The diocese letter arrived by raven at midday - it was urgent, sealed with Bishop Jorvia’s personal crest.

  A tranquil market town, two days' ride to the north, had turned grim.

  Every few nights a young man or woman vanished from their bed, only to be found next morning, in an alley or field - a mummified husk, with skin like parchment, eyes sunken and the body curled inside a perfect circle of dried blood.

  There were no witnesses.

  No struggle marks.

  Just the same drained husks and the same profane mark.

  The parish priest - Father Elias, middle-aged, soft-spoken and genuinely beloved by the townsfolk - had written the plea himself:

  “I fear dark forces walk among us.

  The people are afraid.

  We need help.

  Please send aid - any aid.”

  Fanática read the Lady-Bishop’s letter aloud in the inn's common room.

  She looked serious.

  “The Goddess does not suffer the defilement of life. We shall go at once.”

  Gorzod grunted.

  “For once this sounds like a proper monster. Finally something worth swinging at.”

  Thrain eyed the parchment.

  “Or perhaps someone is playing at being one.”

  Liora said nothing.

  They rode hard.

  The town greeted them with shuttered windows and fearful glances.

  Its church stood proudly at the center of the medium-sized town.

  Father Elias met them himself at the church steps - his round face was lined with worry and his eyes were red from sleepless nights.

  “Thank the Goddess you’ve come,” he said, clasping Faná’s hands.

  “The latest was young Mira, the baker’s daughter.

  We found her at dawn. The same circle.

  That’s terrible, terrible…”

  His worried face suddenly beamed with a small smile.

  “Thank the Goddess that you are here. This nightmare will finally end.”

  Faná nodded with a solemn face.

  “We will find this evil and end it.”

  Liora stood a step behind, arms crossed.

  She watched the priest the entire time he spoke.

  Later that night, in a darkened chamber a man in dark robes smiled.

  His eyes were gleaming with quiet madness.

  “The fish has taken the bait,” he whispered, voice rough and reverent.

  “O Goddess, praise be Your hallowed name. At last I will bring You a fitting offering.”

  He raised a thick iron spike, its tip already dark with old blood, and drove it downward in one swift motion.

  On the stained wooden table before him lay a gagged young man.

  His wrists and ankles were chained tight.

  The spike pierced the flesh.

  A muffled scream strained against the cloth gag, as the body arched in helpless agony.

  Tears streamed from his terrified eyes.

  “Yes, not like these worthless, faithless husks,” the man murmured, almost tenderly. “You… you will be perfect.”

  Days passed in fruitless circles.

  Faná patrolled the streets at all hours, but found nothing.

  There were no dark mages hiding among the scholars.

  No hidden cultists in the basements.

  The monstrous beast supposedly lurking in the town sewers turned out to be just a drunkard’s tale.

  At one point, she began knocking on every door in town during evenings, calling out each resident by name.

  She remembered everyone’s name. “Is everyone present and safe?” she asked, her halo lightly glowing.

  Somehow it made the frightened townsfolk even more terrified.

  The party - everyone except Liora, who tended to disappear often - patrolled the town alongside the zealous nun.

  Another husk appeared on the third night after their arrival.

  It was always dropped in a different part of town, always seemingly random.

  The party debated in the inn’s common room each evening.

  Gorzod shrugged: “Could be a vampire. They drain life and leave husks.”

  Thrain's tired eyes sparkled: “There is no bank in this town, my big friend.”

  Erian let out a quiet sigh: “Very funny. No - this isn’t vampire work. Vampires don’t draw sigils. That's a ritual. A work of a dark mage, or maybe a necromancer.”

  Faná straightened: “I am convinced that the Goddess will soon reveal the sinner. We must remain vigilant.”

  Liora sat by the window, sharpening an arrowhead.

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  “Minimum effort,” she muttered.

  “And maximum waiting.”

  Night five.

  The inn room was small - just two narrow beds and one window overlooking the rooftops.

  Faná slept on the mattress in a ridiculous sprawl: arms flung wide, mouth open, snoring like a blacksmith’s bellows and probably dreaming of smiting demons with righteous glee.

  There was nothing holy in the way her arms flailed during sleep.

  Liora waited until the snores steadied.

  Then she rose silently and slipped into dark leathers - hooded cloak, soft boots, twin long daggers sheathed at her hips.

  She cracked the window, looked at the sleeping saintess briefly, and climbed out.

  And vanished across the rooftops like a shadow.

  The church stood quiet under moonlight.

  Liora moved over slates and found the side vestry window slightly ajar.

  The same as during previous nights.

  Inside, she could see empty pews lined up, and could smell a faint smell of incense still lingering from the evening mass.

  She descended the narrow stair behind the altar, past the vestment room, to a heavy oak door with a simple lock.

  She quietly picked the lock.

  *Click*

  Beyond was a spiral stair leading down into damp darkness.

  Torchlight flickered somewhere far below.

  At the very bottom there stood another door.

  Carved from darkened wood, with iron reinforcements.

  She pushed the doors open quietly.

  Behind it was a low chamber lit by black candles.

  Sigils were carved into the floor.

  Chains bolted to the walls.

  And at the center stood a wooden table.

  Father Elias stood over it, back turned, chanting in the harsh, two-toned speech of the demonoids.

  On the table bright elven eyes could see a gagged girl.

  She was sixteen, with a tear-stricken face and wrists and ankles bound.

  Liora moved in like a shadow.

  One step. Then another.

  She was behind him.

  Her dagger slid between his ribs - in a clean, precise upward thrust.

  The priest gasped as the blade pierced his heart, his chant breaking.

  With strength leaving him, he managed only to slightly tilt his head.

  “You… you…”

  He slumped.

  By the time his body struck stone, he was already dead.

  The girl saw Liora’s face for one heartbeat - green eyes, silver hair under the hood.

  And then fainted.

  Liora cut her bonds, lifted the girl gently, carried her up the stairs and left her at the vestry door, propped against the wall where she’d be found at dawn.

  Then she returned to the rooftops.

  Morning came grey and cold.

  Faná woke first and stretched.

  “Liora, my dear! Time to seek the evildoer again!”

  Liora rolled over, pulled the blanket tighter.

  “Let me nap… just five more minutes…”

  Faná blinked.

  “But the Goddess-”

  “Five. Minutes.”

  Downstairs in the dining hall, the party gathered over porridge and weak tea.

  Erian: “Where’s Liora?”

  Thrain: “Still sleeping. Lazy elf.”

  Gorzod chuckled.

  “Apostle of Minimum Effort strikes again.”

  Erian frowned.

  “Maybe elves need eighteen hours of sleep a day. Like cats?”

  They ate for a while, when suddenly, shouts came from outside.

  The town guard burst in, looking for Faná.

  Another victim?

  The party’s faces dimmed.

  “Father Elias is dead! Murdered in the church basement!

  And… there’s a survivor and she says he took her!”

  The party surged toward the church.

  Liora joined them, her sleep interrupted by the commotion.

  They reached the chamber.

  It was exactly as the Huntress had left it the night before.

  Father Elias’s body lay sprawled on the stone floor, his chest pierced by a single, clean dagger wound.

  Around them lay unmistakable signs of a true dark mage’s sanctum.

  The bookshelves were cluttered with grimoires and instruments of profane craft.

  Among them stood several glass jars, each faintly glowing - containing stolen vitality - neatly arranged as though part of some obscene collection.

  The rescued girl was sitting on one of the pews in the prayer hall, above.

  Wrapped in a blanket, sipping water, she stammered to the guards:

  “He… he chained me. Said it was for the Goddess. I don’t remember much… just a shadow. A woman in the dark. She… she saved me.”

  She glanced once, fleetingly, at Liora standing at the back of the crowd.

  The huntress was yawning delicately.

  The girl’s eyes met Liora’s.

  A sudden realization flashed across the girl’s face.

  But before she could utter a word, Liora raised one finger to her lips.

  Deadpan as ever.

  The girl swallowed, looked away, said nothing.

  Bishop Jorvia’s investigators arrived two days later.

  The case closed swiftly: Father Elias, corrupted by forbidden arts, slain by an unknown vigilante.

  There were no further victims.

  The town was safe.

  Faná stood in the churchyard, looking at the now-quiet graves.

  “The Goddess punished the evildoer! See? Justice is swift.”

  The townsfolk nodded, whispered, and speculated.

  Liora leaned against a yew tree, arms crossed. “Case closed.”

  Faná turned to her, smiling. “You were so tired, my dear. But the Goddess provided even in your sleep.”

  Liora shrugged. “Minimum effort. Maximum results.”

  The rest of the crew looked at her, clueless.

  In the eyes of everyone except Faná, there was a clear look of 'She's just a lazy elf.'

  Fanática, however, was genuinely concerned for her elven companion.

  She quietly decided to dedicate her evening prayers to the intention of Liora’s health.