The voices of supplication faded gradually, supplanted by something else… something that pierced the consciousness as a knife slips into water.
The man who had emerged from the rift in the air stood there with an unnerving solidity. His manifestation was neither a rush nor a request for entry; it was as if he had always been present, merely waiting for us to take notice. The gateway sealed shut behind him with a softness reminiscent of an ancient book closing, weary of its readers. The blue sphere vanished from his hand as if it had never been.
He advanced a few steps—only a few—yet they fell with the weight of small stones upon the scales of the world. His smile was warm in form, void in substance; a smile that heralded a declaration yet unmade. He extended his arms as lovers do before an embrace, not in welcome… but as an affirmation that he had come in "good faith." And he said: "It is a pleasant thing, to behold friends both ancient… and newfound."
"Ancient." The word alone struck me. He knows some of us… knows the shadows. If he knows them with such calm, he is no mere man. He is a force that breathes.
I glanced at the Detective. He had reached the same conclusion. He slowly returned his notebook to his pocket, yet his fingers remained poised to capture any word that might seep from the very air. I stood facing the stranger, and my question emerged simple, direct: "Who art thou?"
He did not answer. The one who answered was Ancaues: "Merdain… Merdain Wylt. The High Cardinal of the Church, and the Archpriest."
So it was confirmed… They knew this man.
I cast my gaze upon the three:
Castor was the first to set his eyes upon him. His smile froze for a moment, then returned, drawn taut and artificial. He showed no fear, but rather a veneer of haughty annoyance. His thumb twitched toward his dagger before stilling.
Ancaues did not move. The cast of his features remained unchanged, yet his eyes swept up and down Merdain's form in a silent judgment. A single sweep sufficed: an analysis… and perhaps a dismissal.
Lagrita felt revulsion before she knew its cause. Something within her recoiled. Not from him… but from the feeling he carried in his wake. It was as though his very words had defiled a poem she held dear.
Said Castor, his voice a blade sheathed in silk: " 'Tis Merdain, in the flesh… though he doth seldom quit his burrow."
Ancaues advanced three paces, a motion that compelled Merdain to step forward in turn. "Archpriest… wherefore hast thou come to this wretched village? Is it a miracle, or a chastisement?"
Merdain lowered his arms. His smile endured. "I have not come to preach unto any soul. I am but a wearied servant; I prayed… and found myself hither. Believe me, naught is more loathsome to me than to be thought a man of purpose. Purposes… are the affairs of men, not of the Lord."
From behind, Castor let out a derisive chuckle: "Verily? And whither do thy feet carry thee now, O Lord of Frenzy? Hath Heaven grown so narrow that it casts one of its mummers upon us?"
Merdain replied with a calm that resembled a cold blade's edge: "Be thankful for him who speaks what comforts thee, O Shadow. For prattle is the balm of the impotent."
Castor fell silent. His smile withered, and his jaw clenched itself. He made no retort, but the air between them shifted… becoming as if poised to detonate.
Merdain turned towards us.
"And you? I would know the both of thee. Especially thou…"
His eyes narrowed upon the Detective.
"I have not seen thy like before."
The Detective stepped forward. The gravel crunched beneath his black shoes.
"I am the Detective. This is my associate, Mr. Thomas."
I tipped my hat.
"An honour, Your Eminence."
Merdain gave a nod.
Then, to the Detective:
"Thou sayest 'the Detective'… What manner of detective?"
"The original."
Merdain raised a brow, then laughed a clear, loud laugh.
"I like thee. And what is it thou detectest? The disappearance of Simon?"
"Precisely, Mr. Wylt. I am here to unravel the mystery."
Merdain clapped his hands lightly.
"Thou fightest the heretics of truth? Splendid. It seems we are not so unalike."
"Never, Cardinal. I do not fight people… I fight a thing."
Merdain was reflected in the Detective's glassy countenance.
"I am here to fight mystery. An old friend… I've missed raising my sword against it. The sword of fact and logic."
Merdain's smile widened, revealing perfect teeth.
"Thou fightest mystery? What a… beautiful paradox."
Merdain's smile stretched—not quite a full mockery, nor complete satisfaction; something betwixt the two, a thing that held no name. It was as if he took pleasure in seeing his own distorted reflection upon the Detective's glassy face, as if that image alone offered a confession sufficient for him.
He spoke with measured slowness:
"So mystery is an old friend to thee… Beautiful. I should truly like to hear thy tale together."
The Detective did not move.
He did not blink.
His voice emerged with a tone as if cut from stone:
"Stories are for those who need explanations.
I do not explain… I merely clear the path."
The smile upon Merdain's lips faltered for a moment, like a candle's light nearly extinguished.
Then his face straightened once more.
"A man sparing with his words… Good. That kind usually has much to hide."
He advanced half a step, as if the distance between them was not ground, but the very lung of one of them.
And in a fleeting instant, I felt the air grow tight—not for the Detective… but for the place itself.
Merdain was on the verge of asking the question he truly desired… the question that opens the door behind the door.
But a faint, fragile voice came from Lagrita's direction.
She did not speak loudly, yet she uttered the sentence that shattered everything:
"Cease… Thou art not alone."
All turned to her as if a string had been pulled within their chests.
She herself knew not why she had said it; the words had escaped like a tremor, as if echoing a voice only her soul had heard.
Merdain's eyes narrowed.
He did not look upon her as one looks upon a human.
But as a physician looks upon a thing he knows ought not to grow.
He whispered:
"And thou… what is it thou seest?"
She did not answer.
Her eyes were fixed upon his left shoulder… upon the void where nothing ought to be.
Castor retreated a step without conscious thought.
Ancaues planted his feet upon the earth, as if striving to prevent the very village from moving.
And Merdain…
He laughed.
A short, soft laugh, devoid of joy, like water spilling upon a hot stone.
"Well… It seems I am indeed watched."
Then he brushed the edge of his robe with his finger, as one brushing away imagined dust.
He turned slowly, as if giving them his back for a calculated reason—neither out of trust nor contempt, but as a choice.
"Why did I come to this village?
A fair question… yet it hath no answer now.
When the time of truth cometh… one of you shall come to ask me anew."
He covered a short distance, then said without turning back:
"Until then… keep the shadows close.
Shadows sometimes know more than they ought."
And with the final word, I felt as if the light around us dimmed for a moment before returning.
And Merdain…
He did not vanish magically.
He did not fade away.
He simply departed.
Like one leaving a room whose air displeased him.
He left behind a thick silence…
And the echo of Lagrita's words, who still stared at the spot where he had stood:
"Thou art not alone…"
Scarcely minutes had passed since Merdain's departure before the village streets swallowed him, as if they knew his path better than he knew himself.
He left the inhabited alleys behind, passed beyond the few lingering lights, and entered the narrow passage no sane soul would tread after dusk.
He walked with the lightness of a man who knows the darkness… who does not fear it, but awaits it.
There, in the alley's deepest recess, the night had coalesced around two forms.
The first: an old woman.
Her face was like one forgotten in a foul dream; her eyes sunken, her mouth quivering with words no one could hear.
She held something swaddled in a grey cloth, something small… that breathed.
The second: the girl.
The girl who had vanished from the palace with Simon,
now returned… with the same vacant countenance,
glass eyes that reflected no world,
a small body as if belonging to no time.
She stood there, motionless, unblinking,
as if she were not a human… but a verdict.
When Merdain beheld her…
He halted.
His cunning smile froze, then melted into pure astonishment,
the astonishment of a man who has finally seen what he had spent his whole life seeking.
As he drew near, his eyes widened beyond all clerical decorum.
Then occurred what none had ever witnessed:
He knelt.
He knelt slowly, as one touching truth for the first time.
He knelt before a still child who did not even perceive her own presence in that place.
He bowed his head, his knees meeting the cold mud.
He trembled… not from fear, but from rapture.
He spoke in a voice soft and hoarse, as if choked by grandeur:
"My Lord…
O Thou who hast manifested in the weakest form and the mightiest…
I thank Thee for this grace…
I thank Thee for this great honour, to kneel before Thee face to face."
The crone was smiling… that crooked smile which could never spring from anything pure.
She stretched her hand toward the girl, whispering:
"As you willed it… he is come."
The girl did not respond.
She did not move.
Yet something shifted around her—the air, the light, the silence.
As if the world had tilted slightly toward her.
Suddenly, the scene shuddered.
A faint hum began in the background, like the sound of an ancient electrical machine struggling back to life.
Then the sound grew… and grew… becoming a spark.
And suddenly—
No sound.
No light.
Nothing… save the last lingering vibration of that hum, as if the universe itself had lost the signal.
The screen went black.