Lumiona was dead.
The manipulative spell that weighed on the hamlets would eventually fade away, slowly, like a flame deprived of oxygen.
The soul of the half-succubus may have found peace elsewhere — but things were different in this one.
In this world, death did not mean the end.
Her body — though cold and lifeless — still retained, despite everything, something of the characteristic impossibility that had always surrounded her.
An untouched beauty. A silent presence.
And that was enough.
Barely a few minutes had passed when the men of the village — the very ones who had fled, trembling, during the exile and the confrontation — returned.
The first was one of them who, as if under a post-mortem mental spell cast by the deceased succubus, approached with the fiery glow of something sinister shining in his eyes.
Then he was joined by a few acolytes.
They approached without a word, displaying a troubled hesitation that never lasted long.
Silas did not immediately understand what he was seeing.
At first, there was muffled laughter, low voices, gestures he could not interpret. Then insults flew, hurled with unnecessary violence at a dead woman who, fortunately, could no longer hear them.
Something in the posture of these men, in the way they leaned over and gathered together, gradually gave rise to a chilling certainty in the young nobleman's mind.
He looked away, but...
...It was too late.
"What a bunch of shameless dogs..." whispered Mimi.
The servant's voice was hoarse, broken by disgust and pain.
She moved with difficulty towards a nearby house, each step wrested from the pain. The young woman stopped near Silas, who was kneeling, frozen, his gaze empty from what he had just understood.
She placed a cold hand on his shoulder — without even looking at him.
"This is the true face of those you wanted to help, young master... does it please you?"
The young boy slowly looked up at her... then, despite himself, looked back at the scene.
And his body gave way.
Silas vomited.
He vomited again and again and again, until his stomach was nothing more than a painful knot, his mind overwhelmed by nausea that was not physical.
Events collided in his head, incoherent, cruel, tormenting his mind with a multitude of questions that arose and disappeared in the meanders of his mental universe.
How had it come to this? How could beings calling themselves human sink so low? Was it really him turning mad... or the world that had always been so?
Ever since he had left the Wrighton estate, violence and cruelty had pursued him relentlessly. It was as if each step took him further away from a comfortable illusion and closer to a truth he was not ready to face.
Was the world outside the walls of Wrighton Manor really so disgusting?
The poor boy didn't know what to think anymore.
Why him? Why now?
What had he done to deserve this?
When a man looked up at him — a sick smile on his lips, a look of utter shamelessness in his eyes — Silas felt a shiver of pure terror run down his spine.
He jumped to his feet and ran away.
He ran without thinking, looking for a place to breathe, to no longer see, to no longer hear...
...to no longer live this hell.
But hell was not limited to one place or one scene.
It was everywhere.
And if there really was another hell, as the faith of the seven circles claimed, then it was now clear to Silas that this hell must be empty...
...Because all the devils were here, in this world.
The young nobleman stumbled, fell, and immediately got back up, indifferent to the physical pain. After all, it was nothing compared to what was tearing him apart inside.
Finally, he took refuge behind an abandoned house, far from prying eyes. There, he collapsed, clutching his head, sobs shaking his body despite himself.
He couldn't close his eyes. The images kept coming back.
And when he tried to escape them, the voices in the distance — laughter, words, indistinct noises — brought him brutally back to reality.
There was nowhere to go.
***
Silas did not know how long he remained like that — curled up, drained of all strength, breathless.
When his body finally stopped shaking and his stomach emptied for the last time, he remained there, drained too, with no more tears left.
The mist around him began to dissipate. Slowly. As if it, too, refused to remain in this place any longer.
Mireille, somewhat rested but still disgusted, finally joined him. She sat down near him, at a respectful distance.
The maid said nothing. She just stayed close to her master and friend.
As one would do for someone whose soul had just been shattered.
"They won..." whispered Silas, his voice broken, his fists clenched.
Mireille shook her head.
"No. They didn't win anything."
The young boy looked at her, lost.
"She's dead... and they're doing this."
There was a short silence. Then, softly, Mireille replied:
"At least she's not suffering anymore. At least she's no longer here to know what they're doing to her remains..."
Mimi paused for a second and looked at the sky, which was now beginning to regain its colours. Then she continued.
"...At least she's at peace now."
The day was returning, indifferent.
***
In the distance, the voices continued — but Silas could no longer really hear them.
He thought of young Enalid, who, like him, had fled to seek refuge elsewhere. He thought of her necklace. Of the mist that had — he finally understood — enveloped a family finally reunited.
Something broke inside him again.
Not violently. Not in anger.
But in a slow, painful, irreversible understanding.
The world was not unfair by mistake.
Nor was it good or bad.
Neither cruel nor merciful.
Neither biased nor impartial.
It was simply as it was.
Realising this, Silas had the strange sensation that a veil had been lifted from a part of his consciousness.
And perhaps for the first time since leaving the grounds of Wrighton Manor, the young boy knew that he could never truly look away again.