As the raven Click rattled peanuts in its dish, Yvette unrolled the message from its leg band. Shar's elegant script announced the resolution of their "little problem" - the lingering curse from their last case, a scourge that should have taken six months to fade, yet dissipated in barely two.

  The organization's standard ciphers couldn't mask her unease. Between fire salamander hunts that nearly claimed her humanity and clandestine alchemy orders through Keegan, every survival felt borrowed. Even this meeting reeked of risk - potion delivery through Shar now that Keegan sailed distant shores.

  Flaming Cloak Elixir's completion should bring comfort. Without its protective heat simmering in her veins, she'd be half the warrior. Yet the New World's nightmares still twitched beneath her eyelids - not just the scaled horrors, but the creeping sense of flesh disobeying bone.

  "Ulysses lies," the walls whispered as the masked inquisitor spoke. Fabric roses bled into ocular tumors under her heat-distorted vision. Her reply flowed smooth as poisoned honey - yes, routine beasts; no, Doctor showed no strain. Let them hunt shadows. Beneath London's smog-choked skies, only Shar's offered berry tart pierced the gloom.

  In the botanist's café sanctuary, between mouthfuls of cloud-soft cheesecake, normality reasserted itself. The logistics officer's suspicion still itched like ill-fitting skin, but Shar's Gothic gentleness balmed the paranoia. Here, amidst prize orchids and death magic discussions, humanity's fragile threads held fast - camaraderie stronger than any cursebreaker's art.

  "The caster's gone," Shar stirred her coffee, a necromancer's shrug in the clink of silver spoon. "Final breaths make potent hexes, but ours never drew last."

  Yvette licked raspberry glaze, choosing not to wonder whose knife found that dark heart. Some questions burned brighter unanswered.

  The man who had targeted Miss Shar was dead—a stroke of luck that allowed her to exit the safehouse ahead of schedule.

  Shar implied the organization had traced and eliminated the assailant with ruthless efficiency. Not surprising, she mused—those who wielded curses, like Lord Spindle, often lacked physical fortitude. Why, the man might collapse after a single flight of stairs.

  "My curse has lifted, yet questions remain," Shar said deliberately. "Normally, I’d keep this quiet, but you may be involved…"

  "Involved?"

  "The curse struck while I investigated a supernatural victim per orders. As a necromancer, I commune with the dead—but someone planted a trap in the victim’s lingering consciousness. A triggered snare, crude yet effective… like rigging a mousetrap in a lockbox. Petty spite. ‘The Doctor’ handled the case with Royal Navy support. Though your role is unclear, you should be aware."

  Royal Navy… The merman from Heather Isle?

  Yvette recalled the aquatic foe’s sea-bound powers, while Shar’s attacker seemed rooted in another domain. Unlikely allies.

  When had Shar’s curse lifted? Yvette cross-referenced the date with the Heather Isle clash. Close, but not overlapping.

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  An accomplice, then? But if the organization neutralized another target, they must possess intel.

  "Who are these people, Miss Shar? What do they want?"

  Yvette frowned. Human-led supernatural plots usually had clear aims—wealth, power, vengeance. This shadowy agenda defied logic.

  "That’s the enigma," Shar admitted. "As the victim, I deserve answers to safeguard myself. Yet the organization claims my clearance is inadequate. I’m left blind."

  "Unbelievable…" Yvette whispered. It was akin to surviving an ambush only to have the assailant’s identity sealed away.

  "The organization has its burdens," Shar said dryly. "We drape the world in peaceful illusions. Who’s to say we aren’t veiled ourselves? Perhaps some truths are too corrosive for mortal minds."

  Abruptly aware of her cynicism, Shar sipped her coffee and pivoted.

  "You seemed distressed earlier. Trouble?"

  "…Visions. They’ve haunted my mornings. It’s… draining."

  "Reviewing archives, I noticed ‘the Doctor’s’ unit has been unusually productive since you joined. Multiple major incidents resolved—no credit to that sluggard. Is the strain of rapid ascension fracturing your mind?"

  "Third Zenith now… Perhaps it’s too quick—"

  Clank! Shar’s cup clattered against its saucer.

  "A year ago, you were a novice."

  "Time flies…" Yvette sighed theatrically.

  "A year is not ‘time flying’—you sound like a septuagenarian!" Shar snapped. Inexplicably, I want to flick her. "Ascending so recklessly? At your age, you couldn’t have surpassed the Second Zenith initially. Burning mission rewards on crystallized energy? Folly. A decade in, I’ve barely reached the Fourth. And never disclose your Zenith tier lightly!"

  Yvette dipped her head meekly.

  Only she knew crystallized energy was the least of her secrets.

  "How else does one ascend, Miss Shar? If crystallization’s safest but restricted—what paths remain?"

  "Power springs from comprehending reality’s fabric. Crystals offer curated glimpses of higher truths, teaching us to wield Zenith-tier forces. Other paths? Visions themselves are shards of mad wisdom—accumulate enough, and you’ll ascend naturally. Most linger at the Second Zenith unless they court forbidden knowledge. Ancient grimoires tempt some, though the organization hoards the worst tomes. What slips through? Raving nonsense that warps the mind. Others perform rites to sync their souls with Elder Gods, receiving power as offerings please them. Or feast on souls—swifter, but damning."

  Sacrificial rites…

  Yvette remembered her dream after slaying Duran—the Hydra’s taunt that the Bureau had erased eldritch communion rites. Banished faiths like Dagon’s were recast as demonic in scripture, yet fragments hinted at primal horrors.

  The Hydra had crooned scripture: "The Creator rejected Cain’s grain but blessed Abel’s blood. All gods thirst for it."

  And: "The sacred blood in your veins—its whispers are keys to realms unseen."

  Yvette once unmasked a cult’s coded letters but scorned their contents. Now, the truth chilled her.

  The Elder Gods demanded tribute. I paid. They rewarded.

  That giddy rush when her prey’s blood sprayed her—was that the rite’s approval? Hadn’t ancient priests painted their faces with sacrifice-blood?

  Of course. The gods’ hunger for blood was no secret. Humanity had known since the dawn of fire.

  That same night, the Bureau envoy hurried back to Canterbury Cathedral.

  "Your Grace, ‘Libra’ asserts all’s well."

  The Archbishop brooded. Earlier, the New World colony reported no abnormalities on the island. A relief—yet his true concern was the occupant’s psyche. Stability now, yes… but after the 1666 calamity, vigilance was paramount. Should forbidden signs emerge, he’d act ruthlessly.

  "The rat matriarch in their report—confirmed?"

  "Decomposition obscured details, but blade wounds align with ‘Libra’s’ relic sword. ‘The Doctor’ bore no relics—though he might’ve borrowed ‘Libra’s.’"

  If mere steel slew the beast, their report held weight. A lethargic monstrosity, easily ambushed—a feat within ‘Libra’s’ means. ‘The Doctor’s’ involvement changed little.

  So long as ‘the Doctor’ didn’t act. Restraint implies control. No instability detected… Perhaps I worried needlessly.

  With a sigh, the Archbishop ordered jam and scones—a rare indulgence to soothe his nerves.