Contrary to his own belief, the city of Dunsleight was quiet at night. The moon hung low, casting a pale blue glow over the frosty streets. Each breath left his lungs in visible clouds. Cirino pulled up the collar of his uniform, shivering.
I never liked the cold.
But that'd change soon enough—or at least, he hoped. The streets were nearly empty, the curfew taking hold more efficiently than he'd imagined. Refreshed by the coffee, he decided it was time to check in with Walter to see if the gem showed any signs of corruption. The thought of enduring the cold any longer was unbearable.
His plan was simple: gather the five aureals, secure a temporary room, and wait for the rest of the money. Foolproof. Easy.
Assuming there's no Malethic corruption, of course.
He pushed the thought aside. After the day he'd had, the possibility of the gem being tainted was one more burden he didn't need. Right now, he only cared about where he'd stay, how long, and when he'd be reassigned.
As he trudged through the cobblestones, the city grew quieter still. Carriages had all but vanished, and the few lingering pedestrians soon disappeared. In the dead of night, Cirino walked alone, his senses on edge.
Part of me wishes I still had a firearm, he mused. Even that clunky old pistol from Karvethal would do.
He considered Rena for a moment, making a mental note to visit her after securing the initial aureals. But the gnawing unease along his spine refused to go away. Empty streets, the absence of guards, the chill in the air—it all pressed down on him.
Calm down. Nothing's wrong. People are just obeying curfew…
Still, the weight on his shoulders grew heavier. Cirino quickened his pace, cutting through corners, feet tapping against the frostbitten cobblestones. He ignored the shadows, the feeling of eyes watching him from the dark. One thought propelled him forward: get to Wycliffe and Sons.
When he arrived, the faint gold glow of the lanterns bathed the shop in a warm light. Cirino exhaled in relief. At least nothing had happened. He stepped inside—the bell jingled—and froze.
The shop was empty. Not a single soul in sight. Every corner, every shelf, every display—silent. Cirino's blue eyes scanned the room, searching for life. If he couldn't find any, he'd search for signs that something had gone terribly wrong.
Then came a sound: a clatter from behind one of the shelves. Cirino paused, muscles tensing. Carefully, he edged toward the noise, peering through the gaps in the wood. There, huddled and trembling, was a small figure.
William.
The boy clutched a pistol—one of the rustic antiques from the shelves—shaking violently. Was it even loaded? Cirino took a cautious step forward, hands raised.
"I'm not going to hurt you, William. Please…" His words faltered; speaking to children had never been his strength.
The boy's hands quivered against the trigger, tears streaming down his cheeks. Cirino ground his teeth and tried again. "Drop the gun. I can help you."
Gloved and open, his hands were meant to reassure. Slowly, the boy lowered the pistol, hesitating as if expecting it to explode in his face. Cirino exhaled, crouching to the boy's level.
"Let me handle this. What happened?"
William's eyes darted toward the door behind the counter—the very door that led to Walter's study. Trembling, he handed the flintlock over. The wood felt old, almost fragile, but serviceable.
Cirino clicked his tongue. Something had clearly gone wrong. He motioned to the boy, voice calm but firm: "Stay here."
Pocketing the thought that this could be a trap, he gripped the pistol, his soldier's instincts kicking in. Quiet as a shadow, he crept toward the back room—the mage's study. Every step measured, every sense alert. His eyes darted to the gap in the doorway—searching for whatever had caused William's terror.
The door was already ajar. From within came a sickening chorus of noises: squelch, squeak, tear. Cirino froze. He knew those sounds—all too well. He had heard them across battlefields, in pits of death and despair. His teeth clenched, bile rising in his throat, but he forced it down. Slowly, deliberately, he pushed the door open.
The sight before him made his stomach twist.
Walter crouched over Zachary's body. The ex-patriarch's throat had been torn open by clawed hands. Blood pooling and spattering across the floor Cirino had cleaned moments ago.
Flesh ripped, entrails spilled, and gore streaked Walter's mouth. His fangs glinted in the dim lantern light. Cirino found the gem embedded deep in Walter's arm. The crystal was driven through skin as if hammered, blood dripping in a steady stream.
Cirino willed himself not to throw up. He had seen this before, countless times, yet nothing dulled the shock entirely. The metallic tang of iron filled the air, and the faint taste of his non-existent lunch lingered.
He assessed the scene quickly, coldly. Walter—still human. Not fully corrupted. For now. But how long would that last? Once Malethic corruption took hold, there was no undoing it.
Action was necessary.
Cirino stepped forward silently. The flintlock in his hands muffling the clicks of the mechanism as he raised it. His barrel hovered behind Walter's head, each breath measured, each heartbeat steady. He had no illusions—he might not get a second chance.
Cirino didn't hesitate. He pulled the trigger.
Bang!
The room cracked with fire and gunpowder. Walter's head burst open from behind, red and gray splattering against Cirino's coat. The body collapsed in a heavy thud, blood pooling beneath father and son alike. The smell of burnt powder mingled with iron and bile.
Cirino stood still, his chest heaving, the taste of iron coating his tongue.
I did this…
Guilt pricked at him—he'd brought that damned gem here. But there was no time for guilt. Not now. William was still out there. Cirino turned, ready to run back—
Then the sound came.
A wet, tearing crack.
He froze and turned just in time to see Walter's body convulse, limbs jerking unnaturally. Flesh peeled, skin ripping open as if something beneath clawed its way out. Bone splintered and twisted through muscle, forming grotesque spines across his back. The gem in his arm pulsed—once, twice—before its light spread through glowing veins beneath skin.
William regenerated his open wound. The bullet hole stitching itself back together as if flesh itself were intermingling.
Cirino's stomach dropped.
"…No," he breathed.
The corpse rose.
Malethic energy rippled through the air. It was a humming, suffocating pressure that made the lanterns flicker. The blood shimmered unnaturally on the floor. Walter's ruined jaw opened in a gurgling scream that was no longer human.
Cirino gritted his teeth. His one shot with the flintlock was wasted. There was no time to think.
"Will!" he shouted, rushing from the back room. He paced through the door, stopping just by William. "Get over here—we need to run!"
The boy didn't even have time to answer before something crashed through the door behind him. The frame splintered, wood shrieking under the force. Whatever remained of Walter no longer fit the shape of a man.
William screamed and bolted toward him. Cirino grabbed the boy by the arm, hauling him up as he turned and ran.
Behind them, Walter—or the thing that had once been Walter—let out an inhuman roar. Blood poured from what was left of his mouth. Teeth fell like loose pebbles, clattering against the floorboards. In its place, jagged splinters of bone masquerading as fangs.
Eyes—too many to count—split through his flesh. Each blinked out of rhythm. Each eye glowing a sickly green that reflected off the now blood-soaked walls. Cirino felt his own eyes burn in response to the sight, as though boiling water had been poured into his skull.
He's too far gone!
That thing couldn't even be called a human anymore.
Then came the claws.
Long, gray appendages burst from his arms. The false claws were stabbing into the floor. Using it, the creature dragged itself forward with terrifying speed.
"Run!" Cirino barked, tightening his grip on William.
They bolted through the storefront door. Walter's body slammed into the door frame in response. His monstrous body was unable to fit, cracking the frame. The sound followed them into the streets—a choked, guttural scream that no human lungs could make.
The night air cut into them like shards of ice as Cirino sprinted through the empty streets. He clutched William tight against his chest. The boy's sobs were muffled against his coat. His tiny hands were gripping onto Cirino's uniform as though letting go meant certain death.
Behind them, Walter finally crashed through the storefront, sending glass and splinters flying. The sound of wood giving way resounded. The sounds of claws tearing through stone echoed through the narrow street.
"High-Crown damn it—move!" Cirino hissed under his breath.
His boots struck against cobblestone, echoing between the buildings that boxed them in. The gas lamps flickered with each tremor of the creature's pursuit. The lamps cast their shadows in manic flashes of gold and black.
He turned sharply, ducking into an alleyway. The soldier's instincts screamed to stay low, stay quiet. But the corruption was following their scent.
I have to try, I won't be able to outrun that thing…
Cirino all but hissed to himself.
Cirino pressed himself against the cold brick, forcing William to stay still. His heartbeat thundered in his ears, so loud he swore the beast could hear it.
Then came the noise—wet, uneven, wrong. The creature dragged itself into the street beyond the alley. Its body battered, form swaying like a puppet on broken strings. It sniffed the air, twitching, head jerking toward the alley.
"Don't breathe," Cirino whispered.
The boy froze.
For a moment, the hiss of steam from the city pipes and the faint whistle of the wind were all they could hear. Then the monster shrieked—a sound that rattled every window in the street. It bolted past, its claws dragging sparks against the cobblestone.
Cirino exhaled sharply, his chest heaving. "We can't stay here," he muttered. "We need to find the guards. Someone—anyone."
He peeked from the corner of the alley, checking that the coast was clear before stepping out. But the streets were empty—eerily empty. The curfew wasn't just for show. Whatever the Church feared enough to impose it… he was seeing it firsthand.
William tugged on his coat. "Mister Cirino," he whispered, voice trembling, "was that my—was that—"
Cirino looked down, his heart twisting.
"No," he said in a hushed voice. "That's not your brother anymore."
The boy's eyes welled, but he nodded. Cirino adjusted his grip and pressed forward. His gaze scanned every shadow, every flicker of gaslight.
A noise behind him froze him in place. A wet, dragging sound, closer than before.
Cirino turned—and his stomach dropped.
Walter was already there at the mouth of the street. He crawled along the wall like a spider, his new limbs puncturing stone. His many eyes blinked in unison, each reflecting Cirino's pale, terrified face.
The corrupted let out a sound halfway between a growl and a sob. "…Ciri…no…"
Cirino's blood turned cold.
It remembered his name.
I shouldn't have signed that damned document!
"Run!" he shouted, this time with every ounce of his being.
They sped through the city—past the darkened shopfronts. They rushed through the shuttered bakeries. Past the once-bustling streets that now stood empty beneath the pale glow of gaslight. Cirino's boots hammered the cobblestone. His every step splashes through puddles of melted frost. His breath came in sharp bursts, white in the cold air.
Behind him came the sound of pursuit: claws on stone, bone scraping metal. The hideous rasp of malformed lungs gasping for air they no longer needed.
William's muffled sobs pressed into Cirino's shoulder. The boy trembled, yet did not scream. The soldier could feel every quiver of the child's body and every beat of his panicked heart.
He's strong… but no child should have to be.
Cirino's jaw tightened until he tasted iron.
It's all my damned fault. I brought that thing here. I killed him. I—
A screech shattered his thoughts. Cirino ducked instinctively as claws raked across the air above his head. A few red strands of hair fell from the attack. He cursed, pivoting hard into a side street. He crashed through a market stall left half-covered in tarp. The creature followed, a blur of twisted flesh and glinting bone.
It's faster… gods, it's getting faster.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw them—things sprouting from its back. Wings, if they could even be called that. Bone and lung membrane stretched thin, slick with blood and bile. They flexed once, twice. Unnatural twitching motions as if the body itself resisted what it was becoming.
"Chthonis," Cirino hissed between clenched teeth. "Not even once."
He ducked into a narrow alley, boots skidding against the cobbles. The passage was tight—barely enough space for him and William, but the creature was larger now. If he could just bottleneck it—
The plan barely had time to form before pain seared through his shoulder. A claw grazed him, cutting through coat and flesh alike. He staggered forward, biting down a curse. Blood spilled down his arm, hot against the cold air.
He didn't stop. He couldn't stop. Every turn, every corner, every mad dash through the backstreets was survival. A desperate waltz between predator and prey.
When he dove beneath an archway, the creature's tail lashed out, tipped with sharpened bone. It struck his side, tearing through cloth and grazing ribs. He stumbled, catching himself against a wall slick with frost.
"Damn it!"
He pressed on, lungs burning, every heartbeat drumming in his ears. He needed an edge. Something—anything—to turn the tide.
If he had V-Type ammunition. If he had a void-tipped bayonet, he could pierce the corruption. He could send this Chthonis spawn back to its infernal pits where it belonged. But he had neither. No weapon, no magic, no backup.
Only a flintlock relic without a bullet, and a boy too terrified to cry.
Think, Cirino. Think.
Adrenaline hammered at his temples. For a maddening second, everything in his head sped up and slowed down at once. Memories, possibilities, the day replayed frame by frame until a single through-line surfaced.
He'd brought the emerald to Wycliffe & Sons. He'd dragged that thing into their lives. The least he could do was make sure someone survived it.
An idea slotted into place like a gear catching in a machine.
The Choir watches the barracks.
If he could get the corruption loud enough—make it a scene in front of the station—the Choir would have to respond. They'd show. They'd send eyes, squads, something that could actually contain this. It was ugly, it was risky, and gods help him, he'd have to answer to a dozen sermons and tribunals afterward.
But better that than letting William die in some back alley. Better than letting Walter's body stitch itself back together out of bone and malice.
He grit his teeth against the ache in his shoulder and set his jaw. Explanation and punishment could wait. Right now, there was only one priority.
Cirino pivoted, changed direction, and sprinted toward 132 Statengard Street. He rushed toward the garrison. Toward danger that wore the Choir's badge. Toward whatever salvation might come with uniforms and authority.
He ducked, weaved—his lungs burning, his body running on fumes. Every step felt heavier. But while exhaustion gnawed at his spine, the creature behind him only grew more frenzied.
He cut through alleys, vaulted fences, and slid beneath hanging stalls. He took detours through cramped corners. He leapt across the low rooftops of merchant row. All until he saw it, the iron sign of 132 Statenguard Street loomed before him.
He didn't hesitate. Cirino rushed in, throwing William inside before slamming the heavy, rust-lined door shut. A deafening crash followed. Metal screamed as the creature struck the other side with the force of a battering ram. Each impact made the hinges groan. The door warped, bent, and split at the seams.
Cirino turned to the boy. "Go! There's a vault in the basement! Get in and lock it from the inside—I'll distract him!"
William froze, tears brimming in his eyes. "B-but… what about you?"
Cirino clenched his jaw, gripping the flintlock tighter even though it was long spent. "Kid, this is my job. If I die doing it, that means I did it right."
The door buckled inward, shrieking under another blow.
William's breath hitched—he shifted, uncertain, unwilling to move.
"Go!" Cirino barked.
That broke the boy's hesitation. William turned and ran, boots pounding down the stairwell toward the basement. Cirino turned back to the door just as another impact sent a shower of dust from the ceiling. The hinges screamed again—he didn't know how much longer it would hold.
Cirino gritted his teeth, his breath ragged as his gaze fixed on the door. The metal bowed inward, warping further with each monstrous strike. It wouldn't hold. He needed a weapon—something, anything—before the Inquisition could respond.
Think. Armory.
He forced himself to move, boots pounding against the floor as he sprinted down the corridor. The flintlock was useless now, its one shot spent. He discarded it and turned sharply toward the armory, just as the door behind him finally gave way.
Crash!
The sound thundered through the hall. Metal screamed as it tore from stone, the door crumpling like paper. Through the twisted frame stepped the thing that had once been Walter.
Its wings had fully formed. An obscene tapestry of fused bone, torn lung tissue, and shivering muscle. What remained of his eyes had gone black, the sclera swallowed by darkness. Sickly green irises burned through the void in its stead. His lower jaw dangled by threads of flesh. Each unholy screech scraped the walls raw.
It turned toward the hallway leading to the basement.
No.
Cirino didn't think—he moved. He grabbed the broken flintlock and hurled it at the creature. The gun struck its shoulder with a hollow thud—useless as a weapon, but enough to draw its gaze.
"As if I'd let you get to that kid!" he hissed through clenched teeth.
The creature's head twisted toward him. Its vertebrae snapping and realigning with a grotesque click. Cirino's heart hammered. His only chance was to lure it away—to open ground, where maybe, maybe the Choir would see the chaos.
Forget the armory, I need to lead him into the open…
He turned and ran, boots pounding up the spiral stairs toward the rooftops. Behind him came the scrape of claws and the thundering of wings—bone grinding against air.
Hurry up,
He thought bitterly, a desperate prayer whispered to whatever god still listened.
See this, damn you. See this and act.
Beyond all reason, the creature beat its wings inside the halls of the abandoned garrison. Each screech it loosed tore through the air. The creature let out a shrill, bone-rattling cry. The sound echoed off the metal walls and filled the corridors with raw blood lust.
Cirino sprinted up the winding staircase, boots striking iron. The instant he stepped onto the stairs, the creature surged upward after him. Its jagged claws—hands only in the loosest sense—swiped through the air. The metal railing shrieked as it bent beneath the blow. Metal folding like parchment before tearing free entirely.
The whole staircase quaked.
Cirino nearly lost his footing—his heart leapt into his throat—but he bit down hard. He dragged himself upward by the railing that still clung to the wall. The iron groaned under his weight. He didn't dare look down. Cirino could feel the creature's breath rising up from below. He could smell the hot stench of blood and decay crawling across his back.
Step by step, he climbed—hand over hand, lungs burning.
The creature clambered after him. Its claws ripping through each step, shredding the staircase as it ascended. Every movement sounded like the tearing of wet paper and the grinding of bone.
Cirino reached the final floor, lungs aflame, and slammed his shoulder into the door.
Crash!
The door broke from its hinges, bursting open to the night. Cold air flooded in, biting through his coat. He stumbled onto the rooftop, boots scraping frost as the wind howled across the city.
Behind him, the creature roared—a sound that rattled windows and turned the air heavy with dread.
Cirino didn't look back. Not yet. His eyes darted across the rooftop, desperate for anything that could serve as a weapon.
There.
A broken length of pipe, jagged at one end, glinted faintly in the moonlight. Crude, but sharp enough. He'd handled bayonets before; this would do.
He dove for it, rolling across the gravel and frost, gripping the metal until it bit into his palms. Blood slicked his gloves, but he steadied himself. He moved one foot forward, one back, his weight braced for the strike.
Every breath scorched his lungs. The cuts along his arm and shoulder burned where the cold met open flesh.
Then, the rooftop shuddered.
The creature burst through the broken stairwell, tearing into the open air. Stone crumbled beneath its claws; tiles shattered under its weight. Each step cratered the roof, sending cracks spidering out like lightning.
Cirino gritted his teeth.
He was outmatched. Badly.
The thing was faster, stronger, and far more eager to die than he was.
What did I expect?
He thought bitterly.
Fighting a mindless, corrupted spawn barehanded…
This wasn't Walter anymore. Whatever the man had been—brother, student, human—it was gone. Replaced by something unholy, its form twisting with every breath.
I'm sorry…
Cirino thought to himself, genuine remorse crossing his mind.
For what it's worth, I'll try to put you out of your misery.
Cirino, with nothing but a rusted pipe, was standing between it and the boy. He could not kill this creature; he couldn't hope to harm it without the proper armaments.
But he could stall, and that's what he'd do.
He adjusted his grip on the weapon, the wind slicing through his uniform as the creature's many eyes fixed on him.
"Come on, then…" Cirino muttered through clenched teeth. "Let's see if you can bleed."