"I... We just wanted to please you, to make you happy..." Moore whimpered, tears streaming down her face, yet her expression was the exact opposite—a mix of ecstasy and greed, her lips parting and closing incessantly, strands of thick saliva dripping from them, as if Hunger itself had taken human form. "You must be like us, wanting to save the world... Otherwise, where does this hidden impulse in our hearts come from? Such noble emotions, we’ve never felt them before, so we thought... it must be you who infused them into us, changing our very thoughts."

  Yvette stared at her twisted, grotesque face and felt as though she were looking into a mirror—one that reflected the ugliness she had long tried to ignore.

  Were these people really just mindless puppets, or had her own hidden desires truly influenced them?

  She thought of the Dark Spindle’s tower, its dimly lit rooms so different from the lavish, mirror-filled halls nobles adored. The walls were adorned with tapestries and paintings, not a single mirror in sight. It made sense—if one’s face became like that, who wouldn’t loathe mirrors?

  A seething, unstable emotion surged within her, an urge to crush them all—to reduce the talking, moving dolls into withered debris—so they’d never speak of her wretchedness again... She forced the impulse down and retreated from the dream-bound house.

  The stream at her feet had calmed once more. The pale, bloated corpse of a grown man floated past, limbs stiff, locked in an unchanging posture as it bumped awkwardly downstream, its shape faintly resembling the man Moore had desperately tried to seduce inside the house.

  Though she knew supernatural events often entangled innocent bystanders, seeing it firsthand still weighed on her.

  What exactly am I trying to save—and from what?

  Is my hatred for monsters truly born of justice and righteousness?

  Or is it merely a beast’s fury at trespassers violating its hunting grounds?

  Thankfully, while still lucid, she’d written to Ulysses. The letter confessed her wavering mental state and the ever-present risk of deformity. She ought to have returned to London, but the local supernatural incident remained unresolved. Whether to send a replacement or handle it otherwise, she left to Ulysses’ discretion.

  She didn’t know how the organization would deal with her, but so far, she’d avoided irreversible consequences. The worst was likely confinement—after all, history held similar cases. The infamous "Bloody Mary," Countess Elizabeth Báthory, had once been a benevolent figure before the nightmares of her Origin tainted her. Accused (and convicted) of luring and murdering peasant girls, she’d been spared execution for her early merits, instead imprisoned in a sealed tower until death.

  If even the dreaded "Bloody Mary" got life imprisonment, surely Yvette’s fate would be no worse. With luck, she might lose most memories and be demoted, living out her days as a mundane noble under covert surveillance.

  Albion’s desolate wilds and peaks were dotted with medieval towers—fortresses once strategically vital, now obsolete. Ghost stories clung to their ruins; many, in truth, housed semi-mad supernaturals. Would such lightless stone cages ever suppress her ravenous hunger...?

  Uncertain of the future, Yvette sank against a tree by the shore, knees drawn to her chest, chin resting atop them. She stared blankly at the still lake.

  Until they dismiss me... best ensure whatever’s in that lake stays put and stops causing trouble.

  At Fisher Mansion in Hampstead Heath, Winslow was cross-checking the guest list for tonight’s grand banquet, making notes for Ulysses to later discuss mundane yet necessary affairs with the right attendees.

  As a media magnate entrenched in high society, Ulysses inevitably manipulated narratives—supporting politicians, burying scandals, trading "news for pay" or "silence for pay." In return, his papers gained prestige, influence, insider tips, and even state-backed leverage against rivals.

  Tonight’s dinner aimed to further such agendas. Minutes earlier, Winslow had seen Ulysses select jeweled cufflinks in his dressing room before a mannequin valet delivered letters. He’d idly sorted them at the vanity when Winslow stepped out; returning, he found Ulysses already in travel-worn attire—a waterproof cloak, sturdy boots, no luggage—rushing out.

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  "Sir, the banquet—"

  "Cancel it."

  At this hour? The hosts would be frantic—seating arrangements, the delicate balance of rank and gender proximity, all disrupted.

  "Understood. Shall I prepare a carriage?"

  "No need. I’ll go alone. I may be gone days—handle things here." Snatching his hat, he flung open the front door, stepping through as it swung shut behind him.

  This urgency was unlike his usual languid confidence.

  In the disordered dressing room, drawers gaped open, gaudy accessories littering the floor. Half-sorted letters lay on the vanity—one seemingly missing. Had a single letter changed his plans?

  Best report this.

  Back in his quarters, Winslow dipped a pristine quill into clear liquid, scrawling on paper. Once dry, he overwrote mundane notes with ordinary ink, then freed his raven.

  Though addressed like any field agent’s missive, his would bypass standard channels, reaching a certain figure’s desk first. If no hidden message was found, it’d reroute to regular handlers.

  But this was special. For years, he’d sent countless such letters under a pact: the invisible ink tracked only Ulysses’ movements.

  In exchange, the unnamed benefactor buried his patricide—the recurring dreams where he relished the act—letting censors deem it an "accidental death," easing his psychiatric evaluation so he escaped the asylum he loathed.

  Post-fifth-tier Origins, knowledge from beyond destabilized minds, demanding early detection. Hence, high-tier agents worked in pairs, monitoring each other’s sanity.

  Yet Winslow sensed his role exceeded normal bounds. Discreet probes revealed no peers shared his... extracurricular duty.

  Even Ulysses—

  He controlled every mansion mannequin; eyes everywhere. Had Ulysses too been watched, Winslow would’ve noticed.

  So why was he singled out?

  What had that letter revealed?

  Pondering unanswered, Winslow dutifully fulfilled his mandate—until the raven vanished into London’s brooding skies.

  Martha guided her horse along the shadowed forest path at a measured pace. Though she longed to return to her master’s side, the overgrown trail forced caution—vines snaked across the dirt like grasping fingers, and thorny underbrush lurked beneath innocent leaves, waiting to trip an unwary steed. A lamed horse would slow her far more than these obstacles ever could.

  Her task for Yvette was complete. She should have rested in town—ought to have seen a physician. Instead, she’d swallowed some bitter herbs (relying on half-remembered remedies from her bee-priestess days) and turned back toward the village.

  What would her master give her?

  Would he let her step beyond his sanctuary’s threshold?

  The thought made her pulse quicken.

  The mist had thickened since her departure, yet the phantom voices that once whispered from its depths had fallen silent—a blessing surely granted by her new lord. Nearing the lakeshore now, the fog dissolved into tendrils that coiled about her legs like river snakes, leaving her waist-up untouched as though she waded through low clouds.

  Then the trees parted.

  Moonlight transformed the clearing into a stage. There, beneath a gnarled oak at water’s edge, sat her salvation—her messiah. Around him flickered the pale forms of village maidens, their faces as familiar to Martha as her own reflection. They draped themselves over roots and grass like contented cats, bathed in his presence.

  They’d been chosen first.

  Jealousy curdled in Martha’s throat, but she stepped forward.

  "Your task is done," she announced, hungry for approval.

  Yvette’s brow furrowed. "Why are you here? I told you to wait in town."

  "I—I thought you might need—"

  The spectral girls tittered, their laughter skittering through the trees like wind chimes made of bone. Martha’s fists clenched. "You welcomed them. Why not me?"

  "Not yet." Flat. Final.

  "But—"

  The lake changed.

  Though Martha faced away, the sudden scattering of spirit-maidens screamed danger. Yvette, who’d been watching the water, knew first.

  The pond’s surface went preternaturally still. Not calm—not natural. Water should ripple, should distort reflections. This? This was a pane of glass. A window.

  A gateway.

  A leaf spiraled down, kissed the surface—then plunged through as if the lake were nothing but mist.

  A night heron swooped low, drawn by instinct older than reason. It dove. Vanished.

  Through the looking-glass water, Yvette saw truth: the bird burst apart midair, feathers and bones raining down some impossible distance below.

  Then the vertigo hit.

  The world upended. Trees grew downward. Martha’s face hung upside-down before her, lips moving—"What’s wrong?"—but the voice came from the wrong direction.

  No. Not the world. Just her.

  "Listen!" Yvette squeezed her eyes shut. No reflections. No accidents. "Walk away. Don’t look back. Don’t turn around. Go!"

  "But—"

  "Now!"

  Martha stumbled backward. As she passed Yvette, she saw—

  —saw him falling forward like a toppled statue, sluggish and inevitable—

  She choked back a scream.

  Yvette’s glare was steel. Keep walking.

  No splash came. No sound at all.

  (He knows what he’s doing, she told herself. This is part of the plan.)

  ——

  On the other side, the dizziness passed.

  Yvette stood on sun-bleached bird bones—the heron’s remains. The mirror world.

  The woods breathed wrong here. Not with leaves, but with layers of old spider-silk, glimmering with movement just beyond sight. Something lived in those strands.

  No retreat there.

  The lake here was ordinary—no doorway back. An enormous moon bullied the sky, threatening to drown itself in the black water. Halfway along the shore, the village waited.

  Empty.

  Dresses collapsed in the streets like shed snakeskins. A spilled milk pail still glistened.

  She dreamed this once.

  The silence was absolute. No wind. No voices. Not even the usual mental whispers from her dreaming-self’s domain. That parasitic connection had gone mute.

  (Strange, to miss a thing you hated.)

  This place exists in dreams. Perhaps I’m dreaming now—trapped in another’s unbreakable dream, where my own cannot follow.