The scream tore through the quiet street just past midnight.
A row of darkened windows flickered to life in startled succession as lamps were lit in haste. Curtains shifted. A dog began barking somewhere down the lane.
Inside the modest townhouse from which the scream had come, a middle-aged man sat bolt upright in his bed, clutching his blanket to his chest as though it were a shield.
"There was something there!" he shouted.
His wife, equally startled, fumbled for the oil lamp on the bedside table and nearly knocked it over in the process. "What are you shouting about at this hour?!"
"It grabbed my feet!"
She froze.
"…What?"
"It grabbed my feet!" he insisted, voice trembling between indignation and genuine fear. "Something cold—cold like metal—touched my toes!"
The lamp flame steadied. Light spilled across the room.
The window curtains swayed faintly, though there was no wind.
The wife stared at him in disbelief. "You were dreaming."
"I was not dreaming!" He threw the blanket aside and pointed downward. "Look!"
She leaned forward, peering.
There was no blood pooling, no gruesome wound—only several missing toenails, clipped close and unnaturally clean. A thin trace of red lined the edges, but nothing severe.
Her expression shifted from fear to confusion.
"…What kind of thief steals toenails?"
He opened and closed his mouth once.
"I don't know!"
From outside, a shadow slipped soundlessly down from the ledge and vanished into the narrow alley between buildings.
Elias moved quickly but without panic, coat drawn tight against the night air. He did not look back.
Only when he reached a dimly lit corner between two tightly pressed brick walls did he finally slow.
From his inner pocket, he withdrew a small glass vial.
Inside rested three curved fragments.
He stared at them for a long moment.
"The things I do for the plot," he muttered under his breath. "I can't believe this."
He shook the vial gently, as if hoping perspective would improve its contents.
"Wait… did they have to be feet? Or just regular fingernails?"
Silence answered him.
He closed his eyes briefly.
"I can't believe supplementary ingredients are causing more trouble than the main ones."
The formula had been precise: Nail fragments from nine different individuals.
It had not specified dignity.
He exhaled, straightened, and continued into the night, continuing his hunt for nails.
By dawn, three more households would wake in similar confusion.
A dockworker swore something tugged at his foot before vanishing out the window.
An elderly woman accused her grandson until she noticed the window latch had been tampered with.
A university student wrote in his journal of a "shadow with long fingers."
None suffered serious injury.
But all remembered the cold touch.
By the time Elias secured the ninth fragment—after climbing, crouching, and silently enduring the shame—an urban myth had begun to take shape, and would inevitably get a mention in the prestegious gathering of the Fool.
He woke late the next morning.
The sunlight filtering through his curtains was far brighter than it should have been for a disciplined morning.
His body protested mildly as he sat up. Not from battle, but from awkward contortions across rooftops and the peculiar indignity of his task.
He washed, dressed simply, and prepared breakfast in routine silence.
Only after sitting down did he unfold the newspaper.
He had expected nothing.
He was wrong.
Halfway down the second page, a bold subheading caught his eye.
"THE MIDNIGHT CLIPPER STRIKES AGAIN."
He stared at it for a long moment.
The article was written with theatrical urgency.
"An unknown nocturnal fiend has been reported in multiple districts, targeting sleeping citizens in a most unusual fashion…"
There were quotes.
Exaggerated witness descriptions.
Speculation of ritualistic intent.
One passage claimed the figure had "no face, only shadow."
Elias slowly lowered the paper and covered his face with one hand.
"…I swear if those guys saw this, I would be laughed at for a century."
He resumed reading.
No fatalities.
No severe harm.
But the article concluded with a line that caused him to pause.
"Authorities and clergy have been informed."
That changed matters.
Urban legend was tolerable.
Church documentation was not.
He folded the paper neatly and set it aside.
Breakfast was left unfinished.
The gathering would not begin until seven in the evening.
He was in no hurry.
After dressing more deliberately than usual, he wrapped a scarf around his neck and selected a hat suitable for partial concealment. This time, he did not leave the revolver behind.
He weighed it briefly before securing it properly beneath his coat.
He chose to eat lunch outside, selecting a modest establishment within walking distance of the gathering location. From there, he observed the street patterns carefully—carriages, patrol routes, alley exits, foot traffic density.
Mapping was not paranoia.
It was preparation.
By half past six, he circled the surrounding buildings once more, committing window placements and rooflines to memory.
Only then did he enter the familiar pub.
The bartender was already watching him.
There was no greeting.
Only a brief meeting of eyes, and a signal.
Elias followed.
They moved past the main floor, through a narrow side door, and into a connecting corridor that smelled faintly of damp stone and old wood. The sounds of laughter and mugs clinking faded behind them.
When they reached a plain wooden door at the end of the passage, the bartender stopped and turned.
He extended his hand without a word.
Elias understood and paid the remaining fee.
The bartender counted it calmly before stepping closer.
"Arms out."
Elias complied.
The search was thorough but professional. Sleeves checked. Coat patted. Waist inspected.
The carried no weapons to be found.
Satisfied, the bartender stepped back and knocked on the door in a deliberate pattern.
A small panel slid open.
An unseen pair of eyes examined the corridor.
After recognising his partner, the door opened.
Inside, the lighting was dimmer than the hallway. The air felt heavier, infused faintly with incense and something metallic beneath it.
A hooded robe was handed to Elias without ceremony.
The fabric was thick, slightly worn, and long enough to obscure his frame entirely. When he drew the hood over his head, the world narrowed to shadow and muted shapes.
Identity dissolved.
Elias Nova ceased to exist within those walls.
He stepped forward into the chamber.
Candles burned in a circular arrangement, their flames steady despite the lack of visible ventilation. Figures already seated wore identical robes, faces concealed in darkness. No one spoke. No one shifted unnecessarily.
At the center of the circle stood a simple wooden table.
And from somewhere within the room, a calm voice spoke:
"State your needs."
The gathering had begun.