The cold steel of the revolver pressed against Seth Virell's temple, its weight far heavier than mere iron. The man who held him reeked of sweat, cordite, and desperation. His chest rose and fell in ragged heaves as he shouted into the fog-filled alleyway:
"Don't come closer! I'll finish this boy right here if you take another step!"
The echo of his voice rang sharp against the brick walls, but the one he threatened did not falter.
From the mist, a figure loomed — indistinct, its edges dissolving and reforming like smoke trying to remember the shape of a man. His tone was chillingly even, tinged with the faintest amusement:
"Then do it… if you have the guts."
The words slithered through the damp air like a challenge to the very thread of fate itself.
Seth's heart pounded against his ribs, but not from the revolver's threat. His Cipher stirred. As a Closurist, he had begun to perceive things others could not. From the corner of his vision, faint lines shimmered — golden and silver, knotted threads of narrative possibility. He could see, almost like a cruel oracle, that the man who held him was not written to live beyond this scene. His thread frayed at the edges, unraveling, the ink of his story already fading.
"He's already dead", Seth realized, his lips dry. "No matter what he does, his story ends here. I'm just a prop in the middle of his closing act."
The man's hand trembled on the revolver. He took a step backward, dragging Seth with him like a shield. His muttered curses betrayed his fear.
Then, it happened.
The revolver gave a faint metallic groan and— click. The hammer locked, jammed, as though reality itself had reached into its gears. Sparks of violet danced across the weapon, subtle and terrifying.
Before Seth could process it, the mist-chasing figure blurred. His body flickered like a lantern flame, and suddenly, impossibly, he was no longer in front of them but behind. Cold, merciless fingers clamped the criminal's wrist.
The man gasped, his eyes widening, and then — with a swift, brutal motion — the pursuer twisted. The revolver clattered uselessly to the cobblestones as Seth was shoved aside, freed from the suffocating grip.
Seth staggered, catching himself against the damp wall, watching as though trapped in a dream. The pursuer's hand sliced through the man's throat with eerie precision — not with a blade, but with fingers that glowed faintly, pulsing with an otherworldly rhythm. The man's scream gurgled into silence as he crumpled.
Mist swallowed his corpse like quicksand.
The alley fell quiet, save for the gaslamp sputtering at its mouth.
The pursuer exhaled lightly, as though brushing dust from a sleeve, and turned his gaze on Seth. In the thin glow of the lamps, his eyes were pools of violet twilight, deep and unknowable.
"Are you hurt?"
Seth's voice cracked before he managed a weak, "No. I… I'm fine."
But his thoughts were anything but calm.
That… wasn't speed. That wasn't just sleight of hand. It was like he was two places at once — as if the mist itself carried a clone of him. Is this the power of a Divine Ascendant?
He forced himself to meet the man's gaze. "Why… why did you kill him like that?"
The pursuer crouched, pulling something from the fading remains. Between his fingers dangled a pendant — an oval of amethyst veined with silver, pulsing faintly with an inner light.
"He stole what did not belong to him," the man said quietly. "An artifact of the Church of the Twilight Matron. For that alone, his end was inevitable."
He slipped the pendant into a pocket of his long coat, and then, almost as an afterthought, added:
"And you. You must come with me. To the Church."
Seth stiffened. "Why?"
"Because you were a victim," came the calm reply. The man's tone brooked no argument.
A shiver ran down Seth's spine. Victim — a word that placed him neatly into a narrative beyond his control.
Still dazed, Seth followed. The mist figure guided him out of the alley, where a black-lacquered chariot waited at the curb. Its windows gleamed with violet curtains, and faint sigils shimmered at its frame — protective wards he instinctively knew few could bypass.
The horses that drew it snorted streams of vapor, their eyes carrying a faint purplish sheen.
The pursuer motioned him inside.
Seth climbed in, the padded interior swallowing him in silence. Across from him, the man settled down, folding his gloved hands. The pendant dangled briefly from his pocket before disappearing back inside.
For a while, neither spoke. The chariot jolted into motion, wheels rolling smoothly against cobblestones.
Seth broke the silence first, his voice tentative. "You… you're a Divine Ascendant, aren't you?"
The man regarded him with those unblinking twilight eyes. "Yes."
The answer was simple, unembellished, but it echoed like a cathedral bell in Seth's mind.
He swallowed hard. His thoughts tumbled chaotically:
"So this is the level of power I'll face one day… To jam a revolver with nothing but will. To move like a clone of mist itself. To end a man as though his life were no more than punctuation at the end of a sentence…"
"And me? I can barely tug at threads. I can read hints in shifting newspapers, flickers in gaslamps. I'm still just Cipher 9 — a Loose-End Finder. Powerless. Insignificant."
His nails dug into his palm as another thought crept in, darker:
"What happens if they realize what I am? An Archivist. If they see me not as a victim, but as a threat… Would they erase me as cleanly as that thief?"
He forced his face to remain calm, but inside, he whispered to himself:
"No. I must climb higher. I must reach the upper Ciphers, or I'll remain nothing but prey in a city of gods and killers."
The chariot rattled on, deeper into Aetheros. Through the curtained windows, the glow of gaslamps flickered in strange patterns. At times, Seth could swear they spelled letters — messages only for him — but every time he tried to focus, the meaning dissolved.
Twilight pressed against the glass, thick and eternal.
And across from him, the Divine Ascendant watched silently, as though he already knew every secret Seth struggled to hide.