"They've left, Lord Plain. Do you think we should kill those three outsiders like before, so they can assimilate into Zobeid?"
The girl's voice was soft, her tone refined and cultured. Unlike the common tongue she'd been using earlier, she now spoke in Iberian—pure, formal Iberian, the kind spoken across southern Lesle Continent. Once Brunord realized what she was saying, that soft voice instantly turned into something cold and serpentine, coiling around his neck and making his heart skip a beat.
Brunord immediately raised his assessment of their danger level—by several tiers.
I need to stay calm, he told himself. Just stay calm, like always.
His name was Brunord Hurst, a cleric accompanying the Templar knights. He also served as a skilled reconnaissance agent. Importantly, he did not report to the Inquisition.
After the girl spoke, silence fell—dry, suffocating silence. Brunord remained outside the room, using an "eye of seeking"—the only reconnaissance spell still functioning in this realm—to observe within. With the inquisitor who had colluded with the black sorcerer now gone, only a man and a woman remained inside, seemingly locals. Based on his past experiences, Brunord already knew: black sorcerers were masters of disguise—and the scene inside this room confirmed it.
He had handled cases before involving clerics who consorted with cultists. Their outcomes were never good. But until now, the worst had been a local bishop. Whether executed in secret or judged publicly, the result was the same.
But this time? This time it wasn't just a bishop.
He had seen a member of the Inquisition—none other than the Scarlet Saint herself, the woman who had carried out nearly a hundred burnings, and who'd driven the Britons back to their border during the Somilia conflict! God knew why the French called that inquisitor a "saint." Perhaps because she had abandoned all worldly titles and returned to the Church after signing the treaty?
Fear was slowly giving way to exhilaration. If he brought this intelligence back, the reward could be beyond imagining. Then he heard the man in the room begin to speak.
"The inquisitor and the cross-dressing knight aren't much of a threat—especially in this labyrinth," the young man said coldly. "But the black sorcerer is different. I have some records on the demonology school—based on his characteristics, he's capable of opening a significant rift in this place."
"Mmm... so that means he's dangerous?" the girl asked softly. "But if we're well prepared, wouldn't killing them be easy? I've never eaten a black sorcerer's soul before."
"If you'd like, you can have a piece of mine," the man replied, utterly casually.
"Mmm... Lord Plain, you really have changed since you lost your memory," the girl giggled. "After all, I feed on your children every night, so there's no need to talk about souls, is there?"
"...Alright."
"So why spare them then, Lord Plain? Didn't we kill that slave of Hood, the god of death—and offer him to the city for assimilation too?"
"I want to establish long-term ties with him. We've already begun our cooperation by exchanging knowledge. His role is similar to mine by nature. And that war-hardened inquisitor—she'll surely be a key force in the coming conflicts." The man continued, "Saya, I extracted some intelligence yesterday from Naskar's memories—Rome's Empress is preparing to strike both the Templar holy city in Bernacis and the Nest of the Moon. Hood's priest arriving here was just the beginning. After that, the hounds will go looking for the Snow Demons'—"
The girl gently interrupted, her voice soft and low:
"But what does that matter to us? Aren't we meant to live quietly here, completing Lord Nyarlathotep's wishes, staying here until the end of the world?"
Brunord nearly stopped breathing.
Then he began to calculate what kind of glory might await him if he brought news of Nero's plan to strike the Holy City—perhaps even thwart the heretical Empress's scheme and become a saint of the Church, his name recorded in history forever.
As for the Nest of the Moon—the business with the dark elf lords—let the higher-ups worry about that.
He always dreamed beyond his means—of glory and promotion. But he was timid, unlike Jeanne, who tied her head to her belt and charged into cultist strongholds, nearly killed once by an inquisitor dragging her into a dungeon. If he tried Jeanne's promotion path—he'd end up like the three waves of Church knights that died under her.
But now—now he saw his future. He saw himself written into Church history textbooks, as long as he reported what he had heard: the inquisitor colluding with a black sorcerer, and the heretical Empress's wicked plan.
"Oh, and one more thing—" the young man said, turning with a gentle expression and an eerily distorted smile, "—have you heard enough?"
Impossible!
"Looks like he hasn't," the girl said sweetly. "Clerics are getting awfully bold these days, Lord Plain." Her voice was velvet-smooth.
Brunord jolted as if waking from a nightmare—then turned and ran.
But something pressed against his face—cold, slick, jelly-like. He felt dizzy, tasting something strange in his mouth, something unnatural clinging to his body, suctioning against his skin like...
He felt himself losing blood—but it wasn't spilling.
He heard a revolting, cold laughter—not human.
Forget it—my heart's about to burst, he thought.
Forget it—just run.
A breath—dust, cold air, the taste of rust—and then he collapsed face-first onto the floor.
He felt something rupture in his arteries. Something blocked his airway.
He wanted to vomit. His body trembled, numb and frozen, from unseen pain and invisible blood loss.
He tried to stand, but his limbs were so light, as if they'd lost all weight.
He raised his head—
And saw a writhing, blood-red heap of tentacles. Or maybe it was a mass of gelatinous meat forced down a sewer drain. Countless filthy tendrils, lined with suckers and folds, stretched out from a faceless, eyeless, gaping red maw. Three? Four? Countless. They clung to his skin.
The sensation was faint—like his wife cupping his face to kiss him—just like his mind now: faint, fragile, pained.
It sucked at his blood in thick gulps, slowly forming its shape like a transparent outline being filled in with color—deeper and deeper red...
The color of his own blood...
"I hope you forget the memories the Star Spawn left you when you wake up, poor thing," said the young man behind him, his voice calm and gentle.
The girl crouched before him, looking into his eyes—coldly, indifferently—like she was sizing up a midnight snack.
Just like the way his nephew used to stare when he started school.