The carriage rocked lightly as it rolled to a halt. Outside, a fog—neither morning mist nor the smoke of lamps—hung heavy in the air, catching faint glimmers of lanternlight as though the haze itself were breathing.
Seth Virell stepped down from the chariot. His shoes landed on stone polished smooth by centuries of worshippers. Immediately, his eyes were drawn upward.
Above the pointed arch of the towering cathedral gates, wrought in dark iron and inlaid with pale silver, rested a symbol: a veiled crescent over a sleeping eye. The motif seemed to shimmer faintly, as though the crescent's veil shifted in the breeze, as though the eye beneath it might open at any moment.
The sight lodged in Seth's chest like a cold pebble sinking into deep water.
"That must be the sigil of the Twilight Matron…" he thought, clutching his coat tighter.
From beside him, the mist-like man spoke, his voice steady, precise, and carrying with it the weight of unyielding conviction.
"My name is Aldric Moraine. Divine Ascendant of the Twilight Matron. Welcome to the Twilight District, and to Her church."
His words were formal, but there was no warmth in them. Seth could not help but shiver.
Aldric guided him through the cathedral's heavy doors. Inside, the air changed—cool, reverent, saturated with candle smoke. The faint, persistent odor of burning incense wound itself into Seth's lungs, as if urging him to breathe faith.
The corridor stretched long, arched ceilings swallowing sound. Their footsteps echoed in tandem, as though Seth were being marched toward some quiet judgment.
Finally, the path opened into a great nave. There, bathed in muted violet light streaming through stained glass, loomed the statue of the Twilight Matron.
A woman of marble, her figure draped in eternal shadow. A veil covered her face entirely, obscuring expression, and in her hands she bore a single lit candle. Its flame, impossibly, flickered—not a sculpted detail, but a living ember that burned without consuming.
Seth's throat tightened.
"So this is… the Twilight Matron…" he whispered inwardly.
Aldric's voice broke the silence.
"Yes. The Lady who watches the boundaries of dusk and dawn. The one who veils truth until mortals are ready."
Before Seth could respond, a figure emerged from behind the columns. A woman in priestly robes, pale silver and deep violet, her head covered by a veil of gauze so thin it revealed only the suggestion of features. She bowed briefly toward Aldric, then extended her hand.
"The pendant," she said simply.
Aldric produced the purple pendant—the object for which he had slain the desperate thief—and laid it into her palm. Its gemstone pulsed faintly, like a heart remembering its final beats. The priestess closed her fingers around it, her expression unreadable.
Seth, stiff with unease, blurted before he could stop himself:
"What are you going to do with me? I was… I was just caught up in that mess. A victim."
The priestess tilted her veiled head toward him. Her voice was gentle, but carried an undertone that made Seth feel as if his excuses were being weighed.
"You will recount what happened. Then, as custom demands, we shall perform a blessing ritual to cleanse you of lingering corruption."
"Blessing ritual?" Seth's heart stuttered.
The thought burst across his mind like shattered glass:"If they perform a ritual… will they see what I truly am? That I am an Archivist? Will they look into the threads of narrative wound around me and cut them?"
His lips parted awkwardly, a desperate smile forced across them.
"That won't be necessary. I—I'm fine. I'll just… go home."
The priestess did not answer at once. Aldric's grey eyes sharpened, like mist suddenly crystallizing into knives. The silence that followed pressed against Seth's lungs until his breath hitched.
"…It would be unwise to refuse," Aldric said at last, each word dropping like cold iron. "The Twilight Matron's blessings protect against the erosion of unseen forces. You were held hostage by a man carrying Her stolen artifact. Exposure alone warrants cleansing."
The priestess nodded slightly, her veil shifting. "To decline would be… suspicious."
Seth swallowed hard. His heart thrashed in his chest like an animal sensing the snare.
Inwardly, he muttered to himself:"Calm down. If I resist, they'll think I'm hiding something. If I agree, maybe I can survive it. Just… just don't let anything slip out."
Aloud, his voice trembled:
"…Very well. I'll accept the ritual."
The nave was prepared swiftly. Dozens of candles were lit, each flame flickering violet in the dimness, their smoke curling into shapes Seth could almost—almost—read as letters. He dared not stare too long.
The priestess began to chant, words curling in the air like silken threads tugging at his ears. Seth was guided to kneel before the statue, the faint, eternal flame of the Matron's candle staring down at him.
At first, nothing happened. Just a sense of weight in the air. Then, gradually, his vision began to warp. Shadows deepened. The edges of stone blurred, shifting like half-forgotten dreams.
The veil of the marble goddess stirred. Though the statue was stone, Seth swore he saw the fabric ripple. Beneath it, he sensed—not a face, not even features—but a darkness too vast, too knowing.
His mind screamed. Don't look. Don't see.
And yet he saw.
He glimpsed a sky where the sun eternally sets, yet never falls. A horizon balanced on the edge of night, bleeding violet. Countless eyes, each sealed shut, waited beneath veils of shadow.
Whispers seeped into his bones.
"The candle burns… until you are ready to face what lies beyond."
Seth felt his thoughts unraveling, his own narrative thread stretching, snapping. His Cipher flared—Loose-End Finder—and he saw it: his own story bleeding into fragments, threads tangling with countless others, each one leading to endings both terrible and inevitable.
A laugh bubbled up from his throat, unbidden. His hands shook violently. His breath came in broken gasps.
"No… no, not now…"
The priestess's voice pierced through, steady as a knife:
"Matron, veil his eyes until the hour of truth. Bless his steps with twilight's mercy."
A coolness descended. The madness—like boiling tar in his veins—drew back, as if a curtain had been pulled across his vision. The statue's veil no longer shifted. The candle returned to its steady flame.
Seth collapsed forward, catching himself on trembling arms. Sweat poured down his face, plastering hair to his temples.
"Are you well?" the priestess asked. Her tone was calm, but Seth thought he caught the faintest flicker of curiosity—perhaps even suspicion.
He forced himself upright, dragging in ragged breaths.
"…Y-yes. Just… dizzy. But fine."
Aldric studied him, eyes narrowed faintly. He said nothing, yet Seth felt the weight of judgment pressing on him.
"They didn't see through me… right? They couldn't have. If they knew I was an Archivist, I'd already be dead…"
He mustered a shaky smile. "Thank you… for the blessing."
The priestess inclined her head. "May twilight guard your path."
But as Seth followed Aldric back down the corridor, his legs weak, one thought gnawed at the edge of his sanity:
"I saw Her. The Matron. And She saw me."