The leader's house also served as an office. Antiquated, it displayed nobility only in intent. Stone statues were scattered across the tables—busts, idols, small divine figures. Hallow seemed genuinely impressed; Santvic, on the other hand, recognized them at once for what they were: souvenirs carved by ordinary hands, cheap roadside wares. The deities depicted came from Satus—ancient figures, now reduced to legends, folktales, and children's stories. In the Capital, she thought, she could buy entire crates of the things for a few Valets; shake a tree and five would fall. She had a vague memory of Fiorenza using one as a paperweight.
What truly drew the eye was the upper-floor corridor leading to the office. Carefully aligned, amateur portraits displayed faces much like Percival's, repeated generation after generation.
"Your family?" Santvic asked, stopping midway down the hall.
"Ah!" He turned, clasping his hands behind his back to admire his own gallery. "The former leaders. Yes—every one of them from my family."
Hallow heard Santvic grind her teeth—a sound imperceptible to most, but unmistakable to anyone who knew her. He stifled a laugh; he knew exactly which comment she had swallowed.
"They're lovely paintings," she said at last. "All the leaders from the same family."
The office itself was small and cluttered: loose sheets, poorly organized folders, letters abandoned halfway through. Nothing there seemed urgent. Dust gathered on the desk, and the map of Doural hanging on the wall bore a date from decades past. Clearly, the space saw little use; a village like this demanded little administration. Though spread out, it ran almost on inertia, sustained by the devotion of its workers.
Percival sat behind the desk and gestured to the chairs opposite him. Through the window at his back, they watched the rain grow steadily heavier.
"I do not lie when I say your presence is a blessing, Capitanian." He let out a long, relieved sigh. "We are in dire straits. Months ago, we gave up sending letters." He paused, studying her. "You truly are a Curator? Don't take this the wrong way—far be it from me to doubt—but you know how things are. May I see your insignia?"
Hallow felt the tension rise in Santvic. There was no reason for hesitation. She was, in fact, an Arcane Curator. The position existed, however obscure, and Schüssler would never lend it to a farce.
Still, to his surprise, Santvic reached into her coat pocket and produced an unmistakably unofficial badge. Handcrafted, it had been made with enough care to imitate the seal of the Null State, yet was far too imperfect to deceive trained eyes: the name unevenly carved, the wrong metal—certainly not from the Capital.
Percival noticed nothing.
"My goodness…" he murmured, examining it with reverence. The symbol—a disk with crossed tridents at its center—glimmered beneath the weak lantern light on the desk. Official insignia were minted in pure gold, a mineral exclusive to the Capital; Santvic's was merely painted yellow. Even so, he returned it with trembling hands, visibly awed. "I never imagined receiving a visit like this. I… I had already lost all hope."
Percival laughed—a loose, almost childish laugh, filled with genuine happiness.
The man composed himself behind the desk, straightening his posture as he let out a heavy sigh.
"Right. I suppose we should speak of the situation… and of your payment, shouldn't we?"
Santvic inclined her head slightly in agreement.
"Very well. As you've surely noticed, our village is far from prosperous. After Prima simply vanished and Secunda withdrew from the Assembly, everything became more difficult. We still manage to secure some resources when Satus comes to negotiate with us, but lately they've been dealing exclusively with Secunda, drawn by its growth."
"Do you have any idea what prompted that growth, sir?" Santvic asked.
He shook his head.
"Not the slightest. Still, we managed to hold on for a while… until things began to deteriorate." His voice lost its firmness. "We all fell ill. Thin, weak. We sleep through the entire day, utterly exhausted. We lack the strength for even the simplest labor."
"I can see the weakness in your eyes," Santvic replied, her tone restrained with sympathy. "It's abnormal for a village this well structured. Has a physician evaluated the situation?"
"Doctor Medley and Doctor Romy," he answered, with an almost defensive pride. "Both of them. But they found nothing wrong with our bodies. They say it isn't disease, nor plague, and that the Antesystem registers no irregularities whatsoever… we're blind."
Santvic lowered her gaze, thoughtful. Hallow watched in silence, attempting to piece together the scattered elements of the account.
"And worst of all, madam…" The man swallowed hard. "The slimes. Slimes."
"Slimes," Santvic repeated. "Yes. I was informed of them. Catharsis has always been a favorable environment."
"It used to be common to find one or two, years ago. But now?" His voice rose, heavy with irritation. "Every night they appear—crawling, growing, leaving trails everywhere. They're dangerous to children, they attack animals, destroy crops, and they're hard to kill, those pests!" His face flushed, swelling with anger; the intensity nearly drew an involuntary smile from Santvic. "They may seem like a small problem, slimes, but you have no idea how many we've killed. And we're exhausted. We have no strong guards, and—"
Santvic relaxed her shoulders. An unpleasant chill ran down her spine.
"We fear that one day they'll overtake us completely." He hesitated, as though the name itself weighed heavily. "They've already claimed a life. Alarik Vonnor."
At last, Santvic reacted. Alarik Vonnor. The name struck her like a blow to the jaw. He was the one who had written the letter of distress that brought her here. She remembered the name vividly. She had been eager to meet him.
"And the worst part was the funeral," he continued, his voice low. "There was no body left to bury."
Santvic drew in a long, steady breath.
"We are helpless, Santvic…" He looked at her with a hope struggling against grief, and it caused her a sudden discomfort—an insecurity difficult to name. Was she truly capable of bearing such weight? "Your arrival is a blessing. We offer everything that may assist in your work."
Santvic blinked a few times, studying him carefully. These were the words she had been waiting for—precisely them. And yet, now that they were spoken aloud, with the challenge made concrete and responsibility settling upon her shoulders, her heart tightened. Speaking became difficult. Still, she held her posture.
"Very well," she concluded after several seconds of silence. "I will be at your service, Mr. Percival… and you, likewise, at mine. All I require during this period is lodging, water, and food. I will study the village and its environment, and within a few weeks the problem will be identified and resolved."
Percival let out a broad, nearly emotional smile—but before he could thank her, Santvic continued, and the smile faded from his face.
"The journey was costly, and the return will be the same. To cover these expenses, I request a fee of four thousand Valets. One thousand paid now, three thousand upon completion. Any additional expenses will be borne exclusively by me."
Hallow knew Santvic had felt the blow as she spoke those words, though nothing showed on her face. The woman did not possess a single coin. Despite the pomp of her title, the Capital paid little—almost nothing. Her gaunt horse was living proof of that.
"That is… a rather steep sum," Percival replied, forcing an awkward smile. "But we can work with it."
Santvic restrained herself, but inwardly released a deep sigh of relief.
The worst part was over.
"I should ask, Percival, about the village's culture." Santvic folded her hands in her lap. "I'll learn more by speaking with the residents, of course, but I couldn't help noticing the absence of swords. Also, the chapel bears clear Miraculan traits."
Percival cleared his throat before answering, running his thick fingers along the arm of the chair as though searching for something. "Ah, yes." The smile returned, smaller this time. "We do have blacksmiths, of course. But they don't forge for us. They sell only to merchants, all of them from outside." He made a vague gesture with his hand. "Since many Grinders pass through Tertiary, external defense ends up falling to them. Inside the village…" He hesitated. "Inside, we rely only on one Redomist and two Paladins."
Santvic inclined her head slightly, waiting.
"They are our guards, so to speak." Percival shifted in his chair, which creaked under his weight. "But they can't deal with the plagues as quickly as we'd like. The Antesystem granted them affinity with blades. But when you cut one of those pests, two more appear." A flash of irritation crossed his eyes. "If we had a mage — a theurgist, for instance — the situation would be different. Still, they do what they can." He took a deep breath. "I would introduce them, but they rest during the day. They fight at night."
"I understand." Santvic fell silent for a few moments, lightly drumming her fingers on the case beside her. "And the pacifism? Is there a specific reason for it?"
Percival laced his fingers together, resting them atop his belly. "Since the founding of the village, we have followed the communion of the Archon Iao."
Santvic's eyebrow rose.
"Even if I don't agree with everything," he continued quickly, "who am I to interfere with the faith of my residents? They visit the chapel daily and pray. Every house has an idol of Iao, and Catharsis is revered as sacred ground."
Santvic nodded slowly. Secunda, despite imitating the structures of Satus, kept its distance from its Magisterium. It was uncommon — even impressive — that so small a village would sustain devotion to an Archon as present as Iao. Usually, such faith thinned when a physical entity answered prayers with silence. That persistence demanded attention.
"I imagine, then, that you maintain good relations with Satus."
Percival let out a long, weary sigh. "They're more interested in Secunda." A sad smile slipped through. "Naturally. But some merchants come down from there, and they're the ones who save us when the village can't sustain itself. Everything we don't produce, they bring. Food, tools, medicine…"
Hallow, leaning against the wall, crossed his arms. "And in return? I mean, I doubt 'just Valets' is enough to bring them here."
Percival looked at him, assessing him for a moment. "What we have." He shrugged. "Lodging, mostly. Secunda charges dearly, and we prefer not to charge at all, to encourage them to come."
"I believe that's everything," Santvic said.
They exchanged smiles and rose, sealing the end of the conversation.
"We do have an empty house. Vonnor's," Percival said, the weight evident in his voice. "It's believed his wife left with the children in search of another village. They abandoned everything here… headed toward Mel-Púrpura."
Hallow seemed to stifle a laugh—or perhaps it was pity, expressed in his own way.
"That's a terrible idea," the comment slipped out before he could stop himself. "They'll be back soon enough."
"…I hope so," Santvic replied, visibly uncomfortable.
"Your knight, Curator…" Percival began.
Santvic restrained the sudden spark in her eyes at hearing the title—Curator—spoken so naturally. It had been a long time since she'd been called that. Perhaps she never truly had been.
"He will assist us with the slimes that appear at night, yes?" the leader continued. "Our greatest difficulty has been the need to purchase fruits and vegetables from other merchants. What little remains after those pests… isn't enough."
Santvic turned her gaze to Hallow. The man answered with a simple, firm nod.
"Yes, he will," the Curator replied for him. "We'll help however we can. We'll be staying for several weeks."
"I'll ask Crowmere to lead you to the settlement," Percival said, fingers interlaced before him, caution threading his voice. "If you need anything, come to me. But… before that, I must warn you of something. I hope it won't be an issue, madam."
Santvic and Hallow fell silent, exchanging a brief glance.
"What is it?" she asked.
"Alarik Vonnor's house remains intact," he chose his words carefully. "Most of the belongings were taken on the cart Mrs. Vonnor hired when she left with the children. Since his death, no one has entered that house."
Santvic lifted her gaze, attentive.
"And why is that?"
"They say the place is haunted," he sighed. "That the man's ghost still lingers there."
Hallow raised his eyebrows. Santvic turned briefly toward him, then back to the leader.
"Haunted?" she repeated, adjusting her glasses. "In what way?"
"Doors slamming, objects changing places, voices…" Percival gestured vaguely. "Nothing violent. But… there's a lingering fear. A bad feeling, as though the place were cursed."
Santvic inclined her head slightly.
"Fear often accompanies superstition," she said calmly. "True ghosts are associated with iconoclasts, chroniclers, or exorcists. Vonnor was none of those, correct?"
"No," Percival denied at once. "Never."
"Then I doubt there is any genuine manifestation," she continued. "I'm not saying the villagers are lying—only that loss tends to distort perception."
Percival visibly relaxed.
"You're right. The village suffered greatly with his death."
Santvic took a measured breath.
"One final request, before we go," she added. "I need the bell to ring at midnight. It will mark curfew. I recommend that no one remain outside after that."
Percival frowned.
"May I ask why?"
"Vanhallow is an Antebeing," she said plainly.
The man's eyes widened for a moment. Silence settled heavily between them.
"I understand," he replied at last. "That won't be a problem. You'll have our full cooperation."
Santvic nodded.
"Then we are in agreement."
Percival inclined his head, solemn.
"All of our faith rests with you, Curator… and with your knight."