Time ran like a lazy river, and Hedi slept like a stone at the bottom, surfacing only at the ragged edge of dawn.

She tried to force her eyes open, and only a slit yielded, as if sleep-crust had forged a sticky visor across her lids.

The world warped and swam, like scenery seen through a rain-slick windowpane.

She rubbed her eyes, slow circles like ripples on a pond, and the room came into focus.

Selina wasn’t in the confinement cell; time of departure lost like footprints in fog, yet by her temper, she’d have faced the guarding nun, then left with stubborn embers still burning.

Moonlight poured through the window, inch by inch tracing the floor like a silver brush; it climbed the bed-rail, spread wide, and formed a slanted silver diamond that lit the strip of her rucked-up shirt, her bare belly, and the small shell of her navel.

Hedi bent and sat up, and her skull felt squeezed, like a too-small cap forced backward over wet hair.

No fabric shadowed her head; the pressure felt inward, as if the brain beneath her bone set a crown of air upon itself.

She cupped her head and checked her pocket watch, the case cold as dew.

Four a.m.

“Slept that long, huh.” Resignation washed out of her in a flat, slow sigh, like smoke leaving a snuffed wick.

Sleep was gone now, like a bird spooked from a branch, and the pressure kept pecking at her nerves.

She hunted for a way to pass time; only the holy text sat by the bed like a pale stone, and a few flipped pages already bored her stiff.

“I want to take a walk.” The wish came like a pebble dropped in a still pool.

No sound answered from the door, only the hush that clung like frost.

Of course they wouldn’t post nuns in shifts to watch her; she wasn’t some monster hauled from a bog.

Just in case, she peered through the little hatch in the iron door, left and right like a cautious sparrow, and when she found no nun, she opened the confinement cell.

The door wasn’t locked; it swung easy, light as mist.

Cool wind brushed her like a wet sleeve. Night birds piped like thin reeds. The moon shone bright as bleached bone. Thick clouds hulked like sleeping whales.

All of it made the Sacred Cathedral feel serene and uncanny, like a lake holding a drowned reflection.

Why think that? The question rose like a fish and sank again.

Her thoughts drifted to horror tales, as if drawn by a tide of shadow to shore.

A solemn holy place makes a perfect stage for dread, like snow on a temple roof under a blood-red dusk.

The Sacred Cathedral stands at the border of Heaven and the mundane, and evil eyes covet that gate like wolves circling a lantern; the clash is raw and speaks for itself.

It isn’t belittling the sacred by pairing it with fear; from another angle, it shows a pillar’s weight, like a lone pine gripping a cliff in a storm.

Her thought broke clean, like a twig, and she found herself at the cemetery.

A brass gate sat heavy in the cold pre-dawn hush, and two crows hunched on the barbed tips like black thorns, cawing now and then as if to condemn her approach.

Hedi eyed their hooked beaks and lacquer-bright claws, then stood before the brass gate and tugged; the padlock clacked the bars like a bell, and she looked in without a word, like a beggar at a lit window.

Night wind carried the scent of frozen earth, and the grass whispered with a small shiver.

Under moonlight, the gravestones kept a strict order, lined on a carefully trimmed lawn like ranks of pale soldiers.

Winter’s frost hadn’t hit her eyes yet, but she felt it in the air like a thin veil; she pictured a dusting of ice on each stone.

If only it weren’t locked... The thought snagged like a sleeve on a thorn.

Frustration pooled in her chest like stagnant water.

She wanted to mourn the Priest quietly, like laying a flower at a river’s edge; if someone saw, it would be like the tide drawing back to bare white bones, and the bones would whisper, telling her to get out.

“Someone like you, paying respects?”

“You didn’t regret it when you studied Dark Magic, did you?”

“Now you want to mourn the Priest? That’s just your mind birthing faulty thoughts!”

The words circled and pecked at her motives like crows, and a single word rose up: remorse, cold as rain.

It wasn’t the Dark Magic itself that lit it; it was the Priest’s way after he knew—no sharp rebuke, only a quiet acceptance, and even guidance when Dark Magic snarls knotted her path.

His mercy dulled her fear of punishment like warm water softening a blade, until he died of illness, and Sister Bertha pronounced the sin of reading Dark Magic—the sinful may not approach souls bound for Heaven.

Hedi pressed her temples, and the pressure grew like a storm pressing its palm to the sea.

Cold wind worried her thin clothes, so she shivered and lifted her head, watching her white breath float up like a small ghost.

Each oval plume edged sharp, then blurred, in a steady tide of pulse and fade.

She tried to catch each slight change like a moth tracking a candle; her head grew heavier, like rain collecting on a leaf.

She shook her head more than once and shut her eyes to scatter the weight, but it clung like cobweb silk.

The vapor faltered and resumed, leaving a lingering contrail like chalk on slate.

She kneaded her scalp and hunted the source, curious who would burn at night like that.

She slid toward the trees beside the cemetery, their leaves gone like shed scales.

The woods were dim and vague, only trunks layered like a crowd of spears, and ferns thick as a green quilt over the ground.

Each step felt copied and pasted, the same picture repeating, yet gaining a ghost of depth, like ink darkening with each stroke.

Farther on, clusters of white vapor floated, lantern-soft, in woods the night had already invaded.

“What are you burning?” Hedi asked, eyes on a crouched silhouette like a shadow with knees.

“I’m not burning anything,” the person said, voice soft as soot.

“Are you? Then why do plumes drift up like smoke?”

“You misread it.” The reply fell like a stone in mud.

“Are you a nun?” Her words flicked like a pebble.

“Stupid question. This is the Sacred Cathedral’s land,” came back, dry as twigs.

“Then what are you doing here?” Her tone stayed wary, like a cat at a threshold.

“Nothing.” The word came flat as ash.

Hedi edged closer, wary as a fox; the frozen path was hard as iron, and her steps rang with exaggerated echoes.

Thud.

Thud.

Thud.

Canary crouched and didn’t stir; her slender fingertips started to change, nails sliding longer and hardening, turning into the hooked talons of a hunting cat.

“I’ll do it,” a low male voice rumbled from the dark, like thunder held in a throat. “You focus on opening the Dark Realm.”

“Again? Your midnight snack had the police hounding me,” she hissed, like steam from a tight lid.

“Blame us being out-of-towners,” he said, dry as dust.

“Hmph. Don’t make a sound,” she warned, voice sharp as a pin.

“I’ll hold back,” he breathed, soft as fur.

The tall man used the night like a cloak, shifted positions without a whisper, and waited for the intruder to drift close like a moth to milk-white light.

He caught the moon-cast shadow, shot out a hand like a striking snake, and clamped a fistful of hair.

He heaved and slammed the unguarded body onto the hard ground, clean as a hammer to an anvil.

He was so fast and tight that not a single sound shook loose, like snow falling on snow.

“Little thing!” He threw a skull-crushing punch, knuckles driving like a piledriver toward the head, and just before impact a deafening blast cracked out, a flatland thunder that tore the night’s silk in one rip.

“Idiot!” Canary snapped, head whipping like a lash. “I told you—no noise!”

“I hit a ward... so cautious...” he muttered, tasting iron like a coin.

“That racket will pull people fast,” she said, anger rising like heat.

“Shh, shh! Quiet!” The tall man yanked the intruder up by the hair and peered close, eyes gleaming like wet stones. “Hedi Melvina~”

“Which Hedi?” Canary’s voice tilted, sharp as glass.

“The Hedi who tried to blow me to pieces,” he said, a grin thin as a blade.

“This is bad! Her magic—” Canary’s breath came quick, like wings.

“Keep going. The cutie’s out cold from my throw.” He wiped Hedi’s nosebleed with his thumb, slid it into his mouth, and smiled. “Mmm... sweet tooth.”