Earlier That Week, in the Depths of the Obscura Society
The air was thick with chalk dust and quiet dread. Deep beneath the cobbled streets of lowbridge, twelve figures cloaked in ash-gray robes gathered around a table veined with cursed symbols. The walls sweated with old magic. Runes throbbed faintly. At the center of the table, a flickering projection hovered above a bowl of bone ash. grainy footage of a man with tousled hair, a cravat far too fancy for someone not at a ball, and the pleased expression of someone who had no idea what he was doing but was committed anyway.
Dorian held a gleaming dagger delicately between his fingers. In the footage, he smiled, examined the blade, and proceeded to sell it in an instant.
"He calls himself The Curator," one of the robed figure said, the title dripping from his mouth like a slur. "That dagger was said to be one of the Nine Wounds of Calisthar."
"And he sold it," growled the robed figure, flicking through another image. "To a baker."
"For Coins," another snapped. "Silver."
"Blasphemous," said the other robed figure. "how idiotic," added another robed figure.
He banged a scroll on the table. "You don't understand. This man. this idiot. has been distributing artifact-class relics with no care, no recordkeeping, and no protective sigils. He has no vault. No rituals. He keeps them on shelves. Shelves. With handwritten labels."
"Where does he even get them?" asked another.
"No one knows," she admitted, her brow furrowed. "There are no thefts. No grave robbing. Items long thought destroyed andight not even exist just simply appear in his possession."
"Perhaps he doesn't find them," mused the other robed figure. "Perhaps they find him."
"Don't be poetic," she snapped.
One of them leaned forward, fingers steeped. "We cannot assume ignorance anymore. Either he is in league with something beyond our comprehension, or he is it."
The table fell into thoughtful silence.
The figure spoke again. "Project Ashen Thorn remains intact. Five operatives. Trained to handle anomalies. They're independent, unsanctioned, and have no family ties. Clean removal."
He opened a black envelope and wrote one thing in silver ink.
The Curator.
The envelope dissolved in smoke.
Meanwhile, at the Shop,
Dorian was whistling a happy little tune as he polished a haunted vanity that hadn't. He'd put a saucer under it. The smell was awful, but business was worse if the shop looked dusty. He was quite proud of himself. he'd actually folded some cloaks and even stacked the skulls alphabetically.
"I don't even know why I have this many skulls," he muttered. "Was buying them a waste?"
His stomach rumbled. He tossed his rag aside. "My favorite time... Dinner."
The night of the Attack
He walked the streets of Valebridge in high spirits. The sun was out. Nobody had screamed at him for selling a fake item. He bought a slice of apple tart, browsed through a bookstore he'd been politely banned from last month (they didn't catch him), and even found some discounted soap that didn't seem actively molding.
Life was good.
Life was very good.
As he rounded a corner into a shortcut between streets, Dorian smiled to himself. He often used this alley. it shaved five whole minutes off his walk and rarely had stray dogs or cats anymore.
Then the light shifted.
He slowed. The moon seemed distant. The air was suddenly still. The scent of bread and perfume vanished behind him like a curtain drawn shut.
He nearly bumped into a man in a gray cloak. "Oh! Sorry, chap, didn't see you-"
He trailed off.
There were five of them. Men. Or things shaped like men. Their expressions were unreadable. Their stances poised.
Dorian took a step back. "Ah. Right. This is… something. I, uh, I don't suppose you're lost?"
One of them stepped forward. His blade caught the light. serrated, humming with built-in sigils.
"Right," Dorian said. "No talking. Just theft, is it?"
He tried to pivot. He did not make it.
The blow was clean. Sharp. Shockingly cold.
He staggered, vision blurring. He reached for his cravat as if it could hold his insides in place.
He fell.
He heard someone speak. "Confirmed."
The Curator is Dead.
(Ohh? Is that the end?)
.
.
.
.
.
It was cold.
No, I was cold.
Very cold.
I was a thing made of memory and thought. Something old, borrowed, and very awake.
Limbs. no, concepts. unfurled.
I rose.
They were still standing over the body. My body. They hadn't noticed yet.
I was not Dorian.
No.
No.
No.
I was something else.
Something watching from the margins of the page.
Their breath froze.
The nearest turned, his mouth forming a warning.
I did not let him finish.
Tendrils like ink in water spiraled from my back. They pierced him mid-word. His scream choked. His ribs bloomed outward like petals. He hit the ground in ribbons.
The second moved. Fast. Good instincts.
But I was faster.
I melted through space, appearing behind him as if I'd always been there. My fingers whispered through his head. his thoughts spilled out, feathered and empty, before he collapsed into a wet puddle.
The others tried to flee. One summoned fire. Another screamed a name. an invocation, a ward. It crumbled in his throat. They were so small.
I grew.
I towered.
I split.
I drowned one in his shadows. Another was devoured by a silence that screamed in his bones.
The last stood frozen. Begging. Trembling.
I cradled his face with a dozen hands.
He became dust.
And then. light. Finally.
Then noise.
Ohh?
A Witness.
"W-what… what in-"
The voice was thin. Human.
I turned my many heads.
A man stood at the alley's mouth. Groceries spilled from his arms. Eggs cracked underfoot.
He saw me.
All of me.
His pupils shrank. He dropped the rest of his bag.
I looked at him. Smiling.
I raised a single.
(Shhhh)
He screamed so loud it echoed down three streets and back.
Then he ran.
And Then I...
Dorian blinked.
"...What the hell."
The alley was quiet. A little dark. Smelled faintly like burnt sage and singed hair.
He dusted off his sleeves. "I really need to stop drinking so often."
He stepped forward. Nearly tripped over what looked like a broken fang.
"Ugh. People always throwing weird stuff in alleys. This city's got no respect for public spaces."
He turned to leave. and saw a man sprinting away down the street, still shrieking. Still screaming.
"Hey! What's your problem?"
The man kept running. The man kept screaming.
"Unbelievable," Dorian muttered. "Rude people nowadays."
(Right? Rude bastards)
He adjusted his cravat, patted his pocket to check if he still had his coins (he didn't), and walked off toward the shop.
For a moment, everything was quiet.
Then he paused.
He swore he could hear laughter. soft, distant, and unmistakably amused.
Louder than last time.
Somewhere far behind him, the smoke curled, the cobblestones trembled, and the Obscura Society began revising its threat levels.