The tavern's boisterous clamor had softened, thickening into an atmosphere both more intimate and more unguarded. Empty bottles of ale and wine cluttered the tabletops. The four adults' voices grew louder, their conversation drifting from obscure academic debates and mission details toward rougher, more personal recollections. Kaelen slammed a palm on the table, roaring with laughter over some botched operation. Morrison waved a chicken bone like a conductor's baton, vehemently disputing some long-forgotten detail. Even Wolfgang, usually so severe, permitted the faintest hint of relaxation—a barely-there curve at the corner of his lips. Lun Qin remained her quiet self, but the sharpness in her eyes had dulled; she merely refilled Kaelen's cup when it ran dry.
Erika sat among them, adrift. These memories belonged to the 'adults,' the 'powerful'—a past woven from codenames and distant places he couldn't grasp. He kept to his corner, taking small, silent sips of the bitter ale. A feeble warmth spread through his chest from the drink, doing little to melt the deeper chill of isolation settling in his bones.
Then, a faint tug on his sleeve.
He turned. Loren de Witt stood beside him, the ever-present handkerchief still pressed to his nose. But his ice-blue eyes, which usually held nothing but pure disdain, now flickered with something else—a blend of impatience and palpable discomfort. The increasingly 'unseemly' scene seemed to grate on him.
Loren met Erika's gaze and tipped his head slightly toward the door—a clear command. Without a word, he turned and slipped out into the night.
Erika hesitated, glancing at the absorbed adults. They noticed nothing. Drawing a sharp breath, he stood and followed.
The night air, cool and sharp, washed over him, stripping away the tavern's sticky heat and the smell of spirits. The streets were nearly empty, the silence broken only by the distant call of the night watch.
Loren stood just beyond the glow of a streetlamp, as if the common light itself was beneath him. He had lowered the handkerchief, but a faint frown lingered as his eyes swept over their surroundings, performing a silent assessment.
"Thoroughly undignified in there," Loren said, his voice regaining its crisp, aristocratic chill, though the words came slightly faster than usual. "With the esteemed guests… indulging, our presence was merely superfluous."
He paused, his scrutinizing gaze returning to Erika. Yet, it held a new, almost boyish impulse—a desire to show off.
"Since we're out," Loren lifted his chin, a subtle superiority lacing his tone, "I know a place. Their offerings are far beyond Temple rations or the swill served in that… establishment. The Church's tiresome rules hold no sway there."
His eyes fixed on Erika, awaiting a reaction, or perhaps issuing a silent order. "Come. I'll show you what true taste entails."
A silent alarm trembled in Erika's mind. This 'place' of Loren's sounded fraught with risk. Yet, a stubborn curiosity uncoiled within him—about the drinks 'the Church would never permit,' about the 'power and taste' this noble boy was so eager to flaunt. And remaining in that tavern held little appeal.
He nodded, offering no questions, and fell into step behind Loren.
Seemingly pleased by this compliance, Loren led him into a deeper, cobblestone alley beside the tavern. The buildings leaned in, their shadows swallowing the moonlight, fracturing it into pale shards. The occasional noise from the main street faded, leaving only the echo of their own footsteps whispering back from the stone.
They navigated a maze of increasingly silent lanes, finally stopping before a heavy, unmarked door of dark wood banded with bronze. Utterly nondescript; had Loren not walked directly to it, Erika's eyes would have slid right past it.
Loren didn't knock. He simply pressed his palm against an inconspicuous bronze panel carved with intricate vines. A moment later, the door slid silently inward. A waiter, impeccably dressed in black, his face a shadowy void, bowed slightly and gestured them inside.
Loren slipped through the gap. After a heartbeat's hesitation, Erika followed.
The door sealed behind them without a sound, severing all ties to the outside world.
Instantly, it was another realm.
Light plunged into a deep, tangible gloom of indigo and bruised purple. The air hung warm and heavy. The cloying sweetness Erika had faintly caught outside now thickened—a blend of expensive incense, aged liquor, and something else, something unnameable and visceral, a warmth that spoke of flesh and indolence.
It took Erika's eyes a moment to adjust. He stood at the mouth of a corridor, deep and plushly carpeted, vanishing into unknown darkness. Heavy drapes and screens hinted at secluded booths on either side. His world shrank to the dim, shifting light within a two-meter radius.
But the true shock was the people, and the unmistakable, heavy air of illicit indulgence.
Patrons, men and women alike, wore lavish attire—not Loren's stiff formality, but silken robes that draped lazily, backless gowns, and exotic cuts. Many wore exquisite masks—feathered, bejeweled, or of filigreed metal—that hid their faces while making their eyes, glittering in the low light, all the more brazen. Invitation, intoxication, scrutiny—it all swam in those uncovered gazes.
Deeper in, the light dimmed further, the sounds blurring. The sweet air felt dense, coiling in the lungs. His ears caught a stifled gasp—male or female—or a low, throaty laugh, only for the sound to be swallowed by the deeper shadows, the muffled music, the fragmented whispers from other booths. The bar itself felt alive, a beast silently consuming every secret and excess.
Erika's heart hammered against his ribs. His throat tightened. He couldn't have spoken if he tried. This place… was alien. The Temple's solemnity, the Priory's austerity, the tavern's simple clamor—all felt impossibly distant. This was a dangerous luxury, one that prickled along the nerves and stirred the senses.
Loren moved with an easy familiarity, ignoring the gazes from the shadows and the suggestive sounds. He noted the undisguised shock on Erika's face, and a genuine smile of satisfaction finally touched his lips.
This was the intended effect. To show this borderland 'specimen' a glimpse of the true 'taste' that defined his world.
He led Erika through this haze of desire until they reached a booth set further back, partially shielded by a curtain of deep violet velvet. It was a small, private grotto with a wide, plush U-shaped sofa and a low table of smoked glass.
"Sit," Loren commanded, settling gracefully into the innermost corner, stretching like a creature in its own den.
Erika sat down stiffly opposite. The soft cushions enveloped him but offered no comfort. His eyes kept searching the devouring darkness, his ears straining to pinpoint the source of those blurred, blush-worthy noises.
Utterly unbothered, Loren raised a hand and snapped his fingers softly.
Almost before the sound faded, a waiter in a tailored black vest, a silver fox mask covering half his face, materialized soundlessly beside them and bowed.
"Sir," the waiter's voice was a low, honeyed murmur, "your pleasure?"
"Two 'Starlight Whispers,'" Loren said, not even glancing up. "Use the 'Twilight Tear' reserve I keep here."
"As you wish, young Master de Witt." A slight bow, no further questions. The waiter dissolved back into the darkness.
Young Master de Witt… So, Loren was a known fixture here.
Loren turned his gaze back to Erika. In the dim, shifting light, his ice-blue eyes seemed tinged with a deeper, more mysterious hue.
"Welcome to the 'Whispering Gate'," he said, his voice soft, dripping with the pride of unveiling a treasure. "This is the true heart of the Sanctum's night. Everything you've experienced before…" His eyes swept over Erika's plain novice robes, "… is merely the surface."
Erika sank into the impossibly soft couch. The initial shock and unease were, strangely, being slowly dissolved by the warm, syrupy darkness enveloping him. This was not the Temple's suffocating solemnity, nor the Priory's cold isolation, nor the tense vigilance of the wilds. This was a… smothering, almost drowning, sense of slackening.
The elusive sweet scent coiled around his senses—not floral or fruity, but warmer, spicier, with a hint of powdered vanity. Inhaling it seemed to loosen his joints. The dim light blurred all edges, warping time. Those deliberately obscured, suggestive sounds from the depths no longer startled him; they became part of the backdrop, like distant summer insects.
He searched for a memory, a feeling to match this. An image surfaced—lying on a sun-warmed slope in the borderland grasslands, his flock grazing in the distance, the breeze carrying the scent of grass and earth, the sky vast, the clouds drifting… a carefree relaxation, a sense of merging with nature.
The similarity was absurd, but real. Here, the 'breeze' was this cloying perfume, the 'sky' this light-devouring darkness, and 'nature' this crafted space pulsating with raw desire. The absurdity somehow eased his awkwardness.
As he nearly succumbed to this unfamiliar 'comfort,' the waiter materialized once more without a sound.
A tray settled silently onto the smoked glass. On it rested two strangely shaped coupes holding a liquid of deep, nearly black blue-purure, with tiny silver specks drifting inside like a captured starfield. 'Starlight Whisper.'
Beside them were delicacies too exquisite to be real: tiny chocolate lava cakes dusted with gold leaf, pink macarons arranged like blossoms, and an assortment of savory bites Erika couldn't name, all on pristine bone china.
All this, the effortless best, courtesy of the name 'de Witt.'
Loren picked up his glass, swirling it gently, watching the 'starry sky' within rotate. He noted the fleeting intoxication on Erika's face.
"Well?" Loren's voice was lower here. "Closer to the 'real' world, isn't it?" A hint of challenge laced the words.
Erika, pulled back to reality, tensed slightly. He mimicked Loren, carefully lifting his 'Starlight Whisper.' The glass was cool, the starlight mesmerizing up close. The aroma was complex—tangy berries, mysterious woody spices, and a sharp, clean note, like metal or rain.
"It's… unusual," Erika said, his voice dry. "I never imagined… it could be like this." He sidestepped the question about the 'real world.'
Loren gave a soft, magnetic laugh. "Taste it. This 'Twilight Tear' isn't for just anyone." He sipped, closing his eyes to savor the liquid unfolding on his palate.
Erika took a small sip. No expected burn. It was smooth, with a berry-like sweetness and tartness, then a subtle, herbal bitterness, finally leaving a gentle warmth and that crisp, clean note in his sinuses. The silver specks dissolved on the tongue, delivering a faint, electric tingle.
"Well?"
"Complex," Erika admitted. "Sweet, then bitter, then warm… and those little lights…"
"They stimulate the palate," Loren explained with pride. "This is tasting. Not the cheap swill laborers use to numb themselves." His class prejudice leaked out.
To mask his awkwardness, and because he was hungry, Erika turned to the pastries. A macaron's crisp shell and soft interior exploded with sugary richness, contrasting the drink. A savory bite—some fish and herb mix—was equally refined and unfamiliar.
"These… are very good too," he murmured, almost to himself.
Loren watched him sample these common luxuries with such caution, and his desire to impress felt satisfied. He relaxed against the sofa.
"There's much to experience outside the Temple, Erika," Loren's tone held a rare, almost 'instructive' note, albeit condescending. "Power is important. But power without the knowledge of how to enjoy, to savor… is little better than a brute's strength. Do we not seek power to better command and enjoy this world?"
Erika listened silently, eating, offering no rebuttal. He couldn't follow the logic. Enjoy? Savor? He was here for Anna, for answers, for survival. Enjoyment was a distant concept.
It all felt… nice. Unrealistically nice. Nice enough to be deeply unsettling. A gorgeous, fragile dream from which he'd inevitably wake to cold reality and Wolfgang's piercing eyes.
So, he couldn't truly relax. His back remained straight, his movements careful, his replies short. An invisible chasm still lay between him, this 'Whispering Gate,' and the noble boy beside him.
Loren seemed to sense this. He stopped attempting deeper 'communication,' focusing on his drink, occasionally critiquing the music or a patron's attire.
Erika remained mostly silent, a mortal in a fairy realm, captivated yet terrified of the moment the magic would vanish. He sipped the 'Starlight Whisper,' feeling its complexity and warmth, but his gaze drifted to the heavy curtain, his thoughts already flying back to cold corridors and endless, desperate running.
The dreamlike drink in his glass was gone, leaving only drying purple trails. Erika sank into the couch, feeling weightless. Loren's aristocratic commentary seemed to come from far away, then right by his ear, its contours blurring.
"…and so, those who only parrot the Eternal Circuit's statutes… Erika? Are you even listening?"
Loren's voice sounded through a wall of warm water. Erika tried to focus, to reply, but his eyelids were leaden. The bar's cloying scent, the oppressive darkness, the alcohol's warmth—they wove a soft, dangerous net, pulling him down. Resistance melted. The last thing he saw was Loren's faintly furrowed brow, then the world plunged into black.
But the blackness wasn't silent.
It was instantly usurped by a more primal, more vicious terror.
Run! Faster!
Underfoot was cracked, barren soil. The sky, a oppressive leaden gray. Behind him, the Blighted—their movement a gut-wrenching grind of bone, withered limbs contorted, empty sockets burning with pure hatred for life.
More terrifying was the voice in his ear.
"Erika… save me… it's so dark… so cold…"
Anna's voice, not a memory, but filled with despair, terror, helpless pleading, like icy spider silk winding around his nerves, threatening to drive him mad. He didn't dare look back. He could only run, lungs burning, legs like mud.
Suddenly, a cold, desiccated hand clamped around his ankle!
A tremendous force yanked him backward! He fell hard, dirt filling his mouth. He struggled, but the claw-like grip was iron. More shadows loomed, the stench of decay suffocating. Anna's sobs grew louder, piercing.
Despair, cold as floodwater, drowned his heart.
As consciousness faded, a jarring image appeared—
A sheep.
An ordinary, woolly sheep, right within reach, head down, tracing the same small, stubborn circle over and over. It ignored the horror feet away, existing in another time.
A survival instinct made him stretch a trembling hand, touching the sheep.
The wool felt warm. Real.
The sheep didn't resist, obsessed with its endless, circular path.
This bizarre tranquility created vertigo. Almost without thinking, he turned his head, following the direction of the sheep's pointless rotation—
No Blighted.
No Anna.
Behind him, standing in a silent circle, were figures.
They wore bulky, light-absorbing black clerical robes, deep hoods shadowing their faces. From the seams of their robes, their cuffs, the shadows at their feet, cold, jumping blue flames burned silently. No heat, only a chill that seeped into the marrow.
Silent judges, surrounding him, countless points of blue fire flickering in the dark.
"Guh—hah!"
Erika gasped, jolting awake! His heart hammered wildly, a frantic drum trying to escape.
But the sight offered no comfort. It dragged the nightmare's dregs into reality, making them concrete, infinitely more terrifying.
No soft bar couch. No dim lighting. No cloying sweetness.
He lay on his back on cold, hard-packed earth. A night wind whistled, carrying the scent of wilderness soil and dry grass. Above, sparse stars and a sickly pale crescent moon cast a bleak light.
What sent his soul fleeing was his limbs, tightly bound with rough, hempen ropes! His wrists and ankles screamed with fiery, chafing pain. He struggled, but was pinned, like an insect on a specimen board!
His panicked gaze traveled upward.
Four tall figures, shrouded in heavy black cloaks, stood around him like silent tombstones, blocking most of the moonlight, casting heavy shadows across his face. Their broad hoods hid their features, leaving only bottomless darkness.
Who were they?! Where was Loren? The bar?!
Extreme fear washed away the last dregs of alcohol, leaving only a cold, shivering clarity.
As he opened his mouth, trying to form a demand, a scream—
The four cloaked figures, as if on cue, began to laugh.
It started low, a suppressed, ugly sound.
"Heh heh heh…"
"Ha…"
"Tch tch tch…"
"Keh…"
The laughter was sinister, dripping with undisguised malice, mockery, and a cruel, cat-and-mouse pleasure. Different voices—rasping, sharp, guttural—mingled, horribly out of place in the silent, desolate night.
Who were they? What did they want?
Erika's blood felt like it froze solid in his veins.