Belltaine, Upper District
Mist clung to the city like a reluctant memory, crawling over slate rooftops and the wrought-iron railings of bell towers. In the early quiet, the spires of the Church of Evernight rose in solemn silhouette.
Impheil adjusted the collar of his gray overcoat as he emerged from a narrow alleyway, boots stepping over the frost-damp cobbles. His expression was unreadable — the sort that never lingered in a crowd's memory. Just another man on a sleepy morning.
He approached the outer plaza of the Cathedral's annex, already threaded with staff and lower-rank clergy moving in tight formations — some carrying bundled scrolls, others reciting low prayers beneath their breath. The surrounding wards shimmered faintly in the morning air, brushing against his Spirit Body like silk strands in a river. They were active, but not yet alert.
His parasites had already infiltrated — scattered through unassuming insects, half-hidden in cracks and corners, and even in the collars of a few junior clergymen. Through their silent senses, Impheil tasted the movements within the building. Patrol shifts, scheduled rites, and most importantly — key routes left momentarily exposed.
He didn't head for the central vaults. That would have been suicide.
Instead, he moved through the structure via a long-decayed inspection registry, disguised behind the mannerisms and bearing of a low-ranked adjudicator's clerk — a common face, with tinges of deceit.
No one questioned his presence.
He crossed several checkpoints without so much as a flicker of suspicion.
Eventually, he reached a narrow corridor near the sub-vault division — a winding stretch of reinforced architecture lined with consecrated seals. Through his parasites, Impheil mapped the inner workings beyond the bulkhead ahead — locked storage chambers, archive boxes, warded crates. Among them, his target: the sealed relic once belonging to the Constantine line.
Or so he thought.
He paused near a viewing alcove tucked behind a barred prayer room, eyes flicking sideways.
Nothing.
He closed his eyes, sent a pulse of thought through the network.
Silence.
Then—.
The relic wasn't here.
His mind twitched sharply.
The relic had been reassigned. Quietly removed the previous night under the authority of High-Ranking Deacon Greswin, labeled as part of the sensitive load for the day's field operation.
It had been moved.
To the docks.
To the warehouse.
Impheil opened his eyes, letting the breath leave his chest slowly, steadily.
"Of course," he murmured under his breath. "Always a step faster when you're late on purpose."
He didn't move immediately.
Instead, he took out his black gothic pocket watch, tracing the engraved surface slowly. With a click, he opened it swiftly, gazing at the time. Then he snapped it shut.
His parasites began to withdraw, peeling back from their hosts, leaving no memory behind — save for one or two that would remain dormant, tethered to eyes and ears that might still be useful.
Impheil turned, coat trailing behind him, and walked away from the vaults without pause.
The window was closing.
If he wanted the relic, there would be no quiet retrieval.
He would have to go to the docks.
And walk into the trap.
…
The wind off the river carried the smell of salt, damp rope, and rust. Overhead, gulls circled listlessly, their cries dulled by the thickening fog that clung low to the water. From the outskirts of the shipping lanes, the Red Warehouse loomed in its usual quiet — aged, patched in iron, its frame hunched between a leaning crane and a row of disused storage sheds.
It had long been forgotten by most of the city.
But today, it held purpose.
The surrounding activity had grown quieter. A few patrols rotated around the broader dock district, blending into the clutter and noise of merchant lanes.
Perched in the shadow of a half-collapsed hoist across the canal, Impheil watched.
He had arrived alone, slipping through back routes and empty alleys while the rest of Belltaine focused on the riverfront markets. His coat, dusted in faded soot, blended into the iron around him. He hadn't moved in some time.
He didn't need to.
The parasite in Therrin — still operating within the Church's fold — had done enough.
Through blurred flashes of vision and fractured impressions, Impheil had seen enough: the Constantine Relic had been moved from the Church's main vault. It now sat inside the warehouse.
He hadn't planned to follow it here.
But plans were like disguises — useful only until the wind changed.
A group like the Church wouldn't bring something that dangerous unless they expected it to be useful — or to bait something worse.
Impheil's expression didn't shift.
He would have to act soon.
He didn't know what the Brokers were bringing. He didn't know what the Church expected to catch. But he knew one thing:
The Relic was here.
He stepped back from the ledge, coat settling around his frame like drawn curtains.
…
The hinges groaned as the side entrance gave way.
Edwin stepped into the warehouse first, eyes adjusting to the dim light spilling through the upper panes. Dust motes spun lazily in the sunbeams. A few iron support pillars broke up the otherwise open space, and crates lined the far corners — remnants from a time when this place actually saw cargo, not covert dealings.
Two steps behind, his escort followed — a tall woman with short gloves and no insignia, her face concealed beneath a plain half-veil. Another shadow lingered by the door, watching their rear.
Three was enough.
They'd chosen light presence for flexibility. Just a Broker, an observer, and a knife tucked in between.
Edwin's footfalls echoed softly against the stone. He scanned the interior with casual care.
"Half a minute early," the veiled woman murmured beside him, her tone unreadable. "They should be arriving soon."
"They will," Edwin replied calmly. "They always do."
His tone didn't betray it, but his thoughts churned quietly beneath the surface.
The setup had taken weeks... Everything had progressed without interruption.
That alone made him uneasy.
"Eyes open," he said under his breath. "If they're late, we leave in five. No meeting if the rhythm's broken."
The woman didn't reply. She didn't need to.
From the far side of the warehouse, the outer door creaked.
Footsteps.
Edwin straightened subtly, brushing a speck of dust from his coat, a mask of pleasant neutrality already in place. A hint of a smile.
The rusted door groaned on its hinges, ushering in three figures with the fog. Their footsteps echoed briefly in the warehouse's hollow expanse before falling still.
Edwin Arkwright didn't move from his post near the far wall, half-shadowed beneath the support beams. The gas lamps flickered, casting long, distorted silhouettes that bled into the mist curling near the floor. Two of his own stood behind him.
The first of the newcomers stepped forward. He wore a pale coat with the collar high, boots scuffed from field work. His companions fanned out loosely, careful but calm.
Edwin inclined his head slightly. "I take it you came with expectations."
The lead man's voice was dry. "We came with an interest. Nothing more."
"Good," Edwin murmured. "Because this isn't a handoff."
"The item?" one of the others asked, tone clipped. "Still in his hands?"
"Yes," Edwin replied, eyes narrowing faintly. "Graham Constantine still has it. Wherever he tucked it, it hasn't moved. Not yet."
The man in gray folded his arms. "Then why are we here?"
"In case he tries to vanish," Edwin said simply. "Or someone else gets to him first."
The group exchanged a glance — subtle, but measured.
"Do we know what exactly the relic is?"
"No," Edwin admitted. "Only that it's not meant to be held."
Finally, the courier-looking one spoke. "And if we go in?"
"You follow the fallback plan," Edwin said. "No overt moves until I signal. If he runs — we close in. If he stalls — we apply pressure."
The lead man glanced once toward the side entrance, then back at Edwin. "If it comes to force?"
"Only if necessary," Edwin said.
Another moment passed, filled only by the creak of wind-battered rafters.
Then the man gave a short nod.
"Understood."
Edwin remained still.
He didn't need to say more.
Their leader, with hollow eyes and a silver clasp at his collar, tapped his boot once against the stone floor.
They began to turn and leave
And that's when it started.
The light shifted first — subtly, but enough to freeze movement. Lanterns above flickered once… then again, before dimming a shade too far. Shadows deepened unnaturally, thickening at the edges of the warehouse. The air turned heavy.
As if a curtain had been drawn across the entire building.
And in that moment, it was clear — the warehouse had been sealed, for containment.
They weren't here to ensure secrecy.
They were here to trap.
The Broker to Edwin's left froze mid-step.
"What the hell—?" one of them started, but didn't finish.
Because the doors slammed shut — all of them.
One after another.
"Edwin," muttered one of his men, drawing back. "This wasn't part of the script—"
"I know," Edwin said softly, hand now resting inside his coat.
Edwin took one careful step back, his boot whispering against the dusty floorboards.
A black-clad figure stepped forward from the far wall, flanked by flickering light. The temperature dropped instantly, breath misting in the air. Faint whispers rolled across the warehouse — not words, not screams — just a pressure that dug between ribs.
Another emerged from behind a crate, cloaked in a muted aura of twilight. With a sharp gesture, a wave of force surged forward, slamming one of the Broker agents back into the floor with enough force to splinter the wood.
Then, from above — the ceiling.
Darkness melted downward like spilled ink. A shadow figure dropped behind one of the retreating Brokers and jammed something thin and glinting into the man's neck. No blood. Just silence. Then collapse.
More figures filtered in through the rear corridor. Robes brushed against stone. Gloved hands glimmered with faint signs of death. Another Broker tried to flee through the side exit — only to seize mid-step, eyes wide with a sudden, internal scream. His knees buckled as invisible force clamped down around his spirit.
"Positions!" Edwin snapped, diving low behind a crate.
He glanced at the others — his fellow Brokers, a few trusted enforcers and a shadowed liaison on loan from another cell. One look at their tightened grips, the tensing of muscle beneath coats, confirmed the same thought mirrored across their minds.
They'd been baited.
And no warning had come.
Not from the Overseer.
Why? Edwin's mind raced. Why didn't he say anything? Why didn't we see this coming?
He drew in a breath through his nose, slow and sharp, and angled his stance subtly — one step backward, almost casual. His fingers drifted toward his coat pocket. Within, a smooth, coin-shaped artifact — polished obsidian and silver-gilt. He pressed it lightly.
Nothing.
A low pulse of pressure rippled outward from the warehouse walls.
Suppression.
Something had dampened artifact activation within this place.
Across the hall, a cloaked Nighthawk stepped into view. Then another. A third slipped between rows of crates.
Edwin's teeth clenched. No direct escape… not like this.
Desperate, he reached into his inner vest and pulled free a small charm — barely the length of a finger, shaped like a wax seal stamped with an unrecognizable mark.
He crushed it between his fingers.
A moment later, the air folded.
Space itself bent around a presence that had always been there, simply waiting to be acknowledged.
A figure stepped through the wall of gloom near the warehouse's northern flank.
His coat was layered in soft-shadowed fabrics that shimmered strangely at the edges — difficult to track.In their gloved hands—a rod-shaped object, black and ribbed, faintly veined with silver and amethyst light. His face was obscured by a mask of polished slate etched with faint lines that flickered like breathing words.
The Church's concealment shattered in waves.
The twilight veil bled away from the corners inward. Blessings of silence, dampened space, and fog peeled back as if rolled off like sheeting smoke, replaced by a stillness even deeper. A new weight pressed down.
The Overseer had arrived. And yet... there was something wrong.
His movement, while deliberate, seemed slightly off-rhythm. A faint flicker clung to his form — like grime on a mirror. His aura pulsed with power but carried motes of spiritual distortion, like distant radio interference. His protection was active, but wavered faintly as if something had gnawed at it — recently.
He paused at the warehouse's heart, gaze sweeping the Church's agents who had begun repositioning in response. His presence warped the field — not with brute force, but with jurisdiction. His Domain bled into the fabric of the encounter, asserting itself.
One of the Red Gloves twitched, the weapon halfway raised — and stopped. The invisible tension shifted. The battlefield was no longer theirs alone.
The air cracked.
Like glass too long under pressure, the darkness folded inward—ripping open with a soundless shock.
The artifact was subtle at first. Then it bloomed.
Mirrors nearby trembled in their iron clasps. Condensation spread across the floor in spreading arcs of frost, and the temperature dropped several degrees.
Even the Church's ambient concealment began to shudder.
A wave of force rippled through the false twilight—curling the edges of darkness, peeling back concealment layers like smoke whisked away from a flame. The warehouse grew clearer, more real. The artificial haze faltered.
And then—
Threads.
Fine, near-invisible filaments began spreading across the space—fanning from the Overseer. Some latched to wall supports. Some hovered in the air.
Edwin staggered back, the pressure loosening just enough for him to breathe. His lungs dragged in cold air as he dropped beside a half-fallen crate. Blood clung to his sleeve.
But his eyes were sharp.
He muttered a short phrase and reached into his coat—retrieving another small charm, this one carved from black lacquered bone. A flick of his fingers snapped the edge.
A barrier of warped shadow hissed into being around him—temporary, mobile. Not invulnerable, but enough to regroup.
He watched as the Overseer stepped forward.
Each step tightened the thread-web, like a seamstress weaving inevitability.
Until—
Steel clashed.
Twin figures streaked across the rear entrance of the warehouse—boots slamming against stone, coats flaring like wings of dusk. Greswin moved first, a veil of shadows wrapping his limbs as he advanced. With a gesture, the space around him dimmed unnaturally—darkness bleeding upward from the floor to swallow the encroaching threads.
Lucienne followed a breath behind, her steps resounding with quiet force. Where she moved, the air thickened—gravity bending as her blade swept through it, trailing silver arcs of force. A radiant pulse surged forward, not light but pressure — a blow meant to crush and break.
The Overseer tilted his head once.
The artifact in his grip pulsed.
Mirror-like panels burst from the floor around him, flickering into place with unnatural speed. Black flames ignited along their edges, wreathing the shields in searing hunger that crackled toward the Church clergy.
The impact rang out. Darkness slammed into mirrored fire, while tremors rippled across the warehouse floor. Shattered crates flickered beneath the strain.
Still, the structure held.
And crouched behind the remains of a collapsed barrier, Edwin narrowed his eyes—watching, calculating, waiting for the next fracture in the chaos.
Blades clashed against the mirrors. Black fire licked across Lucienne's armguard, drawing sparks as she twisted aside, planting her boot and driving a crushing kick toward the artifact-wielder's side. The Overseer vanished into shadow—then reformed just beyond her reach, strands of corrupted silk coiling along the floor beneath his coat like roots searching for soil.
Greswin's veil thickened, swallowing sound and motion alike. His form blurred at the edges, swallowed by darkness as a second self split from him—one striking high, the other low, both shadows lashing toward the Overseer with synchronized momentum.
But the Overseer didn't falter.
He pivoted back, pressing a thin, reflective shard to the floor.
A ripple answered.
From a sealed crate nearby—wards fractured by the mounting chaos—something stirred.
A sharp thrum cut through the cacophony.
Then silence.
A mirror slid from its shattered container like a whisper—it's frame cold, unadorned, and plain. But the surface… the surface was impossibly smooth, glass veined faintly with silver and black, as if etched by shadows that never moved. The moment it struck open air, something shifted.
The warehouse bent—barely perceptible. Walls pulled inward. Light dimmed, curling around the mirror's surface like it refused to be reflected. The veil of space and distance twisted, the ground itself twisting unevenly.
Greswin braced against a column, his veil rippling erratically. Lucienne's stance faltered a step as the floor beneath her boots slickened with a reflection that hadn't been there before. She caught herself, eyes narrowing.
The Overseer stopped completely.
His eyes widened for a fraction of a second.
One hand rose, slow and uncertain.
"…So that's what it is," he murmured.
Its surface smooth, still, and empty—until, in a single breath of stillness, the Overseer's reflection appeared upon it.
And then, it began to distort.
The Overseer flinched. His own image within it warped — angles bent, posture stretched sideways, motions he hadn't made echoing back at him from the glass. The order within him rebelled, structure unraveling one thread at a time as the battlefield buckled around the Mirror's influence.
"This is it," he said hoarsely. "The relic they hid."
And it wasn't dormant anymore.
Farther back, crouched low behind fractured crates, Edwin felt his stomach twist.
His eyes fixed on the mirror. That relic. That was what Graham had stashed away?
And it was here?
He didn't even finish the thought.
A figure appeared beside him—quiet as a held breath.
Gray coat draped neatly over sharp shoulders, bowler hat tilted just enough to shade the lenses of his round spectacles.
And on his hands, gloves of a deep, old red—closer to dried blood than dyed leather. Their surface was smooth but firm, subtly lined like coiled sinew, the edges catching the firelight with a faint, embered shimmer that suggested heat slumbering just beneath.
Edwin's mouth went dry.
"You—"