Since the establishment of the unified Alliance of the Supernatural under the Church, most supernatural beings in the civilized world have abandoned their native beliefs, freeing themselves from the worship of the ancient outer deities. Instead, they have adopted a scholarly approach to all the uncanny phenomena in this world.

  Thus, the Church has collected and sealed away ancient texts from various ethnic regions—those that survived the religious wars—extracting anything that might aid the condition of supernatural beings.

  By the Age of Sail, when outcasts of the civilized world reached the New World, colonists quickly discovered that exotic religious artifacts and texts had become treasures to curry favor with the powerful. Supernatural beings who held the reins of national power spared no expense, funding voyages and pirates alike, hoping the returning sails would bring back the expected rewards.

  Across Africa, the Americas, South Asia, Australia, and countless other islands scattered across the oceans, a variety of relics were plundered—papyrus scrolls, linen manuscripts, metal and jade tablets, even human skin inscribed with ancient, wild scripts—alongside vast quantities of gold and silver, all shipped back to Europe.

  Beyond glorifying native pagan beliefs, these texts also documented peculiar alchemical concoctions—exactly what Yvette was now seeing.

  Yet no matter how Yvette looked at them, these potions struck her as deeply unsettling. Many called for bizarre ingredients, some even exuding an air of evil. One concoction by a Viking witch demanded the excrement of a sacred eagle that had feasted on the heart and lungs of a sinner during a "Blood Eagle" ritual. Another, from Arabia, required human flesh preserved in honey for centuries—flesh from individuals who had lived solely on honey until they drowned in it.

  Their effects often came with unexpected "surprises," even those brewed from seemingly "milder" substances like poppies, belladonna, or hallucinogenic mushrooms. Side effects ranged from speech-loss aphasia to phantom limb syndrome, anorexia, or obsessive fixation on another person—almost like an encyclopedia of madness.

  "...Are you sure this isn’t forbidden literature?" Yvette asked skeptically.

  "Ignorant little human! How dare you doubt the mighty Marcus, meow!" the black cat yowled, arching its back in displeasure.

  "But so many of these require human materials—"

  "Fool! That doesn’t mean alchemists or witches gathered these ingredients themselves! Some potions list unicorn tears—must one raise a unicorn, meow? You use what’s available! Most of these are perpetually out of stock anyway—you can’t just trade for them, meow!"

  Through Marcus’ mix of human speech and meows, Yvette realized availability depended on scarcity. Some materials were rare or morally dubious, sourced only when colonies obtained them from indigenous peoples. These trickled into London at exorbitant rates—when they appeared at all.

  The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

  A few could be found in Albion—like those sold in the witch market Yvette had visited—but these "calming" potions relied heavily on addictive substances like poppies or coca, risking dependency or psychosis. Long-term use increased dangers, and some concoctions had been removed entirely—like an Indigenous tribal potion known to induce cannibalistic urges (labeled "Wendigo Syndrome").

  By now, Yvette had nearly abandoned the idea of using such aid. It felt like fighting madness with madness.

  Did high-ranking supernatural beings lose control of their inner beasts, forced to rely on mind- and soul-eroding brews to mute the whispers of ancient gods in their blood?

  "...This is horrifying. Driving yourself insane to avoid corruption—what an unimaginable price," Yvette murmured.

  "Nothing strange, meow. Ordinary lunatics harm society less. The Order cares for those who sacrifice themselves, meow. If the ancient gods take hold? Immediate execution—if the mutant doesn’t destroy their loved ones first, meow." Marcus flicked his tail. "But little human, isn’t it too soon for you to need these, meow?"

  That was why Marcus had accompanied her today. Regular patrons of this book were twitchy, evasive oddballs who pored over it like drunkards chasing oblivion. Even the exceptions soon became addicts—listless souls clinging to sanity through psychedelics.

  "I’m just browsing," Yvette said firmly. She wouldn’t succumb.

  Some burdens couldn’t be escaped. Abandoning her plan, she flipped aimlessly through the pages—until her gaze locked onto an entry.

  The potion details blurred; the side effects leapt out:

  [...Ego-dystonia: Inability to perceive one’s own existence as singular/continuous; failure to distinguish past/present self; dissociation from one’s personality... Often accompanied by multiplicity, switching, or dissolution...]

  Her vision wavered. Lips trembling, she pressed them shut and closed her eyes.

  What do they know?

  Nothing.

  How dare they write such presumptuous drivel!

  Who had suffered her torment?

  To wake one day and realize you’re a sham—cowardice masked as cheer, a counterfeit self forged to shirk duty...

  She made me to share her pain, but we sprang from the same selfish root. Now two fractured wills drown in separate sorrows, hating each other.

  Dark thoughts marched between her selves like a triumphant general, growing stronger with each victory.

  A bottomless, sorrowful beast curled in her soul, twisting every step forward into anguish.

  Marcus felt the book tremble.

  Cursed into feline form, it had lost much of its ability to read human emotion. But in trade, it sensed books’ "moods"—tomes with mystic power mirrored human turmoil like sunlight.

  Nearby shelves stirred. Timid books shrank inward; braver ones whispered temptations. Some even flung themselves to the floor—only to be yanked back by chained tethers like hanged criminals.

  They’d scented a vulnerable soul.

  Marcus hissed, fur bristling. One more move, and I’ll bury you in darkness for a century.

  The riot ceased.

  "...Of course, you’re no ordinary human, meow," Marcus ventured. Perhaps she did need respite.

  "No," Yvette said softly, shutting the book. The tension vanished—not just from Marcus’ intervention, but because the spark had died.

  As she rose to reshelf it, Marcus’ tail looped around her wrist.

  "Meow~ As thanks for your service, today I permit you to rub my belly..." The cat rolled onto its back, pink pawpads curled adorably.

  She once said this soothes humans. Maybe it’ll help?

  "Aaaaah! Marcus, you’re the cutest!" Yvette surrendered to scritches.

  No human resists my charm. Let this be her reward for all those fish offerings~

  Sun-drunk, Marcus dozed off, worries forgotten.

  Yet beneath Yvette’s calm, darker thoughts churned.

  Marcus sensed something. Good it didn’t pry.

  Everyone loved this version of her. As long as she played the part, none would see the crow masquerading in peacock plumes.

  May the ugliness beneath this mask stay hidden—forever.