Flynn and Michael follow my gaze. "You sure?" Flynn asks, squinting. "I don't see anything."
"You wouldn't," Michael says, pushing his cracked glasses up his nose. His academic mind is already working, piecing together the puzzle. "He can see the residue of the Gloom. Maybe he can see... other things. Resonances. Auras."
Michael sounds so confident and knowledgeable. It's annoying when he's getting it so wrong.
"It's not an aura. It's a candle. Come on." I don't wait for them. I cross the square, my boots crunching on the gritty pavement. The general store's door is hanging open, swaying slightly in a non-existent breeze. I push it aside and step inside.
The store is a mess. Shelves are overturned, goods are scattered across the floor. A fine layer of dust covers everything. But the darkness that I'd seen outside, the soot-like residue, isn't present here. The air feels... cleaner. Safer.
I head for the stairs in the back, Flynn and Michael right behind me. The stairs groan under our weight, each step a loud protest in the suffocating silence. I can feel the Light growing stronger as we ascend. A faint, warm tingle on my skin.
The second floor is a single, large room, likely the owner's apartment. It's just as messy as the store below, but in the center of the room, on a small, worn-out rug, sits the source of the light.
An Exorcist Candle.
It's not like any I've ever seen. It's made of simple, white wax, but the flame isn't the steady, brilliant white of a standard Exorcist Candle. It's a frantic, flickering thing, a pale blue-white that sputters and dances, as if it's about to go out at any second. It's burning on its own, without a wick, directly on the floorboards. And around it, the soot-like residue of the shadow-things is pushed back, as if the candle is a tiny island in a sea of darkness.
"Whoa," Flynn breathes, his eyes wide. "What is that?"
"A Stasis Candle," Michael whispers, his voice filled with a reverence that borders on worship. "I've only read about them in the most obscure texts. A last-ditch preservation spell to protect something precious, but at the cost of all the Exorcist's remaining energy. Whatever they have gets used to make it stronger and longer lasting. And it can't move."
"But it's not protecting anything..." I say, gesturing at the candle. "It's a small circle of nothing."
"Maybe it was a bigger circle once...?" Flynn suggests.
But Michael strides forward, frowning. "No, it's not that... It's the wrong size. The wrong shape." He kneels by the candle, careful not to get too close to its fragile light. "It's not meant to protect a place. It's meant to protect a person."
"There's no one here." I repeat.
"There is." Michael says, voice more insistent. "If the Exorcist who lit this died or left, it wouldn't be burning. So long as this flame is still lit...they must be alive, and here." He looks around the messy room, a thoughtful frown on his face. "They may just be...very well hidden. Or in a state of suspended animation."
Well...
Michael has a point.
The rest of this house is clean. The darkness and the soot isn't anywhere around. But in this room alone, there's a concentration of it. And it's so focused on trying to subsume the light of the candle it hasn't done anything to Michael.
I'm not quite sure where they could be hidden - especially given how small the spot of light is left - but...
If there's a survivor still here, they can give us some answers about what happened and when. And I'm not willing to let this shadow snuff out another light. Wordlessly, I hold out a hand.
If I peel back the darkness away from the candle, assuming the hiding exorcist doesn't think I'm a Gloom Dweller, they'll show themselves when they feel it's safe.
"...Hold on." Flynn says, holding a hand out and stopping me from stepping forward. "Let's be careful. What if it's a trap?"
"How can it be a trap?" Michael asks, looking between the two of us with a look of complete confusion. "It's an exorcist's candle."
"I know. But..." Flynn's gaze drifts over to me.
I shake my head.
His paranoia makes sense. It's not like I don't share it myself.
But...
I'm not gonna let another light go out. Not while I can help it.
"...What if it was you hiding and waiting for rescue from an Order you don't know fell?" I ask, stepping past both of them. "Would you want them to just leave you alone because they were worried it was a trap?"
Flynn opens and closes his mouth for a moment, before heaving a sigh. He doesn't have a response to that. And I'm already walking forward.
I stop a few feet from the candle, the sputtering flame casting long, dancing shadows around me. The dark residue is a living thing here, a constant, oppressive pressure that pushes against the small circle of light. It's not just an absence of light; it's an active, malevolent force. The same force I felt from the glyph. A command.
I can feel the shape of it now, not as a physical object, but as a web of interconnected threads of negativity, all focused on one point: the flame. The darkness isn't just trying to smother the light; it's trying to unmake it.
I take a deep breath and reach out with my mind. I don't try to shatter it or crush it this time. I try to... peel it back. To gently lift the layers of shadow, like pulling back a heavy, soot-stained curtain.
I don't know where I'm taking it. Just....
Away. I just focus on moving it away from the candle. I just focus on a thought, and the Gloom in front of me obeys.
The effect is immediate and dramatic. The soot doesn't scatter. It recoils. It draws back from my mental touch as if burned, pulling away from the candle and bunching up in the corners of the room. The oppressive pressure lessens, and the pale blue flame of the Stasis Candle surges, growing brighter and stronger, its flickering stabilizing into a steady, confident glow.
The circle of light expands, pushing the shadows further back until they cling only to the darkest corners, like frightened spiders.
And in the center of the newly expanded circle of light, a form shimmers into existence.
It's a woman.
She's sitting cross-legged on the floor, her hands resting on her knees, her eyes closed. She looks exhausted, her face pale and drawn, her clothes—the simple, practical grey uniform of an exorcist field agent—are torn and stained. She's not a student. She's older. Maybe in her late twenties.
She has dark hair, tied back in a messy braid, and a long, thin scar that runs from her left temple down to the corner of her mouth.
She doesn't move. She doesn't open her eyes. But she's there.
The three of us just stare, speechless.
"Hello?" Flynn finally says, his voice hesitant.
The woman's eyes snap open.
They are a startling, vibrant shade of green.
She doesn't look at Flynn. She doesn't look at Michael. Her gaze locks onto me. Her eyes widen in shock, then in horror. Her hands, which had been resting limply on her knees, fly to her belt, to the hilt of a short, wicked-looking blade that wasn't there a second ago.
Oh no.
That's the only thing I manage to think before she leaps from the ground, blade flashing in the air. Straight at me.