Silas recognized this battered old box. It had once been nearly all he and his sister owned, back in their days of poverty.
After he'd become a Nighthawk and started earning good money, he'd stopped paying it any mind. He hadn't expected to see it again today.
He bent down, picked up the box, and set it on the table to open it.
Inside were a few odds and ends.
On top lay a good number of sewing tools, along with two lengths of belt and some sturdy white cloth, probably the same materials Cecilia had once used to mend Silas's restraint jacket.
He noticed a spool of thread among them that stood out, a vivid purple, and it looked as though it had never been used at all.
This is...
Silas looked up toward the clothes rack.
There, hanging, was the purple dress he'd bought for his sister once.
She'd only worn it a single time, to the theater. The hem bore an obvious tear, one she had deliberately ripped open herself, to save him from Ma'am M.
Cecilia must have bought a spool of purple thread sometime after that, meaning to sew the dress back together. She'd still treasured that dress he'd given her.
Only, she'd never gotten the chance to mend it.
Silas silently gathered up these scattered belongings and set them aside.
Beneath the sturdy white cloth and the belts, he found a small notebook. He opened it and found a few one and two-pound notes tucked inside, the pocket money he'd left for Cecilia back then.
The notebook itself carefully recorded the Londor household's daily income and expenses.
Cecilia seemed to have been saving with real intention. She had managed this household with great care, planning ahead for the future.
Silas's fingers traced over the neat, delicate handwriting, one by one, until they stopped at the very last entry.
It recorded the cost of two tickets to the Tingen Grand Theatre, six souldes in total. After the night of that performance, everything had changed.
He set the notebook down and, almost without thinking, looked toward the very bottom of the box.
Hidden there was a small brush.
The brush Cecilia had used for pasting matchboxes.
Silas's mind went blank for a moment.
A moment later, he picked up the brush, and as if possessed, stared at it without pause. The corners of his mouth twisted, as though trying to force out the ugliest of smiles.
Cecilia, didn't I tell you a long time ago, you could throw that thing away?
I promised you, I was going to give you a good life...
In the end, this stubborn little girl had never listened to him. She hadn't thrown away the brush, and she hadn't put her own life first either.
Instead, she'd given up everything so that Silas, the brother who had failed to protect her, could go on living...
Silas suddenly felt utterly exhausted, his chest hollow, as though whatever had once filled it had simply vanished.
So, to confirm it, he set the brush down and pressed a hand to his chest.
Rrrip!
He tore through skin and flesh.
Crack!
He snapped his ribs apart.
Squelch!
He pulled the heart out from within.
Silas looked down. His heart was completely intact.
This heart, the one that had gone on living only because it had devoured Cecilia, was still beating away, shameless as ever.
In the faint chill of early spring, it steamed with warmth, pumping steadily and strong, entirely unaware of what its owner was feeling in this moment, and even less aware that it might be crushed to nothing in the very next second.
"Calm down."
Ma'am M's voice sounded low in his ear.
Perhaps worried her appearance might trouble him further, she didn't show herself, only spoke quietly beside him. "Don't forget what you're living for right now."
"..."
Silas stayed silent, as though he hadn't heard her at all.
He simply stood there, quietly staring at his own heart for a good while, before finally, slowly, placing it back into his chest.
He didn't want to linger here any longer. He quickly straightened up everything he had disturbed, then turned and walked out of the house.
The crimson moon hung fixed in the sky, casting its light over the desolate courtyard. Silas's figure looked terribly lonely beneath the moonlight as he walked, step by step, into the depths of the darkness.
One last place to visit, and then he would leave Tingen.
The outskirts of Tingen's northern district, Raphael Cemetery.
The public burial ground was quite still at night. Silas didn't disturb the groundskeeper, slipping in with ease.
This was the domain of the dead, gravestones standing in rows, casting slanted shadows under the crimson moonlight.
Those shadows quickly stirred to life, leaping and dancing, reading the inscriptions carved on the stones. Before long, three shadows rose up at once, floating high and swaying, as though marking something out.
By this method, Silas found the three graves he had come to see.
The first grave belonged to Klein. On it were carved three lines of epitaph:
[The best of brothers;
The best of sons;
The best of colleagues.]
The headstone was spotless, as though it had just been wiped clean, and someone had left a wildflower resting in front of it.
Ah, that must have been Frey, probably.
Silas remembered his former colleagues had a standing duty to make regular rounds of the cemetery. It seemed they had been looking after this "departed" companion all along.
Had he not known Klein was still alive, Silas might have felt quite moved by this epitaph. But since the man in question was doing perfectly well out at sea, he found himself not particularly stirred.
And so, he only spared the gravestone a brief glance before turning and walking toward another one.
That headstone bore a black-and-white photograph, showing a man with a slightly receding hairline, gazing at him with a gentle expression.
The epitaph beneath it read:
[Dunn Smith (1314.8.16 to 1349.9.9)
A True Guardian;
The Most Trustworthy of Companions;
Captain, Forever.]
His headstone was just as spotless, tended to with the same careful hand.
Silas stood there, gazing blankly at the photograph.
"It's been a long time, Captain."
He said, glancing down at the blood-red robe he wore, and the aura of madness that clung to him now. "I've turned into this kind of monster. Would you even still recognize me?"
Dunn's headstone and grave remained silent together with him.
Silas said nothing more. He stood in silence for a long while, as if he didn't know what words to offer.
Should he tell him that he was already hunting down the true culprit behind it all? Or that he had already become a Sequence 4 Beyonder, a figure of real influence in the mystical world, and would soon be returning to the Evernight Church as one of the nine senior Deacons?
If Dunn were still alive to hear all this, it might have been enough to make a few of his hairs turn white on the spot.
But he was already dead.
So all Silas could do was keep these words locked inside his heart, until the day he completed his revenge, for Dunn's sake, and for his own.
As though he could no longer bear to face Dunn's gentle gaze, Silas fled in disarray, making his way toward the last grave.
His own grave.
Shhk, shhk...
Leonard walked down the central path of the graveyard, shovel in hand.
A slight use of his ability had been enough to send the groundskeeper into a deep sleep, letting him stroll in without a shred of concern. The cemetery was quiet at night.
Under the moonlight, he scanned the headstones one by one, searching for something.
"!"
Suddenly, Leonard's gaze fixed on a particular direction, his expression freezing in place.