For as long as I can remember, I have seen the world through a fractured lens. I see the things that dwell in the periphery—spiritual scavengers, lingering ghosts, and things far more ancient—that have earned me the reputation of a madman. Worse still, I am a trespasser; I wander the dreamscapes of others whether I wish to or not.
At the orphanage, the children whispered that I was cursed, their fear blooming from the fact that my face was the last thing they saw before they woke in a cold sweat. Only Christabel Gwent ever looked at me without flinching.
By the morning of May 1st, I had been hospitalized seven times and discarded by five different foster families. The Moredins were the fifth.But May first was different. May first was the day the world finally broke.
— From the Diary of the strongest Cleanser, Erik Arshwic
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May 1, 1844. Liden City, Kingdom of Viremont.
...
"I truly wanted to keep him, Father, but Adam simply won't entertain the notion. He says the boy must go," Mrs. Moredin said, her frame looming large and trembling with nervous energy beside her slight, silent husband.
Father Bioka offered a noncommittal grunt, adjusting his spectacles. He didn't look at the woman, he looked at Erik, his gaze heavy with suspicion.
"We cannot continue to live with... with this..." Mr. Moredin began, the words catching in his throat like a physical obstruction.
"Please, Mr. Moredin, do not exert yourself," Erik interrupted. At seventeen, his voice possessed a haunting, melodic stillness. "Say what you mean. I have been called every name the Viremont tongue allows."
"An abomination!" Mr. Moredin finally spat, the dam of his politeness breaking. "May the Light preserve us, but the boy is a freak of nature. A sick bastard who ought to be answered for by the Church. Vermin like him shouldn't be permitted to walk free. No wonder his parents—"
He choked on the rest of the sentence. Erik had looked up.
Erik's eyes were a deep, predatory blue—a hue so vivid and unnatural it seemed to hum against the dim light of the rectory. They didn't just see; they pierced. When Erik leveled that gaze at a person, it felt like a physical heat, a slow burn against the skin.
Mr. Moredin recoiled, his face paling. "The boy is..."
"Cursed?" Father Bioka finished for him. He had heard it all before. He had sat in this very chair through four previous "returns," listening to the same frantic testimonies of shadows moving and dreams invaded.
To the world, Erik Arshwic was a broken thing, a vessel of bad luck. They saw the curse; they were blind to the extraordinary nature of the power simmering beneath his skin.
"I grew fond of him, truly," Mrs. Moredin whispered, her voice cracking. "If only Adam could change his mind."
But Adam Moredin was a man of rigid certainties. He had seen enough. He would not spend another night in a house with a boy who spoke to empty corners and appeared, uninvited, in the private theater of his sleeping mind. It hadn't been a coincidence. The hauntings had begun the moment Erik crossed their threshold, and Adam was determined they would end the moment he left.
Mr. Moredin took his wife's hand, his fingers trembling as he pressed a desperate, lingering kiss to her knuckles. "We simply cannot live with that boy a moment longer, Martha. We cannot. May the Light forgive my weakness."
"Understood," Father Bioka said, his voice flat and practiced. "It is a heavy burden to bear. If you wish, we could look into the records—perhaps find you another child who—"
"No!" Mr. Moredin bolted upright, the chair legs screeching against the floor. "No more children from this damned place. Not ever."
"Adam!" his wife gasped, her face flushing with shame.
But Adam was already halfway to the door, his coat billowing behind him like he was fleeing a burning building.
Mrs. Moredin turned to Father Bioka, the weary, defeated look of a woman who had lost a long-fought battle. "I am truly sorry, Father. Please, excuse us."
She paused beside Erik's chair. To his surprise, she didn't recoil. Instead, she reached out and cupped his cheek with a hand that felt uncomfortably warm. "I'm sorry, dear. I fought for you. I truly did. But Adam... once a man's mind is poisoned by fear, there is no reasoning with him."
With a final, pitying look, she turned and hurried after her husband, leaving the scent of lavender and old dust in her wake.
Father Bioka waited until the heavy oak door clicked shut. He removed his spectacles, rubbing the bridge of his nose before wiping the lenses with a frayed handkerchief. "You did it again, didn't you, Erik?"
Erik didn't flinch. He met the priest's gaze with a terrifying clarity. "I couldn't help it, Father."
"You could have," Bioka countered, though there was more sadness than anger in his voice. "The Moredins were kind. They were your best chance at a life outside these stone walls. All you had to do was stay out of their heads. All you had to do was keep your mouth shut about the things you see in the corners."
"I find myself there before I even realize I'm asleep," Erik whispered, looking away. "It's like gravity, Father. I don't choose to fall; I just... fall."
Bioka sighed, the sound of a man who had been fighting a losing battle for seventeen years. "Well, you've wasted the opportunity. You're stuck with me again. Though, I suppose Christabel will be pleased to have her partner in crime back."
Erik's posture shifted instantly. His eyes sharpened. "Christabel? She's back here too?"
"Like you, she has a talent for being impossible," Bioka said with a grimace. "She nearly leveled Sir Rustic's manor. Something about a kitchen fire that started 'on its own.' She's catching up to your record, Erik. This is her third return."
A ghost of a grin touched Erik's lips—the first sign of genuine emotion he'd shown all day. "It's not a competition, Father. Though if it were, she'd be winning on style points. Where is she?"
"Out with the Sisters fetching crates from the market. You won't see her until tomorrow morning. I've moved her to the east wing."
"Until tomorrow, then," Erik murmured, his gaze drifting toward the window.
Father Bioka froze. He knew that look. It was the look of a predator spotting a trail. "Don't do it, Erik. I see that spark in your eye. Her mind is already fragile enough without you trespassing. It's too dangerous."
Erik didn't answer. He didn't have to. The sun was setting, and in the world of shadows, the "morning" was still a lifetime away. If he couldn't walk through the halls to see her, he would simply walk through the air.