Matt pushed open the door of the Harvest Church shortly after three-thirty in the morning.
The interior was dim, illuminated only by a few candles the priest on duty had left burning. The scent of damp soil and fresh herbs enveloped him at once, clashing brutally with the smell of smoke, blood, and river water still clinging to his skin.
The priest looked up from the altar, saw Matt's bare torso, the burns, and his soaked trousers—but said nothing. He simply inclined his head with quiet respect.
"May the Mother receive you, brother."
Matt answered with a tired gesture and walked past him. He circled the altar, slipped between the vines, and descended through the living tunnel. The roots parted at his approach as if they already knew he was wounded.
When he emerged in the underground garden, he found Elara kneeling beside a small patch of black soil.
Her hands were buried in the earth as she planted tiny seeds, whispering softly in Hermes. The plants responded instantly—luminous green shoots sprouted between her fingers, twisting as if they were breathing. The scent of fertile soil and fresh sap clashed sharply with the smell of river and death that Matt carried with him.
Elara lifted her gaze when she heard him.
She didn't stand. She simply wiped her hands on the skirt of her green coat and observed him calmly.
"You've returned," she said simply. "Speak."
Matt approached and dropped onto the edge of the moss bench. He didn't bother with pleasantries.
"I killed him. Used the traps and the fire… and in the end I drove a humerus through his throat after he almost corrupted me with this dagger."
He first pulled the dark heart from his pocket and placed it on the moss before her. The organ beat once, slow, icy-blue blood flowing through its visible veins.
Then he took out the bone dagger and set it beside it. The blade still carried traces of his own dried blood.
"This is what cut my leg," he said, nodding toward it. "When the blade went in… I felt something strange. A lust so strong that for a second I saw Vargan differently. Like I wanted to… get closer. What the hell is this thing?"
Elara picked up the dagger carefully, turning it between her fingers.
Her green eyes darkened slightly as she recognized the runes carved into the handle.
"This dagger is imbued with Beyonder powers," she explained calmly, almost as if she were discussing the weather. "It belongs to something beyond the twenty-two pathways I told you about. There are… other paths. Paths that are not advanced through potions. The Mother we follow—the one who nourishes and renews—is not the only one that exists. There are those who believe in another Mother… one that does not give life, but twists it."
She paused, choosing her words carefully.
"The Rose School of Thought is divided. Some follow the Primordial Moon… a pretty name for something you shouldn't know about yet. Others worship the Mother Tree of Desire. The Naturism Sect—the one Vargan followed—believes in that Tree. This dagger carries its influence. That's why you felt what you felt. It wasn't your desire. It was his, injected directly into your blood."
Elara withdrew her hand from the dagger as if it burned.
"Keep it away for now. Tomorrow we'll decide what to do with it. But understand this, child: not everything that grows from the earth comes from the same seed. And some seeds… only wish to rot everything."
Matt stared at the dagger in silence, feeling the scar pulse with a warning heat.
Then he looked back at Elara and spoke with a strange calm—almost proud.
"I've also… fully digested the Criminal potion. I don't feel any resistance anymore."
Elara watched him silently for a moment.
Then a mischievous, almost playful smile slowly appeared on her lips. She crossed her arms and tilted her head.
"And the 130 milliliters of Vargan's blood?" she asked lightly, as if she were asking about spare change. "Did you take them? You needed them to substitute some of the ingredients for the Wingless Angel potion, remember?"
Matt froze.
His eyes widened slightly, and he slowly shook his head—as if he had just realized he'd forgotten the most basic thing in the world.
Elara let out a soft laugh. Not cruel—just clearly amused.
"Rest," she said, making a lazy gesture with her hand. "Sleep. I'll take care of it."
Matt nodded silently. He didn't have the energy for more words.
He turned and climbed back through the living tunnel. The roots parted before him with a whisper that almost sounded affectionate, as if the garden itself wanted to escort him upward.
When he emerged into his hidden corner behind the altar, the narrow space welcomed him like always: packed earth floor, faint emerald light filtering from above, and thick vines forming his private curtain.
He lay down on the ground.
The moment his head touched the soil, the vines began to move. They slid gently around his arms, legs, and torso, wrapping him in a warm, firm embrace—like roots sheltering a seed.
Matt closed his eyes.
What a damn night… he thought as exhaustion dragged him under. I killed a Wingless Angel, burned alive, almost got corrupted by a dagger… and I still forgot to tell Elara about that woman from the bar. And that charm. Later. I'll tell her later. Right now I just want to sleep.
The scar pulsed once—soft and approving.
At least I digested the potion. I don't feel that internal struggle anymore. The desires flow.
The green warmth of the scar spread through his body. The vines tightened slightly, protective.
Matt released one last long breath.
And fell asleep.
The garden wrapped him completely.
The fog of the Tussock was thick and cold when Elara arrived at the northern dock.
Warehouse 17 stood silent beneath the crimson light of the moon, its side door half-open and the faint smell of smoke and blood still lingering in the air.
Vargan's body lay at her feet, half submerged at the edge of the black water, the humerus still lodged in his throat like a macabre spear. The Wingless Angel was nothing more than cold, heavy flesh now.
Elara knelt gracefully.
From her worn leather case she took an opaque glass bottle and, with precise, almost ritualistic movements, collected exactly 130 milliliters of the blood still slowly seeping from the corpse.
The liquid was thick, nearly black, with icy-blue streaks that glimmered faintly under the moonlight.
When the bottle was full, she sealed it with a cork stopper and bound it with a thread of living root that sprouted from her own finger.
The blood stopped moving inside the glass.
She stood, wiping her hands on her dark green coat, and looked at the body one last time.
"Everything returns to the cycle," she murmured softly.
Then she heard footsteps.
Three figures emerged from the fog along the dock.
They wore long, heavy black coats, collars raised, wide-brimmed hats casting shadows over their faces. One carried a visible revolver at his waist. Another leaned on a cane engraved with discreet runes.
The third—a woman with long hair—wore a silver amulet around her neck.
Nighthawks.
They stopped a few meters from Elara, observing the corpse and the blood still marking the ground.
The woman at the front halted three meters away. Her voice was polite—but edged with professional caution.
"Doctor Elara… Harvest Church. We didn't expect to find you here at this hour."
Elara rose with exaggerated grace, as if she were in a tea salon rather than beside a mutilated corpse.
She brushed a drop of water from her dark green coat and smiled with that unsettling gentleness that always seemed on the verge of saying something inappropriate.
"Oh, dear inspector," she replied in a soft, sing-song voice, as if speaking to a child. "Where else would I be? A Sequence 8 Wingless Angel making trouble in my neighborhood… what kind of mother would I be if I didn't clean up the mess before the children saw it?"
The two men accompanying the inspector exchanged a quick glance.
The tension was palpable, even if no one voiced it aloud. A member of the Church of the Mother Earth had just eliminated a problem that technically belonged to them—and had done it without informing them.
The inspector inclined her head slightly, maintaining her courtesy.
"We appreciate the work. You may have saved us a very long night. Do you require a report or—"
Elara laughed softly, a musical, almost childish sound, as she placed the sealed bottle into her case.
"Oh, don't be silly, inspector. A report? I was simply walking along the dock and found some garbage that smelled bad. The Mother asked me to pick it up, that's all. You can take what's left and call it a fortunate accident. My part is already done."
She made a vague gesture with her hand, as if shooing away a fly.
"Besides…" she added with a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes, "Mother Earth and the Evernight Goddess have always been good neighbors, haven't we? No need to explain ourselves. Just… keep the neighborhood clean next time, yes?"
The Nighthawks remained silent for a moment.
Finally, the inspector nodded, accepting the subtle reminder that Elara owed them no explanations.
"May the Eternal Night protect you, Doctor."
Elara inclined her head with an exaggeratedly elegant bow.
"And may the Mother nourish you… or rot you, as you deserve."
She turned without hurry, her case swinging lightly in her hand, and walked away along the dock, wrapped in fog as if nothing had happened.
The Nighthawks watched her back until she disappeared.
None of them spoke again.
Elara had eliminated the problem.
And no one—not even the Nighthawks—was going to question Elara of the Church of the Mother Earth for doing things her own way.