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  The Sphere hummed beneath her layers, vibrating in sync with the fluctuations of mana—the city streets were a hive of motion. Patrols, inquisitors, seekers. Violetta dared not remain stationary for long.

  “RECOMMENDATION: VACATE SEARCH RADIUS TO MINIMIZE DETECTION PROBABILITY.” “ADDITIONAL ADVISORY: ACQUIRE SECONDARY GARMENTS FOR INFILTRATION.”

  She nodded, her eyes tracing the fissures in the stone pipe where she had crouched, outwaiting the day. At dusk, once the baying of hounds had withered, she crawled out. Navigating through alleys and burying herself in refuse, she moved toward the outskirts. Despite her efforts, a priest spotted her. Tall, clad in simple but pristine robes, he trailed her like a shadow—a hunter scenting prey.

  As she reached the slums, he materialized beside her, a light hand arresting her shoulder. Violetta spun with lethal speed, her body coiled like a tripwire. The Sphere vanished beneath her rags.

  “Be not afraid, my child,” he spoke softly. “I intend no harm. Tell me, are you not famished?”

  His smile was warm, almost human. Behind him stood several young beast-kin—boys and girls whose ears, fur, and eyes were dulled by the hollow ache of starvation. They were shrouded in filth, but they were alive. Some gnawed on crusts; others hugged themselves against the frost. He offered her a piece of bread.

  “You may stay here—or come with us. We have a sanctuary. Warmth. Food.”

  Violetta remained silent, her mind racing to reconcile the image. The Church? Aiding beast-kin? It smelled of either a miracle or a slaughterhouse.

  Something is wrong...

  But she needed the truth. Grabbing the crust he offered, she began to eat with desperate, unchewed lunges.

  “I am... very hungry,” she said, tears prickling the corners of her eyes.

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  They were led through narrow veins of stone to a structure within the temple complex—a derelict wing that felt safer than the death-chill of the open streets. Inside, it was warm. Mana-stone lamps flickered; the air smelled of soup.

  “ENVIRONMENTAL ANALYSIS: THERMAL SOURCE — ANCIENT HEARTH.” “CHEMICAL COMPOSITION: WATER, LEGUME RESIDUE, RODENT LIPIDS.” “WARNING: ELEVATED STRESS HORMONES DETECTED IN SUBJECTS DESPITE FACIAL NEUTRALITY.”

  A nun with a face carved from granite distributed bowls of watery, tepid liquid. Violetta watched, her instincts screaming. The others ate like scavengers, gulping and choking. She brought the bowl to her lips, mimicking the motion, her eyes scanning the room.

  I don’t sense poison, but something reeks... not in the pot, but in the air. I have to know what this is.

  A boy began to cough, his body sagging as he lost consciousness. The nun stepped forward, shoving the others aside with cold indifference. She gathered him in her arms and carried him away.

  When the rest were put to sleep on piles of straw and rags, Violetta kept her eyes open. In the deep of the night, she heard the rustle of robes and the groan of a door. The priest was waking the young ones—gently, as if they were his own. They followed him like lambs.

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  Violetta dissolved into the shadows, a wraith gliding in their wake. She suppressed her aura as the Masked Master and the Sphere had taught her: slowed her pulse, dropped her body temperature. She didn't exist—even to a watchful eye.

  They descended into the cellar. Darkness swallowed them as the door clicked shut. Then, a heavy wardrobe slid aside like a recurring nightmare, revealing a hidden passage. Narrow, gray stone steps led into the bowels of the temple. The air grew heavy, saturated with humidity, incense, mold... and something else. Metallic. Saline. Familiar.

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  The passage constricted. The walls were etched with symbols—religious or alchemical, worn thin by time and touch. These stones remembered more than human prayer. Thin veins of water wept from the cracks. Violetta slipped through the gloom, a ghost in the machine. She didn't breathe—not out of fear, but to avoid the cloying scent of death.

  The priest stopped before a heavy door. It didn't creak; it clicked, a trap snapping shut. Violetta crouched, peering through the keyhole.

  “Time for purification,” he murmured lovingly. “Without this, they will never be clean.”

  The Sphere whispered: “PROBABILITY: PURIFICATION RITUAL. VARIANTS COMMON IN PRIMITIVE CULTS. INDICATORS: ISOLATION, CONFESSION, PHYSICAL TERMINATION OF SUBJECT AS ‘OFFERING’.”

  What followed... she would try to forget. But she never would.

  Screams. Blood on stone. Shadows danced like marionettes on the walls while the cries cut deeper than any scalpel. A blade flashed in the lamplight like a demon’s tongue. The stone-faced nun wiped a blade with a rag. Then—silence. A brutal, sterile silence.

  “Am I dreaming?” she whispered, pinching her cheek.

  “NEGATIVE. PAIN SIGNALS REGISTERED AS REAL. HEART RATE STABLE. COGNITION FUNCTIONAL.”

  Nausea surged. She clamped a hand over her mouth and bolted from the door. She ran. The corridors were a labyrinth of horror, her battered boots thundering on the stone.

  She burst into a side room and slammed the door, freezing in the suffocating silence. Then, she saw.

  Walls sprayed with old blood. Tables cluttered with surgical instruments mingled with implements of torture. An open barrel filled with human remains. Another with the severed parts of beast-kin.

  On a shelf, meticulously filed folders. She grabbed one with trembling fingers.

  “PURIFICATION SUBJECT #125. BEAST-KIN (RACCOON-HYBRID). MALE. JUVENILE. POST-AMPUTATION OF EXTREMITY AND ADMINISTRATION OF EXPERIMENTAL SERUM, MINIMAL REGENERATIVE EFFECT OBSERVED. SUBJECT REMAINED CONSCIOUS. SUBJECT EXPIRED. EXPERIMENT FAILED.”

  “PURIFICATION SUBJECT #226. BEAST-KIN (FOX-HYBRID). FEMALE. ADULT. DURING INTERACTION TESTING WITH CRYSTAL PLAGUE, EXHIBITED INCREASED RESISTANCE. POSSIBLE LINK TO PAGAN DEITIES. FURTHER EXPERIMENTATION REQUIRED. DEATH OCCURRED AFTER 24 HOURS—LONGER DURATION THAN PREVIOUS TEST SUBJECTS.”

  Dozens of entries. All stamped with seals. These symbols... she felt they were tethered to something darker.

  “ANALYZING...” the Sphere’s voice was flat, devoid of emotion. “SHORT CONCLUSION: THIS IS A DEATH LABORATORY. EXPANDED: THIS IS A RESEARCH COMPLEX MASKED AS A SACRED ARCHETYPE... RITUALIZED EXPERIMENTATION.”

  “Experiments?” Violetta hissed through clenched teeth.

  “COLLECTION AND DISSECTION OF LIVE BIOLOGICAL MATERIAL. OBJECTIVE: STUDY OF MUTATION, REGENERATION, AND LIMITS OF VITALITY. THEY ARE TESTING THE RACES. THE HYBRIDS. ANYTHING BEYOND THEIR ‘PURE’ NORM.”

  “Statistics? Research? You bastards!”

  Violetta shoved a file into her pocket and set the rest ablaze before fleeing. She slipped through the corridors, a shadow among shadows. She was almost at the exit when the darkness shifted.

  He emerged like a phantom: a knight clad in black plate, emblazoned with the same emblem from the documents—an eye within a circle, pierced by a sword and crowned. The helm masked his face, but the etchings on his armor seemed to writhe. His eyes glowed through the visor with a cold, magical light.

  “Are you lost?” he asked. His voice was a low rumble of subterranean thunder.

  Violetta froze for a heartbeat, then stepped back. Too late. The knight drew his sword. The blade hissed in the dark as he advanced.

  She manifested a dagger—compressed iron pulled directly from the stone beneath her feet. She managed to parry the blow... but the strength behind it was monstrous. She was thrown like a splinter, slamming into the wall.

  “Guh—ack!”

  The air was hammered from her lungs.

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