The cop stepped out of the Sacred Cathedral into the downpour, drops beating off his brim like rosary beads shaken loose.

The rain didn’t let up; it fell like sloshed buckets, then sifted like a steel sieve.

A moment later it misted like lawn sprinklers—big bursts, small bursts, small then big—an endless cycle like a drumline in the clouds.

Passing the nave, he glanced at the huddled townsfolk; a nun’s words brushed them like warm hands, trying to calm last night’s echoes.

Since they found the missing woman’s body, Naghtown wore a shroud of unease, like fog clinging to graves.

Truth be told, ever since the magic riot, a looming break had been creeping closer, like a tide in the dark.

He crushed the soggy cigarette, wet as a wilted leaf, and headed for the station, boots chopping puddles like oars on gray water.

Above, clouds split in seams and leaked a dim sky; Naghtown’s streets slowly brightened, like a seafloor caught by a searchlight.

“You’re back!” The desk cop waved like a flag in the rain. “The blacksmith wants to see you.”

“Brush him off. I don’t have time to hunt his cat,” he said, voice flat as a wet plank.

“Probably not about the cat,” the cop said, eyes flicking like sparrows.

“Whatever. You handle it,” he said, patience thin as damp paper.

“He says it has to be you,” the cop added, swallowing like a stone. “And he’ll say nothing unless Rex Mandele comes.”

The name struck a buried chord, like a bell under mud.

He hadn’t heard his full name since he introduced himself his first week in Naghtown, back when his coat was new.

Years of shared grime made names needless; everyone just said “Officer,” a badge worn smooth by hands.

“Let me sleep first,” Mandele said, smoke fogging out like breath in winter. “I just came back from the Sacred Cathedral and haven’t rested.”

The cop scratched his cheek, sheepish as a stray pup. “I already brought him into your office.”

“Did you?” Mandele’s brow cut like a blade.

“I saw how urgent he looked,” the cop said, voice fluttering like a damp page. “He came straight in asking for you.”

Mandele shot him a glare, flicked the half-burned cigarette into the rain like a firefly put out, and walked in with hands in his pockets.

The blacksmith sat in a chair; from the door, all you saw was his hunched back, a hill eroded by wind and rain under amber light.

His broad leather coat looked never washed, freckled with oil and iron dust, like night sky speckled with dull stars.

“Out,” Mandele barked, shoving the door wide like a gust. “I’m not finding your cat.”

“Not a cat,” the man said, voice gravelled like a road.

“Other critters are out too,” Mandele snapped, temper pricking like thorns.

“Two minutes,” the blacksmith rasped, words dragging like a chain.

“It better not be pointless,” Mandele said, lifting a glass of iced water; the cold slid down his throat like clear glass, snapping him awake. “You don’t want me blowing like a storm.”

“Prepare to evacuate the crowd,” the blacksmith said, each word dropping like a nail.

“That’s it?” Mandele snorted, doubt sharp as flint. “A landslide won’t touch the town, but thanks for the weather.”

“Allow me to reintroduce myself,” the blacksmith said, and his bent frame rose like a cliff from the sea; his face shed its mildness for stern iron.

“I’m the Dark Realm Investigator assigned here.”

Shock hit Mandele like a cold fist; years of stooped labor had been a mask carved on purpose.

He stared and saw a stranger where a hunch had stood, like a statue revealed under scrubbed grime.

“Fuck… you—” the words skidded, anger sparking like flint.

“We don’t reveal ourselves unless we must,” the blacksmith said, voice even, each syllable landing like a hammer. “I can’t reach Stratford’s Deputy Director. The line stays dead, so I came to you.”

“You hunched under my nose for years—fuck—what a performance,” Mandele snapped, disbelief flaring like lightning.

“Dark Realm Investigators aren’t welcome,” the man said. “Our arrival means danger; we lie low like knives sheathed to keep people safe.”

“Then why show me the blade?” Mandele asked, suspicion coiling like smoke. “Just because you can’t reach the top?”

“Naghtown’s Dark Realm has opened,” the blacksmith said, the word “opened” cold as a cellar door.

“There’s a Dark Realm here?” Mandele’s voice kicked, surprise stinging like rain in the eyes.

He lifted a hand, calming like a palm on skittish horses. “Many imperial cities have Dark Realms. Most sleep. Even awake, they take decades to stir. It’s natural you don’t know.”

“Is it those lines in the sky?” Mandele moved to the window and stared at the roof of storm, a slate wiped clean. “Hell, I can’t see a thing.”

“I saw the sky’s anomaly and tried the Institute,” the man said. “No answer, silence like a drowned bell.”

“They didn’t train you for this?” Mandele asked, doubt biting like frost.

“That’s why I need you to clear the crowd,” he said. “My voice alone won’t sway them, not like a siren’s wail.”

“If you can’t reach them, we have to shut the Dark Realm?” Mandele leaned on the sill, rain cool as needles on his back.

“Just evacuate,” the blacksmith said. “Be the tide that draws people home.”

“How do I know when it starts?” Mandele asked, gaze hard as slate.

“The sky will tear a black seam,” he said. “When it rips, get everyone off the streets, doors shut like lids.”

“Where first?” Mandele’s tone dropped, heavy as lead.

“Molokov Bay Chapel,” he answered, the name falling like a stone into deep water.

“Fuck… you should tell the Holy Maiden,” Mandele said, urgency burning like a red flare.

“Please pass it on,” the man said. “I’ll try the Institute again, knocking like a patient rain.”

“How long till it wakes?” Mandele checked his watch, numbers shining like fish scales. “An hour? Two?”

“I don’t know,” came the reply, bare as winter branches.

“You kidding me?” Mandele barked, laugh brittle as cracked ice.

“The instruments that track the Dark Realm are at the Institute,” he said. “Until I reach them, the clock’s smoke.”

“Useless,” Mandele spat, anger sparking like a live wire.

“I don’t know why the Deputy Director won’t answer,” the blacksmith said, worry shadowing him like dusk.

“What about the Director?” Mandele asked, eyes narrowed like slits.

“Director Lilliana Clara,” he said, pausing like a breath held. “According to the radio, she raised the Shattered City’s Dark Realm to S-class. The Emperor will have summoned her; she’s likely in the Imperial Capital.”

“At the critical hour, no one useful,” Mandele said, sarcasm sharp as a blade. “Your Institute’s a circus.”

“Please don’t say that,” the man replied, steady as an anvil. “Deputy Director Stratford is a good person, and Director Clara protects the Empire even with a frail body, like a candle held in wind.”

Mandele exhaled, a long drift of smoke like fog over fields, and lit another cigarette. “So that’s why those two outsiders went to the Sacred Cathedral.”

“Prepare for the Dark Realm’s waking,” the blacksmith said, the warning ringing like a low bell.

“Why not tell me sooner?” Mandele asked, resentment rising like heat from asphalt.

“I wanted the Institute to send a team of Investigators,” he said, hope frayed like rope fibers.

“Then nobody picks up, and Naghtown turns into monsters,” Mandele said, the picture bleak as soot.

“I told the other higher-ups,” the man said, eyes on Mandele’s pale, thinned face, like paper held to light. “A team of Investigators will come soon.”

“I just fear,” Mandele said, mouth twitching, voice dull as a drum in fog, “the Dark Realm wakes faster.”

“Unless someone keeps rousing it,” he said, calm as stone, “the speed won’t change.”

“Good,” Mandele said, relief brief as a fading spark.

“Didn’t you catch the person?” the blacksmith asked, the question hanging like a hook.

Silence fell, heavy as wet cloth.

Rain tapped the window, fine as rice on a drum, and spread like tide across glass.

Mandele leaned on the sill and smoked; the haze thickened under the lamp, a pale fog pairing with the rain’s murmur, pressing the room like a lowered lid.