Clive steps down from the carriage, the heat of the street clinging to his coat, and watches as the driver pulls the lever and the steam carriage hisses away into the evening traffic.
From a distance, he studies the Canary Club.
Music leaks from inside, muted laughter following every opening of the door, gas and steam lights painting the street in warm, deceptive colours.
Clive does not move closer.
Instead, his thoughts begin to run.
A possibility forms, fragile and absurd at first, but the more he turns it over, the heavier it becomes.
If his guess is correct, then he already knows who Robbie Smith's lover is.
And he knows why Robbie Smith has not visited her for the past few days.
If that thought proves false, then he will have no choice but to step inside the Canary Club tomorrow and dig through smoke, smiles, and secrets until he finds the truth.
He exhales slowly and turns away.
Tonight, there is nothing more to be gained here.
He walks back toward his home and office, the streets growing quieter as the business district gives way to residential lanes.
Inside his office, he lights the steam lamp and sits at his desk.
He pulls out fresh paper and charcoal.
Slowly, carefully, he begins drawing Robbie Smith's face from memory.
The sharp nose.
The trimmed moustache.
The habitual tension around the eyes.
One portrait becomes two, then three, each from a slightly different angle.
Tomorrow, he will need them.
The night deepens.
Far away from the city, a small village sleeps beneath a silvered sky.
Brick and wood houses cluster together behind a thick wooden fence that circles the settlement like a protective ring.
Beyond the fence stretch farmlands, long and dark, rows of young crops drinking deeply from the spring rain that has pooled between the furrows.
The rain has already passed, leaving the earth damp and breathing, mist rising faintly under the moonlight.
Inside the village, lamps are extinguished one by one.
Doors are bolted.
Children sleep.
Even the two guards posted near the front gate slump against a hut, their spears resting loosely in their hands, eyes closed in exhaustion.
Then the dogs bark.
Sharp.
Sudden.
Furious.
The sound tears through the quiet, echoing against the fence.
The guards jolt awake, hearts racing, grabbing their weapons as they scramble to their feet.
More dogs join in, their barking frantic, aimed not inward but outward, toward the fields beyond the gate.
The commotion ripples through the village.
A baby begins to cry.
A door creaks open, then another.
Within the small church near the centre of the village, the priest of the Lady of the Lake stirs.
Martha, old and stiff, sits upright in her bed as the barking reaches her ears.
Her joints protest loudly as she swings her legs over the side of the bed.
She winces, breathes through the pain, and stands.
She slips into her priest's robe, fingers practised despite their age, and turns up the wick of the oil lantern.
The flame brightens, casting long shadows across stone walls.
Lantern in hand, she steps into the corridor.
As she passes one of the small rooms lining the hall, she hears movement.
The door opens quietly.
A teenage boy peers out, hair dishevelled, eyes still heavy with sleep.
"Priest," he whispers.
Martha stops and looks at him. "Alex, the dogs woke you?"
Alex nods. "Are you going to check? I should go with you."
She shakes her head gently. "No. You should sleep. Tomorrow at dawn, you have work."
Alex hesitates, worry flickering across his face, then nods. "Alright, priest."
He closes the door softly.
Martha continues down the corridor, pushes open the door to the main hall of the church, and steps inside.
She stands before the idol of the Lady of the Lake, lantern light dancing across carved stone.
She bows her head and prays in silence, lips moving without sound.
When she straightens, her expression is calm but resolute.
She turns and leaves the church.
Near the front gate, villagers have gathered, their voices low but anxious.
Several men attempt to quiet the dogs, pulling at collars, whispering harsh commands.
The dogs resist, bodies tense, barking relentlessly toward the dark beyond the fence.
Martha approaches the village chief.
"Paul," she asks, "what is going on?"
Paul, an old man with a lined face and weary eyes, shakes his head. "I don't know, Martha."
He glances toward the dogs. "They refuse to be silenced."
Martha frowns. "Then are you going to open the gate and check?"
Paul rubs his chin, eyes narrowing as he thinks. "I was considering it. I was about to send for you."
He looks at her directly. "Should we open the gate?"
Before she answers, voices rise around them.
"Tie their mouths shut."
"I'm going to kill those damn dogs."
"Open the gate and see what's out there."
A baby cries louder.
Martha listens to the fear in the air, the growing unrest.
This cannot continue.
She lifts her lantern slightly and says, "Open the gate."
Paul nods and raises his voice. "You heard the priest. Open the gate."
The guards move at once.
Wood groans as the heavy gate begins to part.
The dogs strain forward, barking madly.
Cold night air rushes in from the fields.
A villager holding a lantern steels himself and steps beyond the gate, boots sinking into the muddy dirt path that cuts through the farmlands and connects the village to the outside world.
The lantern light wobbles across wet soil and young crops bent by rain.
One by one, others follow him, gripping tools, spears, or nothing at all.
They fan out slightly, peering into the darkness, calling out tentative names, listening for any sound beyond their own breathing.
There is nothing.
No footprints that make sense.
No movement in the fields.
Only the quiet croak of frogs and the faint whisper of wind through wet leaves.
Martha watches closely.
Something feels wrong.
The dogs, moments ago frantic, now huddle together near the gate.
They whimper softly, tails tucked tight against their bellies, ears flattened.
They are no longer staring outward.
They are looking inward.
Toward the centre of the village.
Martha's heart tightens.
She turns slowly.
Under the moonlight, standing between the houses, is a figure.
It wears a cloak that sways slightly despite the still air.
The hood obscures its face completely, darkness deeper than shadow beneath it.
The figure does not move.
It simply stands there, as if it has always belonged to the village.
A villager gasps.
Someone drops their lantern.
Martha takes a step forward, raising her own light.
-----
In the quiet room within the church, Alex tosses beneath his blanket.
The barking, though fading, has already stolen any chance of rest.
He sits up, heart uneasy, and listens.
Silence presses against his ears.
He climbs out of bed, bare feet touching cold stone.
He strikes the steam lighter, sparks flaring, and lights his lantern.
The soft glow steadies his breathing.
Carrying it, he steps into the corridor and walks toward the main church room.
The doors creak softly as he pushes them open.
Inside, the air is cool and calm.
Alex kneels before the idol of the Lady of the Lake and sets the lantern beside him.
He sits cross-legged, straightens his back, and closes his eyes.
He begins to meditate.
In his mind, he traces the rune Priest Martha taught him, line by line, curve by curve.
A simple rune.
A ward.
A focus.
He imagines it forming clearly, glowing faintly, steady and complete.
Alex is a trainee priest.
One day, he will take Martha's place.
That thought steadies him.
His breathing slows.
The world narrows.
The barking of dogs fades completely from his awareness.
Still, he does not rise to return to his room.
He remains seated, deepening his meditation.
He does not notice the black mist seeping in through the cracks of the church doors.
It slides along the floor like a living shadow, cold and deliberate.
The mist creeps closer to the idol.
The Lady's stone surface begins to glow softly.
Light spreads from the carved eyes, then across the entire figure.
The mist recoils as if burned, curling away and dissolving into nothing.
Alex remains unaware.
His focus sharpens.
The rune in his mind stabilises.
Suddenly, the light intensifies.
A pillar of brilliance erupts from the idol, shooting straight upward.
It tears through the church roof without breaking stone or wood.
It pierces the clouds, illuminating the night sky.
Miles away from the village, a cavalry company halts.
At their head rides a woman with hair white as fresh snow and eyes as deep as the ocean.
She lifts her gaze toward the heavens, blue eyes reflecting the column of light.
Her expression hardens with recognition.
She raises her hand.
"Forward," she commands.
Reins snap.
Hooves thunder.
The cavalry surges toward the distant light, cutting through the night as if answering a call older than memory itself.