A small, lamplit room hidden behind Angela's bedroom closet. Ancient books and velvet-lined boxes fill shadowy shelves.
Angela sits on an antique trunk, her knees drawn up; Mrs. Pierce stands across from her, a brass key trembling in her hand.
Mrs. Pierce hesitated at the panel, her breath catching in her throat. The weight of the moment pressed down on her, a burden she had carried alone for far too long. With a deep, shuddering breath, she finally turned the secret key.
The door swung open, revealing treasures long kept from the world: gilded daggers, cryptic scrolls, an onyx ring, and at the center—a velvet box holding the Gulbar relic, black and strangely cold.
Angela's eyes widened, a mix of awe and fear flooding her senses.
"Mother… what is all this?" she whispered, her voice trembling.
Mrs. Pierce's voice quivered, thick with emotion.
"Your father's legacy. And our burden."
She knelt beside a lacquered box, her fingers trembling as she drew out a faded photograph.
The edges were worn, the image soft with age.
"He left these to us because he knew they'd come after you—after me.
All these years… the occultic group has watched us. Threatened us. I never wanted you to know this danger, but they're getting desperate."
Angela's hand hovered over the relic, its dark surface absorbing the dim light.
"So all that time, the stories were true? You… you're involved with them?"
The realization hit her like a cold wave, chilling her to the bone.
Mrs. Pierce's eyes filled with tears, glistening like the relic itself.
But her tone turned fierce, a protective fire igniting within her.
"I did what I had to, to keep you safe—as your father made me promise!
I swore to him on his deathbed that I would never hand over the Gulbar relic, no matter what they threatened.
He believed it—this little stone—was the only thing strong enough to rival the power of Mistura itself."
She brushed dust from the old photo, passing it to Angela with trembling hands.
The image showed her father...broad-shouldered, gentle-eyed - with a hand resting lovingly on baby Angela's head.
"You look so much like your dad, darling," she murmured, tears tracking down her cheeks.
"He was brave. He understood boundaries, how to keep power from those who twist it. He protected us, fought for us… killed for us, when the cult hunted him."
Angela's voice was barely a whisper, thick with sorrow. "But… what happened to him?"
Mrs. Pierce gripped Angela's hand, her knuckles white with fear and resolve.
"It was the occult's leader who changed everything.
They call him the Faceless Bhudda—a spirit with a human mask. Swords, blades—nothing could touch him.
He came after your father—the only man to ever deny him the relic. And he murdered him, right here in this house."
Angela's eyes blurred with tears, the weight of her mother's words crashing down on her.
"You always told me not to seek revenge."
A sad smile flickered across Mrs. Pierce's face, a bittersweet memory.
"Because your father asked me not to. He said their power was more than we could ever fight. That if I pretended to support their acts, you and I might survive. Even as I watched them take my world apart, I promised."
Mrs. Pierce closed the box, her heart aching as she smoothed Angela's hair with trembling hands.
"Before he died, he left three treasures for you. A part of him, one for each hope he had for your future…"
Angela burst into silent sobs, clinging to her mother, the weight of the truth crashing over her like a tidal wave.
"I'm sorry, Mum. I never knew…"
Mrs. Pierce pulled her tight, their hearts beating in sync, a fragile bond forged in the fires of grief and love.
"We survive together. That's what your father wanted most."
The relic glimmered in the candlelight—silent promise, and a warning. In that hush, mother and daughter found comfort, even as danger pressed ever closer outside their secret room.
The shadows whispered of the past, but in each other's arms, they found the strength to face whatever darkness lay ahead.
•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••
Chaos Unleashed in Eldwood's Plaza
The old cobblestone plaza lay under a bruised moon, its silvery light filtered by thick clouds that rolled in like a shroud. Statues of long-dead founders stood silent sentinel, their stone eyes watching as restless energy crackled beneath the mist, a prelude to the storm brewing in the heart of the square.
At the center of this chaos, Michael stood—his shirt open, sweat slicking his skin, eyes glowing with a fierce violet light that cut through the fog like wild flames. His breath came in ragged gasps, not from fatigue but from the raw, pulsing anticipation that surged through him.
The air was thick with tension, a palpable force that seemed to vibrate with every heartbeat.
A whisper curled through the night air, barely audible yet carrying the weight of ancient power: "You are power, Michael. Break them. Bend the world."
The words slithered into his mind, igniting a fire that threatened to consume him.
Suddenly, every streetlamp along the avenue flickered violently before erupting in shards of glass and blue-white sparks.
Late-night townsfolk in cafés froze mid-bite and mid-sip, their gazes drawn upwards, eyes wide with disbelief.
Windows rattled violently, doors slammed shut as though gripped by unseen hands, the very fabric of reality bending to his will.
Michael began walking slowly, a crackle underfoot as stones and dust swirled in his wake. His presence radiated power—though his hand reflexively searched his pocket; the Book of Mistura was gone.
Panic clawed at him, but he pushed it down, focusing instead on the energy that surged through him like a tempest.
Despite the absence of the book, his influence spread like wildfire.
One by one, pallid-faced people emerged from their homes, eyes vacant—puppets to Mistura's will.
Michael's whisper carried a frightening command: "Find the book. Bring me the book."
A dozen townsfolk collapsed to their knees, voices hollow, chanting his name in eerie unison.
The sound echoed through the plaza, a haunting melody that sent shivers down Michael's spine.
Animals snarled and tore at their owners—dogs and cats twisted into wild frenzy, their eyes wide with terror, as if sensing the darkness that enveloped their master.
Ravens screamed above in chaotic flight, their wings beating frantically against the night sky, all turned feral by his unspoken command.
Traffic signals blinked erratically, streetcars screeched and halted abruptly, metallic brakes scraping sparks across the rails.
The city was a symphony of chaos, and Michael stood at its center, a conductor wielding a baton of destruction.
In the swirling chaos, Michael raised his arms. Dark shadows erupted from every alleyway like a tornado, smashing shop signs, cracking statues, sending them crashing to the ground. The sound of shattering stone echoed like thunder, drowning out the cries of the terrified townsfolk.
Mistura's venomous voice hissed in his ear: "More. Feed on them.
Let them know you are their true master." The words wrapped around him, intoxicating and terrifying.
The possessed townsfolk turned against one another, their faces twisted in fear and rage.
Panic and suspicion gnawed at friendships; crowds fractured into fighting mobs, fists flying as trust dissolved into chaos.
A line of police officers charged into the square, batons raised, attempting to restore order.
But Michael's violet gaze fixed on them, turning steel into weakness. One by one, they dropped their weapons, knelt, and joined the hollow chorus, their eyes glazed and empty.
"Find the book. Bring me the book…" his command echoed through the wreckage of his own making, a chilling refrain that resonated with the chaos surrounding him.
As dawn's pale light grayed the sky, the city held its breath, shattered and vulnerable.
And Michael stood alone—master of chaos, but captive to the darkness he barely controlled, a puppet dancing on strings he could not see.