"What state was Lorenzo in when you encountered him?"

  "I found myself inside a surreal dreamscape he'd conjured—a world where he murdered civilians, only for them to reappear unharmed once the illusion shattered. His own form was... distorted there. I documented everything in a report, complete with sketches. You’ll understand better once you review it."

  "Alright. Now, how did the dream collapse?"

  Yvette exhaled. She’d answered this before. "I shot him with a silver ghost-killing bullet. The moment it struck, he charged at me. Then—everything dissolved. Maybe the bullet damaged his soul, or perhaps the trauma shattered the dream. I can’t say for certain."

  "Earlier, you suggested he healed himself by consuming a squire’s soul."

  "A guess. I’m no expert. If you want answers, ask him—last I checked, he wasn’t dead." Impatience crept into her voice.

  The interrogator leaned forward. "We tried. But Lorenzo’s mind is... gone. He eats with his hands, voids himself in public—no intellect, no shame. Even mind-readers found nothing. His thoughts are hollow. No language. No reason. Just... animal instinct."

  A beat of silence. Lorenzo—reduced to that?

  When he’d lunged at her, their spirits had briefly merged. She remembered the disorientation, the way he’d seemed altered afterward—but this...?

  The interrogator misread her shock. "They’ll escort you shortly. Assuming you’re cleared, you’ll be free to leave." His tone lacked any warmth.

  Later that afternoon

  The unmarked carriage deposited her at a crumbling tower. Inside waited her final evaluator—a gaunt man with skin like bleached parchment. His smile was a knife-slash across wax.

  "Mr. Fisher. Sit." He gestured to a chair studded with iron restraints. "Protocol demands precautions. But don’t fret—someone influential vouched for you." His chuckle peeled like old glue. "Shame, really. I adore restraints. They focus the mind."

  Yvette sat. The Tower’s authority ensured safety. Probably.

  Behind her, the man murmured, "Friends in high places, hmm? Must’ve cost them dearly. Favours in our world aren’t settled with coin."

  She tensed. Who’d intervened?

  "I’m bending rules for you, Mr. Fisher. If this gets out..." He tsked. "Best keep it quiet. For their sake, too."

  A test. She understood now. This wasn’t evaluation—it was hunting. Every word, every gesture was bait.

  And she was prey.

  The restraints snapped shut—her doing. Why play along? Because coiled beneath her calm was fury. And he deserved every ounce of it.

  A wet weight slithered onto her neck. Her powers flickered, dampened.

  "Rune-leeches. For... difficult subjects." He dangled one before her—a squirming, sigil-carved grotesquery.

  She didn’t flinch.

  "Now, let’s examine you." His fingers skittered over her skull like spiders. "Ah! Fascinating. A woman’s skull. And such appetites hidden beneath..."

  Victorian decorum recoiled at such talk. He expected outrage, humiliation—leverage.

  Yvette met his gaze. Her eyes were still waters hiding drowned things.

  A leech reached her lip. She ate it. Blood jeweled her mouth.

  For the first time, he hesitated.

  She’d reacted—just not how he’d planned.

  Hunger smoldered in her stare. Not for food.

  For him.

  The sallow-faced man recoiled as if he'd been poking a caged lion with a twig—only to realize the cage door hung wide open. An icy finger trailed down his spine.

  Impossible! How could this leech-covered, shackled woman make his instincts scream of danger?

  Meanwhile, the coppery taste of blood and leech pulp jarred Yvette awake. Without thinking, her tongue darted out to catch a scrap of flesh at her lips.

  Why would I do that?

  Her thoughts crawled like rusty clockwork. By the time she registered the action, she'd already swallowed the iron-tinged mess.

  The gulp echoed in the silent room.

  Three precise knocks shattered the tension.

  "Who's there?" The pale man barked, too loudly.

  "Episcopal courier, sir. New orders."

  With ritual care, he broke the blood-red wax seal—inscribed with the Star of Bethlehem—that would ignite if tampered with. As he read, his jaw tightened.

  "Problem, sir?"

  "The prisoner's yours. Take her."

  Yvette barely noticed as the junior cleric approached. "Mr. Fisher? His Grace Spindle requests your presence at the Bloody Tower."

  At the turn of a hidden lever, her shackles clicked open. Ripping off the remaining leeches, she felt power flood back.

  "Why would Spindle summon me?" she murmured. "The Domain of Fate...?"

  "My duty is delivery, not explanation."

  Neither looked at the other as she left—but the pale man exhaled as her footsteps faded.

  He'd felt like prey beneath a predator's gaze. Why?

  The contradictions haunted him: conflicting letters from Holy See and Conclave, the reclusive Spindle suddenly involved. High-stakes politics—best left alone.

  Yet those green eyes lingered in memory...

  ......

  Minutes later, Yvette's unnatural hunger vanished.

  What had that been? Some Essence backlash? Or—something darker?

  She climbed the Bloody Tower's spiral stairs, arrowslits casting barred sunlight across her path like prison bars.

  Spindle's voice welcomed her before she knocked. "Enter."

  A year hadn't been kind. Propped on pillows, he resembled a wax figure left too near a fire—limbs soft and indistinct beneath the covers.

  "You're worse," she blurted.

  "A tumble last month. Sir Ulysses' magic works slower now—as you'd know, had your Essence not..." He trailed off, noting her confusion.

  Her healing hadn't weakened. Why?

  The Holy See's letter, it seemed, had spared her the Inquisition's worst. Small favors—though she'd nearly confessed to imagined crimes.

  Spindle fussed as she adjusted his pillows. Beneath silk, his flesh yielded like overripe fruit.

  "Really—I can manage!"

  His pride was familiar—hospital patients often fought help until their bodies betrayed them.

  When his fate-sight engaged, his breath caught.

  A major thread—the ghost-bishop's—had snapped cleanly by her influence alone. No supporting factors, no gradual weakening. Like a giant felled by a single chop.

  Fate didn't work that way.

  Not until now.

  "Lord Spindle? Is the matter grave?" Yvette noticed the glow fade from Spindle's eyes as he entered a contemplative state, and after a while, she couldn't help but ask nervously.

  Unauthorized use: this story is on Amazon without permission from the author. Report any sightings.

  "...Ah, don't worry. According to the threads of fate I've seen, Lorenzo should have perished completely—no further threats from him remain. Only..."

  "Hmm?"

  "Lorenzo was once a bishop dispatched by the Vatican to serve in Albion. Even though he became a specter and three centuries have passed, his danger level wouldn’t diminish in the slightest. Facing him directly must have been arduous?"

  "Uh... I’m not quite sure. Perhaps it was because the seal weakened him. I shot him a few times with purified bullets, and he vanished shortly after."

  "I see. Now, I’ll lift the surveillance on you. You may return. Staying in the Tower for days must have been stifling."

  Yvette thanked Spindle and bid him farewell in accordance with his words. It wasn’t until after she left that he took a bundle of stationery from the bedside drawer, wrote the addressee "Ulysses" at the front, noted down the anomalies he’d observed, sealed the letter with wax, and entrusted it to his most reliable servant for delivery.

  Next, he summoned his secretary-valet with a bell and began dictating a report to the Holy See.

  This letter made no mention of what Ulysses had written; it only informed the Holy See that the alert had been lifted and no irregularities were found.

  To Spindle, both the Holy See and Ulysses were righteous individuals who sought to protect the world without selfish motives. Yet he sensed that the Holy See harbored complex emotions toward Ulysses—trust mingled with wariness.

  Clearly, it must have been Ulysses who requested the Holy See to transfer Miss Fisher to him. Otherwise, the Bishop’s Council wouldn’t have sent her over after their decision was passed, then followed up with a letter from the Holy See two days later.

  Extraordinaries all kept secrets—the only difference was how many. Perhaps Ulysses didn’t want the Bishop’s Council to uncover Miss Fisher’s. Given their privacy, Spindle decided it was best to keep the Holy See unaware. He hoped this would minimize complications and preserve the trust between the Holy See and Ulysses.

  ......

  Emerging from the Tower, Yvette found herself once more under the pallid glow seeping through London’s leaden clouds. She hailed a hackney coach near Tower Bridge, directing the driver to Hampstead Heath.

  "Thank heavens, you've finally appeared." Winslow scrutinized Yvette to confirm she seemed unharmed. "The Sacred Congregation didn’t... trouble you, did they?"

  "If they had, I wouldn’t be out so soon. I’m quite well. Is the Earl home?" Unsure if Winslow knew of Spindle—a secret to many field agents—Yvette said little more.

  "He hasn’t left these past few days. Should still be in the study."

  After exchanging a few pleasantries with Winslow, she headed to the study, sensing that Ulysses had been waiting for her.

  "Welcome back."

  As Winslow had said, Ulysses sat in a wing chair by the study’s hearth, dressed in loose home attire, reading a book. He didn’t seem the least bit surprised by her appearance.

  "Thank you. It was the Earl who petitioned the Holy See for my early release, wasn’t it? Apologies for the trouble again."

  "No matter. I’ve grown accustomed."

  Fresh from an unpleasant ordeal, Yvette decided to behave and nodded deferentially.

  "Even so, I suspect this won’t be the last time... Never mind. Forget I said that. But from now on, learn to handle such matters more wisely."

  "I..."

  "You shouldn’t have written to Black Cat. It meant well, but its methods alarmed the higher-ups, drawing undue attention your way. Otherwise, even if Lorenzo sought you out, you could’ve made it as though it never happened."

  As though it never happened...

  Ulysses’ cold words left no doubt: he meant killing Lorenzo and concealing it from the organization.

  Rising from his chair, he stepped past Yvette to reshelve the book behind her. "Next time, write to me. What Black Cat can do, I can do as well. Helping you serves me too—I don’t want the Sacred Congregation arresting you and exposing what I’d rather they not know. Such as your experience on Rat Island… those things about me."

  This was the first time he’d broached the subject since then; before, Ulysses had acted as though it never occurred.

  "...I will."

  Upon her acquiescence, he retrieved a box from the shelf, sat on the sofa by the tea table, and withdrew an aged set of wooden cards resembling tarot. With slender fingers, he began shuffling and drawing aimlessly.

  "You’ve been at the fourth sephira for some time. What are your plans for the fifth?" he asked abruptly.

  "Plans?"

  "Beyond the fourth sephira, Netzach, the path up the Tree of Life enters realms beyond ordinary human experience. Ascending is like crossing an abyss—perilous and arduous. The road ahead is called the 'Ladder of Ascent,' an unprecedented trial. Many who overestimate themselves remain at the fourth, sensing the danger ahead. Sometimes, quitting is wisdom."

  Yvette knew he spoke true. This world wasn’t like the supernatural realms of her past life’s anime or novels. Overreach in knowledge or arcane arts invited ruin—much like the hubris of Beckford building Font Hill Abbey, overestimating its foundations until collapse. So too would a miscalibrated mind court self-destruction.

  Am I truly fit to ascend?

  And yet, despite its terror, the ascent beckoned—unbidden, irresistible. Like a hedge trimmed porous, luring one to breach it... or a water sprite in a lake, dragging down any who gazed too long.

  For Yvette, the ascent felt eerily proactive, as though chasing her.

  "...Some things aren’t for me to choose. I can only try my best..." she hedged.

  "Once ascent smiles upon you, few can resist. Having savored its taste, the soul craves more," Ulysses said slowly. "Since so, I’ll share my insights: why the path beyond the fourth differs utterly from all before."

  Yvette tensed, listening intently.

  "Each perceives reality symbolically. At every stage, the external undergoes distortion—like dogs seeing monochrome, or insects through compound eyes. Even some animals perceive colors beyond humans. Thus, we each inhabit a universe largely of our own making.

  This construct is the mind’s paramount function, shielding us from peril. Henceforth, you must learn to discern your fabricated reality."

  It sounded half-grasped, like glimpsing a spire through London’s fog—only outlines and faint window lights.

  "Deceptively simple, yet fraught with peril. The crossing... I call it 'a controlled descent into madness.' Much of what you know—yourself included—is illusion woven by truths you hold dear. To cross risks losing these, hence losing what makes you 'you.'

  The 'you' you know ceases to be. Things may never revert. You’ll face fear and the self-knowledge it veils—your reason’s bulwark against fatal allure. That road leads to madness."

  Ulysses spoke with unprecedented gravity, eyes piercing as though probing her resolve.

  "Knowing this, do you still choose to ascend?"

  Yvette met his gaze. Too earnest now, his sapphire eyes mesmerizing—more than any Society maiden would dare behold. But Yvette looked past him, at her own reflection in his pupils.

  What lurked in her dreams? Why did it devour Denise’s, leaving her dreamless? What transpired when Lorenzo invaded, stripping his human reason?

  As Ulysses said, fear veiled it, yet like a pearl in silt, it gleamed—tempting the unwary to claim it, though the pursuit be folly.

  Her reflection betrayed her. She couldn’t lie.

  "Yes."

  "I see." Ulysses sighed softly. "Past Netzach lies Geburah—the Trial of Balance. Before the fifth sephira, you’ll tread paths to grasp its essence. In imagery, Tarot’s fourteenth card, Temperance, approximates."

  "Temperance..."

  The card signified balance and harmony. Historically, proper decks depicted symbolic art: an angel with wings, one foot ashore, one in water, pouring between cups.

  "Not the modern angel icon, but older." Ulysses ceased shuffling and drew a card without looking, tossing it to Yvette.

  Catching it, she beheld an antique tarot—marked "XIV" and "TEMPERANTIA" in Latin. The image showed a witch crowned with a pentacle, standing behind a cauldron. With one hand, she poured water from a cup into the vessel; with the other, she tipped a torch, its flames merging with the liquid in a swirling vortex.

  "Water and fire fused—clear symbolism for balance. Ancient texts claim the original fourteenth card bore stranger art, later destroyed for arcane reasons, replaced with the innocuous angel. Pouring between cups isn’t balance. This, in your hand, is Truth."

  "Two opposites... fused?" Water was matter; fire, energy release. Combine them for warm water? The angel version seemed closer—balancing cup contents.

  "The image is for the masses, ignorant of true balance. Binary extremes dominate minds: good versus evil, light versus dark. So, stark opposites like fire-water jar them awake. Yet virtue lies between—for instance, courage is neither cowardice nor recklessness; justice, neither selfishness nor self-sacrifice. You understand?"

  "Thank you." Yvette mused. Then it struck her: Ulysses had taken out the cards before asking her choice.

  Had he always known she’d choose ascent?

  Soon after, Winslow watched Yvette descend the stairs—from the second floor down to the servants’ quarters and exit.

  "Young Master Ives, won’t you dine before leaving?"

  "Can’t. I’ve things to attend!" Her trailing words lingered as she vanished.

  Boarding the coach, she directed the driver to Bond Street posthaste. En route, she studied the ancient Temperance card.

  She’d tried returning it, but Ulysses refused, saying she could only do so upon taking the first step toward the next sephira.

  He seemed displeased yet resigned—still supporting her.

  For some reason, seeing his stern, book-absorbed form exuding dismissal, she’d impulsively pecked his cheek upon leaving.

  Common among kin, yet his inscrutable air shattered—he’d stared as though haunted.

  So he didn’t foresee everything.

  "Don’t worry, I'll return it soon enough," she’d waved.

  But the next trial loomed. In the Tower, nights had simmered with restless stirrings, as though something brewed—perhaps held at bay by the organization’s watch. Untended, it might erupt tonight.

  Confident outwardly, inwardly she wavered. Never had she sought knowledge, yet inexplicables surfaced unbidden. She had no choice: since arriving in this world, inexplicable anomalies piled up—many warranting full investigation by the Sacred Congregation.

  Lately, they’d worsened. Rather than be dragged under, she’d uncover the abyss’s secrets herself...

  The coach halted at her destination: a shop selling imports—tea, coffee, tobacco, and curiosities.

  "Welcome, sir! Might I interest you in our latest from the Singphala and Castleton estates? Beyond Darjeeling’s classic muscatel..." The clerk warmed to his pitch.

  "I heard you stock a coffee bean called 'Death Wish'?" Yvette’s query gave him pause.

  Death Wish—a novelty bean from the Americas, notorious not for flavor but caffeine content. One sip supposedly banished sleep for days, driving drinkers to crave death for respite.

  The shop once advertised in Ulysses’ paper. Skeptical, an editor tried it—one small cup kept him awake for sixty hours straight before collapsing into thirty hours of slumber.

  Since then, "bet a Death Wish" became editorial shorthand for dares.

  Yvette needed it desperately. Her transcendent encounters unfolded in dreams; with this, she might prolong wakefulness to explore equilibrium.

  Night one: no drowsiness. She read voraciously, jotting fragmented thoughts.

  Yet clarity eluded her. Rereading passages, she scarcely recognized the word "balance."

  Night two: mental weariness. Though sleepless, focus waned amid yawns.

  Night three: she brewed another—Byzantine style—grinding beans to dust, boiling them unfiltered for maximum caffeine. Just enough to stave off delirium.

  Now incapable of reading, she rode out. The streets clamored:

  "Hark! Liberty’s host convenes anew! Tremble, tyrants—mock not our warning! You’ll bleed, not weep!"

  "Once-lauded hypocrites prove deadlier than foes! They preached freedom for all, yet now chain even thought!"

  London was an onion—its gilded core confined to thoroughfares. Peel back the veneer, and behind grand shops lay alleys festering with poverty. The voices led her to laborers: painters, printers, dockhands.

  The Season was two months off. Workers’ societies were rallying—this year’s unrest promised scale.

  Since the century’s dawn, Albion’s labor revolts waxed and waned. Industrial progress illuminated only the elite; the masses languished worse than medieval serfs—crammed into slums where hunger and disease reigned. Families of twenty packed single rooms to eat, excrete, copulate, birth, and die—bereft of dignity.

  They loathed capitalists grinding wages and aristocrats flaunting wealth, airing grievances in assemblies and pamphlets.

  Yet decades on, their strife bore little fruit. The elite feigned concern under religious moralizing but exploited unions for gain.

  Aristocrats marshaled workers to check bourgeois ambition; the bourgeois stoked worker fury to breach power’s gates. Even unions doubted their own political acumen.

  Six years prior, outnumbered industrialists wooed labor, backing electoral reform to enter the Commons—then a puppet to the Lords. Promising worker benefits in exchange for votes, they won. Yet once enfranchised, they reneged.

  Hooves clattered as the coachman sped away, avoiding the mob’s ire. From behind, Yvette caught snatches of balladry—lambasting greedy lords and perfidious burghers.