Elodie returns to the Iron Fortress with her knights before noon.
The massive gates stand open as soldiers along the walls and streets snap to attention, saluting sharply before stepping aside.
Hooves echo against stone as the Black Knights ride through the inner streets, frost still clinging to armour and cloaks.
They halt before the main castle at the heart of the fortress.
Elodie swings down from her horse in one smooth motion and tosses the reins to a waiting soldier without looking.
Before entering, she turns.
Her gaze settles on Alex.
The teenage trainee priest sits stiffly on a horse beside one of the knights, wrapped in a cloak that looks far too large for him, his face pale but calm.
She studies him for a moment.
He is weak now, barely stronger than an ordinary boy.
But he borrowed the power of the Lady of the Lake.
That alone makes him a priest.
And priests like that do not remain weak for long.
Elodie looks toward the knight holding him.
"Patrick," she says, her voice even, "the boy is your responsibility. Find a room for him."
Patrick stiffens, eyes widening. "Commander—"
"I don't want to hear anything," Elodie cuts in.
She turns and walks into the castle, her boots echoing against the stone floor.
She pushes open a heavy door without knocking and steps inside.
The room belongs to the governor of the Iron Fortress.
Garret, clad in a military uniform worn smooth by years of use, looks up from his desk.
He is an old knight, broad-shouldered even now, with short silver hair and eyes that have seen too many battles to be easily surprised.
He raises an eyebrow.
"Elodie," he says dryly, "could you not knock for once?"
Elodie drops into a chair opposite his desk and shrugs.
"I forgot," she says.
She shifts, getting comfortable as if she owns the room.
Garret sighs and leans back. "Your mood seems lighter. The cultist must be dead."
"He is dead," Elodie replies. "But I'm confused about how he died."
Garret straightens slightly, brow furrowing. "What do you mean?"
Elodie exhales and begins from the start.
She recounts the village, the frozen field, the infected villagers, the priest boy's awakening, and the chase that carried her all the way to the Voit Hills.
She describes the battle, the transformation, the black giant's overwhelming strength, and how it endured her blows.
She finishes with the sunrise.
"The moment the sun rose," she says, "the giant froze and dispersed into mist."
Garret strokes his chin. "So the cultist died because of the sun."
"The sun was one reason," Elodie says.
Garret tilts his head, waiting.
"The sunlight harms them," she continues. "That much is known. But that alone wouldn't have ended him so cleanly."
Garret's eyes narrow. "Then what did?"
Elodie's expression turns serious.
"Transformation," she says. "Becoming that giant came with a price."
She leans forward slightly.
"These cultists borrow power from something that isn't theirs. When they force that power into a form beyond their limits, it accelerates the cost."
Garret nods slowly. "And the time to pay that cost arrived."
"Yes," Elodie says. "The sun weakened him, but the transformation finished him."
Garret exhales slowly and leans back in his chair, the wood creaking under his weight.
"What is happening to this world?" he mutters. "Ghosts, demons, gods—everything is crawling out of hiding."
He stares at the map pinned behind his desk, lines and borders that suddenly feel meaningless.
"A decade ago," Garret continues, voice low, "we couldn't see any of this. We couldn't touch it. At best, we sensed something… distant. Now, priests who were no different from ordinary folk are borrowing divine power as if it were breath."
Elodie listens without interrupting.
"Alchemists are awakening everywhere," Garret says. "Knight talents, too. And cultivation… It's easier. Faster."
He taps the desk once.
"Ten years ago, only knights with superior spirit blood could reach the official knight realm. Now I hear reports of intermediate spirit blood doing the same. There are even rumours of Great Knights breaking through."
Elodie sighs softly. "The world has loosened," she says. "Or something has loosened it."
Garret rubs his temples. "Whatever the reason, it's accelerating."
Elodie stands. Fatigue finally seeps into her posture.
"I'm going to rest," she says.
She turns toward the door.
"Take care of the little priest," Garret adds. "I'll find a proper teacher for him."
Elodie glances back over her shoulder, eyes calm but sharp.
"Don't worry," she says. "I already have a plan for the kid."
She leaves the room, boots echoing down the corridor.
---
Clive wakes with a dull ache pulsing behind his eyes.
He groans softly and pushes himself upright on the bed in his office, sunlight filtering through the curtains.
He squints at the clock on the wall.
Past noon.
By more than a couple of hours.
"Damn," he mutters. "I need to get ready."
He swings his legs down and heads straight for the bathroom, splashing cold water on his face until the haze clears.
Fragments of last night surface as he dries his hands.
The party.
Too much wine.
Too many polite lies.
And Charlie.
Clive hasn't seen Charlie since medical school, before everything fell apart.
Back then, Charlie was the worst student in their class—barely scraping through exams, passing with the lowest possible marks.
No hospital wanted him.
But Charlie came from a noble family.
Connections did what talent could not.
He opened a private clinic and, through family influence, secured a position as personal doctor for women working in high-end clubs.
Including the Canary Club.
Clive dresses quickly, eats whatever he can find, and slips out through the back door.
As he walks through the streets toward Charlie's clinic, he hears whispers.
"Another woman was found dead."
"They say it's the Stitcher again."
Clive's pace slows, then quickens.
Another victim.
His mind runs numbers automatically.
Two weeks between the first and second victims.
One week between the second and third.
Three days between the third and fourth.
Now this.
The intervals are shrinking.
The killer is escalating.
Which means two things.
They are close to being caught.
And there may be another victim tonight.
Clive breaks into a brisk walk and reaches Charlie's clinic sooner than expected.
An hour later, he finds himself inside Charlie's steam carriage as it rattles toward the Canary Club.
Charlie sits across from him, unusually quiet.
---
The moment they enter the Canary Club, Clive feels it.
The tension.
The air is thick, conversations hushed, smiles strained.
Music plays, but it feels forced.
He hears the name whispered again and again.
Piper Owen.
The fourth victim.
Clive watches Charlie stiffen at the sound.
Charlie's jaw tightens, and beside him, his nurse—an older woman named Linda—casts him a sharp glance.
Clive notes it.
Store it away.
He does not ask questions here.
They get to work.
Women are pale, shaking, some crying, others staring into nothing.
Clive assists where he can, fetching water, holding lamps, and helping Linda clean wounds from fainting spells and panic attacks.
While he works, he listens.
He asks small, careful questions.
Nothing direct.
Nothing that draws attention.
After some time, he excuses himself and begins exploring the club.
The ground floor is lavish but predictable.
Curtained corners.
Private booths.
Hidden doors that lead nowhere important.
He checks every nook and cranny he can without attracting notice.
When he approaches the stairs, guards step in front of him without ceremony.
"Staff only," one says flatly.
Clive nods and backs away.
As he turns to return to Charlie, he freezes.
A man has just entered the club.
Clive recognises him instantly.
Robbie Smith.
And Robbie is not alone.
He walks beside another man, older, well-dressed, clearly someone of influence.
They talk as they move, voices low but animated.
Together, they climb the stairs.
As they pass Clive, a fragment of conversation reaches him.
"…the new steam spinning wheel…"
"…higher output, lower pressure…"
"…specifications are promising…"
Clive's eyes narrow.
Robbie isn't here for pleasure.
He's here for business.
There is no way to follow them upstairs.
No excuse.
No authority.
Clive forces himself to turn away and returns to Charlie, mind racing.
Hours pass.
Night settles fully outside.
Music grows louder.
The club fills.
Just as they prepare to leave, a scream cuts through the building.
Sharp.
Terrified.
The music stutters to a stop.
Clive and Charlie exchange a look and run toward the sound.
It leads them to the women's bathroom.
Inside, chaos erupts.
On the floor lies a woman's body.
Dead.
Clive's eyes go straight to the wounds.
The stitches.
Clean.
Precise.
Intentional.
The Stitcher's work.
The fifth victim.
As others shout and panic, Clive kneels closer, studying the pattern.
His mind begins assembling faces.
Names.
Charlie.
Doctors.
Surgeons.
Those with knowledge of anatomy.
Those with access.
Those trusted.
Slowly, he lifts his gaze.
Charlie stands frozen.
Their eyes meet.
And for the first time, Clive allows himself to consider something he has been avoiding.
Charlie is on his list.