Light was weak within the chapel. High-perched windows filtered daylight, illuminating the long room like streetlamps within an alley. Faded shadows lined the floor. Behind them were the doors, swung inward, allowing another opening for evening sunlight—glancing once, Al reassured himself. This situation differed from last time. Unlike before, their options included the opportunity for retreat.

Furthest back were the curtains. Devouring light, they painted a tunnel—a wall—hiding the chapel’s altar. Standing there was the priest. His lips formed a line, seconds passing without meeting Bram’s question.

Al waited. From the floor, he recognized the subtle stench of bleach.

Again, Bram tried. “Dimitri Markos?”

The man glanced between them. Leaning back, he disappeared behind the curtains.

Several heartbeats passed before Al registered what happened. Bram waved forward, expression tight, and inched towards the veil, hands reaching for his pistol. Al frowned but followed, eyes trained upon the dark cloth. Within his pocket rested his amulet. Fairly dense, the Relic allowed for blunt attacks, providing some form of defense. It…wasn’t nothing. Grimacing, Al realized he needed a proper weapon.

Bram stopped. “Hello?”

Like whispers, noise drifted outward. Muffled. Faint. Meanwhile, the curtains wavered; Al suspected the priest, Markos or otherwise, was adjusting something there, an object placed upon the altar. Al’s imagination wandered. Shaking himself, he considered the strange, strange situation they grappled with.

Bram is standing several pews away from the curtain…that isn’t an accident, he wants room to shoot. Markos—that priest, whatever—hasn’t made any moves, meaning… What, exactly? He’s refusing to talk…and why was the door barricaded? What should we do?

Finally, the curtain stopped. They parted. From within, hands raised, the priest appeared, expression neutral as he shuffled. Pausing slightly upon spotting Bram’s pistol, he otherwise avoided sudden movements, brimming with general lethargy. He stopped. The room settled into silence.

“I surrender,” said the priest, voice sullen but plain.

Al blinked. Tension, lingering within the air, fled somewhat, generously granting his shoulders a half-slump. Bram, aim already low, refused overt shifts in grip or posture, but inspected the priest with curiosity. Similar thoughts vexed them both: had they misjudged the situation? Between the three of them, the priest seemed least willing to fight.

Regardless, the worst was over.

The priest lunged forward.

Falling, crouching, kicking, sprinting, each action succeeded the other, launching the priest like a bullet, movements betraying an athlete’s vigor. His expression shone with determination. Bolting down the aisle, low, precise, he raised his arm, face covered, while his other coiled with intent. Bram aimed—fired, once, twice, both shots failing in purpose. Within the second, room crossed, the man rammed into Al.

Breath was knocked into orbit. Crashing into an adjacent pew, pain jolted him into the action his mind denied. Already, Al’s back swelling with another layer of bruises. He landed on his feet, focused, aware the priest was before him, aiming his second strike. Al punched—missed, all air, leaving himself open. The priest countered with his coiled hand.

Unfolding, the hand flattened, striking with the palm. It crushed Al’s chest. Upon impact—

Liquid fire spread from contact, nerves burning with molten needles. Every muscle strung taut, fully flexed, borderline snapping. Static bounced from limb to limb. Within that split second, lightning gathered, then raced from chest to neck, then reached the bottleneck of his spine, then crossed that final barrier—!

Then, nothing. The sensation vanished.

Standing there, breath suspended, Al recovered from the attack, its intended effected ending in failure. He paused, overcome with recognition. That strike. That bolt. That fleeting sense of power. Everything clicked, present circling with the past, dragging the decade-old recollection into light. Looking up, facing the priest, Al found himself joined: shock met shock, confusion met confusion. The priest stood perplexed. Lowering his arm, the man faltered.

“You,” Al said, thoughts racing. “You used magic. You’re a Mage!”

Opening his mouth, the man failed to deliver his response. Bram interrupted from the side, questioned whether the fight was ongoing, and leaned on caution, testing the situation with a sucker punch. Reeling, the man stumbled onto the floor, cursing while gripping his face. One hand waved in surrender.

“Stop, stop!” said the man, falling back, shaking his hand. “I thought you were from the church! I yield!”

Somehow, Al suspected that this surrender was more sincere than the last. Bram disagreed; stepping back, he raised his gun, either ignorant or undisturbed regarding its recent failure. Neither previous shot—Bram had fired twice—connected. Strange, considering the distance involved. Al suspected Bram’s aim wasn’t the issue.

Meanwhile, Al frowned, catching the man’s confession. From the church? Isn’t he from the church? Clarifications were wanted, needed, and that was fine. Answers were immanent. Finally, they caught what long evaded them: an informant. A Mage.

“Don’t stand. Just raise your hands,” Bram commanded. “Al, wait near the door. Warn me if anyone approaches this place. Our friend here might attack again; let him. Leave me behind and bolt, understand?”

“That’s—” Al stepped back. “Alright. I’ll do that.”

Retreating, Al moved towards the entrance. Sunlight stunned him, harsh, his vision having adjusted within the chapel. Blinking several times, he recovered, then scouted the area, finding it empty. He leaned against the frame. Turning back, he partook in the interrogation.

“Where to begin…” Bram hesitated, then nodded. “Name yourself. Are you Dimitri Markos?”

From below, the man froze, then barked out a laugh. Expression morphed from pain to humor, soon settling on disgust. “Markos? You think—are you blind!? You think I’m that shriveled geezer?” He scoffed. “Explains why you kept repeating his name. I assumed it was a threat.”

Al said nothing. Bram also kept quiet, having realized their absurd oversight. Markos was old. Very old. In contrast, the man on the floor appeared young. Older than Bram, maybe, but only just.

Bram continued. “We never actually met Markos—”

“Lucky you!”

“—but we’re aware he visited this chapel yesterday. Well? Know anything about that?”

“Sure. Markos was here. Met him myself, in fact. Wish I hadn’t. Half the conversation was complaints, the rest was threats.” The man frowned. “Wait, you aren’t searching for him, are you?”

Bram nodded. “We are. Why the surprise?”

“You… No, that’s insane, but that’s it, isn’t it? You two are tracking him down? Hoping to score the kill?”

They processed his words.

“Good luck,” the man said. “And I mean that! Ram a bullet through his skull, slice him into bits—whatever, don’t care, hope you win. I wouldn’t really recommend trying though. Doesn’t matter how powerful you think you are, because Markos is a Heretic hunter. Been hunting your kind for years. He’ll make mincemeat out of Mages like you.”

“Hold on,” Al said, joining the discussion. “You think we’re Mages?”

“Aren’t you?”

“No?” replied Al. “Aren’t you? You were the one using magic, right?”

“Yeah, the magic you blocked,” he countered. “What even was that? Cramped my entire hand on the rebound—”

“Stop! Stop!” Bram interrupted, expression betraying his confusion. “You’ve both lost me. What magic are you talking about? Did I miss something?”

Quickly, Al explained the interaction.

“Caught up? Good,” said the man, mouth hinting at a smirk. “Then tell me this: if not Mages, are you Sorcerers?”

Bram sighed, still aiming his pistol. “No clue. Explain the difference.”

“Mages are from proper schools and families, inheriting their secrets from other Mages. Sorcerers lack that crutch. Usually, they’re freelancers who discover magic accidentally. Sometimes they inherit partial teachings, having descended from a broken line. Both types are fools. The forces they invoke are always beyond them.” He grinned, barring his teeth. “Guess which one am I?”

Sidelining the taunt, Al considered the presented distinction. It matched well with what he knew. Mages taught Mages; Sorcerers taught themselves, stumbling into mystery. Bram and himself, therefore, were Sorcerers—Al nodded to himself, shifting his stance, straightening his posture. Sorcerer. The man declared them fools, dismissing even himself, throwing them aside. Al seized the term. Swelling with pride, Al granted himself the title.

“Guess? Really? Because phrasing it that way…” Bram hesitated. “You’re a fool?”

“Exactly!” Laughing, the man looked between them. “We’re all fools, aren’t we? I thought you guys were Mages, you guys thought I was Markos—clearly, mistakes were made. Forget about all that. How about this: explain why you’re trying to kill Markos, and I’ll explain what I know. Fair?”

Bram hummed. “Let’s…back up a bit…”

Their conversation had tangled itself into knots, errors building upon errors. Clarifications were overdue. Backtracking, Bram ironed out several points. Their intentions in entering. Their search for Markos. Bram went further, explaining their status as paranormal investigators. Frowning, the man flashed with curiosity, then blinked, regaining neutrality. Al took note. Once understood, Bram continued with questions, pointing out the mountain of oddities.

Upon arriving, the chapel’s entrance had been barricaded. Curtains covered the altar. The man faked surrender. He resented Markos. Strangest of all, the apparent priest assumed Bram and Al were from the church, his church, and responded with violence, his attempted attack laced with magic. Again, Bram asked for his name.

Answers were granted in reverse.

“Thomas Tilt,” he said, popping his neck. “Well? Who are you?”

Bram denied him that answer. The man—Thomas, supposedly—still posed an indeterminate threat, uncertainty shrouding his motives.

Thomas shrugged. “Fine, keep your secrets. Just tell me this: know anything about an attack that happened here several nights ago? Or anything about bodies washing onto the beach?”

Well. Ignoring the former, the latter proved instant in recognition. Glancing, Al nodded towards Bram, confirming shared understanding. Bodies. Plural. Apparently, their discovery lacked originality. How common, exactly, was the appearance of death, found mutilated near Vell’s shore?

Al rejoined the interrogation.

Things advanced in short order.

Crossing his legs, Thomas relaxed, then dived directly into his situation, describing his reasons for suspicion and caution. His allegiance, he claimed, was with his church. Assigned here, guardian of the chapel and surrounding territory, his duties involved the monitoring and resolving of unusual phenomena, including—Al leaned forward—the presence of anything occult or supernatural. Recently, the night before the last, his chapel found itself under attack. Thomas panicked. Overwhelmed, he requested assistance, receiving a visit from Markos, and worried over further trouble. Markos proved impossible to work with; Thomas refused to divulge the specifics. Regardless, he suspected subsequent attacks, and was currently working on reinforcing the chapel.

Their sudden entrance was unappreciated. Thomas had assumed the worst.

Several questions remained however, including—

“You rammed into me,” Al began. “Then, you admitted thinking that we were from your church. Where’s the logic there?”

“Technically, I thought you were working with Markos. I’m not exactly on friendly terms with him. Well? Understand?”

“Alright,” Al replied, dropping the topic. Irritating Thomas was counterproductive. “Then, what about the altar?”

Thomas smirked. “Oh, that? I’ve been working on something. Something secret. Something special. Something Mages would kill over, assuming they understood its value. Hear me out: I’ll explain my pet project, but, afterwards, you guys will trade me something in return. How about it?”

“Depends,” Bram replied. “What do you want?”

“Assistance. You guys are Sorcerers, like me. Finding support for this stuff is borderline impossible, and Mages aren’t worth working with, so, let’s form an alliance of sorts!”

Afterwards, an agreement was reached. Concerns remained. Thomas kept some secrets, especially regarding Markos, but otherwise proved himself a reliable source of information. He also offered something that Al, in frustration, had begun suspecting was nonexistent: a willingness to collaborate. Thomas was welcomed, if only as a steppingstone.

Stepping back, Bram lowered his pistol. Thomas stood and dusted himself off, looking rather pleased with himself. He strolled down the aisle, stopping before the curtains. Still lingering near the door, Al leaned forward, completely focused on the grand unveiling.

Thomas pulled back the curtain.

***

Later, at home, attempting to sleep, Al remembered an overlooked detail. Thomas Tilt had explained much. More than expected, really. However, he couldn’t answer what went unasked.

Before falling to oblivion, Al realized his forgotten question: why had the chapel reeked, stained with the smell of bleach?