Rustle!
Seated in a cushioned chair within the grand dining hall of his manor—a chamber adorned with mahogany panelling, ornate chandeliers, and tall windows veiled by heavy drapes—Claude's fingers traced the pages of the article he held.
It was a newspaper.
A foreign concept to him. In Francia, the circulation of news among the common people was nearly unheard of. Information was limited to pamphlets, shared only among the literate folk.
Yet in Mercia, newspapers were widespread, perhaps a testament to the surprising level of literacy among its people. Even Evelyn, who was now tidying up the dining table, could read and understand most common words.
'Interesting…' A glint flickered in Claude's eyes as he recalled what he had just come to learn. 'How very interesting. A world so deeply intertwined with another—how could such a thing come to be?'
He was almost certain now. The Avalon and Machina Sacra mentioned in that distant realm were the same as those of this one. Despite this, rather than providing answers, this revelation only raised more questions.
How had relics of Avalon crossed into another world? What had Alfred meant by traitors within Machina Sacra? And what had become of this so-called God? Surely, if He still lived, He would not allow His people to suffer.
'Could this all be tied to Him…?' Claude mused, still he did not dare let the name of the Shadowfiend cross his lips.
He had learned his lesson. The murals in that temple had shown him too much. By some stroke of luck—or perhaps the nature of that world—he had escaped without drawing His gaze. But he would not tempt fate again.
The Old Ones coveted mortal realms, and if he attracted their notice, he would not escape unscathed. Reality, when in their grasp, would only serve to further their ambitions.
With a quiet click of his tongue, Claude shifted his gaze back to the newspaper in his hands.
Hawden Weekly
Breaking News: Spies? Monsters? Or Perhaps… a Relic of the Past?
Hawden—The quiet of Gallows Row was shattered late last night when residents reported hearing violent noises coming from a long-abandoned home at the corner of the street. Eyewitnesses describe the disturbance as a cacophony of crashes, mechanical screeches, and—some claim—inhuman wails.
Upon arrival, investigators found the house in ruins. The walls bore the scars of gunfire, their wooden panels splintered and cracked. The floor, littered with shattered glass and twisted metal, was drenched in blood.
The only known occupant of the home was an elderly woman referred to as Agatha, a reclusive figure who had lived in the house for the past twenty-three years. However, her origins remain shrouded in mystery.
No official records of her birth, lineage, or prior residence exist, and even her surname is absent from municipal archives. Those who knew her—if they can be said to have known her at all—describe her as an odd but harmless woman who spoke little and was rarely seen beyond her threshold.
Still, whispers among the townsfolk tell a different story. With some even claiming Agatha was more than just a hermit. A healer, a scholar, a mystic—perhaps even a practitioner of the forbidden arts.
What, then, transpired within the crumbling walls of that forsaken house? Was Agatha the victim of an assassination? A spy silenced by foreign operatives? Or did the metal debris lying at the scene perhaps point to another possibility? Was she a remnant of the Machina Sacra, long thought to be nothing more than a myth?
Authorities have yet to locate a body, though blood patterns suggest that at least one individual—likely more—was gravely injured or killed. Investigators have sealed off the area, and the townspeople remain on edge.
What is certain is this: whatever happened that night, it was no ordinary crime.
For now, the town waits. And watches.
If you have any information regarding Agatha or the events of last night, please report to the Hawden Constabulary.
A small frown tugged at Claude's lips, folding the paper. 'Why is there always something happening wherever I am going?'
"Master Claude, what are you reading over there?" Evelyn, having finished her chores, hopped to his side, eyes bright with curiosity.
"Something about an attack somewhere in town…" Claude murmured, his gaze still fixed on the paper.
"Oh? Another one?" Evelyn let out a soft sigh. "This town is only getting more and more dangerous. Master, you heard what Sir Walter said—you've already recovered…" Her eyes flickered over his pallid complexion.
"…somewhat," she amended, biting her lip. "But you really should head to the main residence. I know how much you hate the mistress, but you must overcome that—"
Claude barely acknowledged the rest of her words, his focus narrowing in on her off-handed comment.
"Another...?" he said, his gaze shifting to her. "What do you mean by that?"
Evelyn blinked, tilting her head. Then, as realisation dawned, she covered her mouth with a small gasp.
"That's right… Of course, you wouldn't know." She paused.
Then, in a quieter voice, she added, "It happened the same day you fell unconscious..."
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The soft murmur of conversation echoed along the paved walkways of Elysium as a small group of men strolled through its verdant scenery, the lush green foliage swaying gently in the afternoon breeze.
"…and the physician swore on his honour that his leeches had cured the man—though, by chance, the man had died before he could confirm it himself!" A pudgy man chuckled, his tuft of blonde hair bobbing with each step.
Beside him, a tall and gaunt man let out a dry laugh, shaking his head. "These people and their ridiculous practices. Knowledge chases them, yet they seem too blind to stop and seek it."
"Aye." The pudgy man nodded. "Mortals and their follies."
He paused, then turned his head toward their silent companion, who had yet to contribute to the conversation. "Speaking of follies… Gaspard, have you made any progress with old Catherine?"
At the mention of his name, Gaspard looked up. But upon hearing the question, a shadow flickered across his face. His answer? A slow shake of the head.
His companions exchanged glances, a silent worry passing between them.
"Ah, what is love in the grand scheme of things, Gaspard?" the gaunt man said with an air of philosophy. "As mages, we need only seek the truth, embrace the truth, and live by the truth—"
A sharp slap to the back of his neck cut him off. He turned with a glare toward the pudgy man who had struck him.
"Why did you—"
"Shut it, fool." The pudgy man seized him by the collar and pulled him close, hissing, "How many times have I told you to stop with the empty comforts? Look at Gaspard!"
The taller man obeyed, his gaze shifting to their third companion.
Gaspard remained silent, but his face had darkened noticeably. His usual composed expression was gone, replaced by a quiet melancholy that weighed on his chest like a damp, heavy cloak after a storm.
Another sigh passed between the two men. Yet before they could speak, Gaspard drew a sharp breath.
Both turned toward him, brows raised and followed his transfixed gaze into the distance.
There, seated on a nearby wooden bench, was a woman—a familiar woman. Her cascading brown hair framed an expression of quiet confusion, her eyes drifting aimlessly.