The ancient wooden door groaned open, its protest a familiar melody in the symphony of their secluded lives. Sofia stepped inside, her red-and-gold sneakers barely whispering against the worn floorboards. The warmth of the hearth embraced her, a stark contrast to the chill night air that clung to her leather jacket like a second skin.

Arthur stood by the fireplace, his silhouette carved in flickering orange light. His eyes, a tempest of relief and concern, locked onto his daughter. At the dinner table, James, Ceres, and Sara sat in tense silence.

"You're late," Arthur's voice rumbled, low and controlled. "Where were you?"

Sofia's eyes, defiant yet tinged with a weariness beyond her years, met her father's gaze. "Lost track of time," she said, her tone casual but brittle. "Needed some air so I went to the creek."

"To sketch, right?" James muttered. "Funny how your hands are clean as a whistle."

Sofia shot him a glare. "I washed up before coming in and since when did you become such a snitch?"

"Enough," Arthur growled. "Sofia, I went to the creek. You weren't there."

A flicker of uncertainty passed over Sofia's face, quickly masked by bravado. "Maybe you just missed me. I'm getting pretty good at staying hidden, after all. Isn't that what all this training is for?"

The three siblings, their eyes shifting between Sofia and Arthur. Ceres, eager to break the tension, piped up, "Can I go for walks too? I promise I won't be late!"

"No," Arthur and Sofia said in unison, then shared a look of surprise. James smirked. "At least you two can agree on something."

Arthur's gaze dropped to Sofia's feet, noting the scuff marks on her new sneakers. "Those are new. Where did you get them?"

Sofia shifted, her posture a mixture of defiance and discomfort. "Found them in the forest. Lucky break, right?"

Arthur wasn't convinced but continued on. "Sit down, Sofia," he said, his voice low and controlled. "It's time to eat."

Sofia hesitated, then slid into her chair, her eyes never leaving her father's face. "I'm not hungry."

"You need to eat," Arthur insisted. "We have training after this."

Sofia's shoulders tensed, a coiled spring of frustration. "Can't it wait? We've been at it for weeks without a break."

"Maybe if you'd been home on time, you wouldn't have to," James said, a hint of resentment in his voice.

Sofia turned on her brother. "Oh, like you're so perfect? At least I can control my powers without setting the curtains on fire."

James' cheeks flushed red. "That was one time!"

"The Blood Moon Hunt is in five days, Sofia," Arthur countered, his tone brooking no argument. "We can't afford to slack off."

"And then what?" Sofia's voice rose, raw emotion seeping through the cracks in her composure. "Another hunt? More hiding? When does it end?"

James scoffed. "Here we go again."

Sofia rounded on him. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means you're not the only one who feels trapped," James snapped. "But at least some of us understand why we need to stay hidden."

"By suffocating us?" Sofia's voice rose. "Mom wouldn't have wanted this. She believed in us, in our potential."

"Do not!" Arthur's tone was sharp. A painful silence fell at the mention of their mother. Arthur's voice was tight when he spoke again. "You do not know what your mother wanted."

"And we never will," Sofia shot back, her eyes blazing.

The room fell silent, the weight of unspoken fears pressing down on them all. Arthur's expression softened, a glimpse of the father beneath the protector. "I saw your mother's letter in your room," he said quietly. "You've been thinking about her mission, haven't you?"

Sofia's eyes widened in surprise, then narrowed with determination. "I'm ready to complete what she started. To understand these powers, to make a difference."

Arthur shook his head, his voice firm but not unkind. "Not yet, the hunt is coming, it's too dangerous."

"Dangerous?" Sofia scoffed, gesturing around the room. "Look at us, Dad. We're not living, we're just... existing. Hiding from a world we barely understand."

Arthur's face tightened with concern. "You think we're hiding because we enjoy it? It's not just about survival. It's about managing risks—risks you don't fully understand yet."

He paused, his gaze intense. "The very things that could get you killed? That almost did, when you were younger?"

Sofia's eyes flashed with frustration. "I haven't been sick in ages, Dad! My powers, they're getting stronger. I can control them now, if you'd just let me—"

Arthur cut her off, his voice unyielding. "I understand that you're eager, but there are still risks you don't fully grasp. Until we understand the full extent of your abilities, we can't risk exposure.

Sofia's shoulders slumped. "I know, Dad. But... don't you ever wonder if there's more to life than just hiding and preparing for some nebulous threat? I'm ready to face whatever's out there. I need answers, not more drills."

A heavy quietude descended, the crackling of the flame the only retort to her declaration. Her siblings exchanged furtive looks, their forks suspended mid-air, as if afraid to stir the pot of tension any further.

"Let's eat," Arthur finally said, gesturing towards the food with a weary hand. He took his seat at the head of the table, the chair groaning under his weight. His knife sliced through the steak with practiced ease, a stark contrast to the awkward silence that had settled over them.

Sofia, however, was far from appeased. She withdrew a creased parchment from her pocket, the paper crackling. As her eyes scanned the ancient script, a frown creased Arthur's brow. "Sofia. This is neither the time nor the place." he chided, the edge in his voice sharp enough to slice through her concentration.

She met his gaze, defiance flickering before it was snuffed out by resignation. With a muted sigh, the parchment folded into silence and was placed back inside the jacket. The wood of the table seemed to grow colder under her touch, a reflection of the strained atmosphere that had settled over them like an uninvited fog.

Arthur turned his attention to Ceres, who was now absently stirring his glass of water with a finger, creating miniature whirlpools. "Ceres, playing with your food—or your powers—during mealtime is not acceptable."

"Is it so wrong to have a bit of fun?" Ceres retorted, but his eyes didn't meet their father's.

"Your definition of 'fun' could, and already did, flood this house if left unchecked," Arthur said, though the corner of his mouth twitched in what might have been the ghost of a smile.

Ceres stopped and started to eat. He struggled with his steak, the knife slipping against the tough meat. A bead of sweat formed on his brow as he concentrated, willing the utensil to obey.

"Easy, brother," she teased quietly. "The beast is already slain."

Ceres scowled. "I've got it under control."

"Like you had the dishes under control earlier?" Arthur's voice cut through the air, sharp as the knife Ceres fumbled with. Arthur and helped him cut his steak.

Ceres' face flushed. "I didn't mean to-"

"He was pretty impressive, actually," Sofia interrupted, her eyes gleaming with mischief. "Did you see how fast those plates were spinning, Ceres?"

A smile tugged at Ceres' lips despite his best efforts. "You should've seen it, Sofia. I had them dancing at one point!"

"Dancing straight into a mess, your powers can do more than just wash dishes," Arthur replied sharply, his fingers tightening around his cutlery. "They can crush bones as easily as you crush leaves in Autumn—with or without your intent."

Arthur grumbled, but there was a flicker of amusement in his eyes. He turned to James, who sat silently picking at his food. "At least one of you knows how to keep a low profile. James did what he was told, without mistakes! He deserves praise."

Ceres scowled, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "Taking all day to start a fire deserves praise?"

James shot back, his tone defensive. "At least I didn't flood the house."

Arthur's eyes narrowed, his voice firm and authoritative. "Enough! It's normal to—"

"Normal?" James cut him off, his voice rising in frustration. "What do you know about normal, Dad? What do any of us know about being normal? I want to be normal!"

Arthur's jaw clenched, and he abruptly snapped the plate he had been cutting.

Ceres, shrinking in his seat, muttered, "He's just upset because he's terrible with his powers."

Irritated beyond measure, James ignited a small flame above Ceres' head. The fire flickered dangerously as Ceres, with a wave of his hand, levitated a stream of water from his glass to extinguish it.

"Water puts out fire... idiot," Ceres said coldly.

James leapt from his seat, fists clenched, and lunged at Ceres.

"Enough!" Arthur's roar cut through the chaos, but it was already too late. The small flame James had created exploded into a blazing inferno, igniting the heart, and sending flames licking up around him. At the same moment, Ceres' controlled water surged uncontrollably, flooding the room.

The clash between James and Ceres erupted into a chaotic whirlwind of elemental power. The room was a battleground, a mix of fire, water, and frustration.

Ceres, his face flushed with frustration, struggled to keep his abilities under control. He lashed out, sending a torrent of water crashing into James, who was trying to keep his small flames under control. The fire sputtered and danced dangerously, reflecting James's mounting anger.

James scowled as he dodged the water. "You think you're so perfect with your water tricks, Ceres? Well, look who's flooding the place!"

"At least I'm not setting everything on fire!" Ceres shot back, redirecting a wave of water towards James's flames, sending steam hissing into the air.

Arthur was already moving, his hands gripping two large barrels of sand and salt. With practiced ease, he poured the contents over the flames, trying to smother them before they could spread further. The sand and salt mixture began to absorb the fire's heat, creating a makeshift barrier against the blaze.

As Arthur fought to contain the fire and water, the thick metal door to the heart slammed shut, stopping the fire from getting worse. Sofia, watching the scene unfold with wide eyes, felt a surge of panic. She knew she needed to help, but her powers were not always easy to control either.

"Enough!" Sofia's voice pierced the tension as she rose, her feet planted firmly amidst the chaos. Her hands stretched out before her, palms facing the battling brothers, and she willed the air around her to heed her silent command. The gust that followed her intent was fierce, a manifestation of her own inner turmoil, sweeping away plates and utensils in a clatter as the wooden dinner table upended with a heavy thud.

The sudden whirlwind of force caused James and Ceres to freeze mid-conflict, their expressions a mix of surprise and shame. Drenched curtains flapped wildly, and the last remnants of Arthur's patience seemed to evaporate into the stormy room.

"Is this what we've become?" Arthur's voice cracked, his frustration a tangible thing that writhed in the dimly lit space. He seized the lantern from its perch, the flame inside dancing like a caged creature. "A family who can't even sit for supper without descending into pandemonium?"

"Father—" Sofia began, but he held up a hand to silence her.

For a long moment, Arthur was silent. Then, with deliberate slowness, he reached for the broom propped in the corner.

"Your mother's lantern," he said, his voice thick with memory. "She used it to guide us through the darkest nights."

Sofia's eyes widened. "Dad, I--"

"You want to prove yourself?" Arthur held out the broom. "Then light our way. Find us a new dinner, since your brothers ruined this one."

Sofia's fingers wrapped around the handle of the broom. The straw bristles shivered as if in anticipation of the night's hunt, a paltry beacon against the enveloping darkness that awaited them outside. She slung the broom over her shoulder with a deceptive casualness, the way she might have carried a schoolbag in another life.

Arthur's hand closed around the haft of his axe, its well-worn grip speaking of countless nights spent warding off threats both seen and unseen. He hefted it with a practiced ease, the blade catching the dim firelight and flashing a sinister promise.

"Careful with those," Arthur muttered, his eyes lingering on the knives as Sofia secured them to her waistband. Each blade slid home with a soft snick, their edges glinting like crescent moons destined for bloodletting. They were slender and unassuming, yet in Sofia's deft hands, they became extensions of her will, sharp and unforgiving.

"James," Arthur said, turning toward his son whose gaze lay heavy upon the chaotic scene before him. "Keep watch over Ceres and Sara. No more nonsense tonight, understood?"

James nodded, a mixture of pride and apprehension on his face.

As they prepared to leave, Sofia donned her armor pieces – shoulder guards and wrist protectors that had seen better days but still gleamed with potential.

Arthur paused at the threshold, his hand on the doorframe where intricate protective runes were carved. "Remember," he said, his voice low. "We hunt to survive, not for glory. Stay close, stay quiet, and--"

"--stay human," Sofia finished, a sad smile playing on her lips. "I remember, Dad."

With a final nod to James, they stepped out into the night. The protective circle flickered to life around them, a shimmering barrier between their world and the dangers that lurked beyond.

As they ventured into the dark forest, Sofia couldn't shake the feeling that this hunt would be different. But for now, she pushed those thoughts aside. Tonight, she would prove herself worthy of her mother's legacy – not just as a hunter, but as a protector of her family and perhaps, someday, of something greater.

The night swallowed them, leaving behind a house filled with tension, hope, and the lingering scent of scorched wood and unspoken fears.

The forest loomed, a tapestry of shadows and muted moonlight. Seventeen-year-old Sofia's breath came in ragged gasps as she sprinted through the underbrush, her high ponytail whipping behind her. Her dark leather jacket hugged her frame, concealing the precious scrolls within. The red crop top beneath offered a flash of colour in the gloom, matching her determined eyes. Her blue wool pants and red-and-gold sneakers, a gift from Pietro, proved their worth with every pounding step.

Beside her, Pietro's lean form kept pace. His aged leather vest creaked softly over a well-worn shirt, while his compartmentalized pants jingled faintly with each movement – a walking toolbox of ingenuity. His leather boots, scuffed but sturdy, found purchase on the uneven ground. Pietro's face, normally serene, now mirrored the urgency of their flight, sweat glistening on his brow.

The guttural chants of their pursuers echoed through the trees, punctuated by bone-chilling howls. Unseen by the fleeing pair, a figure in a plague doctor's mask perched in a nearby tree, observing the chase with detached curiosity. The masked figure's eyes, hidden behind the glass lenses, glinted with a sinister amusement.

"We can't... keep this up," Pietro wheezed, casting a terrified glance over his shoulder. His face was pale, sweat streaming down his temples as he struggled to maintain their frantic pace.

Sofia's mind raced, adrenaline sharpening her senses. Her fingers tightened instinctively around the scrolls hidden beneath her dark leather jacket.

"There!" Sofia hissed, gesturing towards a rocky outcropping. "I think I see a cave entrance. But we need a distraction."

Pietro's eyes lit up with a mixture of fear and mischievous pride. He fumbled in one of his many pockets, producing a metal sphere bristling with wicked nails protruding out. "Will this do? It's not much, but—"

Sofia's lips quirked into a half-smile. "Ah, your famous 'Ouch Ball.' Wasn't the effective range on that thing, like, two feet?"

"Hey, I've made improvements!" Pietro protested, then winced. "Although, yeah, it's still not great for long-distance. Unlike your brilliant idea with the monoplane."

Sofia rolled her eyes, but there was fondness in her exasperation. "Are you ever going to let that go? I told you, the wings were supposed to fold!"

A particularly close howl cut their banter short. Sofia's expression hardened, her mind whirling through possibilities. Suddenly, her eyes widened. She let out a sharp, melodic whistle.

With a soft flutter of wings, PonPon materialized from the darkness, alighting on Sofia's outstretched wrist. The pigeon cooed softly, head tilted in curiosity.

"Sorry, old friend," Sofia murmured, deftly attaching Pietro's spiked contraption to the bird's leg. "But we need a miracle."

As PonPon took flight, Sofia turned to Pietro. "Run for the cave. I'll be right behind you."

Pietro hesitated, conflict evident in his eyes. "Sofia..."

"Go!" she insisted, her voice brooking no argument.

As Pietro sprinted towards safety, Sofia focused on PonPon's silhouette against the starlit sky. The bird circled once, twice, then dove towards the approaching horde. Sofia's fingers twitched, and she whispered a word that seemed to bend the very air around her.

She watched as the pigeon swooped over their pursuers. At Sofia's signal, PonPon released the device. The metal ball hit the ground with a dull thud, followed by a sharp explosion. The night air was filled with the piercing sound of nails whizzing through the air and the subsequent cries of pain and confusion. The rhythmic chants dissolved into chaos. Sofia allowed herself a grim smile before racing after her friend.

Sofia marvelled at how Pietro always managed to create such advanced gadgets. It was a stark contrast to the simple tools her father insisted on using at home, tools that now seemed relics of a bygone era.

The cave mouth loomed before them, a yawning portal of inky blackness. They plunged inside, hearts pounding, as the sounds of pursuit faded into distant echoes. The cool, damp air inside the cave was a stark contrast to the oppressive heat of their chase, offering a momentary respite.

For a moment, they simply breathed, the adrenaline slowly ebbing. Sofia broke the silence with a soft chuckle. "I've got to hand it to you, Pietro. These sneakers held up beautifully. I barely felt the forest floor."

Pietro slumped against the cool stone wall, chest heaving. "That... was too close." His voice was barely more than a whisper, each word punctuated by heavy breaths.

Sofia nodded, her own breathing ragged. She pulled out the scrolls, their parchment crackling faintly in the stillness of the cave.

Pietro slumped to the ground, running a hand through his disheveled hair. "So," he said, his tone deceptively casual, "want to tell me what's in those scrolls that's worth risking our necks?"

Sofia tensed, her hand going to her jacket pocket. "It's... complicated."

"Try me," Pietro pressed gently. "Does it have something to do with the elementals?"

Sofia's fingers tightened around the scrolls hidden in her jacket. She hesitated, weighing her words carefully. "Not... exactly. They're religious texts, of a sort."

"Of a sort," Pietro echoed, raising an eyebrow. "The kind that get us chased by murderous cultists?"

Sofia's fingers traced the intricate symbols etched on the scroll's casing. "They're obsessed with blood. With... power." She paused, her voice dropping to a near-whisper. "I think they might have answers about my abilities. About what I am."

Pietro's brow furrowed. "That sounds incredibly dangerous. You're not planning on—"

"Deciphering ancient blood rituals?" Sofia interrupted with a forced laugh. "Come on, give me some credit. I'm just... exploring options."

Pietro nodded, sensing her reluctance. He changed tack. "Alright, but we need to be careful. These texts could attract more than just cultist cannibals if we're not cautious."

"Speaking of danger," Pietro said slowly, "shouldn't your father have caught up with us by now?"

A mischievous glint returned to Sofia's eyes. "Oh, I'm sure he'll have plenty to say when I get back. Probably something about 'reckless behavior' and 'endangering the family.'" Her impression of Arthur's gruff tone was uncanny.

"Sofia..." Pietro's voice softened. "He's not angry. He's scared."

"Of me," she said flatly.

"No," Pietro insisted. "For you. There's a difference."

Sofia's shoulders sagged slightly. "Is there? You didn't see his face when I first... when it happened. Sometimes I think he sees me as a bomb waiting to go off."

Sofia's mind drifted to her mother, gone for these past two years. The homestead had never felt quite like home without her, even after all this time.

"Or maybe," Pietro said softly, "he's trying to protect you the only way he knows how. He's trying to help, we all are."

A small smile tugged at Sofia's lips. "When did you get so wise, gear-head?"

"Probably around the time you started running headlong into danger," Pietro quipped, earning a playful punch to the arm.

Sofia's lips curved into a wry smile. "Says the guy who thought he could rig a steam-powered catapult using kitchen pots, that was safe."

"Hey, the theory was sound!" Pietro protested, grinning despite himself.

Their laughter echoed in the cave, a moment of lightness amid the danger. As it faded, Sofia's expression grew serious. "I should get home. Dad will be worried sick. And you should also head back to the village. It's not safe out here."

Pietro nodded. "Be careful out there, don't do anything stupid without me around."

"Wouldn't dream of it," Sofia replied, returning her smile.

With a playful shove, Sofia stepped out of the cave. "Get going, you impossible inventor. I'll see you soon."

As Pietro disappeared into the forest. She waited until his footsteps faded into the distance before turning toward the mouth of the cave. The night had draped its velvet cloak over the world outside. Taking a deep breath, she stepped out into the dark forest.

With each step, the familiar pull of her protective circle should have greeted her, a silent assurance of safety. But tonight, something was amiss. The hairs on the back of her neck prickled, a silent scream from her instincts that she failed to heed. Oblivious to the dimmed state of her magical safeguard, she pressed on, each stride propelled by an unspoken prayer.

The ground beneath her boots crunched, dead leaves and twigs breaking the silence. Sofia's ponytail swung rhythmically as she picked up pace, the scrolls' weight a constant reminder of the burden she carried. Her breath came in short bursts, frosting the air and dissipating like the fleeting hopes she harboured.

As the outline of her house emerged from the darkness, a sanctuary amidst the chaos, her pace quickened to a run.

"Almost there," she whispered to herself, a mantra to keep the creeping fear at bay.

Tonight, the circle did not glow, but Sofia, wrapped in the solace of survival, remained none the wiser as she disappeared into the sanctuary of her family's abode.

Arthur trudged across the boundary of his protective circle, the cart creaking behind him. His boots crunched on the frost-kissed grass, leaving a trail of temporary scars in the earth. A bird, driven mad by instinct or merely by the sight of Arthur himself, flung itself against the invisible wall surrounding the place, a barrier formed of stones as ancient as the very gods he once dethroned. The poor creature rebounded, more insulted than injured. Arthur watched it spiral into the sky, perhaps searching for a place less unwelcoming. Good luck with that, little bird.

He turned his back to the wilds and approached the entrance of his home, the wooden planks groaning beneath the combined weight of man and cart. The old homestead, a stalwart survivor of time and countless battles, each scorch mark and weathered beam a testament to its stubborn resilience. It had seen better days, but so had Arthur, and yet here they both were, still standing.

Pausing at the threshold, he reached out to secure one of the heavy wooden shutters that had come loose in the rising wind. The iron bands reinforcing it felt cold under his calloused hands. He knew the house well enough to appreciate its design – every element, every detail, was crafted with purpose. There was no room for the frivolous here, not when the enemy was both outside and within.

The eerie melody of bone wind chimes caught his attention. Their hollow song, once a comfort, now seemed to carry a warning on the chill breeze. He paused, scanning the horizon with narrowed eyes before pushing open the heavy oak door, its iron hinges protesting with a low, mournful creak.

The warmth of the interior washed over him, a stark contrast to the biting chill outside. His eyes fell on Sofia’s door, closed as usual. A good sign? Perhaps. Candlelight flickered, casting dancing shadows across the room. The place was a patchwork of desperate measures and controlled chaos—thick hemp mats lined the walls to prevent yet another fire, sand-filled barriers were strategically placed to absorb water or smother flames, and iron-reinforced beams stood like weary soldiers holding up the roof.

Ah, but the floorboards—they told the real story. Dark, warped, cracked—each blemish a testament to the years of wear, water damage, and the occasional divine intervention. Intricate water channels ran along the baseboards, ostensibly for drainage but suspiciously complex. Damp, moldy spots marred the wood, as if to remind Arthur that no matter how hard he tried, he could not control everything.

Smooth river stones embedded in the floorboards formed curious patterns but had also contributed to the wear. The stones were partially displaced, some cracked or chipped, disrupting the originally intended pattern. Scorch marks on the ceiling hinted at past mishaps, and now faint, uneven patches of smoke damage marked the walls, where the structure had once been exposed to drafts and errant flames.

James, his eldest boy at 15, knelt by the hearth, frustration etched across his face as he struggled with flint and steel. Sparks flew, but the kindling remained stubbornly unlit. The wrought iron fire screen stood open, its unique hinged design allowing full access while still providing protection when needed. Across the room, Ceres, aged 10, was engrossed in washing dishes, his movements unnaturally fluid as water seemed to dance around his hands. And then there was little Sara, barely five, she sat in the corner surrounded by her stone toys, meticulously arranging a set of family figurines with an intensity that belied her years.

Arthur dropped his axe, the thud drawing James’ attention. The boy looked up, eyes flashing with frustration, a chip off the old block if ever there was one.

“Having trouble, James?” Arthur’s voice, gruff yet not entirely devoid of warmth, cut through the silence.

James' shoulders tensed. "I've got it under control."

Oh, the lies we tell ourselves. Arthur nodded, his eyes drifting to the singed blanket hastily tucked behind a chair—a telltale sign of James' recent failure. "And what's the story behind that?" he asked, gesturing towards the evidence of a recent mishap.

James followed his father's gaze, his cheeks flushing with the shame of a caught thief. "It's nothing. Just a small accident. I handled it."

“Handled it, did you?” Arthur’s tone was measured, as if weighing the boy’s words on scales only he could see. “Your mother used to say that handling something means preventing it in the first place.”

James winced at the mention of his mother, the pain still fresh despite the years. “The flame obeys the hand that tends it,” he recited, striking the flint with renewed vigor, as if trying to spark something more than just a fire. “I don’t need you hovering. I’m not a child anymore.”

"No," Arthur agreed, his tone softening just enough to remind James that disappointment and love often walked hand in hand. "But you're not a man yet either. The path between is treacherous, especially for one with your... gifts."

James looked up, his eyes a storm of defiance and doubt. "Sometimes I wish I didn't have them at all."

But before Arthur could deliver the paternal wisdom he’d rehearsed countless times, a splash and a yelp came from the kitchen. Ceres, full of restless energy and poor judgment, stood surrounded by a puddle of water, his clothes soaked through. He was handling dishes with surprising efficiency. Water had moved around him with an unnatural grace, cleaning faster than any child should be capable of, until it didn’t.

“Ceres, what have I told you about shortcuts?” Arthur called out, though even as the words left his mouth, he knew they were predictable, expected. And wasn’t that the problem? He was stuck playing the same game over and over, with everyone expecting him to make the same moves.

“I didn’t mean to—” Ceres started, but Arthur waved him off.

“It’s fine. Just clean it up. The right way,” he added, though he wasn’t entirely sure what the right way was anymore. Maybe there wasn’t one. Maybe it was all just a matter of perspective.

As Arthur's lecture to Ceres faded into the background, a small hand tugged at his sleeve. He turned to see Sara, her wide eyes shimmering with innocence in the candlelit room. She held out her palm, revealing a collection of stone figurines seated around a crude table.

"Look, Papa," she said, her voice a whisper of wonder, "they're having supper together."

Arthur knelt down, because what else could he do? His joints protesting the motion as he brought himself eye-level with the miniature assembly The figures were crude, sure, but there was something... comforting about them. Something simple and pure in a world that was anything but. And for just a moment, he felt something stir in his chest, something almost like... pride? No, that wasn’t right. It was more like... nostalgia. It was the stone matriarch, with her etched smile and arms extended as if to embrace her family, that seized his attention. A pang of melancholy tightened his chest, the weight of memories unbidden yet inescapable.

‘Very lovely, Sara,’ he murmured, patting her head with a gentleness that surprised even him. He didn’t have to be a soldier right now. He could just be... Papa.

His hand lingered on the figure of the matriarch. How long had it been since Helena’s smile had graced this place? Too long. And yet, she was still here, in every corner of this home, in every whispered memory.

A comfortable silence fell, broken only by the scraping of Ceres' cloth and James' renewed attempts at the fire. Arthur's eyes swept over the room, noting the stillness that had settled since the earlier commotion. He sighed and moved to the large oak table at the center of the room, its surface worn smooth by years of use. The table was the heart of the home, the place where meals were shared, stories were told, and plans were made. He traced a finger along one of the deep grooves carved into the wood, a reminder of a long-ago accident involving a misplaced hunting knife.

Arthur sighed heavily, rubbing his tired eyes. He needed to focus, but his mind kept wandering. The stillness of the room was a lie, he knew it. It was the calm before the storm, a brief reprieve in a battle that never truly ended. His eyes drifted to Sofia’s door, ajar and taunting him with possibilities. Something was wrong. Sofia was careful, meticulous even. She didn’t leave things to chance. Not like this.

He crossed the room to investigate, pushing open the door with a creak. "Sofia, are you here?"

His call was met with silence—a silence that was becoming all too familiar.

Arthur stepped inside, his boots making muffled thuds against the thick rug. His eyes were immediately drawn to the disorder that seemed out of character for Sofia. Her old boots lay haphazardly near the bed, a clear sign she had left in a hurry—perhaps even barefoot.

Arthur stepped further into Sofia's room, his eyes scanning the disarray. The metal shoulder and wrist armour were carelessly draped over a chair, her throwing knives lay half-buried beneath a pile of books and papers and her broom leaned against the corner of the room.

Arthur, ever the master of deduction, pieces together that Sofia has left. Gasp! Alert the media! A teenager snuck out! Surely this has never happened before in the history of parenting.

Arthur's eyes fell on the pristine cage in the corner of the room. The cage was empty, and although it was well-maintained, it felt oddly out of place. PonPon, Sofia's beloved pigeon, was not in his usual spot. Arthur’s heart sank. Sofia never went anywhere without that pigeon, and the fact that it was gone meant she had left with it. But where, and why now, with night so close at hand, especially without her usual gear?

Arthur sighed, running a hand through his hair. Sofia had always been quiet, content to lose herself in books and sketches. But lately, her silence had taken on a defiant edge. She reminded him of a coiled spring, taut with potential energy waiting to be released. Her recent forays outside the protective boundary were becoming more frequent, each one fraying his nerves a little more. Sofia had been pulling away, slipping through his fingers like a gush of wind, and there was nothing he could do to stop it. Not with words, not with warnings, not with the iron bands that held the shutters in place.

Arthur's gaze shifted to the cluttered desk against the wall. Despite Sofia's usual disorganization, the desk had been a sanctuary of sorts, filled with her sketches and research. Arthur’s heart sank as he spotted the crumpled paper on the desk, covered in symbols that meant nothing to him but everything to her. Ibernia was a land of ancient traditions and cryptic texts, and though he had lived in Sangrevor, the capital, for years, its alphabet remained a mystery to him. He picked it up, frowning. She was planning something. The only question was what.

His eyes caught a familiar, albeit worn, photograph tucked beneath a pile of notes. It was a photo of his late wife Helena, her smile captured in a rare moment of peace. Next to her, a younger Sofia, holding her mother's old broom.

Arthur's gaze shifted back to the desk, where Sofia's scattered notes lay in chaotic disarray. Despite the jumble, there was a recurring theme in her writings—a quest for understanding.

Arthur's attention was drawn to a carefully folded letter wedged between two books. The envelope bore the elegant script of Ibernian, but the name "Helena Salvatoris" at the end was clear. This was the final letter from Helena, read to the family after her passing. He remembered the somber day when Sofia translated it for them, the letter holding Helena's last words and her hopes for her family. The broom Sofia now used, a cherished token of her mother, seemed almost a burden in the light of Helena's final wishes.

Arthur's heart ached as he unfolded the letter, the sight of Helena's flowing handwriting evoking a pang of nostalgia. Though he could not read it, he understood enough from Sofia's translations—the letter was a message of love and encouragement, a last gift from a mother who had tried to impart wisdom in her final moments.

Arthur sighed and placed the letter back carefully. The letter and the photograph spoke volumes about Sofia's current state.

Arthur stood quietly for a moment, the weight of unspoken concerns heavy in the air. Sofia's room, usually a cluttered haven of disorder, now seemed more like a shrine to her grief and unresolved questions. He looked around one last time, trying to piece together what might have prompted her sudden departure.

As he left the room, his mind raced with possibilities. Was Sofia in danger, or was she merely seeking answers in her own way?

"Where's Sofia? The sun's nearly set."

James and Ceres exchanged a look. "She mentioned the creek," James offered. "Said she wanted to sketch or... something."

Arthur's jaw tightened. "And you let her go alone? This close to nightfall?"

Ceres piped up, "Sofia can handle herself! She's probably lost track of time reading again."

"That's precisely what worries me. Stay here,” he ordered, grabbing his axe. “And keep that fire burning.”

James nodded, though his hands were shaking.

Arthur took one last look at his children, his heart heavy with the knowledge that he might not come back. But that was the game, wasn’t it? The game he’d been playing his whole life. The game he had to keep playing, because if he didn’t, who would?

With a final, determined breath, he stepped outside into the night, ready to face whatever was coming. Because that’s what Arthur did. He fought the battles no one else would. And maybe, just maybe, this time he’d win.

Five Years Later

Arthur’s hands, calloused and scarred, clasped the axe like an old friend, its weight a familiar burden. With each swing, another ancient tree met its untimely end, the sound of splintering wood echoing through the dead silence of the forest. But, let's not get too poetic about it. After all, trees don't weep. They just fall.

The axe bit deep, and the wood yielded with all the grace of a condemned man’s last breath. A fitting metaphor, but Arthur wasn’t one for philosophy—his thoughts were simpler, more visceral. The axe arced through the air with a casual inevitability, and the tree, well, it did what all things do in the end.

The dark forest stood as a silent witness, not that it had much choice. Even the birds had learned to keep their beaks shut around Arthur. The man had a way of making even nature think twice before making a sound. The stone eye set in the hollow of his left socket saw to that, a constant reminder that even in a world teeming with magic, there's no replacing what's lost. It glinted coldly, reflecting nothing but the bare, ashen earth beneath his boots—a ground too spent to offer up even the pretense of life.

He flicked to the next tree—a massive thing, older than most cities, and yet, somehow, not quite as jaded. He hacked away with the efficiency of a butcher carving up a carcass, every swing a clean cut, every breath steady, calculated.

But oh, the memories that creep in uninvited—like rats in the walls, gnawing at the edges of consciousness. The square, that godforsaken square, flickered behind his eyelids, unbidden. A little public theater of horrors, where once upon a time, an executioner’s sword met a neck with all the finality of a curtain falling. He was there, of course, because how could he not be?

Beside the executioner, small and quaking, stood a young victim whose eyes were wide with terror. Those eyes implored the crowd for mercy, for a reprieve that would not come. Whispers swirled through the assembly of onlookers, their words indistinct but their meaning clear—an air of bloodlust and fear mingling in a macabre dance.

In the here and now, Arthur let out a breath—visible in the chill, a wisp of smoke from fires long since snuffed out. Arthur's hand tightened around the axe handle, the grain of the wood pressing into his calloused palm. Even now, years later and leagues away from the horrors of that day, the memory conjured a bitterness in his throat. The past? It’s dead and buried. So what if the soil beneath his feet was more ash than earth? The trees, at least, still fell.

The latest one crashed to the ground with a satisfying thud. He leaned on the axe, surveying the fallen timber with an expression that might have been mistaken for reverence—if reverence involved thoughts of how to best chop up the corpse.

"Five days," he murmured, the words carried away on the wind. A countdown, a curse, a prayer—take your pick. His voice, roughened by smoke and the taste of too much regret, held none of the warmth of the living. No, it was as cold and flat as the sky above, the eternal, indifferent witness to all of this mortal nonsense.

And so, with a grunt of finality, Arthur turned back to his task. The thud of steel biting into wood resumed its rhythm, a heartbeat in a world that had long since stopped caring. His axe, honed to a wicked edge, made short work of the dead timber. He lifted the logs, one by one, and loaded them onto the cart.

The cart’s wheels groaned as he pushed it toward the boundary of his domain. The giant stones marking the edge of his land hummed with ancient magic, their runes glowing like embers. It was a brief, almost comforting reminder that some things still held power in this world. The old, stubborn magic that, much like Arthur, refused to die.

As he crossed the threshold, the familiar hum of the wards passed over him. It was a thin line between his world and the one outside, but it held. For now. He headed toward Sangrevor, that bastion of despair, its silhouette jagged and menacing against the dim sky. Once, it had been a city of vibrant murals, celebrating gods and festivals long since forgotten. Now, those same murals were cracked and faded, their colors muted to a dull gray that matched the city’s lifeless heart.

Sangrevor had grown quiet, its heartbeat slowed to a sluggish, mournful thrum. Houses were bolted shut, their windows barred with iron. The streets, once lively with markets, were now lined with braziers burning incense, the acrid scent of desperation wafting through the air. And the blood canals? Still there, still flowing, the city’s veins pulsing with something far worse than water.

The canals were flanked by coffins, each one bound in iron and carved with protective sigils—because even in death, this city couldn’t trust its dead. The faces peering out from behind grated windows were pale, hollow, more ghost than human. They moved in the shadows, their presence a fleeting reminder that, yes, people still lived here. If you could call this living.

Arthur’s boots clapped against the cobblestones, stirring the foul, stagnant air. Somewhere in the distance, a low growl echoed through the alleys, the sound of creatures that had no business being in a city of men. But then, Sangrevor had stopped being a city of men long ago.

In the square, a scene unfolded that might have been amusing if it weren’t so depressingly predictable. Hunters, their faces set in grim determination, circled a wolf-like beast bound by chains. Its eyes met Arthur’s for a moment—fear, defiance, all the usual things you’d expect from a cornered beast. Above them, a sign announced the "Blood Moon Hunt," as if anyone needed reminding of the carnage to come. Five days. Just five more days until the city would lose itself to bloodlust and madness.

Arthur watched the scene with a detached indifference. Seen it all before. Felt it all before. And in the end, none of it mattered. The city was rotting from the inside out, and no amount of bloodsport would change that.

The hinges of the "Crooked Foot Bar" creaked as he pushed open the door. The sign, "Short Leg, Big Pints!" swayed lazily in the draft. Inside, the gloom was thick enough to choke on, the air a mix of stale ale and something sharper—maybe fear, maybe something else. The bar was a ramshackle affair, its surface scarred and pitted from years of abuse, much like the souls who frequented it.

Around the room, hunters in weathered gear huddled at rickety tables, their faces obscured by the dimness and the shadows cast by their wide-brimmed hats and ragged cloaks. Each hunter clutched a bowl filled with raw beast liver, its surface glistening with a dark, viscous sheen.

At one table, a burly hunter with a grizzled beard gnawed at his meal with a kind of desperate energy, his hands stained with blood that smeared his worn leather gloves. Next to him, a gaunt figure with hollow eyes and a tattered cloak methodically sliced through the liver with grim precision, his movements precise and almost ritualistic, as if the act of eating was a necessary penance.

In the far corner of the bar, a hunter sat apart from the rest. This one was distinguishable by the plague mask he wore, its beak-like protrusion casting an eerie shadow in the flickering light of the bar. Unlike the others, he did not partake in the raw liver, opting instead for a small metal flask that he sipped from cautiously. His eyes, visible through the mask's glass lenses, surveyed the room with a detached curiosity.

Arthur’s entrance drew a few glances, but no one cared enough to look twice. He made his way to the bar, taking a seat on a stool that creaked in protest. Baltazar, the bartender, greeted him with a nod, his metal leg clicking against the floor as he moved. His eyes, like the city itself, were heavy with sorrow.

"Arthur," Baltazar said, his voice carrying the weight of a man who’d seen too much. "The usual?"

Arthur grunted. "Aye."

Baltazar gave a humorless smile. "What brings you to our fine establishment tonight? Here to save us with that mighty axe? Or maybe you’re in the mood for something a little more... lively?" He nodded toward the hunters gnawing on their raw meat. "Fair warning, though. It might bite back."

Arthur’s gaze remained fixed on the wall. "Logs," he said simply. "And quiet."

"Quiet?" Baltazar chuckled dryly. "Wrong place for that, my friend." He leaned in, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "Heard about the family on Brimhall Passage?"

"I’ve heard," Arthur cut him off, his tone sharp.

Baltazar didn’t stop. "Their youngest cried out last night. Sounded like a banshee, they say."

A hunter nearby, her hands trembling, muttered, "They’ve turned to Nocturnos for salvation."

And there it was, my name slipping from their lips like a whispered curse. "...turned to Nocturnos for salvation." As if I’m their mom just waiting for the right moment to swoop in and cradle them in my cold embrace.

That child? She’s tasted a drop of the abyss, but there’s an ocean waiting for her if she keeps calling on me. Arthur knows that, even if he won't say it out loud. That’s why he tightens his grip on that axe every time someone mentions my name. He’s seen what happens when people start believing in things like me. His jaw clenched, a flicker of something passing behind his eyes—pain, maybe, or something darker. But it passed quickly, replaced by the same cold detachment that had carried him through so many years of this nonsense.

"Children shouldn’t know such fear," he said, his voice measured. "Prayers won’t save them. Action will. We survived Aspen’s reign. We’ll survive this."

Baltazar’s gaze drifted to his metal leg. "Survival isn’t living, Arthur. This city’s rotting, and the blood... it’s more addictive than any spirit I’ve ever poured. The old regime..."

"Don’t," Arthur warned, his voice low and dangerous. "Don’t romanticize that bastard’s reign. We bled for our freedom."

Baltazar raised his hands in mock surrender. "Peace, old friend. I’m not pining for the old days. But you can’t deny there was order then."

"Order built on blood isn’t order. It’s just chaos delayed," Arthur replied, his tone cold.

And then, like clockwork, the conversation was cut short as a hunter staggered over —drunk, belligerent, and itching to prove that stupidity really is the most abundant resource in this city.

"Baltazar, you crippled bastard!" The words slurred out like a bad song, each note more off-key than the last. "Your piss-water's as useless as that leg of yours! Give me some real meat before I carve it off you!"

Ah, the poetry of the common drunk. Such elegance. Such grace. The bottle flew from his hand, missed its mark, and shattered against the wall. A metaphor, perhaps, for the man himself. But metaphors are wasted on the dead, and this one was about two words away from earning that title.

Arthur’s hand, ever faithful, moved toward his axe, that old companion stained with more than just blood. But Baltazar? Well, Baltazar was the picture of calm—ice cold, like a corpse that’s decided warmth just isn’t worth the effort anymore.

"Mind your tongue, whelp," Arthur's voice rumbled, low and steady, the kind of voice that suggests you might want to start reassessing your life choices. "Or you might lose it."

He let the axe handle slip through his fingers, the heavy thud against the floorboards louder than the hunter’s heartbeat. The message was clear: One more step, and he’ll be adding a fresh coat of red to the decor.

The hunter’s bravado—such as it was—melted faster than snow in Khemoria under Arthur’s gaze. Fear is a powerful motivator, and this hunter? Well, he was motivated to keep his tongue firmly in place.

Baltazar, ever the opportunist, seized the moment. His voice, cold as steel and twice as sharp, cut through the tension. "I was hunting beasts while you were still sucking your mother's teat, boy. Show some respect, or I'll show you just how 'useless' this leg can be."

And just like that, our brave little hunter found himself retreating into the shadows, leaving behind nothing but the sour stench of fear and whatever passed for dignity in his addled brain.

Baltazar chuckled, a sound as dry and bitter as the air in that wretched bar. "Charming clientele we have these days."

Arthur’s eyes, ever vigilant, followed the hunter’s retreat. "The upcoming hunt has everyone on edge," he said, though I could’ve told you that. Then again, who listens to gods anymore?

"On edge?" Baltazar’s laugh was half a scoff, half a sigh. "More like teetering on the brink of madness." He paused, his gaze settling on Arthur. "Ever think about leaving, Arthur? Finding someplace untouched by all this?"

Arthur’s grunt was his usual eloquence—a man of few words, but each one weighted like a hammer. "I have everything I need right here."

Baltazar nodded, understanding more than what was said. He reached for a bottle of Albion's Night Mead, the kind that’s seen more despair than celebration these days, and slid a sharpening stone across the bar. "Your usual payment, then?"

Arthur nodded. In this world, sometimes it’s not about what’s said, but what’s understood. Baltazar poured two drinks, the liquid as dark and potent as the city’s sins.

"To Sangrevor," Baltazar toasted, irony dripping from every syllable. "May she rot slower than we do."

Arthur raised his glass, a ghost of a smile—more a twitch than anything else—playing on his lips. "To the fools who stay."

Ah, Night Mead. A brew as old as the sins of the father, and twice as bitter. "Men used to enjoy this for a bit of extra vigor when they wanted to impress the missus, you know," Baltazar mused, the sarcasm practically oozing from his voice. "Now? Who’d bring a child into this world?"

Arthur stiffened—an almost imperceptible reaction, unless you knew what to look for. And I do. He stood abruptly, the weight of the axe hanging at his side like a death sentence waiting to be delivered.

"I should go. The path doesn’t walk itself."

Baltazar raised his glass in a mockery of a toast. "May the gods watch over you, brother. What’s left of them, anyway."

As Arthur stepped back into the cold embrace of the night, the cries of the desperate clung to the air like a bad smell. From behind barred windows came the wails of the hopeless, pleading for mercy from a god who no longer cared to listen.

"Mercy, Sanguis!" a voice wailed, thick with despair. "How long must we suffer?"

Another voice joined in, equally futile. "We hunger, great Sanguis! Release us from this torment!"

In the central square, a beast blazed atop a pyre, its flaming carcass fueled by logs Arthur had just sold to Baltazar. Those logs were now doing double duty—burning and providing a dramatic backdrop for the city’s latest farce. Ah, the circle of life in Sangrevor—where your firewood fuels both the pyres and the pious.

Hunters, those paragons of virtue, were throwing the logs onto the fire with a sort of grim satisfaction that only comes from watching something suffer more than they do. Their prayers, a delicious mix of desperation and irony, spiraled up with the smoke, as if the beast was somehow listening.

Arthur, ever the observer and professional curmudgeon, grabbed his cart. Usually left in the vicinity because, let’s be honest, no one’s dumb enough to steal from Arthur. It’s like leaving a marked grave unattended—no one wants to be that guy.

As he surveyed the scene from his cozy shadow, his face wore the kind of grim determination that could only come from having seen too much and cared too little. "Men shouldn’t pray to monsters," he muttered, tightening his grip on the axe, his voice dripping with the kind of disdain that only comes from absolute experience.

And just like that, he melted back into the darkness with all the grace of a man who’s given up on expecting anything less than disappointment from the world. He left the square behind, but not without its lingering weight—a reminder that some burdens are just too heavy to shed.

Sangrevor, after all, doesn’t let go so easily.

All gods, but one, had fallen. How tragic, yet predictable. The gods didn't die, of course. That would be far too clean, too final. No, they fell—crashed, really—into the abyss of their twisted minds, stopped answering the endless drone of human prayers, and lost themselves to madness. All except for one. And no, it's not me—I'm not the one who "died" and came back all ashamed and cowardly. That's a story for another time, though. Let's not get ahead of ourselves. As for me? I've been here since the universe first yawned itself into existence, watching, waiting, and laughing at the folly of mortals and gods alike. The last one standing. Nocturnos, at your service.

Take Eadwitan, for instance, the so-called Church of Luminos. Once a beacon of light, but now it's just a glorified tomb, filled with the echoes of prayers no one's listening to anymore. You can almost hear the gods' last gasps in those walls if you listen closely. Or maybe that's just the sound of desperation. Hard to tell the difference these days.

And there she is, Katherine. Mortal, fragile, stubborn little Katherine. Standing outside that crumbling heap of stone they call a church, staring up at the statues of those so-called scholars and priests. Oh, the statues of those self-righteous clergymen, their stony eyes forever judging, forever condemning. You can almost hear them, can't you? Their silent reproach bearing down on her, heavy as the night. They used to be something, didn't they?

Katherine pulls her cloak tighter, the rough fabric scraping against her skin. The fabric's rough, scratchy—just like reality. A little too real for comfort. But there's no time for comfort now, is there? She inhales sharply. I can practically taste her fear, her heart pounding like a trapped bird in her chest. But she still looks up at that decaying facade, those crumbling relics of a forgotten faith, and thinks she can break the cycle. Adorable.

The legacy of those who came before her was a heavy one, men driven mad by their own curiosity, their own hunger for more. And here she was, standing on the edge of that same abyss. And then there's that blade. Oh, I see it, even if she tries to keep it hidden. Eerie light, almost alive, promising answers she's not ready to hear. Oh, Katherine. So brave, so foolish. Her hand trembled as she reached for it hidden beneath her cloak, its eerie light casting shadows that danced in the dark corners of her mind.

But she couldn't falter. Not now, not ever. The path ahead was clear, even if it was paved with the bones of the fallen.

She steps into the church, the cold embrace of the place closing around her like a noose. The silence is almost suffocating, only broken by the soft shuffle of her feet against the ancient stone. Incense hangs thick in the air, an attempt to mask the scent of decay, both physical and spiritual. Every shadow seems to hold its breath, waiting for something—anything—to shatter the stillness.

As Katherine moves deeper into the church, she's greeted by the silent sentinels of this fallen pantheon. Six statues, each a monument to a god who's lost their way. Her gaze fell upon Mortis, the Bearer of the Final Embrace. How poetic. Her followers feared her, revered her, but in the end, even death couldn't save her from her own madness. The skull-deer-headed figure loomed ominously, a dance of darkness that seemed to whisper of inevitable endings. It was as terrifying as it was mesmerizing, a haunting reminder of the fate that awaited everyone.

The statue's hollow eye sockets followed her every move, an unseen gaze that pierced through her very soul.

Her fingers reached out, hovering just above Mortis' cold, stone leg. Touching it seemed like inviting the fate it represented. She whispered a prayer, hoping the ancient god of death might grant her some divine guidance. "Freá Albion, þū gangaþ beforan lǣddi Mortis, láca þīn dēaþ, stiernan mín stig." ( "Lord of Albion, you walk before Lady Mortis, may your spirit guide my path.")

Katherine's breath misted again as she approached the next statue—Gaia, the Elemental Architect. My dear Gaia. She was always the strongest, the most resilient. The sculptor had captured her with an otherworldly grace, merging the elements in a dance of earth, water, fire, and air. But even she couldn't escape the creeping shadows that now curl at her feet, a reminder of the darkness that consumes all.

Drawn in by the enigmatic tranquillity of Gaia, it took Katherine a second to notice the shadows shifting ominously near the base of the statue. Her gaze slid toward the darkness pooling beneath the elemental figure, where tendriled forms began to uncoil. She stepped back, her heart quickening as the grotesque form of Cthonic Ichthyos, the Abyssal Devourer, came into view.

Katherine's hand instinctively reached for the hilt of the ethereal blade concealed behind her back. The dagger's glow was a comfort.

A grotesque abomination, a god who thrived on fear and chaos. There was a hunger in those sightless stone eyes, an endless void that mirrored the emptiness she sometimes glimpsed within herself—a darkness she fought to keep at bay.

Katherine's hand grips the dagger tighter as she moves on, her eyes flitting to Arachnaea, the Curse Weaver, a fusion of woman and spider. The statue's delicate limbs and dark exoskeleton created an unsettling, macabre beauty. How many lives did she ruin with her webs of deceit? Too many to count. And yet, here she stands, a frozen reminder that even the most intricate plans can unravel.

The statue of Sanguis, Master of the Wild Dominion, loomed nearby lying in pieces on the floor. It stood regal yet unnervingly still, its crimson fur and severed head a brutal testament to the violence of its end. His eyes wide in eternal shock. How ironic that the one who reveled in violence met such a brutal end. But there's no time for pity. Katherine smirked at the sight, her grip tightening on her blade as she steeled herself for what lay ahead.

Finally, she reaches the altar. My altar. The golden statue that represents me, Nocturnos, the firstborn, the last. My form, adorned with the constellations of the cosmos, stands as a beacon of what true divinity looks like. No face, because why limit myself to one expression? I am all, I am everything, and I will endure long after these fools have been forgotten.

As Katherine creeps closer, her every breath betraying her fear, she hears the soft murmurs of Father Alexander's prayers. Poor, blind Alexander. His faith, like his vision, is a relic of a time long past. He kneels before me, the last true god, whispering words that fall on ears that have heard it all before.

Katherine's approach is slow, deliberate, every step a battle between her mortal resolve and the overwhelming power she faces. Alexander turns towards her, his blind eyes seeing nothing, yet somehow knowing everything. His face, etched with lines of devotion and doubt, meets hers. And in that moment, the weight of what is to come hangs heavy in the air.

He sensed Katherine's presence and turned towards her, a mixture of sympathy and hesitation etched into his features. "Hwæt cōm þū hēr tō sēcenne, Katerine?" (What have you come here seeking, Katherine?) His voice rasped, breaking the heavy silence that draped over the church like a shroud.

Katherine's hand tightened around the dagger, her voice barely a whisper as she replied, "The bōc... hīe mē ne helpodon. Ic þurfe witan mā." (The books... they didn't help. I need to know more.)

The old priest's lips twitched into a ghost of a smile, tinged with a hint of irony. "Bōca wīsdōm ne mæg ǣfre bēon genōh for þē, nē?" (Book wisdom was never enough for you, was it?) His words lingered in the air, as if aware of the paradox—that even now, another mind sought truth within pages, hoping for answers that could never truly satisfy.

"Nā, hit nǣs," (No, it wasn't,) Katherine replied, frustration bleeding into her tone. "Ic hæbbe gesewen tō fela dēaþes, tō fela sāres. Ic cann nā lengc ǣmettig sittan and rǣdan." (I've seen too much death, too much pain. I can no longer sit idle and read.)

"Þīn fæder wæs blind tō his āgenum gewilnungum," (Your father was blind to his own desires,) Alexander interrupted, his voice sharp. "Swā swā þū eart nū." (As you are now.)

Katherine's knuckles whitened as she tightened her grip on her cloak, eyes blazing with anger and sorrow. "Þū wǣre swā þēah æt līc-cyning. Hwæt þū ne mihtest hē þā eallunga stæþan?" (You were meant to guide him. Why could you not stop him?) Ah, the futile quest for accountability. To blame the old for the failings of the new.

The old priest's shoulders sagged, a weary resignation enveloping him. "Ic sceolde. Ac ic wæs blind tō his giernesse, swā swā hē wæs blind tō his āgenum mōde." (I should have. But I was blind to his ambition, as he was blind to his own mind.)

"Ic ne eom blind!" Katherine retorted, her voice a dangerous whisper. "Ic gesēo hwæt þēos eorðe þearfaþ!" (I am not blind! I see what this land needs!)

Father Alexander's voice softened, tinged with sorrow. "Þū gesihst ac þū ne ongitst. Þū eart gīet tō geong." (You see, but you do not understand. You are still too young.)

"Ic eom nā lengc þæt lȳtle mǣden þe þū cūðest." (I am no longer that little girl you knew,) Katherine replied, her tone defiant, refusing to be relegated to the past. The adolescent dreams of yesteryear have been replaced by the cold realities of today.

Alexander sighed deeply, as if the weight of the ages were upon him. "Þū þencst þū canst don hwæt þīn fæder ne mihte?" (You think you can do what your father couldn't?) A question that carries the echo of every fallen deity's doubt.

"Ic cann. Ic sceal." (I can. I must.) Katherine's voice cracked slightly, revealing the immense burden of her self-imposed mission. Such confidence, such determination. It's both inspiring and naïve.

"Þīn brōþor cwæð þæt ilce," (Your brother said the same,) Alexander murmured, his tone heavy with memory. A name that brings a visible flinch from Katherine, a painful reminder of what has been lost. The ghosts of family and fallen dreams cling to her like shadows.

"Ne sprec ymbe hine." (Don't speak of him.) Katherine's command is a plea wrapped in desperation, hiding a depth of pain beneath it. Her anguish is palpable, a stark contrast to Alexander's calm acceptance of fate.

"Hwȳ? Ondræst þū þē þæt þū eart him gelīc?" (Why? Do you fear that you are like him?) An accusation and a fear all tangled together in one question.

"Ic eom nā gelīc him!" (I am not like him!) Katherine's denial rings through the church, a desperate claim to her own individuality. "I hope," she adds softly, as if wishing could make it so.

"Cildelic þōht," (Childish thinking,) Father Alexander murmured. "Þū wǣre swā geong þā þū ærest cōme hider. Hwæt canst þū ymbe þā frēcednysse þe þū sēcest?" (You were so young when you first came here. What do you know of the dangers you seek?)

"Ic hæbbe gesewen genōg," (I have seen enough,) Katherine's voice cracks with the weight of her revelation. "Þā landes syndon tōworpene. Menn wendaþ tō dēorum. Ic mot þis gestillan." (The lands are ravaged. Men turn to beasts. I must stop this.)

Father Alexander stood slowly, his aged bones creaking with the effort. "And þū þencst þæt godcundnyss is þīn andswar? Þæt wæs þīnes fæder gedwola." (And you think divinity is your answer? That was your father's folly.)

"Min fæder..." Katherine hesitated, memories flooding back. "He dyde hwæt he þōhte wæs riht." (He did what he thought was right.)

"Gea, and hwær brōhte hit hine? Hwær brōhte hit ūs ealle?" (Yes, and where did it bring him? Where did it bring us all?) Alexander's voice is tinged with sorrow.

Katherine's grip on the dagger loosened slightly. "Ic ne cann þis geþolian lengc. Þā dēad, þā ærming..." (I cannot bear this any longer. The death, the suffering...) The agony of existence pressing down on her, a burden she feels compelled to relieve.

"And hwæt cūþest þū, fæder?" Katherine's voice hardened again, her grip tightening on the dagger. "Hwæt hæfst þū gesewen mid þīnum blindum ēagum?" (And what did you know, father? What have you seen with your blind eyes?)

Father Alexander turned his face towards her, the metal blindfold gleaming in the dim light. "Ic hæbbe gesewen mā þonne þū canst ongitan, cild. Ic geseah þīnes fæder hryre, and nu ic geseō þīn." (I have seen more than you can comprehend, child. I saw your father's downfall, and now I see yours.)

Katherine's breath caught, and she felt a surge of conflicting emotions. She took a step back, the dagger still poised but her stance wavering. "Ic cōm hēr sēcan sibbe, nā feohtan." (I came here seeking peace, not to fight.)

"Þonne hwȳ cumst þū hider mid blōdegum wǣpne?" (Then why do you come here with a bloodied weapon?) Alexander's question cuts through her resolve.

Katherine's grip on the dagger loosened slightly. "For þām þe ic ne cann geseōn ōþerne weg." (Because I can't see another way.)

"Þæt is þīn sōþe blind." (That is your true blindness.) Alexander's voice is gentle now, a soft lament. "Þū gesihst ānne pæþ, ac þær sind ǣfre mā." (You see one path, but there are always more.)

A heavy silence fell between them. Katherine's resolve wavered, her hand trembling on the dagger. "Ic ne cann..." (I can't...)

"Þū canst," (You can,) Alexander insisted, his voice steady. "Ac þū scealt ǣrest forlǣtan þīne ege." (But first, you must let go of your fear.)

Katherine's hand fell away from the dagger. "Hū mæg ic þæt dōn?" (How can I do that?)

"Þurh forgiefnesse," (Through forgiveness,) Alexander replied softly. "Ærest þīnes fæder, þīnes brōþor... and þonne þīn selfes." (First your father, your brother... and then yourself.)

A tense silence fell between them. Katherine's hand trembled, the weight of her decision pressing down on her. The altar's golden light seemed to flicker in sympathy with her struggle.

With a swift motion, Katherine drew the dagger. "Þū hæfst mē ǣfre geholpen, Alexander. Forgif mē." (You have always helped me, Alexander. Forgive me.) Her voice trembled with a mix of sorrow and resolve.

As the dagger plunged forward, Father Alexander's last words were barely a whisper. "Ic forgife þē, cild. Ac hwæt forgifest þū þē silf?" (I forgive you, child. But can you forgive yourself?) A final act of grace before the inevitable.

The old man's body crumpled to the floor, his last breath a mixture of sorrow and understanding. As blood pooled around the fallen priest, Katherine stood motionless, the enormity of her actions washing over her. Her breath came in ragged gasps as she prepared for the next step in her dark journey.

Katherine knelt beside him, her gaze fixed on the altar as the blood pooled, becoming the catalyst for the ritual she had long prepared for. The air crackled with energy, the atmosphere heavy with the weight of ancient forces stirring from their slumber. Her voice, strong and unwavering, rang out through the church, a declaration of her intent.

"Nu, ic behealde Nocturnos mægen! Ēadmoda mē þā dȳstre gerihta, þā rīcu begeondan! Mid Fæder Alexanderes blōde, forgif mē þæt ieldeste mægen!" (Now, I behold the power of Nocturnos! Grant me the dark rites, the realms beyond! With Father Alexander's blood, give me the ancient power!)

Ah, finally, a mortal who understands the power of a well-crafted ritual. And who else but I, Nocturnos, to grant such a request? The room trembled in response to her words, shadows dancing upon the walls, cast by unseen fires. A cacophony of whispers grew louder, resonating with ancient power that had long been dormant.

From the pool of blood, a luminous green stone emerged, its glow pulsating with an eerie, otherworldly light. It drifted through the air, drawn towards the golden statue on the altar, in all my dark glory, clutching the "Stone of Power."

As the ritual reached its zenith, a figure stepped from the shadows. Kaleth, ever the loyal follower, approached with reverence etched into every line of his face. His voice, soft yet filled with awe, carried the weight of their shared journey. "Anweald hæfþe se gesetnes, hlæfdige. Hwær wille wē nū gān?" (Power has found its bearer, my lady. Where will we go now?)

Katherine rose, the Stone of Power glowing in her grasp, its energy coursing through her veins, filling her with a sense of purpose and destiny. Her eyes, once clouded with doubt, now shone with fierce determination. The weight of her actions, the culmination of her journey, settled upon her.

"Sangrevor!"