Hans took a slow step closer to the bodies, the ward stretching faintly as it followed him. He crouched, sliding a hand under the father's shoulder—expecting the usual dead weight.
Instead, his hand sank only slightly.
He frowned. "That… isn't right."
Marcus knelt beside him, touching the mother's arm. "Way too light," he muttered. "Bodies don't feel like this unless…" He let the sentence hang, scanning the room.
Bastrava stepped forward, hesitant. "How light are we talking?"
Hans exchanged a glance with Marcus. "Hollow," he said carefully. "As if something removed the weight but left the form intact." He paused, still observing the body.
Marcus's eyes darkened. He pulled a hand from his pocket, whispering, "Eye of Curios."
The room shifted. Colors drained. Shadows stretched. The flesh of the bodies became translucent, organs absent; chest, stomach, intestines, liver—just hollow cavities.
A quiet gasp escaped the officers. Bastrava's jaw slackened. One young man shuffled nervously, brushing against the ward. Another muttered under his breath, "An ocular blessing... I've only heard of them."
Marcus studied the father's form. "Everything… gone. Except the essentials. Brains, eyes, ears, tongue. The rest vanished. Yet the bodies hold their shape, like some invisible scaffold is keeping them intact."
Hans crouched closer. "No cuts. No openings. Nothing. Deliberate. Calculated. Whoever did this… had precision beyond a typical hand."
Marcus hovered near the ward, voice low. "Nothing conventional could do this. No blades. No fire. No magic residue. And yet… preserved. Maintained. The fuck?"
One officer whispered, voice trembling: "How… how is this possible?"
Marcus's gaze swept the room. "I've seen rogue pacts, sanctioned pacts… never like this. Bodies preserved, almost alive even… intelligent. Precise. Far beyond any cultist's skill."
Hans exhaled, voice calm but firm. "It's intentional. They left what mattered, kept the form. That alone shows an intent."
Bastrava frowned. "What intent that leaves bodies like this?"
Hans rubbed his forehead. "The only organs kept behind are the cognitive ones. That usually means-"
"Torture." Marcus intervened. "The perpetrator wants them to feel everything on... whatever the fuck happens here."
Hans frowned, a slight worry showing in his eyes. "But still doesn't explain the miasma..."
Silence pressed in. The miasma clung to the ward's edges, thick and unnatural. The air inside felt heavier, oppressive.
Hans stepped back, scanning the room. Marcus stayed close, arms crossed, absorbing the hollowed bodies, the untouched brains and eyes; the eerie perfection.
Bastrava and his men hovered near the threshold, hands brushing lightly against holsters. Words seemed futile.
Hans's fingers brushed the mantle as he scanned the area. A shadow caught his eye, tucked in the ashes. He crouched and pulled out a small, worn book, edges singed but intact. The leather cracked, the name on the front written in neat, childish handwriting: Daryl Delacourt.
He held it up. Marcus's eyes narrowed, unease and curiosity mingling. Bastrava's fingers tightened around his belt.
Hans's voice was quiet. "The boy's diary."
He tilted the book, feeling its weight, its texture. Even small, it carried presence; the imprint of the boy who had lived here before the horror.
Marcus leaned in, whispering: "Well at least it's something… check if there's anything worth mentioning" Marcus continued examining the bodies. Other officers stood at the corner of ward; staying vigilant of the crawling miasma.
Hans glanced back at the bodies briefly, then returned to the diary. He brushed a finger over the ashened cover, hesitating a fraction longer than necessary.
Hans opened it.