He looked tired. Too tired for how early it was. His collar was turned up like armor.

For a moment, his reflection blinked slower than he did.

He jerked back. The puddle only rippled, innocent as spilled soup.

Asher shook his head.

“Get a grip,” he muttered, voice too thin to echo.

A bell rang somewhere. A shop opened. The wind shifted.

Walking back to the cart, it had seemingly disappeared. Viktor apparently having left in one of his impatient moods. 

A few wet wheel ruts marked the road, already drying.

Asher stood there for a second too long, alone in the street, arms folded tightly like that would hold him together. A cat darted under a stairwell. Someone laughed behind a closed window. The scent of lilac lingered at the back of his mind.

His boots felt heavier than they should’ve as he turned and started toward the farm.

Kaspar would know what to do.

He always did… didn’t he?

He just had to make it there.

And pretend nothing was wrong.

***

Dinner was quiet, save for Cynthia’s ramblings about the latest village gossip. 

She chatted endlessly, her words a pleasant hum in the otherwise tense atmosphere.

Asher said little. He smiled where appropriate. Laughed once, he thought, though it sounded like someone else’s breath in his throat.

Kaspar had skipped dinner again, too wrapped up in his tinkering to care about something as mundane as food. Asher found himself both exasperated and fond of the guy’s tireless obsession with machines.

Asher couldn’t blame him. In a world that often made no sense, the clarity of invention was as close to peace as either of them would get.

“Kaspar’s a curious one,” Cynthia remarked with a soft smile, lifting her spoon to her mouth. “I’m glad you’re keeping him close, Asher. He’s good to be around. He has a way of making even the strangest things work out.”

Asher managed a half-smile. “He’s… efficient, I’ll give him that.”

Cynthia continued, oblivious to Asher’s lack of enthusiasm. “He’s a bit rough around the edges, sure. But I’ve always found that kind of energy useful, especially in a place like this. He’s not a normal boy, and it’s a good thing, really.”

Asher nodded, unable to offer more than a courteous response. The conversation was beginning to feel like a delicate dance, with him pretending to care, and Cynthia indulging him with her warmth.

The food was warm. Real. Stew again, with bread that flaked just right—and Cynthia’s pickled eggs

Through it all, no one mentioned anything about graveyards. Or curses.

All the while the topics stirred inside, sitting heavy behind Asher's eyes.

The dinner wound down with an awkward silence, and Asher found himself pushing food around his plate rather than eating. Viktor sat across from him, his eyes never straying far, always watching, always calculating.

The flickering candlelight danced across his sharp features, casting long, strange shadows that seemed to stretch unnaturally. His presence filled the room, even in stillness, as if every corner of the space was somehow shaped by him.

Asher’s gaze drifted out the window, beyond the meal, beyond the conversation, to the muted glow of the night beyond. The moon hung heavy in the sky, drenching the town in silver light that bled into the edges of his vision, making everything feel distant, unreal.

Just as he settled into the soft hum of the night, Viktor’s voice broke through, cutting through the haze with its practiced edge.

“There was an incident today,” Viktor said, standing up and putting dishes away, his tone flat. “A homeless man didn’t make it through a scuffle with the police. They were arresting him for scamming some folk. It’s really quite the mess.”

Asher froze, his hand halting mid-motion. His gaze flickered to Viktor, but he didn’t respond, nodding with an unreadable expression. 

Vas’s story echoed in his mind, but he refused to let it show.

“Quite tragic, really,” Viktor continued smoothly. “But he had it coming. Not the first time, I’d wager.”

Asher’s jaw clenched, the words burning in his chest.

He wanted to react, but he swallowed the impulse, focusing on his plate. Viktor’s detached tone suffocated him, making the room feel colder.

As Viktor finished his little speech, the conversation died. Asher could feel the weight of his presence, but he didn’t linger much longer. The air in the room grew stale, and Viktor seemed to have said all he cared to.

“Well, I suppose it’s time for me to take my leave,” Asher said, standing up abruptly. He needed to get away, needed to speak with Kaspar, to try and process the mess of thoughts swirling in his head. He excused himself from the table and turned toward the door.

Cynthia glanced up as Asher moved, offering a faint, understanding smile. “You’re not feeling well, are you, Asher?” she asked, her voice laced with a quiet concern. “You’ve hardly touched your food.”

Asher looked at her, forcing a smile. “Just tired. Long day.”

“Of course,” she replied, her voice carrying a note of polite sympathy. “Well, do take care of yourself. You know you’re always welcome here.”

“Thank you, Cynthia,” Asher said, his voice thick with the weight of his words. He managed a quick nod before turning for the door.

But just as he reached the doorway, Viktor’s voice stopped him.

“You’re going to speak with Kaspar?” Viktor’s question was casual, almost too casual. “He’s been up there, working with those strange little devices of his, hasn’t he?”

Asher barely hesitated before responding. “Yes, I oughta check in with him. Wanna make sure he isn’t gonna blow up the place.”

Viktor’s smile was almost imperceptible. “Very well. Take care.”

Just as he was about to enter the hallway, a thought struck him.

Asher closed his eyes, tapping his forehead, and reached for the power just beneath his skin. His spirit vision unfurled, bringing with it that familiar, overwhelming sensation.

A cold rush of energy swept through him, and he felt it—the shape of Viktor’s essence.

His breath caught.

It was like staring into a mirror—but not quite. Viktor’s spirit had the same silvery, methodical sheen as his own, but something was different. Something more.

It wasn’t like Asher’s connection to his path, a deep, intimate bond with his own soul. Viktor’s essence was something else, foreign. It clung to him like a parasite, an external power.

A borrowed strength, wrapped around his spirit like a second skin that didn’t quite fit.

Asher’s spine stiffened, a cold shiver crawling down his back. It felt like Viktor was walking the world in an ill fitted-suit, something patched together. Something alien.

He snapped his vision shut, blinking hard to clear the haze clouding his mind. His pulse quickened, the weight of the revelation pressing down on his chest.

Without a second thought, Asher turned sharply, heading for the guest room. He needed to escape the gnawing sensation in his mind—before it spiraled any further.

***

In a flash Asher jumped into the shared bedroom, shutting the door behind him.

He stood there a moment, surrounded by loose pipes and gears, before finally exhaling. “I saw it.”

Kaspar paused mid-screwturn.

“See what?”

“His spirit body. Viktor’s.” Asher rubbed the back of his neck. “It’s not… right. It’s like it’s wrapped in something else. Borrowed. Foreign. Like he’s wearing someone else’s skin over his own.”

Kaspar blinked slowly. “That what I say. Mostly.”

Asher gave him a look. “You said his face was soup.”

“Yes.” A beat. “Stirred soup. With wrong smile. I still true.”

“Kaspar.” Asher pinched the bridge of his nose. “You could’ve told me it was this stirred.”

“I did! You laughed. Said 'leave it.’” Kaspar fiddled with a tiny spring, defensive but not angry. “You not care. Cynthia not. So I don’t.”

Asher winced, the guilt sharp. “That’s not fair, I was under some spell.”

“It is.” Kaspar shrugged. “You two smart. I trust smart. If you weren’t scared, I don’t need to. But…” He finally looked up, eyes narrowed beneath his goggles. “You scared.”

“Yeah,” Asher muttered. “Yeah, I am.”

He sat on his bed, rubbing his hands together like he was trying to generate courage. “Your friend—the one who warned us—Viktor had him killed some time today. Or close enough. Covered it up with a police scuffle.”

Kaspar’s face went still in a way that only happened when he was actually listening. The tension in his jaw crept in slow, before fading, seemingly not fully registering the words.

“So… what?” he asked. “We leave?”

“I don’t know. Otto’s out of town. Law enforcement’s probably in Viktor’s pocket, or close enough. That leaves you, me, and Samantha. And she’s halfway across town, probably asleep.”

Kaspar leaned back in his chair, a new invention's gears whirring in his lap. “So just us.”

“Just us,” Asher echoed, his voice rough. “Two nobody Beyonders with little experience and no one to help...”

He stared at the floor a long moment. Then grinned. “Best team!”

Asher gave a weak chuckle. “We need to do something. I’ve been thinking it through, and... I think we need to meet him. Face to face. He seems to know that we know and I think that's what he wants.”

Kaspar tilted his head like a bird. “Talk to soup-man?”

“If he’s got something hijacking his soul, I might be able to feel it up close. Figure out how far gone he is. What if I can help him?”

Kaspar didn’t look thrilled. “And if all go wrong?”

“You’ll know. You take over. I’ll give you a signal, or… scream like a little girl. You’ll know.”

Kaspar gave a solemn nod. “Safe hands.”

Asher looked at him, suddenly overcome by how serious Kaspar was being. “You sure?”

The manic inventor nodded again, this time softer. “He hurt my friend. Hurt our friend. And he stench of lavender and lilac. That bad math.”

They sat in silence for a moment, the only sound the faint click of metal cooling.

Asher ran a hand through his hair. “Thanks.”

“Mm.” Kaspar grinned, all teeth. “We do plan. Smart plan. Quiet. But if he try something…”

“Yeah?”

“We fix smile!”

Chapter Text

Asher’s steps faltered when he reached the bottom of the stairs.

The door to the basement stood wide open—no creak, no protest, just an invitation into the shadows beyond. 

It felt… wrong. The air was thick with the faint smell of lilac, and the chill that hit him from the stairwell made his skin crawl. 

Something was waiting for him down there, something he couldn’t yet name.

He lingered for a moment, hand gripping the railing as if it could anchor him to reality. The floorboards creaked behind him, and a soft voice broke the silence.

“Kaspar,” Asher whispered, his voice too loud in the quiet house. “The door’s open.”

Kaspar’s voice followed, low and slightly amused. “Open, yes. Like mouth. So you save me spoiled soup, yes?”

Asher shot him a pensive look. 

Kaspar shuffled behind him, as usual lost in his thoughts. His goggles reflected the dim light from the hall, and his expression, for once, was serious. 

“You go. I stay. You save soup,” he said matter-of-factly, nudging Asher forward with his shoulder.

“Kaspar-” Asher started, but Kaspar was already moving toward the living room, his fingers twitching as if his mind was already on something else.

Asher rolled his eyes but didn’t argue. With one last glance at Kaspar, he took a breath, bracing himself, and turned toward the open basement door.

The darkness beyond beckoned, and he stepped forward, the sound of his boots muffled by the stairs thick carpet. The closer he got, the colder the air seemed to grow, wrapping around him like an unwanted embrace.

***

As Asher stepped through the doorway, the air seemed to thicken, heavy with the scent of old incense and dust. 

The room beyond was cloaked in an almost unnatural dimness, the flickering light of candles casting long, distorted shadows across the stone walls. The flames danced weakly, as if reluctant to stay alive in the stagnant air.

At the far end of the room, Viktor was kneeling before an altar. 

His posture was strained, a mix of reverence and discomfort as he knelt on the cold, unforgiving stone floor. The old man’s hands were pressed together in a half-hearted prayer, fingers stiff, his knees clearly protesting the position. 

His gaze, usually sharp and commanding, was softened in the flickering candlelight, yet there was a weariness to him, as though the years had taken a toll even on his spirit.

"Took you long enough," Viktor grumbled, his voice raspy and laden with frustration, though there was no real malice in it. He shifted slightly, the faint sound of creaking bones cutting through the heavy silence.

"My knees are about ready to give out, so let's not drag this out any longer."

He glanced briefly toward the candles, his eyes narrowing with a mix of impatience and resolve.

"Next time, don’t take so long. I’ve got a lot of damn rituals to get through, and I don’t need you playing catch-up." 

The words were sharp, but the edge was softened by the exhaustion in his voice.

The first candle—white, its wax nearly melted to the base—sat in the center of the altar. Atop a journal that he vaguely recognized, seemingly torn at the base in anger. Its wick was dark, as if the flame had been snuffed out long ago. 

Is that the journal Samantha gave me? 

How’d that get here?

Beside it, a pale purple candle of lavender leaned at an angle, a small pile of blackened wax pooling beneath it, evidence of the flame’s former life before it had been extinguished. 

The last candle—a pink, lilac-scented taper stood slightly apart from the others.

It rested atop a rusted, sealed jar etched with a script that resembled no language Asher recognized.

Its flame flickered with unnatural vigor, casting long, wavering shadows across the room.

The altar was cluttered with strange objects. A tattered cloth, almost too fine to be real, was draped across its surface, its edges frayed as though it had been in use for decades.

Scattered around the altar were small trinkets: a silver ring with strange etchings, a silver dagger, a cracked glass vial filled with something Asher couldn’t quite make out, and a small stack of brittle papers covered in faded symbols that seemed to shift and warp if he stared at them too long. 

On the far wall hung a tapestry of sorts, its fabric frayed and weathered by time, depicting the vague silhouette of a figure standing before a vast circle.

Before Asher could let out a word Viktor slowly rose from his knees with a grunt, joints cracking as he leaned against the altar for balance.

He gave Asher a once-over, the flickering pink flame casting strange patterns across his face—almost like a second smile twitching behind the first.

“Tell me, Asher,” he said, brushing dust from his coat sleeves. “What do you know about mysticism?”

Asher blinked, the question catching him off guard. “Not much,” he admitted, eyes flicking between the candles.

He turned slightly, gesturing toward the altar and its dying offerings. “Your blood, boy, was... exceptionally useful. Don’t take it personally. Blood is always the key—it’s what binds, what opens. It was the catalyst.”

Asher tensed, a cold pit forming in his gut.

Viktor pointed to the white candle. “This one was first. Burned clean and fast. Do you feel it? That softness when you think back on me? That little nudge of sympathy? That’s not age catching up to you. That’s memory—coaxed, rewoven. A gift from the Circle.”

His hand hovered over the snuffed wick for a moment before he moved to the lavender candle.

“This one burned slow. Subtle. The present grows warmer, doesn’t it? Until it broke, you saw me as calmer, wiser, maybe even kinder a person.”

Asher’s jaw tightened. He hadn’t even noticed it—not really—but now that Viktor said it, the shift was unmistakable. 

“So you... changed how I felt about you? Altered my memories?”

Viktor didn’t deny it. His gaze stayed steady, almost pitying.

“I gave you a lens. You looked through it like anyone would.

The difference? Mine worked.”

Otto’s voice echoed in his mind, his lesson on not leaving blood lying around in the world of Beyonders.

“And the last?” Asher asked, voice shaking, eyes narrowing toward the still-burning flame.

Viktor smiled faintly. “Ah. The lilac.” He leaned in slightly, voice dipping just above a whisper. “Let’s not spoil it while it’s still working.”

Asher flinched. Still working.

The words crawled under his skin.

The flame danced on, steady and strong—like it knew something he didn’t.

Viktor stepped back, clasping his hands loosely behind his back. “You should feel honored, really. I’ve been waiting a long time. Decades ago, the Circle lent me power—not worship, not obedience, just... use. But a few months back, on February 29th they came again.”

Asher stared, unsettled, words and thought unable to form.

“They told me someone new was coming. Someone who would carry it forward. I didn’t know it was you until I saw the way the world shifted around you. A certain… fate.” 

He smiled again, with something that might have been reverence or madness. 

“Now here you are. May 13th, right on schedule. Are you ready to join us?”

Asher’s mouth opened, breath catching as his mind scrambled for footing. “As if I—”
He didn’t know what he meant to say—only that he had to.

But before he could, Viktor cut him off with a dismissive wave.

“Save it.” His voice was dry. “You think I’m corrupt. That I’ve fallen. But you’re not as clean as you like to think, Asher. None of us are.”

He turned, fingers brushing the edge of the altar, as if steadying himself—or remembering it. “Do you know when they first spoke to me? Truly spoke ? The night my wife died.”

He said it plainly. No flourish. No apology.

“I was in the middle of a rite—reverent, pure, or so I thought. She came in. She saw. She screamed. And I…” he exhaled slowly, almost absently, “shot her. In the throat.”

Asher stared in stunned silence, blood roaring in his ears.

Viktor smiled bitterly. “I panicked. Then prayed harder. Offered more. I remembered how the Circle had once changed my brother into a sheep and regrew a lost limb. So I tried. I tried to save her.”

He looked down at his hands.

“She shifted. Bones cracked. Teeth… too many teeth. But not enough time. She died half-changed.”

A pause, then a shrug. “Couldn’t even bury her properly. Not then. Cold storage seemed cleaner.”

Viktor’s eyes held an almost surreal clarity as he continued, his tone unbothered, even casual, as though the weight of his actions was something he’d long since accepted as necessary. 

“Tell me, Asher," he said, eyes narrowing slightly. "Do you think it was the discovery of her body that broke the charm of the purple candle? 

Asher’s mouth went dry. He couldn’t find his words. He could barely breathe.

A low, unsteady breath left Asher’s chest. He swallowed hard, willing his voice to stay steady. 

“I—” He glanced away, his throat tight. “I’m not sure what you want me to say. Probably?”

Gathering his thoughts Asher furthered. “But how does that make me somehow tainted by sin? You’re the one well beyond redemption, you killed your own damned wife!”

He chuckled darkly, a sound that seemed to rattle the still air. The flickering candlelight played over his face, making his features appear even more twisted.

“The first meal I gave you,” Viktor continued, his voice dropping into a low, almost reverent tone, “The pork. The one you enjoyed so much…” He paused, watching Asher's reaction, a glint of twisted satisfaction in his eyes. “It was her.”

Asher’s stomach lurched violently. He staggered back a step, bile rising in his throat. The room pressed in around him, thick and choking, like the air itself recoiled from him.

He opened his mouth, but no words came—only a dry, trembling breath. 

His hands shook. Something inside him twisted, sour and wrong, as his mind struggled to comprehend the monstrous truth: he had eaten human flesh.

“You—you’re lying,” Asher managed to whisper, though there was a shakiness in his voice that betrayed him. 

His eyes searched Viktor’s face desperately, as if trying to find even the faintest sign of a jest, some flicker of humanity that would make sense of the nightmare.

Viktor stepped forward, his movements slow and deliberate, one hand outstretched toward Asher’s shoulder.

Asher flinched back before contact could be made, his entire body recoiling as if burned. His breath hitched, the air in the room suddenly thick with nausea and panic. He could still taste that first meal—its richness, its tenderness—and now the thought of it turned his stomach to lead.

Viktor let the moment pass without offense, lowering his hand with a faint sigh.

“That,” he said quietly, gesturing toward the lingering pink flame, “is why I kept the second candle burning. The lavender one. It dulled the edge. Gave you warmth for me. Gave me precious time.”

He looked at Asher with something disturbingly close to pity.

His voice hardened. “You think I’m a monster, and maybe I am. But I did it for my family. We are running out of time.”

He turned back toward the altar, brushing aside the trinkets like dust from a windowsill.

“You’ve seen it, haven’t you? Felt it, just beneath the surface—the way reality stretches thinner by the day. The world cracking like old glass. The prophecies from all around. The encroaching presence of the first one. The stars that move.”

His fingers trembled slightly as they hovered above the dying white candle. “In two decades, maybe less, it breaks open. The war. The unraveling. The gods, the Old Ones—call them what you will. They’re circling. Waiting.”

He turned back toward Asher, eyes glittering with fervor.

“And we won’t survive it unless we’re useful. Unless we belong . Unless we’re on the right side when the doors open and the sky burns.”

His voice dropped, steady and intimate, a priest’s voice at a deathbed confession.

“They showed me what’s coming, Asher. The death of countries. The fall of sequences, of Beyonders. The liquefaction of time. A child with no mouth screaming beneath a crimson moon. You, standing on a tower of bone, holding a wheel that turns the world.”

Asher stood frozen, his mind barely able to piece the images together.

“I joined for myself,” Viktor continued. “I remained for her. I stayed because I realized… None of us are getting out of this clean. Not me. Not you. Not my daughter. So the only question that matters now—”

He stepped closer again, his voice low but burning with intensity.

“—is what future you want. If you want a good one, boy… join me. ”

The candle’s flame flared unnaturally high, casting Viktor’s face into a grotesque mask of light and shadow.

Asher stared, throat dry, heart pounding like a war drum. 

The flame danced in his eyes, 

Mocking. 

Daring.

What future do I want?

Chapter Text

The flame flickered, casting long shadows across Viktor’s face.

Asher couldn’t move at first. He just stood there, chest heaving, each breath too sharp or too shallow. His hands trembled as if they no longer belonged to him. 

In his mind, words scrambled like moths battering against a lantern— liar, cannibal, pawn, survivor. 

He didn’t know which fit. Maybe all of them. Maybe none.

Viktor watched him quietly. No judgment. No pity. Just... waiting.

Asher swallowed, bile still clinging to the back of his throat. His thoughts came in bursts.

I’m clever, right? Clever enough to see all the angles? To weigh it all? Survival. Power. Greater good.

He clenched his jaw.

What if I’m just another self-righteous fool pretending I have a choice?

He took one step back.

But what’s so wrong about that?

The room seemed to spin—too hot, too quiet. His vision narrowed.

You ate her! You trusted him. You trusted yourself.

Asher’s knees nearly gave, but his hand darted to his side, to the stick.

The trustworthy wood vibrated faintly as his fingers closed around it. He didn’t know if it was hope or desperation, but it grounded him.

The pressure against his palm reminded him.

You’re not done. Not yet.

And then—like sunlight through a crack in heavy clouds—he heard her voice.
Samantha.

Gravel, warmth. Steel, soul.

“You’re stepping into a world that’ll chew you up, kid. People like me? We’ve seen what happens when you let that fire burn out.”

Her words rang in his bones. Not a memory—a lifeline.

“But if you can keep it—hold onto that positivity, that hope—then maybe, just maybe, you won’t lose yourself in the darkness.”

He breathed. Really breathed.

Viktor said nothing. He didn’t think he had to.

“Don’t let this world kill that part of you.”

The light inside Asher surged—wild, ragged, furious.

Not clean, not noble.

But his.

He stepped forward, bracing the stick against the floor. His spine straightened. His chest rose. His heart roared.

“You think I’m yours,” he said, voice rough but rising. “You think I’ll let this—you—decide who I become?”

Viktor’s eyes narrowed. “Careful.”

“No,” Asher snarled, “you don’t get to warn me. Not after her. Not after everything that’s happened. You think this world only gives you monsters or corpses? You’re pathetic. There is nothing more noble than fighting fate, and yet you gave up at the first sign of trouble.”

He raised the stick, shoulders squared, fire blooming in his veins like he’d never felt before.

“Fucking try me!”

He charged.

And with two words he stopped.

Mid-stride, his body locked. Muscles clenched, limbs frozen in place like he’d hit an invisible stone. 

The stick slipped from his grip, clattering to the ground with a sound that echoed far too loud.

His breath caught. He couldn’t move. Couldn’t even fall.

Viktor exhaled slowly, like a teacher disappointed in a pupil.

“You won’t,” he said. Not mocking. Not smug. Just... tired.

“I didn’t want to use it,” he added. “But I needed to be sure. You see, Asher, I told you the candles bought me time. I never said how.”

Asher’s eyes widened. The lilac flame still burned, flickering harmlessly beside them.

Still warm.

Still working.

“Don’t feel bad,” Viktor continued softly. “Even now, you almost broke it. Almost.”

He stepped forward, gently brushing a hand across Asher’s cheek. Asher couldn’t flinch. Couldn’t even scream.

Viktor turned around.

The hem of his coat brushed Asher’s frozen knuckles.

Each movement was deliberate. Not cruel. Not hesitant. Just… practiced. Like a man completing a ritual he’d long prepared for but never hoped to perform.

From the altar, he plucked the silver dagger.

It gleamed under the lilac light—wicked and old. Asher couldn’t look away. His breath hitched in his throat, muscles screaming in silence.

Viktor studied the blade for a moment, then turned it, letting it catch the glow.
“You helped me understand something,” he said, voice barely above a whisper.

“All this time, I thought fate was inevitable. That no matter what choices we make, the outcome is already etched in stone.”

He looked up. His eyes, for a moment, held no malice—only a strange, exhausted gratitude.

“But you?” Viktor’s smile was faint and full of sorrow. “You proved that isn’t true.”

He stepped closer.

“That spark in you, Asher—it fights even when the body fails. The problem being that—karma is a bitch…” 

He trailed a thumb across the flat of the dagger. “For the opportunity to face your fate, it fights back tenfold.”

His tone softened, as if speaking to a friend on the edge of sleep.

“I’m sorry. Truly. That it had to end like this. That I couldn’t let you keep trying.”

The dagger flashed as he raised it.

“This isn’t punishment. It’s a conclusion.”

And then, softly:

"Thank you... for reminding me I was wrong."

The man's roar tore through the cold basement air, primal and deafening.

Asher flinched, trying to curl into himself as the shadow of the beast loomed closer.

Viktor lunged.

His breath hitched in his throat, muscles screaming in frozen silence.

Time seemed to slow, the rush of blood pounding in his ears, drowning out the world. Each heartbeat stretched eternal, each second an age as death approached on vengeful feet.

With a sudden, sharp crack, thunder erupted in the confined space. Asher's eyes flew open to a vision he couldn't comprehend—Viktor suspended mid-attack, face frozen in surprise rather than rage. 

Then reality reasserted itself as the man staggered backward, crimson blooming across his chest like a grotesque flower. Viktor's eyes widened in disbelief, one hand reaching toward the wound as if to deny its existence. 

A wet, rattling gasp escaped his lips, followed by a thin stream of dark blood that traced the contours of his chin. His massive frame seemed to collapse inward, knees buckling as he fought against gravity's pull with diminishing strength. 

Each labored breath came with a sickening gurgle, the sound of a drowning man far from water.

As he fell back, the rusted metal jar on the altar toppled with a hollow clang, sending its pink candle tumbling. 

The flame sputtered before extinguishing, casting wild shadows as it rolled and faded through the viscous liquid now seeping across the ancient stone. 

Viktor's body crashed to the floor with a heavy thud that seemed to shake the very foundations, his fingers still clawing at the air in desperate, diminishing spasms. 

His eyes, once burning with rage, now stared vacantly at something beyond the ceiling, mouth working silently as if trying to voice one final curse.

Sensation returned to Asher's limbs in a rushing wave, relief and horror flooding his system with equal measure. He held onto a wall to steady himself, turning away from the death rattle that filled the room like a macabre symphony.

Kaspar stood in the doorway, his frame seeming even smaller beneath the weight of the ornate silver rifle in his trembling hands. 

The weapon's engraved snake caught the candlelight, seeming to writhe with a life of its own. Smoke still curled from the barrel, delicate as a whisper.

"I—I fix," Kaspar muttered, his voice barely audible above the rasp of Viktor's dying breaths. 

His eyes, wide with shock at his own actions, never left the fallen man. "I fix it."

Asher glanced at Kaspar, not sure what to say. There was too much weight in the air—too much that needed processing, too much that couldn't be explained in words.

The last of Viktor’s life seeped from him in slow, agonizing breaths. His once powerful form now sprawled on the cold stone floor, his hand still clawing weakly at the air, trying to hold onto something—anything. His eyes, wide and unseeing, stared at the ceiling, distant and vacant, as though he were already lost to the world.

The faint rasp of Viktor's breathing became less and less, as though the very sound was being drawn out by the oppressive silence in the room.

Then, a new sound—a hurried scuffling above them—cut through the stillness. The floor above creaked loudly, heavy footsteps echoing down the stone staircase.

Asher’s heart skipped a beat. He wasn’t prepared for what was coming. He turned toward the sound, his senses screaming at him that something else was about to happen, something far worse.

In a flash Kaspar was pushed to the side as Cynthia emerged. Viktor’s daughter. 

Her eyes were wide with horror as she stood in the doorway, face pale and frantic, chest heaving. She barely glanced at Asher before her gaze locked onto her father’s lifeless body. 

A raw, guttural scream tore from her throat, her entire body trembling as she collapsed beside Viktor.

"No! No!" she cried, hands clutching at his chest, her fingers desperately trying to find some last trace of life. She shook his body violently, her cries turning to panicked sobs. "Papa! Wake up! Wake up!"

Kaspar stepped back instinctively, his eyes wide with terror. He didn’t know what to do. The weapon in his hands suddenly felt heavier, useless. He couldn’t fix this.

Asher remained still, his mind racing. There was nothing they could say. Nothing that could undo what had happened. He felt a tightness in his chest, an overwhelming sense of helplessness.

Cynthia’s gaze darted up at them, her eyes wild, red with grief and fury. "Leave! Get out! Now!" she screamed, her voice cracking with anguish. "I—don’t—" Her breath hitched between sobs, but there was no mistaking the raw urgency in her command.

For a moment, neither Asher nor Kaspar moved, both stunned into silence by the force of her words.

Cynthia’s fingers gripped the hem of Viktor’s bloodstained coat, her face twisting with an expression of such deep, unfiltered grief that it seemed to radiate off of her like an aura. Then, without another word, she pressed her face into his chest, her body wracked with sobs.

"Get out…" she cried again, her voice weak with the desperation of a woman whose world had just shattered.

Kaspar flinched at the raw emotion, his shoulders sagging, and he finally let the rifle drop from his hands. He turned away, eyes wide and horrified by the destruction they had wrought. His voice, quiet and distant, barely rose above the sound of Cynthia’s grieving.

“I didn’t… I didn’t mean…” Kaspar muttered, his words trailing off, lost in the swell of anguish surrounding them.

Asher didn’t have the words either. 

He just stood there, watching Cynthia clutch her father’s body, unable to tear his eyes away from the tragedy that had unfolded in front of him.

It was a moment of unbearable clarity. The choices they made, the lives they touched—there were always consequences.

But in that moment, all Asher could do was walk away.

He stepped past Kaspar, who was still frozen in place, and approached the door. 

As the door swung closed behind them, the world outside still carried on, indifferent to the lives that had just been torn apart. The weight of everything that had happened—the consequences, the shattered lives, the choices—felt heavier than ever.

Asher couldn’t say it was over. It never was.

But for now, all he could do was keep moving.

Chapter Text

The forest had never felt this silent.

Under the pale cast of the full moon, Asher and Kaspar walked side by side down the winding trail from Viktor’s farm. Their boots rustled through undergrowth and the occasional dew-slick stone.

Above them, the branches swayed gently in the breeze, their shadows shifting like thoughts they weren’t ready to say aloud.

Neither of them spoke.

It had been nearly an hour. A quiet trek through half-wild woods, thick with the kind of silence that filled your ears like pressure underwater. The kind that made your heartbeat feel too loud.

Kaspar’s breath came light and quick. He kept fiddling with the gear-clasp on his right wrist, a tiny mechanism built into his prosthetic wrist. It clicked and spun with every step, like a clock trying to measure something it didn’t understand.

Asher glanced sideways. Then again.

"You okay?" he asked softly, the words catching on the breeze.

Kaspar didn’t answer at first. Just kept walking. The clicking stopped.

“Viktor had good stairs,” he mumbled finally. “Curved. Maintained. Quiet.”

It was nonsense. Or maybe it wasn’t.

"Yeah. Quiet stairs," Asher echoed, trying to meet him where he was. He forced a faint smile. "You always notice the weirdest things."

“Not weird. Important. Good stairs mean good escape.” Kaspar’s fingers twitched, then froze. “But he not escape. You- we saw...”

Asher looked ahead again, jaw tight.

They walked the rest of the way in silence. The church spire rose ahead of them now, dark against the starlit sky like a needle in flesh.

***

The front door groaned when Kaspar finally turned the key. The lock was still misaligned; it always had been, but tonight it sounded louder than usual, like something protesting their return.

Inside the nave, moonlight filtered through stained glass and scattered broken color across empty pews. The air was still. Not cold, not warm. Just waiting.

Asher paused in the doorway. He’d meant to say something—something kind, maybe. Something like "We’re safe now," or "You did good." But the words didn’t survive the trip from thought to mouth.

Kaspar slumped onto the cot without bothering to remove his gear. He stared up at the ceiling like it might shift if he looked long enough.

“I never liked Viktor tea,” Kaspar said quietly.

Asher blinked.

“It taste of copper and lies.”

“…Yeah,” Asher said after a beat. “Me neither.”

He sat down on the edge of his own cot, unlacing his boots one-handed. Moonlight painted long shadows across the stone floor between them.

Neither of them said goodnight.

***

Wednesday, May 14th, 1341

Not sure what the hell happened.

I went down to the market this morning to trade pelts and buy some veggies, came back to find the church door half open and two familiar idiots returned to a spot they swore they'd outgrown.

Asher and the little grease-stain moved back in. Just like that. No explanation.

I asked. Of course I would. Cornered the pipsqueak near the doorway—he just gave me that side-glance he does when he’s thinking real fast but pretending he’s not. Kaspar wouldn't even look at me.

Tapped his creepy metal fingers on the door frame and hummed like I wasn’t there.

I didn’t push.

(Still don’t like not knowing.)

They’ve been quieter than usual. Not that they were ever that loud, but there’s a difference between the usual sullen and this new kind.

They sleep more. Eat less. Kaspar’s been fidgeting so much I’m surprised his damn bolts haven’t come loose.

Asher’s out more often than not—always comes back with that look. The one Otto wore when he came back from an assignment and tried to pretend he hadn't seen anything worth remembering.

But the townsfolk don’t seem to notice.

Quite the opposite. Word around the square is that Asher’s been everywhere lately—patching carts, delivering letters, even ran off some would-be thief near the baker’s stall.

Old Mera says he chased the bastard halfway across the town before clocking the thief. Don’t know how much of that is true, but still. The kids followed him around like ducklings this afternoon.

Didn't think the little bastard had it in him.

Proud of the pipsqueak. Though if he reads this I’ll break his fingers. >:(

He’s walking straighter. Doesn’t flinch when folks raise their voices. Think he even yelled back at a cabbage merchant yesterday.

About time he grew a pair.

Still. Something’s off.

I’ll keep an eye out.

- S.G.

***

Friday, May 16th, 1341

Went back to market today—more pelts, couple of good ones this time.

Managed to trade up for three half-decent knives and a coil of thread, which isn’t nothing. Tanners were chatty, weather’s been kind to the traps. Too kind, maybe. Town feels like it’s waiting for something to break.

The church’s still missing its priest and no one’s said a damn word about it. Still, life trudges on. Asher’s been making himself useful—patched up a kid's scraped knee, hauled some fencing over to the Rojas family, even stood in to help haul up a broken wagon wheel near the post office.

Despite the labor he’s only managing a pittance of coin.

Still, people offer a crust of bread or a coin or two, like it's a habit now.

A kid came by with a cloth-wrapped loaf—barely older than 10. Said, “My ma says you’re brave,” and then sprinted off like he’d stolen something. Asher didn’t say anything, just stared at the bread like it might bite.

Back at the church, Kaspar’s taken to humming while poking around the fried altar.

He gets real quiet when his hands stop moving. Today he dropped a nail into the floorboard crack and just sat there for a minute. Didn’t cuss. Didn’t even blink. Like the weight of something caught up to him through his fingers.

Some man at the market—stranger, wide-shouldered, reeked of old pipeweed—asked me if Otto was ever coming back. Real casual. Like he was asking when the rain might return.

I told him maybe he ought to pray on it.

He didn’t laugh.

Bitch.

- S.G.

***

Saturday, May 17th, 1341

I came into town today for no other purpose but boredom.

Most notably one of the cloth sellers, a sharp-tongued woman who’d once given Asher a basket of rags, turned him away cold. “Can’t live off stories,” she said, not looking him in the eye.

Wouldn’t even haggle.

Doors are closing faster. Folks who used to wave now give that half-nod like they’re hoping you don’t stop to talk. Asher’s eyes caught on every movement, like he could see the shift happening before the rest of us did.

I heard a fellow huntsman spit on the road and mutter to no one, “That Viktor went quiet real fast, didn’t he?”

Kaspar dropped a crate when he got back. Didn’t even yell. Just stood there, hands limp, and said: “Bad day.”

He certainly wasn’t wrong.

I don’t like where this is heading.

- S.G.

***

Tuesday, May 27th, 1341

Damn wolf nicked me good. Slippery bastard came in from downwind while I was gutting a hare, caught the smell of blood, probably.

Clipped my thigh before I could get the blade turned.

Would’ve been worse if Nimbus hadn’t barreled into it like the spirits themselves were riding him. Good boy held until I got the kill in.

Leg’s stitched now, stiff but nothing I can’t limp through.

Made it into town late morning, clouds hanging low like they were trying to crush the rooftops. Wanted to trade some game, get the knife blades touched up.

But the mood in town? It’s rotten. Not tense, curdled. People aren’t just avoiding Asher now, they're dodging him. Crossed streets. Pretended to tie boots.

One woman tugged her kid behind her like he was going to catch plague just walking past him.

Saw two boys whisper something and dart behind a shed when he passed. One hissed, “There he is!” like they’d spotted some ghoul from a fireside tale. You’d think he’d grown fangs.

Then someone yelled it.

“Murderer!”

Clear as day. A man on the steps of the smithy. Asher didn’t look up. Didn’t defend himself. Just kept walking, arms wrapped around himself like the cold had come early.

He looked thinner. Like the boy had hollowed out while I wasn’t watching.

Didn’t sit right. So I gave him one of the hares instead of selling it. Fresh kill. Didn't say why.

He just looked at it, nodded once in a mix of desolation and gratefulness, mumbling something I couldn’t hear.

Afterward, found myself at Kyrmsk Lumber.

Ran into old Darnell, bastard still chews pine needles like it’ll regrow hair.

We caught up. Talked work. Talked weather.

Then I asked about the kids.

He looked at me long, then said his brother's a watchman.

Apparently Viktor was found shot about a week ago, in his own home. The watch thinks it was Asher and Kaspar. Shot him.

Only reason they haven’t been hauled off in chains is because the daughter won’t testify.

No weapon found. No eyewitnesses. Just whispers and holes. And now Mikhail’s swooped in, generously bought the farm off the daughter. Darnell framed it like a mercy—“Keep her from starving. Real noble, that one.”

I’m no fool. You don’t pay above price for land that still smells like blood unless there’s a play in motion. And the way folks are talking, like they know more than they say but keep the pitchforks sheathed just in case, makes my skin itch.

I keep asking myself what the hell happened to those two.

The boy with too much conscience and the tinkerer who cried over broken inventions.

Something’s not right.

- S.G.

Chapter Text

The morning frost hadn’t melted from the windows yet, but Asher was already up, stirring a pot of bitter root soup with the last of the yupnik salt.

The red root bled into the water like an opened vein—rusty, acrid, and sharp on the tongue even before it reached a boil. He added the chopped potato last, not because it mattered for the flavor, but because watching them float gave the illusion of plenty.

“Breakfast,” he muttered aloud, though Kaspar was still in the dorm room, buried beneath a tangle of blankets and silent machines.

He set the spoon down and counted the remaining kopeks in his palm. 

Seven.

Enough for bread, maybe, if the baker wasn’t feeling vindictive. Which she usually is lately.

The butcher’s is the only place that might give me a shot—if I had enough kopeks to spare that is. 

But I don’t. 

Not even close.

Their reserves had dwindled faster than expected. 

Two weeks since the bastard died and the panic that followed. 

Two weeks of suspicious glances and slammed doors. 

The tinned meat had gone first—Kaspar wouldn’t eat it unless it was boiled to gray—and the flour had been clumpy even before the weevils moved in. 

Now it was down to roots, peelings, and vague hope.

He ladled out two chipped bowls, setting one on the workbench beside a mess of gears and copper scrap.

“Soup’s up,” Asher called. No response, just the faint clink of something shifting in the piles. Encouraging, in its own way.

Kaspar had been... dimmer, since the house incident. 

Not entirely present.  He’d started referring to certain walls as “listening,” which wasn’t new, but now he spoke like they actually responded.  

Still, yesterday he’d asked for a wrench. Today, he restored a lamp without prompting.

Asher took his own bowl to the dining table, legs folded up beneath him. He sipped. It was as awful as he expected—sour and earthy, with the kind of bitterness that clung to the roof of the mouth. But it was hot. And it was food.

He glanced over as Kaspar finally emerged—dressed, if mismatched. The younger man blinked at the soup, then at Asher.

“Smells... red,” Kaspar said.

“That’s because it is,” Asher replied dryly. “Red and cheap.”

Kaspar sat without complaint and ate in that odd, methodical way of his—spoon to mouth, stare into the void, repeat. Asher watched him for a beat longer than necessary, then forced himself up, grabbing his coat from the coat hanger by the door.

“I’m going out,” he said. “See if anyone’s desperate enough to need a translator or a cleaner. Maybe I’ll sell a kidney. Or dignity. Whichever gets me more.”

Kaspar didn’t answer, though he gave a soft hum—acknowledgement, or warning. Hard to tell.

***

The dreich hadn’t fully lifted by the time Asher stepped into the street, coat buttoned to the throat, collar pulled up high. 

His boots struck the frost-laced cobbles with a quiet crunch, a sound almost too loud in the stillness. The town didn’t greet him. It hadn't in days.

He passed the bakers, where the little bell usually chimed, but the door was shut tight, curtains drawn. 

At an apothecary, the apprentice looked up, saw him, and turned the sign to Closed without breaking eye contact.

Charming.

He kept walking. Didn’t flinch when a shutter slammed two houses down. Didn’t look when a curtain twitched. But he felt it. The quiet retreat. Like a tide pulling back before it drowned you.

Asher stepped into the market strip, weaving through the thin crowd with his hands buried deep in his pockets, heart doing its best impression of calm.

He caught a glimpse of gray curls beneath a hood—Samantha, near the tanner’s stall. She didn’t look his way. Didn’t even pause.

Not even a twitch.

He told himself it was for the best. Less mess. Less weight.

Still, something old and dumb and wounded in him curled a little tighter.

Asher pulled a cloth-wrapped contraption from his coat—small, delicate, carefully soldered. It whirred faintly, a faint spark flinging as it spun on his finger.

“It’s… a multitool,” he offered, hesitating. “Sort of. Spins for calibration. Good for pressure sensitivity. Only 2 fey silver.”

The woman didn’t look at it. Or him. She adjusted her apron and shifted a basket between them like a wall.

“I’m not buying.”

“It’s durable,” he said. “No rust.”

“No,” she said, sharper. “Move along.”

He did.

Next stall: a man with Balem spiced meat sticks and coal chips. Asher offered the same device, palms open. The man didn’t even glance down.

“We don’t take cursed things.”

That one landed like a slap.

Asher’s mouth opened, a response half-formed—but he stopped himself. 

What was the point?

He spun the crude imitation fidget spinner on his fingers as he moved on, the soft whirr filling the silence no one else would.

The bread stall had lines, as always. He waited his turn, kopeks clenched in his palm like they’d multiply under pressure. When he finally stepped forward, the vendor looked at him—really looked—and the price tag changed mid-sentence.

“Two loaves, eight kopeks,” the man announced.

Asher blinked. “It was three.”

The man shrugged. “Eight now.”

From behind him, a voice hissed, low and bitter: “Ought to be locked up.”

Asher turned. The baker’s wife. She didn’t bother lowering her eyes.

He dropped four coins anyway, took one small loaf, and left before his stomach betrayed how badly it still wanted two.

Near the edge of the market, an old man selling candles peered at him with a wary kind of pity. Asher offered a stub of beeswax from his coat pocket—too fine to burn at home, too old to keep. The man hesitated, then took it with shaking hands and gave back a single kopek.

It was theft, essentially. 

But Asher just nodded and walked on.

By the time he reached the smithy, the market had grown louder—not in volume, but in tension. The crowd parted before him, subtle and instinctive. Women pulled children aside. A bank teller crossed the street, meat clutched in hand.

A pair of boys whispered behind a leaning shed: “There he is.”

“Shh—he’ll hear you—”

He did.

And he felt it.

This wasn’t suspicion anymore. This wasn’t grief, or panic, or gossip.

This was genuine fear.

A heavy, ugly thing. 

Not fear of what he might do. But of what they were sure he already had.

Then it came. Sharp and drunk and too loud.

“Monster! Murderer!”

The shout echoed down the road like a bottle smashed against stone. Asher froze. The voice was familiar—a good friend of Viktor’s—face red with cold and beer, standing outside the forge with a blackened pipe in hand.

Others turned.

Some stepped back.

The word rang again in Asher’s skull, louder now. Murderer.

He didn’t run.

Didn’t speak.

Just walked, stiff and steady, as if the ice beneath him might crack if he moved too fast.

Someone grabbed his coat.

Asher spun halfway, arm already halfway raised. His pulse surged—he should’ve felt it, should’ve heard the footstep, caught the shift in the air.

But it was Samantha.

He stopped short, breath shallow.

She said nothing.

Just shoved something into his chest—rough, cold, still slightly warm at the base.

A skinned hare. Neatly wrapped. Fresh.

Asher blinked, fingers tightening around the carcass before he could think. She saw him. Not the rumor. Not the silhouette they whispered about. Him.

His mouth opened. Closed.

He wanted to say something— thank you , or maybe just her name—but no words came. Just a small, broken nod.

Her aged face didn’t change. Eyes hard. Jaw set. Then she turned and disappeared into the crowd.

He stood there for a moment, stupidly clutching the hare like a lifeline, as the world resumed its quiet rejection around him.

The walk back was slower now, heavier. Cold crept deeper into his sleeves. He cut through a narrow side alley, boots slipping on frost-dark stones.

That was when he heard it.

Two voices—older, worn, familiar in the way gossip always is. Half-drunk on judgment, just out of sight.

“Viktor’s girl refused to speak, but it was them. The tinkerer and that amber-eyed one. Shot him. Cold-blooded.”

“Devils work I tell you. Town should’ve run them out months ago.”

The words landed with surgical precision. Not vague suspicion. Not an anxious murmur.

Certainty.

That’s what gutted him.

His legs froze, breath fogging like a ghost in front of his face. The weight of it—all of it—hit at once. The closing shutters. The whispers. The looks.

Why they feared him.

Why no one would meet his eyes.

His hand was still clenched around the hare, like it might disappear if he let go.

He started walking again.

Then stumbling.

Then running.

The streets blurred—stone and smoke, slush and shadow. His lungs burned, heart hammering against his ribs like it wanted out. He tripped once, caught himself, nearly dropped the meat. Didn’t stop.

The church appeared like a shape in fog.

He shoved the door open and slammed it shut behind him.

Silence fell.

Only his breath now—fast, uneven. He staggered down the aisle, past the empty pews, and collapsed into the third row. The hare slipped from his hands and thudded dully against the wood.

He sat there, hunched forward, elbows on his knees.

No tears at first. Just the hollow throb behind his eyes. The pressure.

He was so tired .

His chest tightened, jaw clenched—then cracked open with a sound he barely recognized as his own.

One sob. Then another.

Soft at first. Then rough and shaking, like something rotted giving way.

He pressed the heel of his hand to his mouth to muffle it, but it didn’t help. His shoulders shook.

Somewhere behind the sanctuary wall, the faint sound of metal echoed

tink-tink-tink.

Kaspar. Working.

Of course he was. Building something half-broken from something worse. Making order from wreckage like it was as natural as breathing.

Asher let out a stuttering breath, still folded over his knees, the last of the sobs trailing into silence. He stayed there. Just… stayed.

After a while, the hollow ache behind his eyes dulled. In its place: a numb sort of clarity.

He leaned back slowly, wiping his face with the inside of his sleeve. It came away wet—tears, maybe snot, maybe both. Who cared.

He tilted his head toward the stained glass above the altar. 

It wasn’t saints or angels looking down, but a stylized gearwork halo, encircling a looming, faceless figure cast in brass and smoke. 

The God of Steam and Machinery, silent in judgment. Below, a procession of engineers and laborers bowed their heads beneath rising towers and interlocking wheels.

Beyond the glass, rain had begun to fall—thin, unsteady threads that tapped against the leaded panes with delicate persistence.

The gears and cogs in the window blurred under the droplets. The brass turned gray. 

Even the machine god wept in rust, it seemed.

Asher blinked up at it. Then gave a small, broken laugh—quiet, breathless.

The laugh didn’t last. It wasn’t the funny kind—just the kind that comes when crying runs out of steam.

He let himself sink into the pew, head tilted back, eyelids half-lowered, watching the watery colors shift overhead.

Then—

Knock-knock.

A sound at the door.

He stiffened. Not banging , not a shout. Just two steady knocks. 

Measured. Intentional.

For a moment, he didn’t move. The hare lay forgotten at his feet. The rain pressed on.

Knock-knock.

Again. A little firmer this time.

Asher wiped his palms on his coat, still breathing unevenly. 

I wonder what prank it’s gonna be this time.

He stood. Moved to the door.

Knock-knock.

Closer now.

Asher yanked at the handle—

And paused.

Chapter Text

Asher yanked at the handle—

And paused.

The door creaked open a fraction. Rain misted the threshold.

And standing there, soaked to the shoulders and clutching something in his left, metallic hand—

Was Otto.

His cassock hung from him like wet wool, rain trailing off the brim of his hat and the edge of his jaw. One of his eyes was shadowed beneath a bruise that looked weeks old but not healed right. The mechanical arm glinted faintly in the soft gas lamps light, its joints whirring in a familiar way.

But the worst of it wasn’t the injuries.

It was the silence. The stillness. The look in Otto’s eyes—a tired, measured emptiness that spoke of too many battles, most of them fought internally.

“Hey,” the man rasped, voice low and hoarse, like he'd swallowed rust. “Sorry about the-  my timing.”

Asher didn’t speak.

Didn’t move.

The moment stretched—rain filling in the silence like static. And then, as if yanked from a dream, Asher surged forward.

His arms wrapped around Otto’s soaked frame in a clumsy, almost involuntary motion. He hadn’t meant to. His body just... moved.

“You’re back,” Asher whispered, the words breaking in the middle. “Fuckin; took you long enough!”

Otto didn’t hug him back right away. But he didn’t pull away either. 

After a second, his metal arm rose and gave one awkward pat—then two—before he let out a dry breath that might’ve been a chuckle. Or a sigh.

“Didn’t think you’d be so sentimental, kid,” he murmured. “I was gone, what, a few weeks?”

“You exploded in the church and almost killed me,” Asher said into his coat. “Then vanished.”

“Fair,” Otto replied.

Kaspar’s voice cut in from down the hall, cracked and half-panicked:
“Is ghost?! Is… Otto ghost?! Say no to ghost!”

A clatter of gears preceded Kaspar sliding around the corner, one boot unlaced, goggles crooked. He skidded to a halt at the sight of the man in the doorway, eyes wide behind smudged lenses.

Otto lifted the object in his hand. A thin envelope, slightly wrinkled but dry despite the rest of him. The name Asher scrawled on the front in unfamiliar, shaky handwriting.

“Not a ghost,” Otto said, lips twitching faintly. “Though I can certainly understand the present confusion. Got this for you.”

Asher pulled back just enough to see it. He took it carefully, like it might bite.

“What is it?”

Otto gave a short shake of the head. “A courier on their way gave it to me. Sender’s name’s Alex. Cancer or something.”

There was something strange in Otto’s voice. Not guilt, not grief—something more resigned. He rubbed at his jaw with the back of his good hand and didn’t quite meet Asher’s eyes.

“Said he remembered you.”

Kaspar had crept closer now, peering around Asher’s shoulder with the curiosity of a child watching a fire being lit.

“You alright?” Asher asked, his voice quiet again.

Otto didn’t answer right away. Then: “Not really. But I should be.”

And that—unlike most things lately—sounded true.

The three of them stood in the doorway for a long, slow breath, the rain thinning behind Otto like it knew its part in the scene was over.

Then Kaspar said, skittishly, “I have soup. Is red.”

Otto lightly chuckled. “Good to know.”

The door closed. The rain was behind them.

***

The church still smelled faintly of soup.

Red, awful soup.

But it had been warm. And shared. And that counted for something.

After Otto returned, they’d scraped together what little remained—Kaspar even dug into his emergency jar of sour radishes, claiming it was a celebration. 

Otto brought coin—a surprising amount, hard-earned, and ever seductive. 

It wasn’t a crazy amount, but it was enough to buy bread that wasn’t bitter, jam that tasted like actual fruit, and a wedge of soft, salty cheese that disappeared faster than any of them would admit.

They hadn’t said much during the meal. Didn’t need to. The silence wasn’t the hollow kind anymore.

Not like Viktor’s house. That table had been crowded—oppressive with performance and protocol. This was cramped, cluttered, a bit smoky from a bent stove pipe—but it was theirs. And when Otto had passed Asher the last slice of bread without a word, he’d felt something unspoken settle between them.

Not forgiveness, maybe. But... alignment. Like loose gears finally catching.

Now, a day later, Asher stepped out of the church and pulled his coat tighter around him.

He was going back to the hospital.

***

The road to the outskirts curved gently past the main market and beyond the tangle of residential alleys. Asher kept his head low, footsteps steady.

People still stared.

Some turned outright. One woman tugged her daughter into a shop like he was a winter wind about to steal her warmth. A blacksmith, mid-sentence with a vendor, fell quiet the second Asher passed. His eyes never left Asher’s back.

He ignored it.

Or tried to.

He kept his gaze forward and fixed his mind on the path ahead.

Still, it wore at him—this quiet condemnation. As if their silence was heavier than any insult. He kept walking, jaw tight, heartbeat steady.

Until he looked up.

The sky was painted in gentle, sun-drenched hues: a wide arc of rainbow stretched lazily across the horizon, its edges kissed by drifting clouds.

The clouds looked like things today.

Not shapes. Not metaphors.

Things.

One curled like a pocket watch. Another stretched like Kaspar’s coat hanging lopsided on its peg. A third looked absurdly like a loaf of bread with a bite missing.

He stopped walking.

The world dimmed around him—chatter thinning into the sound of leaves brushing one another overhead. The cobbles below him faded into irrelevance. The frost still clinging to the edges of shop signs meant nothing now.

Just the sky.

The rainbow glowed faint and steady. Like a quiet joke the world was playing just for him.

He smiled, despite himself. A small, unguarded thing.

The peace held until a cart clattered past nearby. The driver didn’t look his way, but Asher instinctively took a half-step back from the road.

Last time he was near the hospital, a carriage had barreled around the bend, wheel nearly brushing his shoulder. The driver had barely yelled a warning.

This time, though, the road was clear. The breeze was calm. Even the birds above the treeline were scattered, soft-voiced and unbothered.

He let himself breathe.

No chase. No threat. No graveyard of decisions waiting for him at the end of a hallway.

Just one more step. And then another.

There it stood.

The hospital.

The three-story building was still imposing—its aged brickwork catching the sun in uneven fragments, casting long, stretched shadows that seemed to move just a beat too slow. 

It rose from the ground like a forgotten sentinel at the edge of town, stern and unyielding, watching without warmth.

Ivy crawled along one side now, stubborn and alive against the stone. The windows, tall and narrow, reflected the sky back at him—slices of drifting cloud and the faint arc of the rainbow behind.

The designs etched along the upper floor hadn’t faded. Ornate. Unnecessary. Symbols of old wealth, old power. They whispered down at him even now.

And yet, despite it all—despite the echoes of grandeur and the memory of almost being crushed beneath a speeding carriage—Asher felt a strange kind of calm.

The breeze stirred again, clean and full of open air.

He stepped forward.

Whatever waited inside, it wouldn’t change what had already happened. Might offer a shape to the storm still turning quietly behind his ribs.

He reached for the door handle.

And paused—just for a second—to glance up at the rainbow, now half-shrouded by a cloud shaped like a crooked spoon.

Then he took a step forth.

Chapter Text

The hospital smelled of vinegar and soap.

Not clean enough to comfort, not dirty enough to ignore. The kind of smell that clung to the walls no matter how often they scrubbed the floors.

Asher stepped through the front doors, boots leaving soft echoes on the tile. The waiting room was quieter than usual—no shouted arguments, no groaning patients bleeding through their bandages. Just the low murmur of conversation and the distant creak of a stretcher being turned too sharply down the hall.

The head nurse sat behind the desk, her shoulders squared like someone who never stopped bracing. She looked up when he entered but said nothing—just nodded once. Brief. Clipped. Professional.

There was a flicker of recognition in her eyes.

Asher nodded back, slipping past the line of benches where a few patients sat clutching papers or each other.

A nurse passed by with a clipboard. Another gave him a neutral glance before vanishing through the swinging doors.

There was no blood on the stairs today. No panic. No half-shouted doctrine.

There was however, a strange woman.

Loen-styled, though not ostentatious—an ash-grey coat with a collar that brushed her cheekbones, and pale gloves despite the warmth indoors. Her honey-blonde hair was pinned in a crown braid, each strand meticulous, as if daring none to stray.

She looked like someone accustomed to quieter halls—archives, perhaps.

For a moment, she turned toward him. Her dark blue eyes swept over Asher, then away—appraising, not impolite.

As if marking a fault in a manuscript.

Something about her.

Her posture. Her silence.

It reminded him of Otto. Of people who’d studied the world like a problem and decided not to show their answer.

Asher inclined his head politely as he passed. She didn’t return it. Just lowered her gaze again, waiting—for something, or someone.

His footsteps echoed up the stairs, steady despite the weight in his chest.

Alex was still upstairs. His condition far worse now. The cancer had metastasized, despite the surgery.

The letter Alex had sent was blunt, chilling in its honesty: the last operation hadn’t gone as hoped, and time was running out.

He’d asked Asher to come. To perform rites Asher wasn’t sure he believed in—or even remembered fully.

Still, it felt like the right thing to do.

***

Alex was thinner now.

Not just ill—but the hollow, waxen thinness that came with dying.

His head lolled slightly against the pillow, skin tinted a sickly grey beneath the dim light. A folded blanket lay untouched near his hip.

Asher paused in the doorway, throat tight.

Alex stirred faintly at the creak of the floorboards.

“…That you?” the man rasped, eyes blinking halfway open.

“Yeah. It’s me.”

Asher stepped in quietly and pulled up a chair.

Alex turned his head slightly. His lips twitched into something that might’ve been a smile. “You’re late.”

“Fashionably,” Asher said, settling into the seat with a sigh. “Couldn’t find the right boots for a deathbed vigil.”

A dry, wheezing sound came from Alex’s throat. It might’ve been laughter. “Still bad at prayers?”

“Still bad at everything,” Asher admitted.

They sat in silence for a moment. The smell of disinfectant lingered faintly in the air. A nurse passed in the hall, her shoes squeaking like they were trying not to exist.

“I got your letter,” Asher said finally.

Alex nodded, barely. “Didn’t want to go without… something.”

Asher looked at his hands. “You’re not going alone.”

Alex’s fingers twitched faintly against the blanket. “That prayer you gave me… back then. Wasn’t half bad.”

“I made it up,” Asher confessed.

“Still helped,” Alex murmured. “Wasn’t much choice anyway. No Evernight temples in Feysac. No Sisters. You were the second-best option.”

Asher blinked, caught somewhere between amusement and unease. “Wow. High praise.”

“Didn’t say good second-best,” Alex rasped, a flicker of a smirk playing at his lips.

“You know, most people go with ‘thanks for showing up.’ You’re over here drafting performance reviews.”

Alex shrugged slightly. “I’ve been stuck in this bed for months. Got bored.”

“Next time you’re dying, I’ll bring a violin,” Asher muttered. “Or juggling balls. You seem like a guy who’d appreciate flair.”

“Would’ve settled for soup without clots.”

“I’m not a miracle worker,” Asher said flatly. “At best I’m a mildly enthusiastic fraud.”

Alex coughed a laugh, then winced slightly. “You’re not that bad.”

“Oh no,” Asher said. “Not this. If you start telling people I’m a good person, I’m leaving.”

Alex’s face twitched into a faint grin, his eyes nearly closing with the effort. “Fine. You’re a terrible person.”

“Better.”

Another beat of silence passed.

“…Still,” Alex added softly, body twitching slightly, “You showed up.”

Asher looked away, mouth tightening faintly. “Yeah, well. You-”

Then—suddenly—Alex’s body stiffened.

His breath caught.

The faint lines of humor vanished from his face as his back arched ever so slightly, muscles clenching. A low groan tore from his throat, raw and involuntary.

Asher sat bolt upright, chair legs scraping against the floor. “Hey—hey. Breathe. Just breathe, okay? I’ll call someone—”

A shadow passed the doorframe.

She stepped in without a word.

The woman from downstairs—the ash-grey coat, the crown braid, the unreadable calm.

Her gloves were already off. She didn’t ask permission. She simply crossed the room, calm as quiet, and placed one hand gently on Alex’s brow.

Her other hand hovered above his chest.

His spasms eased.

As if reaching into his mind, the shaking subsided. His breath slowed, softened.

And then—his eyes unfocused.

Alex stared past Asher, past the hospital walls, into something else entirely.

“…Mom?” he whispered.

Then, smiling faintly: “We’re back at the river... The blue one behind the house. You brought the lanterns...”

Asher stood dumbstruck, the words catching like splinters in his throat.

The room had gone still. Too still.

Alex’s expression softened into peace, like he was already somewhere else.

Asher slowly turned toward Evelyn, eyes narrowing.

“…What the hell did you just do?”

Evelyn didn’t answer.

Her hand still rested lightly on Alex’s brow, her expression unreadable—too calm. Too still.

Asher’s fingers moved instinctively.

He tapped once between his brows.

The world stuttered.

Then it bloomed.

Color poured into his vision like a shattered prism, hues he didn’t have names for bleeding across the room in a great, slow tide. The walls blurred. The sterile air seemed to vibrate with quiet, cosmic threads. Every object hummed with spiritual signature—but Evelyn’s…

Her form glowed with a refined intensity.

Not burning or overwhelming like Otto’s or the creepy blonde man—no. This was controlled. Tempered. But undeniably other.

Her spirit body shimmered with a strange, subtle alice blue—pale and uncanny, like moonlight through glass. A spirit laced through with the threads of a practiced mind and a composed will. And above it all: awareness.

She’s a Beyonder.

A thought flickered through Asher’s mind—tight, quick, nervous.

Should I report this to Otto?

He was, nominally, part of the Machinery Hivemind now. Otto had said that supernatural activity needed to be documented. That the Church watched the world through its “many lenses.”

And yet…

Evelyn’s head tilted—just slightly.

Her eyes met his.

“You’re with the Machinery Hivemind?”

Asher’s heart skipped.

I didn’t say anything aloud. Right?

“H- how did you—”

She blinked, then, for the first time, looked uneasy.

Her hands slowly retreated from Alex’s body, folding carefully in her lap. She glanced toward the door, then back at Asher with a strange sort of caution.

“I didn’t read your mind,” she said quickly. “But you… looked like someone evaluating. Processing. You do the eye thing. I’ve seen some of their priests do it. So I guessed.”

Asher didn’t reply.

His attention drifted back to the glow of her form. The calm, graceful threads of her spiritual makeup, moving in deliberate, layered rhythms. 

She was good.

Everything else—Alex, the hospital bed, the murmur’s, the darkness encroaching his being—felt miles away.

She seemed to collect herself then, smoothing her blouse.

“You don’t have to report me,” she said, voice even. “Under the canon of the God of Steam and Machinery, discretionary revelation of spiritual knowledge is left to the judgment of the individual observer. It’s not mandatory. It’s… encouraged, but not enforced.”

The words slid too easily into Asher’s brain.

Soothing. Reassuring.

Eerily placating.

He took a step back, watching her more warily now. That tone—he’d heard it before.

Viktor’s voice when he blurred his mind through his rituals.

Asher swallowed. “Are you Circle?”

Evelyn blinked. “What?”

“That… thing you did. With his mind. That’s not normal. So are you with the Circle?”

She looked genuinely puzzled.

“No. I’m not with any Circle. I don’t even know what that is. I’m a Beyonder of the Spectator pathway. That’s all.”

She paused, then frowned lightly. “Only deific ‘circle’ I know of is maybe the Wheel of Fortune. But from everything I’ve read, that seat’s… unclaimed. Always has been.”

Asher didn’t answer.

He couldn’t.

He just stood there, bathed in kaleidoscopic afterimages, staring at the woman who had just calmed a dying man’s soul and guessed his thoughts like they’d been whispered aloud.

And then, Alex exhaled.

A long, slow breath.

And didn’t take another.

Yet Asher barely noticed.

His thoughts were a whirlwind of color and implication, spinning too fast for logic to catch.

“I—I… Ugh. Just—please sit tight while I find a nurse, before I’m the one who loses his mind.”

He spun on his heel, boots loud on the tile as he pushed through the stairwell door and bolted down the hallway, footsteps echoing like a warning bell in an otherwise quiet floor.

Behind him, the woman sat slowly in the visitor’s chair beside the bed.

Her gloved hands folded in her lap.

She didn’t touch Alex.

Just looked at him sorrowfully.

“You too, then.”

And a quiet kind of pity, like someone reading the last page of a book they already knew the ending to.

Chapter Text

The nurses called the time of death with clinical precision. 

A clipped voice marked the hour, another noted the minute. The silence afterward was not total; fabric still rustled, birds still chirped, a breath caught in a throat. But it felt like silence.

Asher stood by the door, hands still. The sharpness in his chest was not grief exactly, but something murkier, unfamiliar. 

Guilt? Not quite. Helplessness, maybe.

Evelyn adjusted her gloves with a surgeon's care. Her face was the same as it had been when Alex was alive. Pinned braid, blank expression, that unbearable calm.

"You don't look surprised," Asher said quietly.

She looked at him then. "Should I be?"

“He died.” He said it like it might split her open. It didn’t.

"He died the moment the surgery failed. Today just made it official."

The detachment in her voice made something twist in him. He stepped closer.

"Who was he to you?"

"My brother."

That landed. Not with drama, but with weight. Like a stone placed in his hand.

Asher stared. "You said his name like it was nothing."

Evelyn's eyes flicked toward the still body. "Names are tools. He wouldn't have wanted indulgence."

"That's not an answer."

"He was the only one I had left..." She tucked her gloves tighter, then added, more softly, "My name is Evelyn. If it matters."

He exhaled. Slowly. "It does."

They stood in silence again, the kind that itched. Then:

"You did something to him. To calm him. That wasn't just... bedside manner."

Evelyn didn't deny it. "My sequence lets me influence minds. Nothing dramatic."

Asher narrowed his eyes. "You’re a Spectator?"

"As I said ."

"Then what church are you with?"

A pause. Then: "None."

That made him straighten. "You're unaffiliated."

"Correct."

"So this was all off the books. Everything you did."

She met his gaze evenly. "Yes. Which is why I'd appreciate it if you didn't report me."

"You think I would?"

"You're not stupid."

He didn't like the way she said that. Like it was a compliment he hadn’t earned yet.

Silence again. Then Evelyn tilted her head.

"My turn."

"What?"

"Three questions."

He hesitated, then nodded once.

"First. What sequence are you?"

"Nine," he said. "Monster."

She lifted an eyebrow, but said nothing.

"Second. Is your church wealthy? Well-connected?"

That startled him. "No. It’s barely standing. We have a rodent problem and maybe three people."

Evelyn smiled, barely. "Noted. Third question. Have you been involved in anyone's death recently?"

Asher stiffened.

She saw it.

"That wasn't hypothetical," she said softly.

His voice was quiet. "I… don't want to get into that."

"Fair."

The silence returned—thicker this time, not quite uncomfortable but not welcome either. Asher opened his mouth, closed it, then opened it again with no clear plan.

She stood abruptly, as if a puzzle had just clicked into place.

“I’m coming with you.”

“What?”

Evelyn brushed invisible dust from her coat and gestured toward the hall. “To your church. I’ve decided it’s the safest place for now.”

“You—you what? ”

“The last place any church would think to look is one with ghost stories, zero influence, and, what was it? Three people and an infestation?”

“That was sarcasm!”

“Even better.” She nodded to the door. “Lead the way, Monster Nine.”

He stood slowly, eyes narrowed. “You can’t just invite yourself to stay.”

“I’m a licensed therapist. And frankly…” She looked him up and down, unreadable. “You’re an interesting case.”

He blinked. “You’re serious.”

“Tragically.” Evelyn started walking, expecting him to follow. When he caught up to her in the hallway, he asked:

“Wait. Where’d you even get your license?”

“Church of the God of Knowledge and Wisdom,” she replied smoothly, though her voice dipped with the answer.

He squinted. “Didn’t you say you weren’t part of any organization?”

“I’m not. Not anymore.” Her tone was clipped.

“What happened—”

Under her breath, she muttered, “Probably revoked by now.”

Then, louder: “Left on good terms. Mostly. Long story.”

She kept walking.

Asher stared at the back of her head like it might offer further explanation. It didn’t.

***

As they walked down the stairway, Asher’s thoughts churned.

“I’m not sure Otto’s going to be okay with this,” he said quietly, glancing sideways at Evelyn. 

“Bringing you there… And if I’m honest, I don’t know if the church can handle more people right now.”

Reaching the bottom she gave him a small, almost imperceptible smirk. “Well-”

Before Evelyn could respond, a sudden tug on Asher’s sleeve made him freeze. He turned sharply.

A small figure—a boy, thin and pale, eyes wide with desperate hope—stood behind him.

Asher vaguely knew the boy from before, having noticed dangerous swelling in his head. 

His hands trembled as he pressed something into Asher’s palm: a single, battered kopek.

“I… I heard what you were saying,” the kid whispered, voice barely steady. “About a place. Somewhere safe. Can I… can I stay? Please?”

He stared down at the coin—worthless, but all the boy had to offer.

“Why come to me?” Asher asked gently, crouching to his level.

The kid swallowed hard. “I don’t know where my parents went. The nurses have been helping, feeding me… but they say they can’t do it much longer.”

The boy’s honest vulnerability struck Asher harder than he expected.

Evelyn stepped closer, voice softer than before. “You’re braver than you know Liam.”

Asher swallowed, his thoughts swirling. 

How did I suddenly get in the position of inviting two new people to a church that’s barely hanging on?

It’s always just been Otto, Kaspar, and me…

“It’s not a promise. But… I’ll see what I can do.”

Liam gave a small, grateful nod, clutching the kopek like it was a lifeline.

Asher rose, brushing a hand over his hair. “Alright, Liam. Come with us.”

A heavy door behind them shut with a soft thud, echoing faintly in the sterile hallway.

Ahead, Asher reached out and pushed open the door back outside, the refreshing mid-spring air greeting them like a fresh start.

Chapter Text

They took the back streets.

The walk from the hospital to the old church didn’t take long, but it gave the rumors time to breathe. People didn’t whisper subtly in this part of the town—they threw names around like rotten fruit. Monster. Liar. Miracle-worker. Demon.

Evelyn seemed amused.

“I’m compiling a list,” she said, brushing a gloved finger across her chin. “So far I’ve counted nine accusations of criminal sorcery, two unconfirmed saint sightings, and one claim you turned a man’s bones into soup.”

Asher side-eyed her. “Technically that last one wasn’t me. And it was porridge.”

Liam walked between them, small and silent, his wide-eyed stare ping-ponging between the two like he wasn’t sure if they were protectors or creatures of the night. Maybe both.

Then the steeple came into view. The old triangle glinted above them—rusted brass, jagged gear teeth sealed inside like a clock that had forgotten how to tick.

Liam tugged on Asher’s sleeve. His voice was small, but his eyes carried the weight of a verdict.

“Are you a villain?”

Asher stopped in his tracks.

Am I a villain?

It wasn’t the kind of question that wanted a real answer. But it deserved one:

The truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.

“I…” He straightened, then with sudden theatrical flair, puffed his chest and tapped the bicep of his coat sleeve. “Am a villain by day. By night… a hero. Very secret. Very noble. Terrible branding.” 

Liam blinked—then grinned, wide and reverent, like he’d just been entrusted with the world’s greatest secret.

It was the first time Asher had seen it.

Before the warmth could settle, he turned back toward the church.

The wooden sign above the doors—“Sermons Cancelled Until Further Notice”—was gone.

In its place: the doors wide open, voices echoing through the walls, and a small crowd filtering in like moths to a flame.

“…Huh,” Asher said.

Evelyn raised an eyebrow. “I take it this isn’t standard procedure?”

“…That’s more people than we used to get,” he muttered. “Even before Otto wandered off on his drunken sabbatical.”

Evelyn followed his gaze, her voice mild. “How long was he gone again?”

“A few weeks.” he said, voice flat, carved clean of anything that might invite questions.

After nudging the door open, the three of them slipped into a pew near the back.

The space had changed since the last time Asher had sat here. The gears above the altar—once rusted still—now creaked softly in rhythm, and fresh candles lined the stained glass sills. 

People filled the space in scattered clusters, some leaning forward with rapt attention, others clutching trinkets, coins, folded papers.

At the front stood Otto.

He wasn’t in anything flashy. No ceremonial robes, no gaudy pendant—just a threadbare cassock and the firm presence of someone who didn’t need embellishments to be heard. His voice echoed gently, the way warm tea fills a cup.

“…And so we remember: even when the world misnames you, misunderstands you, or asks you to kneel before its cruelty—you are not without meaning. You are not a broken cog, nor a miscast gear.

You are part of a design vast and unfinished. A mechanism still turning.

And in moments of pain, when the pressure builds and the valves strain, know this—”

He paused, gaze sweeping the crowd—like he saw through every mask. Like he forgave what he found behind them.

As Otto continued the gears above ticked, like punctuation.

When he finally closed the book in his hands, Evelyn leaned over, her whisper barely audible beneath the murmur of rising voices.

“Why on earth are we at a sermon on a random Wednesday?”

Asher didn’t look at her. Just smiled, the corner of his mouth twitching as if the answer itself amused him.

“Otto gave a sermon once, years ago, to fill in for a sick priest,” he said quietly. “It was supposed to be a one-off. But he’s so annoyingly competent at it—people kept showing up. Pressured him into doing it again. And again. Since then it’s almost an everyday staple.”

He nodded toward the crowd, many of whom were now drifting forward to speak with Otto, the majority concerning the rumors surrounding Asher and Kaspar.

“He started enjoying it. Them too. So now it’s… well. Every day.”

From the front of the room, Otto glanced back—just once—meeting their eyes with a knowing smile, like he’d heard the conversation from across the pews. Then he turned back to the crowd, already easing their doubts with that calm, deliberate voice.

As the clamor at the front began to fade—whispers softening, footsteps retreating—Asher noticed something else. A steady, rhythmic sound just to his right.

He turned.

Liam had slumped against the pew, head tilted, mouth slightly open. Fast asleep. Didn’t even make it through the sermon.

Asher huffed a quiet breath—equal parts amused and impressed.

The last murmurs of the congregation faded as they clattered out, boots echoing softly against stone.

Out of the corner of his eye, Asher caught Otto taking a discreet sip from a bottle tucked behind the lightly scorched altar.

“Fuckin—”

Without a word, Asher’s patience snapped—channeling the cold fury of an exasperated Latina mother. He slipped off his shoe and threw it with precision.

Otto barely twisted away, but the shoe shattered the bottle, glass scattering across the wood and dark liquid seeping into the cracks.

Otto’s eyes met Asher’s—tired, defeated, and just a little bit ashamed.

“No!” Asher said sternly, walking by to his shoe.

Asher slipped it back on and took a breath like he’d just exorcised a demon with leather and spite. Evelyn gave him a dry, sideways glance but said nothing.

Otto wiped his hand down his face and stepped out from behind the altar, eyeing the broken bottle with resigned dismay. The scent of alcohol was already mixing with candlewax and incense, like a confession gone sour.

“I was saving that,” Otto said without much conviction.

“For what? Your liver’s funeral?” Asher shot back, brushing glass off the edge of the pew.

Evelyn rose smoothly, adjusting the cuffs of her gloves. “Interesting lot.”

Otto’s eyes flicked from her to the child slumped beside them. “And who’s this?”

Asher moved over to give Liam a gentle nudge. “Hey. Kid. Wake up, time to meet the locals.”

Liam blinked awake, blinking like he wasn’t sure where he was. His gaze settled on Otto’s lined face, then half-paying attention, darted to the strange contraption of half-repaired gears above the altar, fascinated by it.

“This is Liam,” Asher said. “He’s with me right now. Evelyn too, if she doesn’t bolt for a better-paying cult.”

Evelyn gave the faintest of smiles, eyes narrowing at Otto like she was evaluating a particularly curious puzzle.

“Evelyn’s the name,” she said. “Formerly of the Church of Knowledge. I’m not a joiner by nature, but I find your... ethos agreeable. The mechanical metaphors are a bit on the nose, but they work.”

Otto gave a low hum of interest. “We’re not exactly recruiting, but…” He gave Asher a long look. “You’ve already started folding them in, haven’t you?”

“Not that I had much of a say in the matter. Plus a decent sized church with three people is rather pitiful.”

Liam clutched Asher’s sleeve again, voice small. “Do I have to do sermons?”

“No,” Asher said immediately, and then glanced at Otto. “Right?”

Otto nodded. “Not unless you want to. People come here to listen. To rest. To remember they’re not broken just because the world keeps trying to strip their screws.”

Liam blinked at him, then nodded like he understood every word.

For a moment, they stood in the quiet aftermath. The candles flickered against the stained glass, casting mottled color across their faces.

Then the door to the dorm hallway creaked open.

Kaspar exploded into the nave like a bat out of engine grease, both hands passing between eachother a dented brass bowl that roared with open flame. Not magical flame. Not controlled flame.

Just—fire.

“OTTO!!” he shrieked, zigzagging to him, the bowl wobbling like a possessed fondue pot. “HOT! HOT-HOT-HOT! Emergency seven! Eight? NO, LEVEL SEVEN!”

The fire leapt an inch higher. A singed rag drifted behind him like a tragic comet.

Otto’s reaction was swift and wordless. With the bone-deep sigh of a man used to this exact disaster, he strode forward, gripped Kaspar’s mechanical wrist with his own left arm—and clamped down . Gears whirred, metal hissed, and in a flash of scorched steam, the flame choked itself out with a pitiful fwoop .

Ash hung in the air. Silence followed.

Kaspar blinked down at the now-smoldering bowl.

“…Thank you,” he said, stunned. “Did not think such. Smart man. Very smart. Best priest.”

Asher massaged his temple, already bracing for the headache.

Evelyn’s eyes slid to the ceiling. “I don’t suppose that was the usual?” she muttered.

Otto let go of Kaspar’s arm and stepped back like an artisan disarming a live bomb.

“What was that supposed to be?”

“Fire bowl,” Kaspar replied brightly. “Prototype six. Very spontaneous. Less bowl, more… ceramic regret.”

Liam peeked out from behind Asher, staring in silent awe.

“Kaspar,” Asher sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose, “this is Evelyn and Liam. Evelyn and Liam, this is—unfortunately—Kaspar.”

Kaspar lit up like someone had just handed him a family and a forge in one go.

“New friends!” he gasped, cradling the scorched bowl like it had done its best. “Excellent. Excellent! No worry—I not combust daily. Weekly is most. Monthly if supervised.”

He leaned forward slightly, lowering himself to Liam’s level.
“You small. That good. Small people—statistically less flammable. Welcome!”

Liam looked from Kaspar to Asher, to Evelyn, back to Kaspar. “Are you part of the church too?”

“Sorta!” Kaspar chirped. “I fix, and people not question where I get. It lovely arrangement. Ah! I make gear—” he pointed proudly at the altar’s ticking contraption still spinning gently overhead, “—after I took old smelly one. Asher say ‘no’. Otto say ‘please gods no’.”

Pointing at Evelyn he continues. “But she not here to vote, so I count that as abstaining.”

Evelyn let out a short breath that might’ve been a snort. She studied him, expression faintly amused.

“You’re an engineer, then?”

“Sorta,” Kaspar replied, spinning the bowl—then promptly dropping it with a loud clang . “I engineer truth .”

Asher waved a hand, half-resigned. “He’s not entirely wrong. He’s basically a miracle in boots. And a hazard in every other respect.”

“Reliable hazard,” Kaspar said, sticking out a soot-stained thumb.

Liam paused. You could almost hear the gears turning behind his wide eyes.

“Can you make me something?”

Kaspar lit up again. “Name!”

Liam glanced once more at the bowl, then at the gearwheel above the altar—and after a beat, looked at Asher.

“Something that keeps people safe,” he said slowly. “Like a shield. But invisible.”

Kaspar went very still.

Then, solemnly, he nodded. “I try.”

The gears above ticked again—soft and even—like a heart just beginning to remember how to beat.

Outside, the rumors still breathed.

But in here—at least for now—

so did they.

Chapter Text

Asher woke to the smell of brass and burnt fabric.

He cracked one eye open to find Kaspar asleep at the foot of his bed, tangled in a mess of wires, gears, and what might’ve once been a cooking pan. The guy was drooling slightly, face half-buried in his sheets, one leg twitching every few seconds like he was mid-dream bartering with a gear spirit.

Near his feet, something hummed faintly—an unintelligible metal contraption shaped like a teacup fused with a crab, its legs twitching in slow intervals. A note was pinned to it in Kaspar’s blocky scrawl:

"For Liam. Probably safe."

Asher groaned, carefully extracted his leg from the chaos, and rolled out of bed. His coat lay half-draped on a chair, still damp from last night’s drizzle.

Faint voices drifted through the thin wall—Liam’s easy chatter and Evelyn’s smoother cadence. Seemingly discussing the new place, or evaluating sanity via spoon arrangement.

The hallway creaked underfoot as he padded toward the kitchen. The cold from the rooms tiles made him hiss—someone had forgotten to shut the window last night again, probably Kaspar. Or ghosts. He wouldn’t rule out ghosts at this point.

The kitchen was the usual disaster: one rickety table, a stove with a missing leg, and a window marred by scratches from bats trying to get in and out. As he stepped in, he caught something—a figure at the edge of the glass.

A figure. Still. Watching.

Amber eyes met a still shadowed silhouette across the yard. No detail. Just posture.

In the blink it took him to focus, it was gone.

Asher blinked hard, pressing his palm against the glass. Nothing. Just dew and distant fences.

“Cool,” he muttered. “Paranoia for breakfast.”

He turned and grabbed the pan, then reconsidered—too warped. He went for the smaller one, still vaguely circular. Kaspar had “accidentally enhanced” it last week with a coil that made eggs cook faster if you sang to them.

The hell was that supposed to even mean???

Suffice to say he didn’t sing.

As he cracked the first egg, he thought out loud: “Thanks, Mikhail.”

The eggs had come from Viktor’s old stash. Apparently, Mikhail—now proud owner of both the farm and the town’s respect—had started selling off the remnants. Albeit at a premium.

Evelyn, ever the bargain-hound (or psychic manipulator, depending who you asked), had walked in, stared the price into submission, and brought them home for a third of the cost. 

He suspected no actual haggling occurred. Just a subtle Spectator tilt of the head and a whispered sentence like, “These aren’t the prices you’re looking for.”

He was just glad she was on their side.

He tossed in some butter, diced up some limp onions and a shriveled tomato someone had traded them for repairing a gate. The pan hissed as he dropped everything in, and for a moment, things felt... almost normal.

Asher shook his head, sliding eggs onto plates with the reverence of a man handling gold. “Brunch,” he called toward the hall.

Asher scarfed down the eggs in record time, barely registering the echo of footsteps from the hall. They could smell the leftovers, sure—but they’d have to fight him for them. He left the half-empty plate like a crime scene on the table, wiped his mouth with the edge of his sleeve, and was out the door before anyone could comment.

The town buzzed behind him—more people, more noise than he was used to. It was like someone had turned the volume up on life while he wasn’t paying attention. Too many faces. Too many conversations. He needed out.

So he headed toward the woods. Toward quieter things.

It had been a few weeks since he’d shown up at Samantha’s cabin. Partly because he’d been busy. Mostly because he’d been... unmotivated. Downtrodden. Depressed. Whatever label fit. But today, the need to move— to do something—outweighed the inertia. And Samantha’s place was far enough to feel like escape.

The cabin came into view like an old scar—weathered, reliable, a little grim. And sitting by the door, like some kind of furry mini-boss, was Nimbus.

A mass of black fluff bigger than most furniture, the dog let out a huff and trundled over the moment he saw Asher. There was no warning. No hesitation. Just slobber, weight, and affection like a tidal wave. Asher stumbled under the sudden press of fur and warmth and drool.

“Okay—hi. Missed you too, carpet monster,” he wheezed, patting fur so thick his hand disappeared into it. “How are you not boiling ?”

Nimbus gave no answer. Just panting, tail-thumping approval. Apparently, shuffling between his shady doghouse and the sun like the shade was working just fine.

“About time,” came a voice behind him.

Samantha stepped out of the doorway, arms crossed, sleeves rolled, and a look in her eyes that said you’re not ready .

“Thought you’d gone soft.”

“Emotionally or physically?” Asher asked.

“Both.”

Before he could come up with a snappier retort, training began.

***

It was brutal.

The sun was relentless, the air thick, and Samantha moved like she'd been waiting specifically for this moment. Asher couldn’t tell if she was mad, testing him, or if he’d just forgotten how much she could make someone regret having legs.

Lunges. Grapples. Precision strikes. Corrected form with the subtlety of a hammer. Every slip earned a grunt from her, and often a counter-blow that sent him skidding backward.

The only thing keeping him from collapsing outright was Nimbus.

The giant fluffball hovered like an encouraging spirit, occasionally bounding in to lick his face mid-break or nose his side during cooldowns. Asher was surprised by how well the dog was handling the heat—though to be fair, Nimbus did spend most of it rotating in and out of his doghouse like a self-regulating ghost.

“Think he’s doing better than me,” Asher muttered during a brief water break, wiping his face and instantly replacing the sweat with fur and drool.

Samantha didn’t disagree.

“Again,” she said.

The sun climbed, peaked, and began its descent. The light turned golden, shadows stretching longer. By the time they hit the final lap around the cabin, Asher was wheezing, soaked, bruised, and barely upright.

She finally nodded toward the woods. “That’s enough. Go collapse somewhere else.”

He gave a shaky wave, nearly fell over, and muttered his thanks.

Nimbus escorted him halfway down the path before flopping into the grass with a contented sigh, leaving Asher to limp the rest of the way back alone—sore, sunburnt, but quieter in the head than he’d been in weeks.

***

The church came into view as Asher rounded the corner, muscles still complaining from Samantha's ruthless training. He slowed his pace, noticing a small cluster of children gathered in the churchyard. They circled around something, their laughter carrying on the afternoon breeze.

As he drew closer, he recognized Kaspar's bizarre creation—the crab-teacup contraption—scuttling in erratic circles while the children squealed with delight. Its brass legs clicked against the cobblestones, occasionally pausing to spin in place as if confused by its own existence.

One of the children glanced up, noticed Asher approaching, and froze. 

The others followed suit, expressions shifting from joy to wariness in an instant. There was a moment of suspended silence—then like startled birds, they scattered, leaving the mechanical oddity spinning forlornly in their wake.

Asher sighed, too tired to pretend it didn't sting.

Then he spotted Liam sitting on a bench just in front of the church, half-hidden in the shadow of the doorway. The boy had been watching the scene unfold, his knees pulled up to his chest, fingers fidgeting with something small and metallic.

When Liam noticed Asher looking at him, his face broke into a sudden, brilliant smile.

"It worked!" he exclaimed, jumping to his feet. "Kaspar's invention—it really worked!"

Asher frowned, confused. "What worked?"

Liam bounded down the steps, eyes bright with excitement. "The invisible shield! They didn't even know I was here!" He gestured wildly toward where the children had been playing. "I was sitting right here the whole time, trying to talk to them and they didn't see me at all! It's like I was invisible!"

Something twisted in Asher's chest—a complicated knot of emotions he couldn't immediately untangle. Liam's face was alight with wonder, completely misinterpreting the children's reaction as proof of Kaspar's success rather than ostracization.

"That... that's great, kid," Asher managed, his voice catching slightly. He reached out and ruffled Liam's hair, letting the boy's excitement wash over him.

He nodded toward the crab-teacup, which was now trying—and failing—to climb the church wall. "Looks like Kaspar outdid himself this time."

"He said it's the prototype," Liam explained, bouncing on his toes. "The real shield will be even better than this!"

"I bet it will," Asher said softly, watching as the mechanical creature lost its grip and tumbled backward with a metallic clatter. Like its creator, it was ridiculous, impractical, and somehow exactly what was needed.

As they walked into the church together, Asher felt the strange duality of the moment—the heartache of witnessing Liam's isolation alongside the wonder of the boy's unwavering optimism. It was a bitter kind of sweet, like medicine disguised as candy.

For now, he'd let Liam believe in invisible shields.

The world would teach him about fear and prejudice eventually.

Chapter Text

Saturday – Early Morning

The air was crisp with dew and sun-soaked quiet—the kind of morning that didn’t feel like it belonged to anyone yet.

Asher stepped into the church’s backyard, boots brushing through wet grass that clung to his cuffs. The wide space stretched long behind the chapel, boxed in by old shops and crooked wooden fences. A strip of wildflowers had sprung up where no one had bothered to pull weeds, and in the far left corner, among overgrown moss and leaning ivy, stood a forgotten scattering of tombstones. No names left to read. Just presence.

He adjusted the basket under his arm, filled with a tangle of still-damp jackets and a single, half-frozen sock he suspected wasn’t his.

Further up the yard, Otto stood beside the drying line like a grim sentinel, draping cassocks that looked identical in every way—an army of black robes, disciplined even in the wind. His brow was furrowed in the way that said this wasn’t the way he wanted to spend his morning.

Kaspar, meanwhile, was hunched beside the pole with a gear-laced crank device lashed to it, muttering under his breath as he adjusted something with a wrench far too large for the job. His clothes—if one was generous enough to call them that—hung limp and oil-stained nearby, fluttering with the half-hearted defiance of someone who’d lost every battle with laundry detergent.

Liam sat on a crate beside them, arms resting on his knees, eyes tracking every movement with puppyish curiosity. Two new pairs of trousers—gifted, bartered, and re-stitched by everyone—flapped beside his old ones on the far end of the line, bright and incongruous like hope where there wasn’t supposed to be any.

Evelyn, of course, was nowhere near them.

She was visible through the church’s back window, a silhouette of elegance and quiet refusal, sipping her tea like someone who’d declared herself above communal dampness. Her coat wasn’t among the hanging fabrics. She’d claimed—flatly—that none of them could be trusted to dry it “with the respect it deserved.”

Asher dropped his jackets into the pile by the line and began to unroll his sleeves. “So what’s today’s innovation?” he asked Kaspar.

“Crank-based atmospheric airflow rotator,” Kaspar chirped, tightening a bolt. “Fast dry. Saves time. Wind efficiency. Socks rejoice. Yes?”

“Sure thing.” Asher said warily.

The device wheezed, clicked, and began to turn the line with mechanical groaning and uneven starts. The clothes rotated in a lazy, lurching circle. For a moment, it worked.

Then the gears screamed.

The entire mechanism began to judder wildly, clothes flapping like birds caught in a storm. One of Otto’s cassocks whipped forward like a cape in revolt. A sock launched itself from the line with improbable force, smacking Otto square in the face.

The priest didn’t flinch. He plucked the sock from his nose with icy calm, turned to Kaspar’s invention—and brought his mechanical left arm down on it like divine judgment.

The gears buckled with a crunch. Springs flew like shrapnel. A bolt pinged into the grass near Asher’s foot.

Kaspar stared in stunned silence at the ruin. Then, quietly:

“…Prototype.”

Liam burst into laughter. Asher tried—and failed—to keep a straight face.

Otto simply grunted and returned to hanging the remaining cassocks, as if the act of smiting innovation were part of the routine.

Asher bent to pick up a jacket that had fallen in the commotion, shaking it out with a grin. That’s when something tugged at his attention.

At the far end of the yard—just beyond the final fence, near the tombstones—stood a figure.

Still. Upright. Watching.

The light caught on their outline but gave no detail. No face. Just posture.

He blinked, rubbed at his eyes with a knuckle, and looked again.

Gone.

The wind rustled the grass. The fence creaked lazily. Nothing.

“Hey,” Liam’s voice came softly, tugging at the edge of his shirt. “You okay?”

Asher looked down. The boy’s eyes were wide—not scared, just curious. Steady.

“Yeah,” Asher lied, brushing the damp from his sleeve. “Just… thought I saw something.”

He turned back to the jackets. The day had only just begun.

***

Monday – Sunset

The last rays of sunlight slid lazily through the cracked kitchen window, golden and warm, catching the dust in the air like suspended embers. The chipped glassware on the table glinted faintly, three mismatched cups half-filled with red wine of dubious origin.

The table creaked under even the suggestion of elbows, and yet they still leaned on it—Otto, brow furrowed with the certainty of conviction, and Evelyn, composed and gloved, holding her cup like a court scepter.

Asher, for his part, was a spectator. Slouched near the edge of the bench, he let the stem of his glass tilt between his fingers, mostly untouched. The wine tasted awful.

“It’s not about piety,” Otto was saying, voice low but firm. “The church is a structure. A machine. It gives shape to the chaos. It binds people together.”

“Chains bind too,” Evelyn countered, not unkindly. “And people mistake structure for salvation far too easily. Institutions become cages faster than they become sanctuaries.”

Otto grunted. “Better a flawed cage than nothing holding back the wolves.”

Evelyn raised an eyebrow. “Said every empire, cult, and factory foreman ever.”

Asher took a long sip. Mistake. It burned a little.

“The church isn’t perfect,” Otto allowed, rubbing at his temple. “But I’ve seen it save people. Feed them. Protect them. Offer something to believe in when they had nothing else. You for example!”

Evelyn didn’t blink. “And yet I’ve seen it take, and twist, and silence. Offer hope in one hand and hold a branding iron in the other.”

Silence stretched.

Outside, the sun dipped just below the rooftops, washing the walls in a soft orange. Shadows grew longer, deeper. Somewhere in the hall, an old pipe groaned.