It's Wednesday afternoon—almost dusk. I return home to find a letter on the ground, just inside the courtyard by our gate.
The letter reads:
Dear residents of Eldenmere,
I, Xandar Valazam, am inviting you to my mansion tonight. This is not a party, nor a celebration, but an urgent gathering.
As you know, our neighborhood has recently suffered at the hands of an anti-Republic element—one responsible for the violent deaths of Xarxar and Rehzar. Such destruction cannot continue.
Tonight, we will discuss how to ensure this terror never threatens our community again.
I bring the letter in and show it to Ashlynn.
"No!" she protests. "I don't want to go!"
I release a breath of relief. "That's fine. I'll go instead."
She grabs my hand. "Not you too, Len. Don't go," she says in a low voice. "He terrifies me."
"It would look strange if I didn't attend, wouldn't it?" I reply.
Her grip tightens on my arm. Brows furrowed, she bites her lip, hoping I'll say otherwise.
I place my hand over hers. "I'm a new neighbor," I explain. "What will Xandar think if I don't attend?"
She releases her grip and turns away. "But Len… what if this is a trap?"
She faces me again. "What if he already suspects someone in the neighborhood?"
Her head rests on my shoulder. "What if he already suspects you?"
My hands wrap around her back. "If he already suspects me, it would be even more suspicious if I stayed home."
We don't argue further. Ashlynn lets me go—on the condition that I bring something for self-defense.
Time passes.
I finish my preparation. Ornate red frock coat. Shoulder holster beneath it, revolver snug. Hearthlight badge in my pocket, just in case someone questions me. The invitation letter secured alongside it.
To finalize the look: fedora and cane.
I set out, walking toward Xandar's Mansion.
Not even a few steps from my house, lines of people stretch ahead, all heading in the same direction. Many barely glance at the letter. Most are dressed as if attending a party, completely unconcerned.
"What kind of food do you think Monsieur Xandar will provide?" a fat man asks.
"Hopefully exotic," another answers.
The least suspicious are always the easy-going ones—those who act as if the letter doesn't matter at all. I merge into their group, blending in, making sure I seem unconcerned, pretending not even to have read the letter.
The grand foyer opens before us. Servants line the halls, guiding guests toward the main hall—the same hall where I once fought the lessies.
In the center, a raised platform has been prepared. Guests cluster around it. Not a single person seems concerned with the deaths mentioned in the letter; it's as if it's someone else's tragedy.
Then Xandar appears, walking in from the opposite end of the hall. His gaze sweeps the crowd, lingering on those who stare, and skipping over those who do not. My group earns nothing but a passing glance.
He reaches the altar and begins his speech.
The opening is formal, heavy with virtue, loyalty, and society. Every word carries weight, every pause intention. I pretend to be charmed along with the others, though my eyes constantly scan.
Whenever Xandar isn't looking my way, I check the servants. They track those who misbehave, carrying small notepads. Each time someone acts out of line like glancing wrong or stares nervously, they scribble quickly. My attention splits between Xandar and them.
When Xandar finishes his speech, he raises a hand. A servant approaches with stacks of notes. Xandar takes them, holding the pages close to his face.
"If I mention your name, please line up in the center," he says, gesturing at the space in front of him.
The crowd shifts, making room for the lines.
Xandar begins to read aloud. Those named step forward, joining the files. With each name, the lines lengthen. By the last name, nearly a fifth of the guests stand before him. I am not among them. Thankfully.
"Those whose names aren't mentioned, please leave," Xandar commands.
Protests erupt.
"I thought we were here for a party?" a man shouts, not part of the lines.
Even the fat man from my group grumbles.
Clap.
Xandar claps once. The sound echoes through the hall. Silence falls immediately.
"Calm down, you will have your turn," he says.
"What's the point of me being here?" a man steps forward.
"Monsieur Ehzio, my friend... I know you're here for the party, but I can't let everyone join today's activities."
"Then what about them? Why can't I join?" another protests.
"Madam Seran, I will make up for it," Xandar says firmly.
He clears his throat, then shouts: "Party next Sunday! Anyone is welcome!"
Cheers erupt. When the crowd settles, the remaining guests are guided out.
Just as I am about to leave the courtyard, a familiar voice stops me.
"Len," she says.
My heart races at the sound.
"Tanya?" I reply.
"Madam Tanya," the man who was with me bows.
"Monsieur Amon," Tanya inclines her head politely.
"How have you been, Len—"
Amon, the fat man I just met, furrows his brows and clears his throat, cutting her off. "Excuse me, but who is Len?"
"You're funny, Amon," Tanya chuckles, gesturing toward me. "How can you not know the name of the man you've been speaking to?"
"This is not Len. He's Thadeo," Amon insists.
"You're Thadeo Owright?" Tanya asks, confusion written across her face.
"Excuse me," I say to Amon, grabbing Tanya's hand and guiding her away. "Tanya, I need to confess something."
"Wha-what? You're really Thadeo?"
"Calm down. I'm on a mission," I reply.
Her eyes narrow as she folds her hands, unconvinced.
I start to explain, spinning a story that sounds convincing—but she doesn't seem swayed.
I activate my Abyssal Eye and mark her. Her behavior doesn't change immediately, but hopefully she sleeps before she can speak to Xandar.
We part ways. Tanya heads inside, while I search for Amon again.
Finding him proves harder than expected. A fat man in a crowd of fat men—like spotting a Whopper among Big Macs.
After a while, I see him walking alone down a side street, far from the direction of my home. I follow him into a dark alley. My steps are fast but silent. He whistles casually, not once glancing behind.
He stops at a gate to a back courtyard of a manor. Big enough—but not bigger than mine.
As his hand reaches the gate—
Bang.
The bullet pierces his head. The sound echoes. His body collapses to the ground. Murmurs ripple through the distance, but no faces appear.
I melt into the shadows, disappearing before anyone notices I was ever there.
I move fast, avoiding any passerby. Not a single person sees me as I run.
Eventually, I reach home safely, closing the door behind me and sliding down, gasping and sweating.
Ashlynn greets me, concern in her eyes. "Len, what's wrong?"
I rest my head against her soft chest.
"Len," she murmurs, rubbing my head. My heart slowly begins to calm.
I look up. "Ash... Tanya was there."
Her face pales. Tears well in her eyes.
I pull her close to my chest, rubbing her gently as she cries out the sting of betrayal.
Her cry is brief but full of pain—enough to lull her into drowsiness. I carry her back to the bedroom.
Once I've cleaned up, I lie beside her, close my eyes, and finally allow myself to sleep.
—
Back in my Abyss.
Once I settle into my Abyssal Throne, I focus on my Abyssal Eye again. It pulses from within, sending ripples of shadow across the endless void.
In that instant, I summon her.
The water before me writhes unnaturally, twisting as if alive, then spills Tanya out.
She's on all fours, trembling. Her gaze locks on me, wide with fear and confusion.
"Where am I?…This isn't the Mansion…this…this darkness…"
"We meet again, Tanya," I greet her.
"Mo…Monsieur…Abyss?" She swallowed. "W-what…is this?"
She slowly rises. Every movement is hesitant; her skin—and—bones body quivers under the strange pull of the Abyss.
A chuckle leaves my mouth. Her reaction amuses me.
"Is there a problem, Monsieur?" she asks.
"Do you know why you're here?"
She shakes her head once.
"Do you know where you were before?" I ask.
She steps forward, uncertain. "How did you call me here? I was just in the middle of helping my fiancé."
"Oh ho. Entertain me..."
"I'm sure someone as great as you already knows... We were just flaying those that seem suspicious."
I didn't act suspicious. My calm is deliberate. It was the right call to act uninterested.
"Have you told your fiancé anything else?"
Her hand rises to her chin. Her brows furrow; her lips part in thought.
I wait for her response.
"I was about to tell my fiancé about my friend—Len. He's the most suspicious one amongst the guests. He has many identities, it seems." A pause. "I want to tell my fiancé that Hearthlight Order might be planning to kill him. Or maybe the Twilight Wraith is Len."
Her words are sharp. Every syllable carries danger. It was a good call to mark her.
I rise from my throne. The shadows behind me coil and stretch, pressing against the edges of reality.
She swallows. Every inch of her frame shakes.
"I... Monsieur Abyss command you... DIE!"
—