Martin left the Chapel of the Faceless God with Jacques' promise to put one of his Faceless Boys on it. He was very clear with Martin that it was a low-priority case for them, but it would at least be an opportunity for one of the younger ones to gain some experience. As he left, Jacques encouraged him not to put his mission on standby for the sake of the girl.

  In the morning, the line for day workers seemed even longer than it had been last week, but the men still seemed in decent spirits. As winter approached, their smiles would slowly wane as they bundled themselves up to keep warm. It was mercifully busy that day, and Martin was able to put aside thoughts of missing children and island horrors for a few hours of manual labor.

  During the lunch break, Martin and his team shared the results of their night's search. The only thing that turned up was a report of the Grey Man's latest victim. It was a beggar this time, one the dockers of Crane's Landing had seen before, as he used to sneak in to steal nails, a crime punishable by a few days in a workhouse. When he asked why he did it, the boy told one of the kinder enforcers that at least in the workhouse, he could have a meal and a roof over his head for a few days. They found his body in an alley a few blocks from the Landing, heart and liver removed.

  With no good news to bolster them, the team could only agree to keep searching. Martin turned down Sly's invitation to go play cards with some of the lads at another dockyard and instead returned to the library. He was slowly nearing the end of the newspapers, but had yet to find anything resembling the events of his family's murder. He returned home frustrated and lay awake stewing in his own powerlessness.

  It was Martin’s day off, so he let himself sleep in, and as a result, Boudica had departed for work by the time he got out of bed. He was grateful for that, as it spared him having to come up with an excuse for how he planned to spend the day. He ate a quick breakfast of bread, water, and a single piece of dried meat, then quickly bathed and put on some of the only clothes he had that were appropriate for church. As usual, he found Deacon Thomas standing by the entrance. The Deacon greeted him by name as soon as he saw him.

  “Good morning, Martin. My apologies if I put you in an uncomfortable position with your…wife the other day.”

  “No need for apologies, Deacon. Boudica has had her own troubles with her faith. I only hope one day she’ll return as I have.”

  “The True Creator will welcome back all his creations, if only they bring themselves to him. Is she really your wife?”

  “Civilly, yes. We’ve never been able to have a child, though, I’m afraid.”

  “I see.” Deacon Thomas nodded, understanding dawning. “That doctrine has been a test of many of his children’s faith, but it is not insurmountable. With his blessing, all things might still be possible.”

  Martin saw little point in sharing Boudica’s stronger indictment of the church and simply thanked the Deacon for his thoughts. He made his way into the church, pausing a moment to view the three rooms that served as this parish’s confessionals. They were accessible from the main lobby of the church and roped off to allow for long lines of faithful to await their turn. Martin checked briefly with an usher to confirm that confession was being offered that day and that Vicar Corvus would be in one of the booths. He thanked the usher for his help and entered the main church, quickly finding a seat near the back. The incense seemed particularly heavy, as if to ward off the cold still hanging in the air from last night. Before long, the church organ began to play, and everyone rose solemnly to their feet. Since Martin had been occupied with Rafe and other matters recently, his church attendance had suffered. The procession was his first time to see Vicar Corvus in quite a while.

  Throughout the service, Martin watched the Vicar carefully. If there was something evil in him, something connected to the death of the Facless Man's family, it was deeply hidden. As he began his sermon, the congregation sat in rapt attention, the Vicar’s words igniting a primal fear in their hearts.

  “Let me be clear,” Vicar Corvus said, “to consort with these entities, to entertain their whispers and their lies, is to court eternal damnation. The path they offer leads only to destruction, both of your own soul and of the very nation in which we live.”

  He paused, allowing the weight of his words to sink in before continuing. “The Devourer,” he spat. “The Faceless God.” He pounded on his lectern. “The Liminal God. The Beautiful Goddess. I say to you there is but one God, and he is the True Creator.”

  A few people began to shout their agreement, and Vicar Corvus waved them silent with a gesture.

  “The True Creator has shown us the way. It is a path, laden with burdens and twists and turns so that we may not immediately see its end, but it is a path of righteousness and one that ends with light. It is our duty. It is our sacred obligation to tread upon that path, to resist the temptation of these cosmic interlopers, parading themselves as gods and offering nothing but petty tricks and damnation.

  Imagine for a moment that damnation. The Grey Man, the monster that walks our streets, has condemned himself to this path. He shall be found, and he shall be punished in this life, but I assure you, whichever of the punishments the Queen’s executioner decides on for this monster shall be nothing in comparison to the fate awaiting him after death. Do not follow in his footsteps.”

  He slammed down once again on his lectern with the weight of an axe reaching the chopping block. “We must be vigilant. We must protect our brethren. And we must be true. The Church stands as a bulwark against the darkness, but it is through your faith, your adherence to the True Creator’s will, that we will prevail.”

  As the sermon drew to a close, the vicar offered up a prayer, a solemn invocation for strength and guidance in the battle against all that would harm humanity.

  “Let us pray, for the strength to resist, for the wisdom to see through deception, and for the courage to defend our faith against all threats, seen and unseen.”

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

  The congregation joined in the prayer, a chorus of voices lifted in supplication, bound by a common fear and a shared resolve. As they slowly filed out of the church at the conclusion of the service, the words of Vicar Corvus echoed in their minds. Martin idly wondered how long it would stay in their minds. Most of the people around him would likely never be confronted by cosmic temptation; their temptation would be of a much more worldly sort, and he imagined those sorts of failures were what most of the people lining up in front of him were here to confess.

  Martin had pushed forward to join the line in front of Vicar Corvus’ confessional. Deacon Thomas and one of the other priests were in the two remaining booths—the Deacon’s line considerably longer than the other priest’s. Corvus commanded the most respect, however, and most people wanted their absolution to come directly from the top priest of their area. Martin had been longing for a chance to see the man up close, and as a result was willing to wait in this long line for one of the few chances he had to meet a man of Vicar Corvus’ stature.

  As he waited, Martin’s gaze wandered over the gathered congregation. His eyes fell upon faces marked by devotion, guilt, and everything in between. Among them, he found a figure that stood out—the servant he had spotted at the dockyard. He was wearing the same familiar robes and carried himself with the same bearing that was so unbecoming of a lowly servant of the church. Today, he was walking up and down the line in front of Vicar Corvus’ confessional, occasionally stopping to push someone forward or adjust the line for reasons known only to himself.

  It was as the servant walked past Martin in line that he first felt it, an irregular thump in his heart. He dismissed it as just his imagination, but then it happened again, and then again. With every moment that passed, as he inched closer to the front of the line, Martin could feel the sense of dread that gripped his heart intensifying. It was as if with every step, the layers of his stolen identity were being peeled away, exposing him to some unseen entity that threatened to unravel his very existence. He kept his eyes closed as much as he could, focusing on his breath, his daughter’s face held closely to his mind.

  Elisia. Elisia.

  His breathing helped him stay calm, but still his heart pounded in his chest, a drumbeat of panic that echoed through his body, and in his imagination, out to everyone in the hall around him. The crowd around him slowly faded into a blur, their whispered prayers and idle chatter just background noise to the drama that was unfolding inside of him. He could feel it. An imminent exposure, a revelation that would strip away the facade of Martin and reveal the hideous Faceless Man beneath. The thought was unbearable, a nightmare from which he feared he could never awaken.

  He was almost to the front of the line now. The sins of those in front of them must be mercifully few, as the line seemed to be moving faster, each step carrying him closer to the gaping maw of the confessional he was foolishly and willingly delivering himself unto.

  Finally, he reached the breaking point. Another penitent had left the confessional, and the line took a step forward, but the Faceless Man did not. The old woman behind him nearly stepped into him, but was able to stop herself in time. The man behind her was not so quick on his feet. The scuffle drew the attention of the servant the Faceless Man had been watching before.

  “No pushing,” he came over to say, “or I’ll pull you out of line, and no confession will be enough to save your wretched self.”

  “Sorry,” Martin excused himself, “I’m suddenly not feeling so well.”

  The man gave him a peculiar look. “Don’t you dare be sick in this line.” He lifted the rope between the stanchions and gestured for Martin to leave. Martin hesitated for a moment; he was just a few people from the entrance to the confessional, but at last the terror that gripped his heart got to be too much, and trusting it as his body trying to preserve his life, he ducked under the rope with muttered apologies to those around him.

  The church servant pointed him toward the bathroom and then moved on to the next source of potential trouble. Besides the few people in the immediate vicinity, his departure from the line went largely unnoticed. He took one last longing look at the confessional, his hand gripped over his heart as he felt his pulse continue to beat with fear. He took a few steps towards the bathroom at the far end of the hall before coming up short again. There at the end of the hall, walking straight towards him, was a woman.

  Her hair was golden and seemed to glow with an otherworldly light. Her white robes, anachronistic even in the realm of the church, were pristine without even a speck of dust or dirt. She walked slowly and gracefully through the crowd, yet no one seemed to notice her, their bodies unconsciously shifting so as not to get in her way. Martin froze, convinced the woman was coming straight at him. However, the woman barely looked at him. When she was finally upon him, she turned her head slightly to look him in the eye and graced him with a small, pitying smile, before continuing on her way out of the church.

  Martin remained rooted to the spot, his hand clutched even tighter to the shirt above his heart. A sudden tap on his shoulder made him jump. He spun around, almost drawing his faceless dagger in fright, but thankfully, he retained enough recognition of where he was to hold off. It was the old woman who was in line behind him. She jolted back in fright when Martin spun so violently, but upon seeing the look on his face, she softened her expression and asked softly if he was okay or if he wanted her to fetch a doctor. Martin apologized again and hurried off to the bathroom, unsteady on his feet and nearly bumping into a few churchgoers on his way there, his path a far cry from the grace he had just seen in that woman.

  In the sanctuary of the bathroom, he leaned heavily against the cool marble of the sink, the reflection of Martin’s face staring back at him. Who was that woman? And why had she looked at him like that? Did she see the face that was staring at him in the mirror, or had she seen through the glass to the monster underneath?

  His panic slowly receded, leaving behind a residue of shame and relief. He had fled from his one opportunity to speak to Father Corvus in person, but at least his identity was intact as far as he could tell. He would consult Jacques as to the identity of that woman, and he would figure out how to better protect his identity.

  The Faceless Man splashed some water on his face and looked up to look at his reflection. His eyes retained their focus as he began to focus on his breathing.

  He was Martin.

  Elisia. Elisia.

  He was Martin.

  Elisia. Elisia.

  He was Martin.

  When he finally left the bathroom, much of the crowd had dispersed. Deacon Thomas had closed his confessional for the day and was out mingling with the faithful. Martin had hoped to sneak out without speaking to anyone, but Thomas, with his almost supernatural ability, spotted him and greeted him again by name. Martin felt compelled to go over and join the circle of people around him.

  “Welcome, Martin. I was just speaking about my project. I’m trying to raise money to expand the local orphanage. With the terrors walking the streets these days, we need a safe place to house the poor children of Alderbridge.”

  “Ah, that’s a… truly worthy cause, Deacon. I know a few of the orphans myself.”

  “I’m in the early stages of planning an event to raise funds. I hope you’ll take part once I have it fleshed out… are you alright, Martin?”

  “Yes, I’m fine. I just… Something I ate seems to have disagreed with me.”

  Deacon Thomas gave him a sympathetic look. “Well then, I should not keep you. Please take care of yourself, Martin.” He leaned in for a parting handshake and, softly so only Martin could hear, said “mugwort tea. It’s a wonder for an upset stomach,” and parted with a wink.

  Martin muttered his thanks and made his way out of the church. He found his way to the Park of the Daughter and let himself bask in the light of the sun. Part of him felt like he was committing a crime by enjoying the day as a creature of the night, but he didn’t care. He sank once again into his breathing and eventually found his peace.