The door groaned as Lucien stepped into the night.
Cold air met him like a tide—damp, heavy, alive with sound.
He looked up. The rain had stopped, but the streets still glistened, reflecting a moon full and silver, bright enough to turn the rooftops pale.
The stoop creaked under his weight as he descended. He passed the narrow garden—beds of wilted flowers, lavender still clinging faintly to the damp soil. Between two leaning poles hung a line for drying clothes, now slick with droplets.
Beyond it stretched the cobbled street. A thin drizzle clung to the stones, turning them into mirrors for lanternlight and fractured moons.
The houses stood shoulder to shoulder—rows of red and brown brick, their walls damp and gleaming. Sloped slate roofs glimmered darkly under the moonlight. Some walls were patched with rough stucco; others wore coats of plaster to mimic the stately facades of the rich.
Tall sash windows shimmered with condensation. A few brass knockers caught the lantern glow like misplaced gold.
He drew a slow breath.
Fireworks burst overhead—violet, gold, crimson—painting the clouds in molten bloom. Their echoes rolled through the narrow lanes, trembling across the walls. For an instant, the entire street glowed as though dusted with divine light.
The city was alive.
Men in long coats and wide hats waved mugs of ale.
Women in corseted gowns laughed beneath silk umbrellas, ribbons floating like serpents of color.
Children, faces hidden by wooden masks—wolves, angels, demons—chased one another through puddles.
A banner fluttered above him, half-torn but legible enough to read:
"Festival of the Full Moon — Praise the Light Eternal."
He hesitated. He ought to have gone home—but the road beyond was crowded…", blocked by wagons and processions. So he turned the other way, letting curiosity lead his steps.
Everywhere, music played—soft violins and drums that beat like distant thunder. Lantern-lit stalls lined the street, glowing like scattered hearths. Their patched canvas roofs flapped gently in the wind, dripping rain.
"Charcoal bread! Two lira!"
"Hot stew-meat or blackberry pie—fresh and sweet!"
"Spiced gin! Warms the soul, clears the sin!"
The scents tangled in the air—smoke, sugar, and wet iron.
Lucien moved through the crowd, eyes wide.
He passed a child gazing into a cracked-glass display marked:
"Dollmaker of Ashwell Street — Wigs, Eyes & Little Dress-ups."
Across the road, another sign swayed above a faded door:
"Osgood's Emporium — Exorcisms & Thimbles."
And further down, painted in blue ink, almost lost to rain:
"Miss Pennywick's School for Peculiar Young Girls — Enrollment Open."
Everywhere he looked, the world seemed to breathe.
Yet beneath the laughter, something faintly hummed—an unease woven through the joy.
He passed two men arguing near a lantern post—one older, clutching prayer beads, the other foreign, face flushed from drink.
"I hear your people worship the moon itself," the foreigner said with a slurred grin.
"We thank the Light," the old man shot back, voice hard as iron. "Don't mistake gratitude for idolatry."
"Then why the serpent?" the other sneered, nodding skyward.
"Superstition," came the clipped reply. "Now mind your tongue before the Watchers hear."
Lucien didn't linger. He slipped through the press of bodies, the music swelling and breaking like waves.
A small silver stall caught his eye. The woman tending it was old, her fingers heavy with rings, her eyes sharp as a needle's point. Moon-shaped trinkets gleamed on her table.
Lucien approached. "Excuse me," he said. "What's happening tonight? Is it… some sort of festival?"
The woman blinked, then frowned, her expression caught between disbelief and pity.
"Are you pulling my leg, boy?" she rasped.
"This is the Festival of the Full Moon—same as every year. The night we thank the light for not abandoning us."
Lucien's lips twitched. "Something like that," he muttered.
"Tch." She clicked her tongue. "No reverence, no sense of history."
She pushed a small charm toward him—a silver crescent etched with runes.
"Here. For luck… or protection. Whichever you need more."
Before he could ask what that meant, the sky split open again.
A flare of gold erupted above the rooftops, forming the shape of a serpent devouring its own tail. The crowd roared. The music swelled. The ground trembled with drums and dance.
From the steps of a chapel, a priest watched the revelers with wary eyes—ensuring no heart strayed into the sin of heresy."
Wine splashed, ribbons spiraled through the air.
Lucien pocketed the charm and stepped aside as masked dancers spun past him, ribbons fluttering like spirits. For a heartbeat, their shadows merged into one black mass—shifting, alive—then snapped back into place.
His pulse quickened.
The sigils. The nightmares. The window stains.
Was this all real—or was he still dreaming?
He walked on, down narrower streets where the crowd thinned and the lights grew dim.
The festival's noise softened to a hum. The air turned colder, sharper. Rain began again—soft, steady, patient.
A man slumped near an alley mouth, whispering into his hands, "The Light sees… the Light always sees…"
Lucien's pace quickened.
The festival was gone now, swallowed by the distance and mist.
By his side stood an Alleyway.
Lucien hesitated slightly stepping backwards.
Slowly,Fog pooled thick as spoiled cream. A gaslamp at the end flickered in protest, casting erratic shadows.
He slowed.
There, just beyond the rim of that sickly yellow light, stood a man.
Too still. Too symmetrical. As if painted there.
The man wore a long black coat that drank in the light, and a hat that cast shadow over all but his eyes.
No. Not eyes.
Glass.
Not reflections. Not lenses. Just... glass. Empty, perfect orbs, polished to cruel clarity.
Lucien stumbled back in fear
Then very slowly The fog swallowed the figure
Silence
Lucien wiped off the sweat already pooling bon his nape
Great am still Hal.. , hardly completing his sentence hands shot from the dark, gripping his collar and yanking him inwards.
Amidst the struggles looking up the same ice cold glass eyes