The rain had eased outside.
"Crowmere, then. Purpurian?" Hallow asked, recognizing the surname.
"My father was." The voice seemed to waver.
Crowmere was so thin he looked ill—more so than any other resident of Tertiary. His pale skin contrasted sharply with the dark mark of his deep-set eye bags, a permanent stain that hollowed his gaze. His serious face, always still, was framed by straight brown hair that fell messily no matter how it was worn. His hands betrayed his trade: stained with ink and charcoal. The green garments covering his body reached down to his knees, far too loose, clearly inherited. There was something excessively modest about him for someone so close to Percival.
"How old are you, Crowmere? Forgive the question," Santvic couldn't restrain her curiosity.
"Twenty-seven. Follow me." With no inclination for conversation, he turned and began leading them through the village streets. The two followed on foot, guiding their horses by the reins.
"Did you know Vonnor?" Santvic pressed.
Crowmere took his time before answering.
"He was the scribe. Now I do the work." He sighed before adding, "He was very close to Percival. I still don't understand how he managed to deal with his death the way he did."
"If it helps, he seemed deeply shaken when he mentioned it. I can assure you."
"And yet he's giving up the house."
The sharp remark was a clear whisper of confession, disguised as observation. Santvic chose to keep her response to herself. Hallow, on the other hand, showed no such restraint.
"Yeah. Let's just make sure no more Vonnors pop up around here."
Careless, knight, Santvic thought. Crowmere let out a restrained grunt—almost a snort—and continued ahead without another word.
Near the village walls, set apart from the other buildings, the house awaited them. The land was bordered by a low fence, so fragile it seemed destined to give way in the next storm. Santvic and Hallow tied their horses without exchanging a word; the animals snorted, sensing that here they might finally rest. They stood still for a few minutes, simply watching the building.
There was no effort to make it inviting. Santvic had the impression its sole purpose now was to exist as background scenery—part of the silhouette of a village already spent and destined to die. It was like so many other houses in the abandoned Prima-village.
"Looks dead," she murmured to Hallow, careful that Crowmere wouldn't hear.
"Yeah, duh." He let out a short laugh. "The owner died."
"Don't be stupid. I'm already at my limit with you, and we've barely started the day."
"Alright, Curator."
Santvic restrained the urge to strike the knight's armor. She respected Crowmere—and the grief so evident in him, carried merely by looking at the house. How close-knit this village is, she thought. In a urbe, a death dissolves into noise. Here, it lingered for months.
The house had only a single floor. The porch was supported by two weathered wooden beams, and two rocking chairs stood motionless, waiting to be used. An empty bottle of rum rested on the railing beside them. They crossed the muddy yard, climbed the wooden step, and Crowmere announced, without ceremony:
"This is it."
A small, colorful rug of frayed wool gave away just how old the place was.
The door creaked as it opened, as if protesting the visit. Cold, dry air spread out at once, preserved by months of silence and abandonment. It carried with it old dust, aged paper, dried ink — the dense scent of a life interrupted.
The narrow interior was taken over by shelves built between the two windows, crammed with parchment rolls, notebooks bound with string, and wooden boxes marked with faded symbols. A table occupied the center of the main room, stained with ink, scratched by quills, and speckled with small piles of charcoal. Nothing seemed out of place. Everything remained arranged as if awaiting a return. She didn't take his belongings? Santvic wondered, but kept the thought to herself.
Crowmere stepped forward a few paces and rested a hand on the back of a chair.
"He was a strange man, but an intelligent one. He helped the village more than anyone else." There was something in his words that sounded like a warning. "Percival doesn't let anyone in here."
Percival didn't mention that, Hallow thought. I guess we're the exception.
"Make yourselves comfortable," Crowmere said, the reluctance clear in his throat. Then he left, closing the door carefully behind him.
The funereal silence that followed sharpened their awareness of the space. It felt as though the house had been left deliberately for curious hands to rummage through its oddities, to hunt through records and books along the shelves. It stirred Santvic's curiosity like nothing else — yet she felt, deeply, that she should not touch a thing. Vonnor's written words came back to her; she had not known him in life, but in that moment she made a quiet vow: to preserve this place. She had arrived too late for him to see any help. The discomfort in her chest was not new. The house would be a constant reminder that she had failed before she had even begun.
Hallow went straight to the kitchen.
It was narrow, small enough to seem like a later addition to the house. An iron stove dominated one wall, heavy and unmoving, its mouth still coated with soot. Pots hung from hooks driven into the wood, and a table in the corner bore deep knife marks. The sink amounted to a shallow stone basin, with a bucket beneath it to catch whatever drained down. Above, a small window let in only the bare minimum of light.
Santvic carried her case into the bedroom.
The double bed, pressed into the corner, betrayed years of shared use. Her attentive eyes caught the difference in weight and height: one heavy and tall, the other short and slight. Husband and wife, clearly. Opposite them, two small beds rested side by side, painted a blue now peeling away. There were no mattresses — only the empty frames, the carcass of the children's abandoned nest. A large double-door wardrobe filled the other wall, left open. Only a few fabrics remained, neatly tucked into the corners. Uneasy, Santvic stepped closer and closed it.
Beneath the window, a set of drawers supported an ashtray and a framed photograph. The yellowed paper betrayed its age; the grayish colors struggled to endure. Santvic picked it up carefully, afraid her touch might erase what remained of the image.
There were two figures. The woman, dark-skinned, had a firm, powerful face. Reddish hair fell in exuberant waves, and Santvic thought she could make out a small gray glint on her nose — perhaps a piercing. Beside her stood a short, pale man, almost insectlike in appearance: a triangular face hidden behind glasses, eyes that looked startled even in a smile. Brown hair flecked with white betrayed his age. Near her, he seemed smaller still — almost like a child.
So the deep mark on the mattress was hers, Santvic thought. The wife was a warrior.
"We're going to need a mattress," was the first thing she said when she heard the door open.
"Looks like it."
Daric Vanhallow stepped closer, curious about her investigation, and studied the photograph closely. He seemed to recognize the woman in it, but kept the thought to himself.
They set about organizing the house. Anything out of place was pushed into a single corner, aligned with an almost ritual care. As long as the place didn't look abandoned, Santvic was satisfied. Vanhallow went out to fetch supplies from around the village, while she turned to assembling her workstation.
She placed the case beneath the table and began to empty it: folded papers, worn books, dense notebooks filled with notes. As the interior emptied, the case itself seemed to lose importance, reduced to dead weight. Santvic felt relief at not having to carry it around full anymore.
At the bottom, protected by a thick layer of foam, lay the true reason for all that care. A piece of equipment that occupied nearly the entire length of the case, carefully fitted into place. Assembling it had always been her favorite part. White, with gold detailing, it was probably the most expensive item she had ever owned. Few people in the world would be able to estimate its real value—and that had always amused her. A common thief would pass it by without a second glance, unable to recognize that they had stumbled upon a gold mine.
Santvic began with the vials. Thick glass—some empty, others filled with liquids of varying colors, translucent or opaque. Six of them stood out: they had no caps, only circular openings, prepared for a very specific kind of fitting. She also took out the cloth doll she had picked up in Prima-village and set it aside.
Then she removed the foam covering. There it was: the device, retracted and compact, its top vaguely resembling a pair of binoculars aimed at a smooth metal plate. From its base extended six connectors. A microscope—a simple name for a tool of immense reach. It served to analyze any material, Anthemic or otherwise: one simply had to place the sample on the stage—the plate meant for observation—and adjust the lens. The innermost structure of matter would be revealed. Of course, seeing was not the same as understanding; that required study, context, and years of discipline. Still, it was indispensable to Santvic's work.
Finally, she removed from the case wires made of a black material, flexible like rubber, and connected them to the six vials lined up on the table. She left them loose, awaiting use. When she finished, the station was fully assembled—and that was when Hallow appeared, carrying baskets and crates, unceremoniously shattering the entire ritual.
"What's this thing? What are these wires for? What do you see in there? And these vials? Why so many books? What is this? A nail clipper?"
"It's tweezers, you idiot."
"But can it clip nails?"
"It's tweezers."
Hallow burst out laughing. He left a large wooden crate in the kitchen and returned, far too curious to stay away from Santvic's work.
"Good news, boss: there's an absurd amount of Longomyrtos out there. Never seen so many in one place."
"Unusual for this region. Maybe it's the season," Santvic replied without looking up. With the tweezers, she pulled a thread of fabric from the doll's arm and placed it on the stage. "If the ingredients are still good, I might even manage to make a pie."
"So you really are going to investigate the doll?" Hallow leaned in slightly, trying to peer through the lens. "I thought you were joking."
She studied the thread with care, tracking it beneath the lens, touching it only when necessary with the tip of the tweezers. At first glance, she found nothing worthy of note—except for bluish stains scattered irregularly across what appeared to be ordinary fabric. She couldn't identify their origin. She hesitated. Ignoring it would have been easier. Still, she adjusted the lens once more, tightening the focus.
"The blight is blue, knight," she remarked without pulling away from the microscope. "There are blue stains trying to reproduce. The movement is erratic, disordered. It resembles simple curses you see around Doural."
"Isn't that a bit… stupid?" Hallow tilted his head. "The thread is white. I can see that from here."
Santvic pulled her face away from the lenses and calmly put her glasses back on. She knew Hallow liked to play dumb for sport, so she didn't answer. Instead, she turned two exposed gears at the base of the microscope, near the black wire fittings. The device responded with a faint internal click. She then shifted her gaze to the connected vials—as expected, three of them began to fill slowly.
Hallow stepped closer on impulse, but a short gesture from Santvic stopped him.
What emerged inside the glass looked like liquid, yet moved like smoke. Dense gases, almost tangible—mists of colors that belonged nowhere in the natural order of Doural. In the first vial, an intense orange tone sank to the bottom and, as it accumulated, darkened into red. It seemed to strain outward, pressing against the glass, trying to grow, but something unseen held it in check. Waves rippled across its surface, lifting fine particles that never reached the top, like sparks from a bonfire.
In the second vial, a greenish essence spread rapidly, streaked with thick brown veins. It filled the container completely, turning it opaque, visually heavy—a mixture that evoked crushed grass and damp earth, as though it carried the weight of soil within it.
The third vial filled only halfway. A deep blue, fragmented into countless lighter and darker shades, settled naturally at the bottom, as if obeying a command. There, the essence organized itself. It moved in slow, steady spirals, circling the glass with elegant precision—calm, deliberate. It seemed almost aware of its own existence, and content with it.
"Boss…" Hallow's voice came out low, without laughter this time. "What the hell is that?"
"Elements," Santvic replied, adjusting her glasses with her thumb. "We call them essence. It's simpler to think of it that way. The proper name, though, is emanations." She paused, watching the vials. "Emanation is the essence of the world, in its purest extractable form."
When Hallow looked back to the microscope's stage, the doll's thread was gone. There wasn't a trace left.
"So minimal a quantity," Santvic said, still staring at the containers, "that when applied to air, it simply merges with it. Do I really need to remind you not to touch my equipment?"
"No, no. Message received." Hallow raised his hands in surrender. "You gonna have the patience to explain what the hell that was?"
"Everything in our world possesses emanation." Santvic stood up, straightening her posture. "There are seven. Empyrean, Unda, Hyle, Pneuma, Keroma… and the seventh still has no name. We haven't discovered it yet."
Hallow raised an eyebrow.
"But you know it exists?"
"We do." She stepped closer to the table, almost too confident in the apparatus. Hallow crossed his arms, resigned, bracing himself for the lecture.
"This one," she said, pointing to the vial glowing with intense red, "is Empyrean." The gas seemed to react to her presence, surging against the glass, rising in irregular pulses—alive, restless. It strained toward her. "We usually associate it with fire. When something's nature is to grow, consume, or possess—when violent emotions assert themselves—Empyrean tends to manifest. See how it resists the container?"
"I see it very clearly. I don't like it."
"If it loses control, it spreads and overtakes everything around it. We have to dispose of it carefully. A single spark of Empyrean is enough to erase an entire village."
"And you pulled that out of a doll's thread?" Hallow asked, a teasing grin forming.
"Not exactly." Santvic adjusted her glasses. "As I said, the quantity is negligible. This is air assuming the form of essences as it interacts with the material. It's a natural state. If I opened the vial, it would dissipate without leaving a trace. Still, I don't know the nature of the blight spreading through this place. I'd rather not take risks."
Hallow nodded in silence—a rare moment where he understood, at least in part, her caution.
"This one," Santvic continued, resting her hand on the vial filled with opaque color, "is Hyle." She touched the glass without hesitation. Had he not watched the process, Hallow would have sworn the container was full of dirt, moss, and compacted dust. "Most of the world is made of Hyle. Raw physicality."
"I don't think I get it," he admitted, scratching the back of his neck.
"Like the metal of a sword. The sand of a beach. The cloth of a doll."
His expression remained blank. Santvic sighed, resigned.
"A fat man has more Hyle than a thin one."
"Oh!" Hallow laughed loudly. "Now you're speaking my language. And the blue?"
"Unda." She turned to the remaining vial, adjusting her glasses carefully. Its contents were hypnotic: layered blues moving in precise order, rising and sinking in slow spirals, like a bottled sea. "It's the essence of movement. Normally, it shouldn't be present in a doll's thread. But given the nature of the blight… something there is trying to move, to feed, even at a microscopic scale."
Hallow followed the flow in silence. To him, all of this had other names: fire, earth, water. He knew air answered to Pneuma, and didn't even try to grasp the rest. Still, there was something about that blue dance that unsettled him—an unease he couldn't quite explain.
"Good." The spell broke when Santvic disconnected the copper wires from the microscope. The mechanism answered with dry, metallic clicks, folding back into itself. "I'll need slime samples now. We're going out for a while."
"Oh. I almost forgot."
Santvic had not noticed, but the knight carried two blades at his waist. He unclasped one of them and, without any ceremony, tossed it onto the table. The impact made the wood groan and the flasks sway. Santvic stared at the fine leather scabbard for a long moment, then turned to Hallow with the look of someone who had just been stabbed.
"What kind of joke is this, knight?"
Hallow had expected the reaction. He knew that convincing the "Arcane Curator of the Capital, Barbela Santvic Babalon, apprentice of Schüssler Fiorenza" would require an immeasurable amount of patience, so much that his head already hurt just thinking about it. Maybe it was trauma, conviction, or just stubbornness masquerading as philosophy, as an ethical ideal, but the Curator refused to touch any weapon. Still, if anything happened to her, who would the blame fall on if not her cursed knight? He did not protect Santvic more than he protected himself.
The knight had irritated her many times before, but this was the first time he had seen her turn red.
"I knew you'd say that." He leaned over the table, bracing his hands against the wood. "But I'm going to convince you. It's better to carry a bad blade than nothing, boss."
"I don't carry blades. You know that." The contempt was so strong it was almost tangible. Hallow felt sorry for the blade. "Did you waste Valets on this? Maybe I will use it. On you."
"I'm not saying you'll need to defend yourself, but it's better to carry a bad blade than nothing, boss." Hallow kept his tone light. "What if you need to defend someone else? What if someone decides to take advantage of how fragile this village is? Would you just stand there?"
"You certainly would." Santvic lifted her chin, trying and failing miserably to match Hallow's height. "Isn't that your job? Protecting this village isn't in your contract. Keeping me alive is."
Even so, the coldness of her gaze made Hallow raise an eyebrow.
"That's harsh, boss. Doesn't that weigh on you?"
"Would it weigh on you?"
"Maybe not." He shrugged. "But if it did, I'd help."
Silence stretched between them.
"…I couldn't." Santvic finally said, her eyes dropping to the blade. She pulled the scabbard closer, lifting it with care.
"It's worth trying."
The hilt was the only part visible through the leather. It was protected by a wide, shell-shaped guard, dull gray with wooden details. It looked hollow, fragile, almost like a poorly made toy. Santvic drew the sword in a single clean, fast, precise motion, as if she knew exactly what she was doing. The blade vibrated in the air for a brief instant. A shining metallic thread, absurdly thin, tapering until it vanished into a dangerous point, like a needle. She held it upright before her face, intrigued. It looked more like a giant pin than a warrior's sword.
"Where's the edge?"
"It's a saber, very old. Equipment from the fencers' society. Nobody uses them anymore. They vanished a long time ago. It's a dead art."
"That doesn't answer me."
"You can cut anything with that, from any angle, boss." Hallow gestured. "It doesn't have an edge because the whole thing is the edge. But there's a problem. If you miss, it breaks. Fencers were lethal assassins, until armor became common. Then things got ugly."
Santvic touched the blade with her index finger. She flinched when a green thread immediately appeared in her glove.
"This is dangerous."
"That's the point." Hallow laughed. "Just don't expect respect. They'll laugh at you for pulling out a saber like that. The dance was beautiful to watch, but it doesn't fit the world anymore. Totally impractical. When I saw the merchant selling it for twenty Valets, I thought of you."
"You think I'm beautiful and impractical, knight?"
He didn't answer. Santvic didn't even notice. She was busy examining every detail, testing the weight, sketching careless arcs through the air. The blade seemed to yield easily to her movements, obeying her.
"It suits you."
"It's Unda."
"What?"
"Unda, flowing through the metal." She slid the blade back into its scabbard. "An elegant choice."
Hallow crossed his arms. He didn't believe she would use it. The confirmation came immediately.
"Don't get excited. I don't intend to use it." Santvic set the weapon down on the table. "I'll carry it to keep you quiet. There won't be any need, and if there is, I'll think very carefully before raising it."
Hallow only smiled. He knew that, sooner or later, Santvic would change her mind.