Dr. Fran seldom breached her Hippocratic vows—administering harmful substances remained anathema. Yet unmarked additives? Those occupied ethical penumbras where her scalpel-tipped conscience danced freely.
"To define 'harm' requires an arbiter," came Hedda's murmur, eyes narrowing with dawning comprehension. "And the scales tilt eternally toward the physician's gloved hand."
The surgeon's chaos unfolded now as meticulous choreography: Surveillance predicted. Timings calibrated. Vivian's intervention weaponized to flush their marked quarry. Hedda's lips pursed in reluctant admiration—here moved a mind that outmaneuvered time itself, threading heresy and bureaucracy into a single surgical suture.
"Since I have accepted the employment, I must live up to this remuneration... My habit is to carry out my responsibilities to the utmost."
No, I hired you in the capacity of a "coroner," so investigating should not fall within your duties... Though I thought this, Haida did not voice her concerns.
She picked up the skull-shaped porcelain cup from the tea table, examining it carefully, and posed another question.
"Fran, did you notice from the beginning that most of the decor and furniture here were crafted using the 'Flesh-Shaping Ritual' of the Crimson Cup Sect?"
"Of course. For a seasoned physician, those limbs and organs are merely altered forms... Given some time, the signs will always reveal themselves."
Fran deftly adjusted the braids at her temples, her demeanor relaxed and carefree, as if everything she had just done was insignificant to her.
She even remembered to offer some comfort to Haida.
"The Crimson Cup Sect venerates the transcendence and transformation of the flesh; their 'Flesh-Shaping Ritual' leaves no traces of mysticism once completed—everything changes solely on the material level..."
"This falls outside the realm of the Seekers' expertise, so it's understandable that you might not see it; there's no need to take it to heart."
The Seekers typically assess whether an event is linked to the mysterious by examining "spirits" and "auras," which the funeral attendants are particularly sensitive to.
However, the "spirit" involved in the flesh-shaping ritual can only be observed during the ritual itself, and its alterations to flesh and blood are entirely material, leaving almost no traces of spirit behind.
Moreover, the materials for this ritual consist solely of human flesh, with no relation to the aberrant. Thus, there are no unusual signs at the aura level.
To uncover the truth of this ritual, one would need either targeted secret techniques like those of the White Chalice Order, or possess extensive knowledge like Fran, or rely on specific "relics"…
Higher-ranking Seekers might detect flaws, but the current Sister Hedda is not yet capable of that.
Hedda shook her head, not accepting Fran's reasoning.
"There's no need to comfort me; failing to see through the heretics' disguise is my dereliction of duty."
That said, Sister Hedda did not show signs of discouragement or defeat.
This casework proved an invaluable education—her first encounter transcending the Funeral Attendants' "common knowledge." She resolved to immerse herself in Crimson Chalice archives immediately upon returning to the Order.
"A touch severe with yourself, aren't you?" Fran tilted her head, palms upturned in mock resignation. "But since rigor counts as virtue among shroud-maidens, I'll spare the admonishments."
Vivian stared at their seamless rapport, momentarily forgotten. "...Doesn't the incense induce drowsiness? Was I mistaken?" Her fingers drifted toward removing the standard-issue respirator.
A pale hand stitched with suture scars intercepted her wrist gently. "Miss Vivian," Fran inquired, leaning close with clinical concern, "how fares your slumber?"
"I... manage? Rarely lose sleep." The abrupt query left Vivian disoriented, answering through reflex before comprehending.
"Then your circadian rhythm proves commendable—maintain it. A warning though... should you wish to avoid slumbering till tomorrow's dusk, keep that respirator fastened."
Vivian's gaze darted between their unshielded faces, untouched by drowsiness. "So the incense indeed induces sleep? That tea you drank earlier too... How are you unaffected?"
"A culinary countermeasure," Fran replied, adjusting her sutured gloves. "I seasoned our meal with wakefulness preservatives. Should you abandon precautions, Miss Vivian, my kitchen welcomes adventurous palates."
The revelation drew Hedda's sidelong scrutiny. Had her immunity stemmed not from inner transformation, but the surgeon's calculated seasoning? Was this why Fran insisted on shared sustenance?
Noticing the weight of amber-flecked observation, Fran's eyes crescented like twin syringes catching lamplight—a smile both sterile and intimate gracing her lips.
"Sister Hedda, you've only undergone the first four procedures of the sequence—nineteen remain incomplete. Without auxiliary organs like the pre-gastric chamber or twin pulmonary arrays, relying solely on your constitution to resist soporifics remains... optimistic."
"Your enhanced physiology does grant prolonged resistance, of course. Unmedicated, the sedative compounds will require approximately thirty minutes to fully manifest."
"...Understood." Hedda nodded gravely, deliberately sidestepping the surgical implications threading Fran's words.
"Miss Vivian," the surgeon pivoted, fingers tracing the polished steel of a chef's knife, "care for a culinary interlude? Our kitchen boasts precision induction ranges and pharmaceutical-grade seasonings."
"No! I—I just dined before arriving. Grateful for your offer, truly, but..." Vivian's refusal blended stammering politeness with steel-edged resolve.
Her gaze flicked toward Hedda like a scalpel seeking sterile gauze—half-pleading, half-suspicious of the surgeon's gastronomic alchemy.
Hedda understood well—agents of the Arcane Tribunal assigned surveillance and covert assistance had no leisure for meals during missions.
She tactfully avoided remarking on this, clearing her throat instead. "Now that Madam Solani has fled, when do we commence pursuit?"
Though Hedda nominally led the team, Fran alone could track Solani. Thus... their operations now orbited the surgeon's capabilities, authority shifting imperceptibly like scalpels exchanging hands.
"Tomorrow? Perhaps the next?" Fran stroked her jawline thoughtfully. "File your interim report at the Order first—catalog evidence here. I'll alert you when Solani retreats to the Crimson Chalice's den."
"Agreed." Hedda's nod held ceremonial precision, well-versed in the predator's pause.
During the quarry's flight, hunters must alternate pressure and restraint... allowing prey to believe sanctuary awaits in heretical shadows.
Thus could the final harvest achieve fullest eradication—root and branch—when encircling these heretical blooms.
"A pleasure collaborating with Sister Hedda. Till next twilight's intrigue." Fran swayed her burlap satchel, its contents now swollen with caviar tins, chanterelle clusters, and truffle parcels pilfered from Solani's pantry. Two obsidian bottles of private cellar vintages clinked amidst the spoils. "Provisions for nocturnal sustenance remain... generous."
Theft? Hardly.
An asymmetrical exchange favoring Madam Solani—Fran's pharmacopoeia far outweighed these gilded trifles. With the apostate's coffers now beyond reach, the surgeon simply claimed mementos to balance ledgers...
Pale fingers parted Solani's oaken door. Swirling cerulean mists beyond the threshold undulated with serpentine vitality, caressing Fran's silhouette as she dissolved into the haze.
Vivian stared at the mist's fading eddies where Fran had stood, her expression caught between bewilderment and paralysis. "Sister Hedda... does Director Alwyn truly believe her 'benign'? That the Administration recommends continued contact? Since when do purge-happy lunatics show such restraint?"
Hedda's gaze lingered where cerulean vapors dissolved into night. "Her investigative prowess proves... extraordinary." The admission carried surgical precision. "To navigate Crimson Chalice machinations with such ease—every variable prearranged."
"Perhaps the Chancellor's own design," she added, watching Vivian's lips compress at mention of higher powers.
——
Foghaven Clinic, District 13-North.
Fran exhaled, the bear-stitched apron slipping from her shoulders like shed snakeskin. Before her steamed a midnight feast—Solani's purloined truffles shaved over foie gras, accompanied by a '79 Château Lafite liberated from the widow's cellar.
Although she had pilfered quite a few so-called precious ingredients, her usage of these items could only be described as crude; the real staple remained meat.
"What a laborious life! After crossing over for a consultation, I immediately took on Sister Hedda's case... My old back is about to give out."
With a hint of playful complaint, she rubbed her slender waist through her lab coat, slightly alleviating the muscle soreness.
"Those bothersome cultists are playing with blood rituals again. It seems the Hunters and the White Cup have their hands full lately."
Fran picked up a neatly cut piece of meat with her chopsticks and brought it to her mouth, her silver teeth crunching as she chewed delicately.
The terror of these external heretics lies in their ability to spread their doctrine through rituals that interfere with the mind, quickly corrupting normal humans—a true
Orthodox faiths maintained ironclad defenses against such psychic contagion—thus the heresy could flicker sporadically, never achieving conflagration.
Fran's dining ritual blended ballet grace with raptor efficiency. Within moments, the supper plate gleamed pristine, its porcelain surface mirroring moonlight.
"Purgatio."
She invoked the cantrip with duelist's audacity. Residual grease dissolved under argent luminescence—a thaumaturgic sterilization rivaling any theological sanitarium.
(The spell's magnitude seemed disproportionate for mere dishwashing avoidance...)
Contentment warmed her steps toward the mahogany library. From beneath vaulted shelves, she withdrew Convergent Canons of A Thousand Sects—tome thicker than a surgeon's ledger.
The tome bore time's patina like a second binding, its antiquity softened by meticulous stewardship. Vellum pages yielded gracefully beneath Fran's tracing fingers as she reclined in postprandial serenity, lambent eyes caressing forgotten doctrines.
(Some sectarian nuances had grown nebulous in memory—thus required... refreshing.)
...
Four primordial orthodoxies endured from antiquity's forge:
The Veilwardens - Hunters' God devotees
Chalice Argent - Seekers of sapient dawn
Stellar Smiths - Celestial anvil-tenders
Mothbound - Votaries of primal chiaroscuro
Each entry bore smudged traces where divine cognomens once bled through parchment. Fran's nail hovered above these erasures—to transcribe even fragmentary theonyms would require either hierophant... or heretic.
Orthodoxy's branches numbered beyond four, of course. Yet these pillars stood foremost—their roots drinking deep from revelation's wellsprings, their canopies sheltering daylight congregations. Others dwelled in creedal twilight, content with occluded worship.
Yet the Mothbound and Lamplighters waxed and waned—schism and synthesis rendering four into five through heretical arithmetic.
Unlike Chalice Argent's silver restraint, the Mothbound's quarrels remained orthodox at core—their discord harmonized by liturgy's scaffold.
Not so the Crimson Chalice. Apostates pursued corporeal transmutation through any means:
Dismemberment rites painting altars vermilion
Kin-blood nourishing abhorrent blooms
Innocence profaned in natal sacrifice
Mortality's taboos held no sway where flesh becomes chrysalis.
[Dr. Fran - Monthly Consultation Activated]
Patient: Madam Solaine Loys (Crimson Chalice Affiliate)
Therapeutic Parameters: Unrestricted
Ethical Constraints: Waived
"The vernal tides already lap at April's shores..." Fran murmured against her palm, the tome's weight settling into dust motes as shelves reclaimed their oracle.
The volume slid home between treatises on ecclesiastical hematology and astral anatomy.
"How considerate—prescribing ethical emancipation." Her thumb brushed the dossier's crimson seal. "For Madam Loys' particular affliction... the pharmacopoeia offers singular recourse."
A physician's pause, precise as scalpel fall.
"Mortality."
Amber lamplight fractured through interlaced fingers, casting twin abysses where her irises should swim.
——