“Why should I bleed for man? Why must my lifeblood be spilt for such wretched creatures? Why bear the burdens they themselves have wrought? What a foolish race we truly are."

  – A frightened arcanist.

  I returned the rifle to cane form with a soft "Cawww" and then met Mary’s unwavering stare. I took one last deliberate glance around the room—lingering on the familiar insignia—before offering her a pleasant, reassuring smile.

  The smile seemed to ignite something in her. Fear twisted into fury. I understood, of course. To witness such depravity wrought by one’s own kind—undignified, grotesque, a mockery of art—was abhorrent. Yet it remained… fascinating.

  I considered words of comfort. “I am sorry for your loss?" She knew none here. “All will be well”? The scene mocked the notion. “We shall uncover the perpetrators?" We already had.

  A simple pat on the back would suffice.

  I extended my hand with warm intent. She slapped it away.

  “How could you?!” she shouted.

  Confusion must have shown on my face, for she seized my collar and pressed her dagger to my throat.

  The display amused me—thrilling, even. Yet the insolence of it, the grip on my collar, the blade at my neck… Irritation flickered beneath my composure. I kept my smile fixed and gently attempted to disengage her hands.

  She clung tighter.

  For a fleeting moment, I considered breaking the offending wrist. Instead, I spoke with measured calm.

  “Mary, while I applaud such raw emotion, I confess confusion as to why it is directed at me.”

  “You killed her!”

  “Correct. Yet she was already dead.”

  “Lies! She was breathing—still alive! We could have helped her, healed her—but you murdered her!”

  “An understandable sentiment", I replied evenly. “Nevertheless, she was deceased. If you doubt me, observe.”

  Hatred burnt in her eyes, but she turned too late to miss the evidence already unfolding. The girl’s body began to decompose at an unnatural pace: flesh sloughing away, skin greying, bones showing through in seconds.

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  Mary’s grip slackened. The dagger was withdrawn. Shock replaced fury.

  I offered quiet enlightenment.

  “She had likely perished long before we arrived. The room’s miasma chained her soul to the corpse, trapping her in perpetual torment. My shot released her.”

  Silence stretched. Then, faintly: “Miasma?”

  “Condensed arcane residue. When it pools so densely, it becomes toxic to the living—corrupting flesh and mind alike. The stronger the concentration, the more profound the warping.”

  I gestured toward the three men. “It already twisted their minds, reduced from near-sensible humans to little more than beasts. A thorough search of their bodies would likely reveal physical deformities.”

  She said nothing. I gently freed myself from her grasp and patted her shoulder. After a few seconds the gesture seemed to steady her.

  She straightened, impassive mask restored—though faint tremors lingered. When I reached to pat her head in gentle reassurance, she knocked my hand aside—lightly but firmly.

  I smiled. “The true question is what caused such a concentration of miasma in the first place.”

  She frowned in confusion.

  “Miasma requires a substantial reservoir of residual energy to form. These men lacked the capacity to generate it on this scale.”

  “What about that altar?” she asked. “Could a god have aided them?”

  I regarded the crude construction and its insignia once more. “Impossible. For now, however, we should report this to headquarters.”

  She nodded sharply and hurried from the room as though fleeing its weight.

  I followed at a measured pace, locking each door behind us.

  Downstairs, Mary waited. I raised a questioning brow; she nodded—she had already contacted the HQ. The carriage driver had gone to summon nearby exorcists.

  I thanked her and resumed our conversation.

  “As you are aware, gods cannot be summoned by name—only by title. Even titles carry hierarchy: the Goddess of Death, the God of Love, and so forth. Each bears a unique insignia, as you know. This one belongs to the Heartkeeper—a deity particularly beloved—and feared—among fae.”

  Mary gave me a searching look. “How do you—”

  “Mary, dear,” I interrupted gently, “I may appear young by human measure, but by fae reckoning, I am rather ancient. The Heartkeeper is also known as the Maiden of Heartbreaks. She delights in testing romantic bonds—seducing partners regardless of gender to gauge the strength of their devotion. Pass her trial, and she will grant a wish from her carefully curated list. Most fail. Those who do often pledge themselves to her in undying affection—hence the moniker Heartkeeper.”

  I continued, my voice calm and measured.

  “Whatever inspired those men upstairs, whatever promises or visions the miasma fed them, she would never answer such a summons. Her trials are elegant, subtle, and personal. This…” I gestured vaguely upwards. “This is crude. Desperate. Beneath her.”

  “And finally…” I added, watching her absorb the information with quiet intensity, "The fae are not a single, monolithic race but a spectrum of kindred species—much like humanity in its diversity. In truth, the human and fae realms differ chiefly in governance, customs, and the permeability of their borders. Little else separates us at the root.”

  I fell silent, oddly satisfied. A small, private pleasure stirred within me.

  Perhaps I enjoyed explaining things to others.