"Dear girls, I must reiterate once again—stand with your legs together, not splayed like a harlot, heads held high, backs straight, ensuring the books atop your heads remain steady and do not fall."

  Inside the residence, the head maid, Moore, sternly addressed the new recruits. Before her, in the corridor, a dozen young girls dressed in ordinary maid uniforms balanced books on their heads, seemingly undergoing etiquette training. However, these students were far from well-behaved, frequently whispering among themselves and giggling quietly.

  "Sanna, I told you not to spread your legs so wide! Remember how you were always the first to sneak off whenever strange men visited the village—teehee, you brazen little hussy~"

  "Hmph, if you weren’t following me, how would you know what I was up to? I bet she’s just a frustrated old maid..."

  In life, these girls had been priestesses of an ancient, eerie sect in a remote village. Now their souls were trapped within the residence, yet they retained the wild, unrestrained nature of their former lives—much to the disdain of Moore, who had once served in high society. As the only woman in the residence aside from Yvette, Moore took it upon herself to discipline them, determined to mold them into proper, silent ladies befitting such a sacred place.

  "Silence!" she snapped, cutting off their murmurs. Though the chatter ceased, their sly, knowing glances continued.

  Some moved excessively, yet the books upon their heads remained perfectly still. Moore soon discovered the trick—the books weren't balanced upon their heads at all but rather suspended in midair by some supernatural force.

  "Are these wretched brains—if you can even call them that—capable of nothing but vulgar tricks? If you don’t want me to thrash the insolence out of you, watch your behavior. One more stunt and I’ll mount your disobedient heads on candlesticks!"

  Just then, the grand landscape painting in the corridor shimmered. The figure of Yvette, unseen for some time, seemed to step into the blossoming fields within the frame.

  "One moment, Moore. I need to speak with them." Yvette’s voice came from within the painting.

  "It’s Mistress!" the girls cried in delight, abandoning their pretense as the books clattered to the floor.

  "Tell me—how were you killed?"

  "It was agony..."

  "Something gnawed inside me, burning, spreading from my lower belly to the rest of my body."

  "Then part of my awareness… was transferred. I could feel myself being devoured by those writhing things, yet I could also taste my own flesh—sweet, warm. It was like countless versions of me existed, some feasting, others being consumed, until finally I was completely absorbed."

  The girls spoke in a chaotic chorus.

  "And after becoming those creatures… how did you drift upon the lake?"

  "It was like a dream. I couldn’t control myself, only crawling toward some unseen destination—like a homeland I had to return to. Then I heard a woman’s voice, panicked, though I couldn’t understand her words."

  "She reeked—like wet, ancient grave soil. I didn’t want to go near her."

  "Then she died. The thing we were meant to merge with consumed her from within, attempting to complete its metamorphosis. Suddenly, that stench of graves flooded the water. I heard the shrieks of countless infants before everything went black. The next thing I knew, you were lifting me from the dust, beloved Mistress."

  If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.

  Having gleaned what she could from the maids’ fragmented memories, Yvette withdrew her consciousness from the dream and returned to her mortal body, relaying the details to Ulysses.

  "From their accounts, something must have occurred in the underground ritual site," she summarized.

  "We’ll find out soon enough."

  Yvette nodded and turned to lead the way—only for Ulysses to grip her arm, stopping her. He tugged aside her collar, revealing a wound on her nape, left by the dream-infesting bees.

  She had dug out the parasite with her nails. The puncture remained half-sealed, blood still jelly-like.

  "Why didn’t you tell me?"

  "I forgot."

  It was true. Compared to recent events, the minor wound had slipped her mind.

  Behind her, the sound of gloves being removed signaled his intent to heal her before investigating further. Yet Yvette recalled words Spindle had once shared with her in the tower:

  "At lower levels of Originium, the effects are strong, but now? Noticeably diminished. If you too have recently received his treatment, you’d find it less potent than before—proof your Originium has grown."

  At the time, Spindle had been bedridden with fractures, inadvertently revealing that Ulysses’ healing efficacy waned as the recipient’s Originium increased. To Yvette, this was absurd—his blood had always worked identically for her, regardless of circumstance.

  "Sir Ulysses..." she finally ventured. "Before leaving the Holy Absolution, I visited Spindle. His bones were broken, and he was in terrible pain. When I suggested seeking your aid, he told me your blood could do little for him now—his Originium was too high. It would only speed recovery marginally..."

  Silence.

  "I know every Transcendent has secrets. The Order discourages sharing personal details—protection for both speaker and listener, lest the madness in words take root. That said... I’ve troubled you often. If... if you ever need someone to share the burden... should you trust me enough..."

  Ulysses said nothing. But then, most Transcendents buried their truths deep. Winslow, too, had hinted at dark experiences within the Holy Absolution, speaking of recurring nightmares whose details he dodged.

  Everyone had unspoken truths. Yvette herself would never reveal her origins—another world, another self, a perfected facade masquerading as human. She prayed no one would ever see through it.

  As his blood sealed her wound, they reached the village well. Hidden beneath overgrowth, she triggered the mechanism to lower the water, exposing the secret passage below.

  Reaching for the rope, her hand found empty air.

  "Stay behind me." Ulysses descended before she could protest.

  Concerned the rope might not hold both, Yvette waited until he reached the bottom before following. By the time she landed, he was already deep within the tunnel.

  "Don’t move. Stay there." His voice was abrupt.

  Before she could question, faint infant cries teased her ears.

  "A diluted but potent psychotropic poison. Hallucinogenic. Your sanity is still stabilizing—do not risk exposure."

  "Understood. Be careful." She tossed him a vial meant to detect supernatural residues. Without looking, he caught it midair.

  Dropping the liquid into the water, the chamber erupted in an eerie blue glow—the reagent revealing immense concentrations of Transcendent energy.

  Methodically, Ulysses marked their path with droplets, each expanding into luminous orbs. Near the shrine’s remains, the light grew blinding.

  "The wails of souls... even now, their echoes linger."

  "Are you alright? Retreat if you feel unwell!"

  "Merely noisy." Collecting a sample from the epicenter, he pressed a hand to his temple and returned.

  "Strange. This... shouldn’t be here." He studied the vial, frowning.

  "The priestesses were skilled herbalists. Perhaps one concocted this to kill the transforming kinsmen."

  "No. This is no naturalist’s work. It reeks of necromancy and alchemy—specialized knowledge. The finest alchemists congregate in Europe’s enlightened cities, where colonial treasures and ancient tomes abound. One location, in particular, overlaps with necromantic tradition."

  "The Cemetery of the Innocents?" Yvette recalled tales from Mistress of Funerals, Charl—the infamous Parisian burial ground, operational since the 12th century, where the impoverished dead were stacked like firewood in catacombs. Legends abounded of death cults, ghoul sects, and worse. Even the father of modern anatomy, Andreas Vesalius, had sourced corpses there. Not long ago, a wine merchant’s cellar wall collapsed, flooding his home with putrid remains.

  "Precisely. The Mistress’ kin maintain an accord with that den. Unwelcome elements are barred from these shores. For peace to shatter now... more likely, someone well-connected smuggled this poison from Paris."