The night was heavy with mist when Lea left the townhouse. Lea wore the parasol like an ornament, a fashionable prop for an eccentric noble retainer, but Hastur pulsed with quiet power. Either her own inner voice or the bde's.

  She activated one of the spells impnted by Lady Keter in the canopy, letting darkness pool under her, further enhancing her stealth. While also activating the mask's power, masking the parasol in illusions.

  The Baron's manor loomed across the district, less fortress than monument. Its marble facade glowed faintly under gasmps, gardens sprawling in manicured symmetry.

  It was impressive, but not impregnable. Nobles rarely feared bdes; their defenses were political, not typically physical.

  Lea's steps fell silent as she approached. The parasol's shade deepened, folding her into the corners of the world.

  She pressed herself against the wrought-iron gates, then slipped through the gaps between torchlight, shadows parting for her like a second skin.

  Her first survey was careful, deliberate.

  Two guards at the front, half-bored, chatting low about dice and drink. Neither looked toward the hedges. A kitchen servant staggered out the back door, dumping a bucket of grey water, muttering curses about endless undry.

  Lanterns burned in the east wing, offices, maybe, or the Baron's study.

  Lea scribbled faint notes on a slim pad she carried:Front gate: inattentive, static posts.West hedges: deep cover, low patrol frequency.Kitchen staff are active te, a possible access point.East wing: high probability of records.

  She circled the manor like a cat testing boundaries, each step adding to her map. The parasol's shadow pooled under her feet, swallowing her outline each time she paused.

  When she reached the gardens, she knelt by the roses.

  Perfectly trimmed, their thorns oiled to keep away pests. She withdrew a folded slip from her jacket, its surface scrawled with curling sigils.

  A Withering Talisman.

  Her fingers brushed the soil, pnting the slip deep beneath the roots. The ink fred briefly before dimming, unseen beneath the dirt.

  By morning, the roses would begin to spot and brown. Within days, they would curl and shrivel, and the gardeners would have no cure.

  She moved through the grounds with care, repeating the process. One talisman beneath the rosebeds, another under the ornamental pear tree by the courtyard, a third slipped between stones in the fountain's base.

  Each one whispered of decay, of rot hidden just beneath the surface.

  Then she shifted to the sickness ward talismans. These were smaller, thinner, marked with fever sigils and breath-weakening lines.

  She tucked them into gutters, beneath windowsills, into the cracks of a servants' entrance. Not enough to kill. Just enough to make the staff cough, weaken, and decide that service under Baron Veynar was misery not worth enduring.

  She paused when she passed the kitchen window. Inside, a maid was scrubbing at a pot, her hands raw and red. The ward in Lea's palm warmed, eager to bite.

  For a moment, Lea hesitated.

  The girl was no Baron, just a cog in his household. Still... Cloak demanded slow rot. The wards had to touch the people who held up the Baron's life.

  Lea slid the slip under the sill, pressed it ft, and moved on.

  By the time she reached the far hedge, her pocket was lighter, her notes longer. She had counted guard rotations, mapped windows that opened easily, and marked which shadows could conceal her approach again.

  The manor was no fortress, it was a stage. And Lea was already weaving herself into its curtains, silent, unseen, waiting for the moment to pull them down.

  She withdrew into the shadows of the street, her mask ink-shifting as if mirroring her mood—restless, hungry, sharp.

  Behind her, the manor's nterns burned bright and oblivious, unaware that its foundations had already begun to rot.

  Lea smiled faintly and whispered into the night. Her eyes glow with the power of Malediction at full force.

  "Let's see how long your world stays whole, Baron."

  =0=0=

  The Throne of Blood loomed in silence, its ancient stone frame veined with cracks that glowed faintly red, as if it still remembered every sacrifice id at its feet.

  The air here was heavy, thick with the coppery tang of centuries of offerings, and it pressed upon Eric's shoulders as he knelt at the base of the dais.

  His head was bowed, hands csped together in trembling prayer. Each whispered word was swallowed by the vast chamber, yet he knew She was listening. Always listening.

  Behind him, Saintess Olivier stood in her flowing vestments, her expression unreadable beneath the glow of candlelight.

  She held a silvered book in one hand and a ceremonial bde in the other, her movements precise as she intoned the words of the rite.

  "Frayman.", her voice carried softly, yet rang with the weight of eternity, "Rise to offer what is demanded."

  He obeyed. Standing slowly, he extended his right hand over the jagged edge of the throne itself.

  The stone drank in the candlelight, its surface glistening wetly though no rain had touched it in centuries.

  Eric clenched his jaw, then pressed the bde into his palm. The sting was sharp, quick. Blood welled immediately, dark and hot, spilling over his fingers before pattering down onto the ancient stone.

  The Throne drank.

  The veins of red deepened, fring faintly brighter, and the chamber seemed to breathe in unison with the offering.

  Eric did not flinch. He kept his eyes lowered, lips moving in desperate prayer.

  Olivier stepped forward, her shadow falling across him. With a practiced motion, she raised the silvered book, her other hand lifted in benediction.

  Her voice was clear, solemn, each word echoing through the vaulted chamber.

  "Your humble servant has offered his flesh and blood, Goddess of Madness, Lady crowned in Thorns. May your light continue to shine upon him forever more."

  The throne pulsed once, a shiver of crimson radiating outward across the stone floor.

  The air itself quivered, and Eric felt something unseen press into his chest, branding him deeper than flesh.

  He staggered, then steadied himself, his breathing ragged but resolute. His blood still dripped slowly over the throne's edge, each drop swallowed into its hunger.

  He dared not heal using his Pathstrider powers, as it would defeat the purpose of the ritual.

  Olivier closed the book with a soft thud, lowering her gaze to him.

  "From this day forth...", she said with grave finality, "You bear the mark of Bishop. The Goddess has accepted your devotion, your pain, and your blood. Rise, Eric. Serve Her, as you have sworn."

  The echoes of her words lingered, twining with the still-humming veins of the Throne.

  Eric lifted his head at st. His eyes, once clouded with fear, now shone faintly with the same crimson hue as the throne's light. He pressed his bleeding palm against his chest and bowed deeply.

  "For Lady Pain...", he whispered, voice breaking into a grin edged with fervor.

  The Throne pulsed again, as if in approval.

  =0=0=

  The morning sun spilled weakly over Baron Veynar's manor, glinting off the polished marble and gilded ornaments. But the Baron did not notice the light.

  He stood in his study, hands gripping the edges of his desk, jaw tight. There was a subtle tension in the air, an almost imperceptible shift, as if the walls themselves had grown a few degrees colder overnight.

  Something was different.

  He paced slowly, boots clicking against the floor, scanning the familiar room with an uneasy eye.

  The paintings seemed to tilt ever so slightly, the curtains hung in the wrong angle, and the faint scent of ink and herbs lingered where no candles had burned.

  His mind raced. He had been meticulous, disciplined, and every detail of his household was in perfect order. And yet...

  A whisper in the corner of his thoughts prickled like a needle. He could not pce it, could not name it, but it raised goosebumps along his arms. Every servant's footfall, every creak in the floorboards felt wrong, anticipatory, as if something was waiting in the shadows.

  Veynar froze mid-step. He felt eyes on him, though none were visible. A shiver passed over him. Something was watching.

  He muttered under his breath, voice tight, strained.

  "Impossible... everything is as it should be..."

  But the unease persisted. He could not shake it. Every instinct, every shadow of doubt he had buried under yers of wealth and charm, rose like smoke from a fire he could not see.

  The Baron ran a hand down his face, trying to steady himself. Yet with each passing moment, the sense of wrongness grew. Something had shifted in his carefully controlled world. Something that should not have been there.

  And somewhere, in the quiet corners of the manor, the faintest trace of a shadow moved, unseen but deliberate, calcuting its next move.

  Veynar didn't know it yet, but his world was already being rewritten.