Tchk. Tchk.
Tchk. Tchk.
Rosario awoke to the sound of faint taps against his window. Groggy, he sat up, shuffled to the curtains, and peered outside. Under the dim halo of the streetlamp, he saw Lox—something significant and bundled strapped across his back.
Rosario blinked, rubbed his eyes, and nodded. He opened the curtain wider to gesture that he was coming down.
Moments later, Rosario opened his front door. Lox stood there, pale-faced and visibly shaken.
"What's going on, Lox?"
"Rosario, I'm in deep shit. I didn't know who else to go to. I went to see Elandra, and we—" Lox's words began to tumble out, fast and jumbled.
"Lox, slow down. Take a breath," Rosario said calmly.
Lox paused, drew in a shaky breath, and began to steady himself.
But before he could speak again—
THUMP.
Something leapt from the shadows.
"What are you two up to this late? It's way past midnight."
"Thalor!" Lox cried out, nearly stumbling back.
Rosario instinctively clenched his fists and dropped into a low stance.
From the shadows steppedLuck, his expression unreadable in the half-light.
"Sorry," he said flatly. "Didn't mean to scare you."
"What are you doing out here at this time?" Lox snapped, still rattled.
Luck shrugged. "Just walking. Couldn't sleep."
His eyes moved between them, sharp and unblinking. "But what about you two?"
Rosario looked to Lox.
The pause hung heavy.
Then, finally, Lox let out a long breath and began to speak.
"Then everything went dark… and I woke up in a cave."
"Wait," Rosario cut in. "Did you follow a tunnel and find a circle of glowing hieroglyphics?"
Lox blinked. "Yes—how did you know? Do you know what that was?"
Rosario scratched the back of his head, suddenly sheepish. "Uhh… no."
Then he sighed and began to explain—everything that had happened recently, including the strange power he'd discovered.
As he spoke, Luck's expression didn't change. He just listened, arms crossed, unreadable as always.
"So the vision gives you powers," Lox said, thinking aloud. "But that's not the most important part right now…"
He untied the cloth from his back and slowly revealed what was inside.
Elandra's corpse—shriveled, hollow, inhuman.
Rosario stepped back slightly. "Whoa."
Even Luck blinked, his brow twitching with the faintest trace of surprise.
"Who is this?" Rosario asked, eyes narrowing.
Lox swallowed hard. Then he told them the rest—the garden, the blackout, the washroom, the body.
"So that's the Elandra we've heard so much about," Rosario muttered, glancing down again.
"Didn't know your type was old hags," Luck said, blunt as ever.
Lox's face darkened. His hands clenched.
"She didn't look like this before. Elandra was the most beautiful woman in the world."
"Sure thing," Luck said flatly, already turning to walk away. He waved them forward. "Come on."
Rosario and Lox exchanged confused glances but followed.
Luck glanced back over his shoulder. "Don't tell me you forgot what my family does."
They both stared blankly, their minds struggling to comprehend the gravity of the situation.
Luck pinched the bridge of his nose. "We run a funeral home. If you want a body gone, that's the best way."
Lox hesitated. "But… you don't think I did this, do you? With whatever I awakened?"
Luck shrugged. "Who knows?"
Lox's heart sank.
"I don't think that's necessarily the case," Rosario said quickly, trying to dispel the growing unease. "If both of us had that vision, who's to say someone else in the city didn't, too?"
He looked at the body again, frowning.
"Besides, we don't even know what your ability is yet. You might not be capable of… this."
The trio then arrived at a funeral home.
It stood nestled between two tall, crooked buildings like a secret
someone tried to forget. The exterior was old stone, worn and weather-stained, with ivy creeping along the sides like veins. A wrought iron fence enclosed a small yard of pale gravel and dried hedges, the gate creaking faintly in the breeze.
Above the arched doorway hung a tarnished brass plaque that read:
"Thorne & Sons – Mortuary and Embalming Services"
The windows were narrow and tall, their curtains drawn tight from within, allowing only the faintest yellow glow to escape. A single lantern hung above the door, swaying slightly and casting a warped shadow across the stoop.
The air around the building felt still—too still. The kind of stillness that settled over graveyards and closed caskets. Even the street noise seemed to hush as they approached.
The wood of the front door was dark and waterlogged from years of rain, but the iron handle was polished—touched often, as though business never really stopped.
It didn't smell of death, but of something older: preserved herbs, melted wax, dry lavender, and faint chemicals.
Opening the door, Luck stepped inside, followed by Rosario and then Lox. As the last of them entered, Luck paused, glanced both ways down the empty street, then quietly shut and locked the door behind them.
The air inside was still—dry, heavy, and laced with faint hints of incense and embalming fluid.
Shadows loomed across shelves lined with urns and ceremonial cloths. Rows of wooden caskets lay stacked and labeled.
Without a word, Lox stepped forward and gently laid Elandra's wrapped body into one of the empty caskets near the center of the room.
Then he slumped onto a bench, elbows on his knees, face buried in his hands.
Rosario and Luck sat on either side of him, silent for a moment.
"So… what now?" Lox muttered, not lifting his head.
Luck rubbed the back of his neck. "Well… if we want to get rid of the evidence, maybe we can cremate her."
Lox's head snapped up. "Are you insane?" he barked. "Burn her? Like those Arakan savages burn their own dead?"
Luck raised his hands, backing off. "Whoa. I'm just saying—if there were better options, I'd offer them."
Then—a hand gripped Lox's shoulder.
He froze.
He turned to Rosario, sitting on his left—but Rosario's hands were resting on his lap.
Lox's breath hitched. Slowly, he turned his head.
Standing behind him, half-sunken in the shadows, was a tall man with slick black hair, a dusting of stubble, and eyes dark as obsidian.
A gravel-deep voice spoke:
"What are you boys doing here?"
Lox yelped in panic, leaping back.
Before he could make more noise, the man swiftly clamped a hand over Lox's mouth.
"Quiet," he growled. "Middle of the night. You want to wake the whole street?"
Lox nodded frantically. The man let go.
"Father," Luck said, standing up. "What are you doing here?"
Garron Thorne didn't answer. He stepped forward, his gaze settling coldly on the sheet-draped body in the casket.
"By Thalor's great name, what have you boys been up to?" Garron muttered, his voice sharp as flint.
The boys stood frozen, silent.
He waved it off. "Forget it. Probably better I don't know. Grab that thing and follow me."
"Her name's Elandra," Lox said quietly.
Smack.
Luck whacked the back of Lox's head. "Idiot. Didn't Father say he doesn't want to know?"
Garron didn't stop walking. He moved toward a side door at the far end of the room, muttering something under his breath. The trio scrambled to follow.
They passed through the door and descended a narrow staircase into the basement.
The air grew colder with every step. Damp stone walls closed in, and the faint scent of mildew and iron thickened. A single hanging bulb flickered dimly above, casting long, stretched shadows on the concrete floor.
The basement was divided into sections—rows of old shelves holding burial linens, cleaning supplies, and sealed boxes.
But the far side of the room drew the eye: a large, claw-footed cast-iron tub sat in the corner, wide and deep enough to submerge a full-grown body.
The walls around it were tiled in dark gray, stained faintly with time. Nearby, a shelf held brushes, rags, and a bottle of heavy-duty lye.
Rust crept along the edges of a drain beneath the tub, and the faint glint of metal tools hung neatly on a rack nearby—clearly arranged, frequently used.
Garron pointed toward the tub.
"There. Set her down."
Lox hesitated for a moment, then gently lowered Elandra into the empty basin.
Garron stood over the scene, arms crossed, his face unreadable.
"Well," he finally muttered, "Let's see if we can keep this from turning into a gods-damned mess."
Garron walked over to the shelf and unlocked one of the sealed wooden boxes with an old brass key. The lid creaked open, revealing rows of dusty bottles, each filled with strangely colored liquids—murky green, deep purple, viscous red, even a soft, glowing pink.
He studied them for a moment, muttering under his breath, then selected a few with practiced ease.
As he turned, bottle in each hand, Lox stepped forward.
"What are you going to do to her?" he asked, voice cracking.
Garron gave him a sidelong glance—one that held no patience.
"Her name's Elandra, huh?" His tone shifted, edged with something bitter.
"If I remember right… Wasn't that the high-class woman you were always sneaking off to see?"
He took a step closer, his expression hardening.
"Look," Garron said, his voice low and firm, "I only need to know one thing: besides us, does anyone know this woman is dead?"
Silence.
The question hung in the air like a blade. The three boys glanced at one another, but none could give a specific answer. They didn't even know who had killed her.
Garron exhaled through his nose, heavy with tension. He turned to his son, Luck.
"Does anyone know she's a noble?" he asked slowly, each word landing like stone. "Because if the Empire finds out we're hiding the death of one of their own, they won't stop with just us.
They'll purge our entire lineage—friends, cousins, names in family records we've never even met."
Luck swallowed hard, his face paler than usual. "No, Father," he said, voice steady. "No one knows. I swear it."
Garron studied his son's face for a long, tense beat. Then he gave a slight nod.
"So be it."
He turned away, moved back to the tub, and began uncorking the bottles one by one. The stench hit immediately—chemical, acidic, sharp enough to sting the eyes. Thick liquids sloshed together into the basin, fizzing and bubbling as they met.
Lox lunged forward instinctively. "Wait! Stop—"
But Rosario stepped in, grabbing Lox by the shoulder and yanking him back with surprising strength.
"Let it happen," Rosario said quietly. "There's no other way now."
Garron didn't even glance back.
He kept pouring as if the room were empty, his voice barely audible over the fizzing.
"This combination will dissolve everything," he said. "Skin, muscle, marrow, even the bones. After I drain it tomorrow, there won't be a trace left behind."
The room was silent, save for the bubbling of death.
Time passed with eerie stillness. The trio had returned upstairs and waited in silence, each minute seeming to drag like an hour. Eventually, the first rays of sunlight crept through the windows.
Garron climbed the stairs from the basement, his face drawn and tense. Seeing the light of dawn, he muttered, "I'd better get home before my wife wakes up."
He turned to Luck.
"Keep an eye on it. When the sludge finishes dissolving, drain it into an empty container."
Luck nodded.
"Wait," Luck added, half-joking, half-hopeful, "shouldn't Lox keep watch?"
Garron shot him a glare that silenced any further suggestions.
Then, without another word, he stepped out the front door.
As he made his way home, Garron's mind spun with unease. That body—shrivelled like a husk—what could do something like that?
It hadn't been rot or time; it was as if something had drained the life straight out of her. Magic? A curse?
He didn't know. But whatever his son and those boys had stumbled into, it was beyond his pay grade—and that terrified him more than he'd admit.
He reached his doorstep and opened the door quietly, praying the hinges wouldn't squeal.
No such luck.
She was already waiting.
A towering woman stood in the hallway, arms folded, chin raised like a judge awaiting confession. Her hair, coal-black, was tied into a braided crown that glinted slightly in the morning light. Barefoot on the wooden floor, she was still taller than him—and somehow louder in silence than a squadron of marching boots.
"Spent the night with dead bodies again, huh?" she said, her voice flat but cutting. "Must be nice. At least they don't talk back."
Garron shut the door slowly behind him.
Saphira Thorne. Once called The Gale Widow—Fourth Sword Savant of the Outer Ring. Her name alone had made men desert before the battle even began.
She was wrapped in a sleeveless robe now, but the scars on her arms hadn't faded, and the way she stood—weight shifted slightly on her back leg—told him she was still dangerous, even barefoot in her nightclothes.
"Spent the night with dead bodies again, huh?" she said, her voice flat but cutting. "Must be nice. At least they don't talk back."
Garron shut the door slowly behind him.
Saphira Thorne. Once called The Gale Widow—Fourth Sword Savant of the Outer Ring. Her name alone had made men desert before the battle even began.
She was wrapped in a sleeveless robe now, but the scars on her arms hadn't faded, and the way she stood—weight shifted slightly on her back leg—told him she was still dangerous, even barefoot in her nightclothes.
"Ha, I love when you talk back, honey," Garron said with a dry smile.
Saphira arched a brow. "Oh, so I talk back now?"
Garron's face dropped, and he readied himself for a beating.
By the time the first light crept over Kartha's rooftops, the morning sun had begun its slow climb, casting a soft golden wash across the city's quiet sprawl.
In the basement of the funeral home, three young men lay asleep—worn out from secrets, guilt, and silence.
The basement door creaked open. Garron entered. The first thing he saw made his blood boil.
The tub. Still full.
He stormed over and drove his boot into Luck's ribs. "Didn't I tell you to drain that sludge?"
Luck blinked groggily, squinting at his father. "Why do you have a black eye—"
Smack.
"Answer the question."
Now wide awake, Luck sat up quickly, voice stammering. "Y-Yes, sir. You told me to drain it."
"Then why the hell is it still filled?" Luck didn't answer.
He didn't need to. Garron's glare said enough. With urgency, Luck leapt to his feet, grabbed an empty container, and began draining the tub—his hands quick, silent, obedient.
By now, Lox and Rosario had stirred.
Lox stretched slowly, still heavy with grief, while Rosario rolled his shoulders and stood up in one smooth motion.
Luck finished draining the acidic slurry, sealed the container, and tucked it beneath a covered shelf in the far corner.
Garron watched him silently, then turned toward the stairs. "Sloppy work," he muttered. "Try this again and you'll be the next body in that tub."
Then he left—without another word. And just like that, their day had begun.