"There is nothing concealed that will not be disclosed, or hidden that
will not be made known."
— Luke 12:2
⸻
London, 2:16 A.M.
Rain fell like nails — sharp, cold, and incessant — as if the sky itself had unfinished business with the city.
Luciel stood beneath the arch of a crumbling railway bridge in Whitechapel, cigarette lit, coat collar turned high against the wind. The
streetlamps flickered in protest above him, their halos dying in fits and starts.Somewhere nearby, a siren wailed — not for him, but for something close enough.
He exhaled a long breath of smoke and silence, eyes tracing the glint of broken glass in the alley. He didn't need Fate Weave to know something had happened here. He could feel it — the weight of intention still hanging in the air like incense.
This was the fourth site in three days.
A slaughtered cult in Glasgow. A desecrated shrine in Prague. A rogue Watcher sighted in Marrakesh. None of the reports matched. No victims in common. No known patterns. And yet…
He felt it.
Thread by thread.
They were searching for something.
Luciel knelt beside a chalk circle — poorly drawn, rushed. Symbols from half a dozen traditions overlapping in a mess of confusion and desperation. Latin, Enochian, Phoenician. Even scraps of something older, deeper — like a hand reaching from behind memory.
He ran a finger along the ash. Still warm.
The sigils didn't form a summoning.
They formed a question.
He closed his eyes and whispered:
"I stand on my authority in Christ…Reveal of fate… and sever that which binds… Fate Weave."
The world shifted.
Color drained. Sound blurred. Threads lit the darkness — faint lines of cause and consequence crisscrossing the scene like a celestial spider's web. Most frayed or snapped. But one…
One stretched westward, faint and trembling, like a dying nerve still trying to fire.
London.
Always London.
Luciel stood, eyes narrowing. His lips curled into that familiar, crooked smile — the kind that meant trouble was about to have company.
"Alright," he muttered, flicking the cigarette into the gutter. "Let's see what secrets you're trying to stay dead."
His shadow followed him down the street — long, patient, and weapon-shaped.
⸻
Luciel's coat flared slightly as he vn stepped into the wind, leaving the desecrated chapel behind. The karmic threads around the city still buzzed —restless, twitching like spider legs in a web someone had disturbed. Whatever had happened here wasn't just ritual. It was a message. And it wasn't meant for the Church.
It was meant for people like him.
By morning, Luciel was on the train into London proper. The skyline broke through the gray like the jagged teeth of an old beast. This city —ancient in bones but hollowed in soul — had always been a magnet for the strange and the damned. Too old to forget, too modern to believe.
He knew just where to start.
⸻
London — The Half-Lit Places
Beneath the city, in the tunnels long sealed off by Transport for London, Luciel found his first contact: a vampiric broker named Olek,
who dealt in memories and relics. His lair was lit by flickering green bulbs and smelled like rusted iron and cloves.
Olek was stretched across a velvet chair, sipping from a wine glass filled with something definitely not wine.
"Luciel," he crooned. "Back from the dead or just bored?"
"Neither," Luciel said. "I'm investigating a body count. Something old. Something layered under karmic bindings."
Olek clicked his tongue. "You always bring the fun ones."
Luciel crouched beside him, flipping a coin across his fingers — not for show, but for focus. "Tell me about the movements. Anyone asking about forgotten names? Lost rites? Cainite remnants?"
Olek paused, the playful glint in his eye flickering. "You're not the first to ask."
Luciel stilled. "Who?"
Olek leaned forward, voice lowering. "Didn't catch a name. But they smelled wrong."
Luciel narrowed his eyes. "How wrong?"
"That's the thing…" Olek's brow furrowed. "They had no smell. None whatsoever. Didn't even notice their presence till they spoke up. No heartbeat. No scent. Just… a void."
Luciel's voice dropped. "Details, Olek. Body, gait, aura — you're not giving me much to work with."
"He had golden eyes thats for sure. For some reason I can't seem to recall his face but, he was definitely blond"
Before Olek could answer, a voice interrupted from the shadows. "Stop leading old Luciel astray, you blind bat. The stranger had gold eyes, sure —but his hair was auburn, and he was a bit tan."
A second voice joined in, exasperated. "What in Lucifer's name are you saying, dummy? He had dark skin, gold eyes, and he looked…perfect."
Luciel slowly turned to face the newcomers — two streetbound informants, supernaturals with a taste for drama and nothing better to do than lurk in old rail tunnels and eavesdrop.
"Hold up. Let me get this straight," Luciel said, raising a brow. "You three saw three different versions of the same person? And from your tone, I'm guessing you all thought he looked… perfect?"
A pause.
"Seems like a glamour spell," Luciel muttered.
Olek shook his head slowly. "Impossible. I'd know if magic was cast that deep. Glamours leave echoes — intent, sigil residue, mana drift. There was nothing. Not even a thread of karma. Like he wasn't meant to be seen."
Luciel exhaled, jaw tight.
The karmic web couldn't map what wasn't part of it.
That meant one of two things: either the stranger was a Watcher-tier anomaly… or something older.
Something beneath the threadwork.
Something like him.
He didn't say that last part aloud.
Instead, he muttered, "And he was sniffing around Highgate?"
All three nodded.
Luciel flicked the safety on his black pistol and holstered it with a sharp click. "Then I'm going ghost-hunting."
He turned, trench coat trailing like smoke behind him. The supernatural world didn't just whisper anymore — it was humming.
Someone had stepped into the weave who didn't belong.
And the last time that happened… the world changed.