"For there is nothing covered, that shall not be revealed; neither hid, that shall not be known."
— Luke 12:2
The manor was old. Older than it looked.
Its bones creaked beneath the London sky, wrapped in ivy and silence, as if trying to forget the rites once spoken within its halls.
Luciel didn't need his miracle to feel the rot pulsing behind the walls. He could smell it — incense and iron, burnt hair and long-dead things.
The storm outside beat a rhythm against stained windows, but inside, it was too quiet.
He moved slowly, boots soundless on velvet carpet, his breath fogging in the chill. Rooms passed by like memories — drawing rooms
with moth-eaten furniture, a chapel with black wax still clinging to its altar, a ballroom littered with feathers and bones. The deeper he moved, the more the threads around him frayed — not snapped, not cut, but frayed. Gnawed at by something that understood fate and hated it.
Then he found it — the study.
A circle had been carved into the floor, hidden
beneath a false rug now pushed aside. It was old, but not ancient. Maintained. Ritual lines scrawled in ochre ink, bone dust, and something darker. Symbols from different systems — witchcraft, old god invocations, even bastardized scripture.
Luciel crouched at the edge of the circle.
Not a ritual — not exactly. But an invocation of sorts, one meant to keep something hidden and trapped. The kind that left scars.
He adjusted the pack on his back — weighted with scripture miracles and two freshly inscribed angelic ones, still warm with grace.
Then the air shifted.
Something scraped behind the bookshelf.
Luciel rose, drawing the black pistol in one hand and thumbing a miracle into his palm with the other. Psalm of Ashes — a basic scripture miracle. Burns through false sanctuaries and curses. The paper charm pulsed against his skin as the shelf
slid open, revealing a narrow stairwell, descending into darker things.
He descended.
The stone beneath his boots grew colder. A pulse echoed down here — not of heartbeats, but of chanting, long-finished, still lingering. The talismans on his coat itched. He reached the basement threshold and found it: a shrine not to God, nor saint, but to something far more sinister.
A veiled statue of Moloch stood in the center — eyes sewn shut, hands filled with broken teeth.
Cages hung from the ceiling, long empty. Runes bled across the walls in black.
And at the far end — movement.
He was not alone.
The first sign came in the form of a candle
relighting itself.
Then came the laughter.
Three figures stepped out from the far corridor. Human shapes, dressed in robes too elegant to belong to mortals. Eyes like pits
of tar. Smiles too wide, as though stretched over something feral.
"We've been expecting you, Nephilim. How nice of you to join us"
Luciel drew the silver pistol.
"Funny. I was about to say
the same to you."
Then the room erupted.
They came at him not like men — but like flame. One surged forward, claws curling with energy drawn from Old Magic — cult-bound, blood-fed. It wasn't hellfire; it was will, twisted
through ancient rites.
Luciel moved.
His body dipped low, his voice a silent whisper as he uttered the prayer of his personal miracle
"I stand on my authority in Christ… Reveal the threads of fate… and sever that which binds — Fate Weave."
The world snapped.
Lines burst into view — dozens of karmic threads wrapped around the figures. But something was wrong. Too many threads. Twisting, tangled, splintering from one source. A being that wasn't supposed to exist here was present. An echo from a time buried in fire tempering with the trace. It's goal could only be one
Thalia
The silver pistol barking once — the shot punching a hole through the first figure's chest. No blood. Just ash and steam.
The second hurled a curse — a Hunger
Rite drawn from some forgotten god — flesh cracking as it tried to force invulnerability through pain.
Luciel threw a talisman mid-dodge:
"Seal of Abaddon" —Nullifies unnatural resilience.
The symbol flared — a screaming black glyph — and the cultist's blessing cracked apart like
porcelain.
He followed up with his blade.
The black knife bit through
sinew and soul.
A third figure tried to chant — voice rising in tongues older than man. A Veil of Moloch. Designed to hide sin from divine sight.
Luciel smirked
"Nice trick. Let me show you
mine."
He threw another miracle —this one inscribed in blood and gold:
"Revelation Flame" —Destroys lies.
Bypasses all cloaking spells.
Light tore through the veil.
The cultist screamed.
Luciel didn't stop moving.
Fate Weave pulsed behind his eyes — a shimmer of golden-red thread trailing each movement, guiding his steps, tilting the odds.
He ducked a blow before it landed.
Fired before the enemy even moved.
Slid beneath a claw — then stabbed upward, severing the puppet strings of the last cultist's soul.
Silence.
Then —
The floor beneath him groaned.
The real ritual began to pulse.
A deeper presence stirred.
Luciel's breath slowed.
His fingers touched his rosary ring.
The threads around him curled inward. As if
recognizing it.
As if welcoming it.
He didn't like that feeling.
Not one bit.
Luciel followed the thread as the twisted under the strain.
He was left with no more talismans, he had come expecting a fight but not one involving the summoning of such a being.
He was left with just his guns, a butchers knife and his personal miracle.
The whispering stopped. But Luciel wouldn't be fooled into believing the ritual had failed, if anything it should be a chain ritual one that continues somewhere else.
Luciel stood in the ruin of invocation and pain, threads still shimmering around his vision, all pointing one direction.
Still east.
Still toward her.
He exhaled, jaw clenched, and murmured:
"You're running out of shadows to hide in lass."