"There is nothing concealed that will not be disclosed, or hidden that
will not be made known."
— Luke 12:2
⸻
London, 2:16 A.M.
Rain fell like nails — sharp, cold, and incessant — as if the sky itself
had unfinished business with the city.
Luciel stood beneath the arch of a crumbling railway bridge in
Whitechapel, cigarette lit, coat collar turned high against the wind. The
streetlamps flickered in protest above him, their halos dying in fits and
starts. Somewhere nearby, a siren wailed — not for him, but for something close
enough.
He exhaled a long breath of smoke and silence, eyes tracing the glint of
broken glass in the alley. He didn't need Fate Weave to know something had
happened here. He could feel it — the weight of intention still hanging in the
air like incense.
This was the fourth site in three days.
A slaughtered cult in Glasgow. A desecrated shrine in Prague. A rogue
Watcher sighted in Marrakesh. None of the reports matched. No victims in
common. No known patterns. And yet…
He felt it.
Thread by thread.
They were searching for something.
Luciel knelt beside a chalk circle — poorly drawn, rushed. Symbols from
half a dozen traditions overlapping in a mess of confusion and desperation.
Latin, Enochian, Phoenician. Even scraps of something older, deeper — like a
hand reaching from behind memory.
He ran a finger along the ash. Still warm.
The sigils didn't form a summoning.
They formed a question.
He closed his eyes and whispered:
"I stand on my authority in Christ…
Reveal of fate… and sever that which binds… Fate Weave."
The world shifted.
Color drained. Sound blurred.
Threads lit the darkness — faint lines of cause and consequence crisscrossing
the scene like a celestial spider's web. Most frayed or snapped. But one…
One stretched westward, faint and
trembling, like a dying nerve still trying to fire.
London.
Always London.
Luciel stood, eyes narrowing. His
lips curled into that familiar, crooked smile — the kind that meant trouble was
about to have company.
"Alright," he muttered, flicking
the cigarette into the gutter. "Let's see what secrets you're trying to stay
dead."
His shadow followed him down the
street — long, patient, and weapon-shaped.
⸻
Luciel's coat flared slightly as he vn stepped into the wind, leaving
the desecrated chapel behind. The karmic threads around the city still buzzed —
restless, twitching like spider legs in a web someone had disturbed. Whatever
had happened here wasn't just ritual. It was a message. And it wasn't meant for
the Church.
It was meant for people like him.
By morning, Luciel was on the train into London proper. The skyline
broke through the gray like the jagged teeth of an old beast. This city —
ancient in bones but hollowed in soul — had always been a magnet for the
strange and the damned. Too old to forget, too modern to believe.
He knew just where to start.
⸻
London — The Half-Lit Places
Beneath the city, in the tunnels long sealed off by Transport for
London, Luciel found his first contact: a vampiric broker named Olek,
who dealt in memories and relics. His lair was lit by flickering green bulbs
and smelled like rusted iron and cloves.
Olek was stretched across a velvet chair, sipping from a wine glass
filled with something definitely not wine.
"Luciel," he crooned. "Back from the dead or just bored?"
"Neither," Luciel said. "I'm investigating a body count. Something old.
Something layered under karmic bindings."
Olek clicked his tongue. "You always bring the fun ones."
Luciel crouched beside him, flipping a coin across his fingers — not for
show, but for focus. "Tell me about the movements. Anyone asking about
forgotten names? Lost rites? Cainite remnants?"
Olek paused, the playful glint in his eye flickering. "You're not the
first to ask."
Luciel stilled. "Who?"
Olek leaned forward, voice lowering. "Didn't catch a name. But they
smelled wrong."
Luciel narrowed his eyes. "How wrong?"
"That's the thing…" Olek's brow furrowed. "They had no smell. None
whatsoever. Didn't even notice their presence till they spoke up. No heartbeat.
No scent. Just… a void."
Luciel's voice dropped. "Details, Olek. Body, gait, aura — you're not
giving me much to work with."
Before Olek could answer, a voice interrupted from the shadows. "Stop
leading old Luciel astray, you blind bat. The stranger had gold eyes, sure —
but his hair was auburn, and he was a bit tan."
A second voice joined in, exasperated. "What in Lucifer's name are you
saying, dummy? He had dark skin, gold eyes, and he looked… perfect."
Luciel slowly turned to face the newcomers — two streetbound informants,
supernaturals with a taste for drama and nothing better to do than lurk in old
rail tunnels and eavesdrop.
"Hold up. Let me get this straight," Luciel said, raising a brow. "You
three saw three different versions of the same person? And from your tone, I'm
guessing you all thought he looked… perfect?"
A pause.
"Seems like a glamour spell," Luciel muttered.
Olek shook his head slowly. "Impossible. I'd know if magic was cast that
deep. Glamours leave echoes — intent, sigil residue, mana drift. There was
nothing. Not even a thread of karma. Like he wasn't meant to be seen."
Luciel exhaled, jaw tight.
The karmic web couldn't map what wasn't part of it.
That meant one of two things: either the stranger was a Watcher-tier
anomaly… or something older.
Something beneath the threadwork.
Something like him.
He didn't say that last part aloud.
Instead, he muttered, "And he was sniffing around Highgate?"
All three nodded.
Luciel flicked the safety on his black pistol and holstered it with a
sharp click. "Then I'm going ghost-hunting."
He turned, trench coat trailing like smoke behind him. The supernatural
world didn't just whisper anymore — it was humming.
Someone had stepped into the weave who didn't belong.
And the last time that happened… the world changed.