The horse's hooves clattered against the cobblestone street, a steady rhythm cutting through the oppressive silence of the night. Its pace was brisk yet measured, pulling the creaking wagon through the shadowed cityscape.
Gas lamps flickered weakly, casting dim pools of light that barely pierced the pervasive darkness. The air was thick with the scent of coal dust and damp stone, a perpetual gloom hanging over the sunless world.
Inside the wagon, Cedric leaned back, his slender frame draped in a tailored suit, black wool frock coat, crisp white shirt, and a burgundy waistcoat embroidered with subtle gold threading. His cravat, slightly askew, hinted at a man who cared for appearances but was too restless to maintain them perfectly.
His sharp cheekbones and pale complexion were accentuated by the faint glow of a cigarette, its ember flaring as he inhaled. Dark hair fell in loose waves over his forehead, framing piercing gray eyes that scanned the shadows with practiced suspicion. A faint scar traced his jawline.
"Mechasaint, huh?" Cedric hissed, his voice low, almost swallowed by the creak of the wagon. He flicked ash onto the floorboards, his lips curling into a grimace.
The other man, Silvan, sat opposite, even leaner, his frame almost skeletal under a drab brown overcoat. His face was gaunt, with deep-set eyes that seemed to carry the weight of too many sleepless nights. A battered top hat rested on his knee, and his fingers twitched nervously, betraying his unease.
"Reports say the person's a Brand user," he muttered, his voice barely above a whisper.
Cedric's teeth ground together, the sound sharp in the confined space.
"Tchh."
He didn't need to say more, Silvan knew the stakes. Mechasaints, Wraiths, Brand users: to them their menaces that disturb humanity's peace as if the sunless world wasn't enough.
****
The wagon slowed as the silhouette of Nocturne Cathedral loomed ahead. Its gothic spires clawed at the starless sky, blackened stone walls rising like a fortress of forgotten faith. Arched windows, once vibrant with stained glass, were now cracked or boarded, their colors muted by grime.
The massive oak doors, carved with intricate scenes of saints and demons, stood ajar, creaking in the faint wind. A faint glow emanated from within, not of warmth but of something unnatural... ozone and smoke, sharp and acrid.
Cedric and Silvan stepped out, the former lighting another cigarette, its tip glowing like a beacon in the dark. Cedric yawned, stretching his arms with a reluctance that belied his sharp gaze. Silvan followed, his steps hesitant, eyes darting to the shadows.
The driver, cloaked in a heavy coat, remained with the horse, his face obscured, silent as stone.
High above, on a platform nestled between the cathedral's spires, the Mechasaint crouched, her form shrouded in darkness.
Her eyes, augmented with glowing lenses, scanned the men below.
"Hmm… So my guess was right, huh?" she murmured, her voice a low hum. With a fluid motion, she vanished from the platform, her movements too fast... too swift for human eyes.
Inside, the cathedral's interior was a haze of smoke, the air heavy with the stench of ozone and charred flesh. Pews lay overturned, their wood splintered, and the altar was smeared with ash. Cedric's boots crunched on debris as he moved forward, cigarette dangling from his lips.
"It was a Brand user, alright," he said, exhaling a plume of smoke.
He approached the platform at the cathedral's heart, where a scorched circle marked the stone. At its center lay a pile of ash, still warm, and beside it, the gruesome remnant of a girl's head.. half-burnt, her features frozen in a silent scream. Tattered scraps of her clothing smoldered nearby, the fabric unrecognizable. Cedric's eyes narrowed, his fingers brushing the ash.
"Hmm… another girl. What a hassle."
Was it the Mechasaint or the Wraiths that killed her? He had no idea.
Silvan, meanwhile, prowled the edges of the room, his lantern casting jittery shadows as he searched for clues.
Cedric's mind churned, reconstructing the scene: the Mechasaint, swift and merciless, cutting down Wraiths—those spectral abominations—before turning her blade on the girl.
"So the girl turned into a Wraith, huh?" he mused, though the how and why remained elusive.
His foot nudged something small, which skittered across the stone with a faint clink. Frowning, he bent down and retrieved a tiny glass bottle, its dark liquid glinting ominously.
"Ahhh… another puzzle," he scoffed, cursing his own curiosity. He pocketed the bottle, its weight a nagging reminder of unanswered questions.
****
The wagon rolled on through the city, the men silent as they approached their destination. The Aurethian Inquisition's headquarters emerged from the fog, a grand Nyxorian edifice illuminated by gas lamps that cast a warm, flickering glow. The building's facade was a masterpiece of ornate brickwork, with tall, narrow windows framed by wrought-iron flourishes.
Columns flanked the entrance, their bases carved with ivy motifs, and a massive vertical log hung above the door, etched with the words "The Aurethian Inquisition" in bold, gothic script.
Inside, the headquarters exuded the elegance of a detective's sanctum. Polished mahogany paneling lined the walls, reflecting the soft light of brass gas lamps mounted at intervals. A grand staircase spiraled upward, its banister carved with intricate patterns. Persian rugs muffled footsteps, and heavy velvet curtains framed the windows, blocking out the eternal night.
A large oak desk dominated the reception area, cluttered with inkwells, ledgers, and a ticking clock. Shelves groaned under the weight of leather-bound tomes and curious artifacts.. gears, vials, and strange devices hinting at the Inquisition's work.
Elara sat behind the desk, her gown a deep emerald that complemented her auburn hair, pinned up in an elegant chignon. Her eyes, sharp and intelligent, softened slightly as Cedric approached.
"You're looking more beautiful than ever, Elara," he said, his smile equal parts charm and sincerity.
She rolled her eyes. "You said that minutes ago when you left for Nocturne Cathedral."
"And I'll keep saying it," he teased, leaning on the desk.
"Idiot. What's the situation now?" Her tone shifted, all business.
Cedric's smile faded. "Same as always. A girl gets killed. Room's filled with Wraith ash, and the Mechasaint escapes."
Elara sighed, the room falling silent.
Cedric broke then broke the silence. "What of Mr. Howard?"
"His wife called again…" she replied.
"Ah. Did she forget where she dropped the steam iron this time?"
"Precisely."
Elara's gaze softened, her voice dropping.
"Hmm… Mr. August, have you ever wondered what the sun looks like?"
Cedric's jaw tightened. "Whatever the sun looks like, I don't know. But I'd love to find out. First, though, there are those who don't deserve to see it. Let them perish in the darkness when the sun rises."
Elara smiled faintly. "I trust you in cleansing this world and making it new, Cedric."
His face flushed at her casual use of his name.
"Huh… uh… it's late. I need to get going." He turned to Silvan, slumped in a chair with his hat over his face.
"Silvan, wake up. Let's go."
They hurried out, Cedric's cheeks still burning. Elara watched them go, her expression puzzled.
"What's with him?"
****
Back in the wagon, Cedric's mind cleared as he pulled out the tiny bottle, its dark liquid catching the faint light. He turned it over in his hands, his thoughts racing.
For years, they'd fought in a world drowned in shadows, where Wraiths preyed on humanity's fears and Mechasaints waged their violent crusade for justice. The sunless sky loomed over them all, a constant reminder of their struggle. The Inquisition, mere mortals without powers or shapeshifting, stood as humanity's last bastion, driven by grit and resolve.
Cedric's grip tightened on the bottle. "We're the Inquisition," he muttered, as if to remind himself.
"And we won't stop until humanity laughs again."
Cedric's words echoed in his mind as he sat in the jolting wagon, the mysterious bottle clutched in his hand. The weight of his mission pressed against him, as heavy as the sunless sky that blanketed their world.
The Inquisition wasn't just a name, it was a vow, a relentless stand against the chaos sown by Wraiths and Mechasaints. Wraiths, those spectral entities born of malice, tore at the fabric of humanity with their atrocities, while Mechasaints, with their mechanical augmentations and unyielding zeal, carved a bloody path in the name of justice.
Both were threats, and the Inquisition—ordinary men and women, devoid of supernatural gifts—stood as the fragile line between order and collapse.
He glanced at Silvan, who sat silently, his hat pulled low, lost in his own thoughts. The bottle's dark liquid sloshed faintly, a riddle yet to be solved. Cedric's jaw tightened.
Mysteries like this were the lifeblood of their work, each one a step toward unraveling the greater enigma of their shadowed world. The sunless sky, a perpetual veil, seemed to mock their efforts, but Cedric refused to yield.
'Wraiths and Mechasaints shall be brought to justice.'
Humanity deserved more than this endless night. It deserved laughter, light, and hope. And the Inquisition would fight until it was so.
"So be it."