The pins clattered against the cobblestones, a metallic rattle swallowed by rain.

  I dragged myself from the water, boots heavy, lungs still burning, and stared at what remained.

  The warehouse was half gone - its right side collapsed inward like a crushed ribcage. Fire licked through splintered beams, the acrid smoke curling into the gray sky. The ship inside the dock was scarred but still upright, its steel hull blackened, its bow looming from the ruin like some great beast half-unearthed.

  I climbed the rubble, boots slipping over wet stone, until I reached what was left of the doors. Shouts echoed as Imperial soldiers stormed the barricades behind me, but I was already slipping into the wreckage.

  Inside, smoke stung my throat. Crates lay shattered across the deck of the ship, their contents spilled - rifles, ammunition, twisted scraps of charred uniforms. Amid the wreckage, a small desk still stood. Papers scattered across it, weighed down by a gasoline canister.

  I rifled through them fast.

  The first was a letter. Short. Coded, but clear enough.

  Orders from Halrigg. How to receive the shipment. Where to hide it. A final line-

  The Silent Choir has erased their tracks for unknown reasons. This will be our last shipment of weapons from our mysterious benefactor. Patrols should be minimal due to the parade, so your windows short. Libertatem Vel Mortem. Good luck, Mason.

  Mason...

  Must’ve been the dude shouting before.

  I offered a silent prayer in my head for him before I continued.

  Libertatem Vel Mortem...

  My lips pressed thin.

  The phrase again. The chant from the street.

  I clenched the papers, then glanced at the gasoline. A sigh tore through me.

  “Sorry, Arthur.”

  I doused the letters, struck my lighter, and watched the ink curl black. The flame spread fast, devouring every line, every name. Ash scattered to the storm’s breath.

  “Halrigg must remain innocent for now,” I muttered. “I fear the Bishop is trying to divert our attention. He's always one step ahead, but I won't let the people of this city be sacrificed for his sick games.”

  But the thought lodged sharp.

  If I erased their trail, that meant I had to find evidence that this was the Bishops doing. That he purposefully orchestrated this day to distract us.

  Otherwise, tonight’s blood was only the start.

  If someone somehow found out I burnt this evidence...

  I closed my eyes, breathing smoke.

  Whatever answer I give Arthur and the Regent now decides who the scapegoat will be, and it has to be the bishop. Question is, what evidence can I present?

  Boots thundered outside. Shouts. Rifles cocked.

  I stepped back into the rain, water running down my face as soldiers swung their rifles toward me.

  “Hold!” one barked. Recognition sparked. “It’s him - lower your weapons!”

  Muzzles dipped instantly, stammered apologies spilling from their lips.

  The noble commander from before stepped forward, rain streaking his cap. His gaze swept me once, sharp. “Saints above… you actually pulled it off.” His eyes narrowed faintly. “No doubt about it - you’re Arthur’s kin.”

  I smirked despite myself, brushing ash from my coat. “Kin’s a bit of a stretch.”

  His attention shifted to the wreckage. The bodies. The splintered crates. His lip curled, disgust plain on his face.

  “The peasants have gone too far this time. Hell itself will rain upon them. Divine judgment.”

  I almost said something - almost reminded him who had fed the flames to begin with. But the words died in my throat.

  Because the ground was moving.

  A black-purple sheen seeped from the corpses, bubbling like tar. Rain mixed with it, carrying rivulets together until they slithered across the stones. Flesh melted, bones dissolved, until all that remained was the writhing mass, dragging itself into shape.

  Soldiers staggered back, shouts rising in panic.

  My heart dropped like a stone.

  “Oh shit,” I muttered under my breath. “There’s my evidence.”

  The mass swelled, twisted, and then - slowly - rose into the outline of a man.

  I knew that shape.

  The half-broken mask. The grin. The eyes that gleamed green through the cracks of shattered porcelain.

  The Bishop.

  His voice cut through the rain, broken and gleeful.

  “We meet again, little angel.”

  I couldn’t help it - I smiled. Exhaustion, disbelief, maybe even hysteria tugging at my lips as I stared at him.

  Unauthorized tale usage: if you spot this story on Amazon, report the violation.

  “It’s been a bit,” I said quietly.

  The Bishop tilted his head. Porcelain cracks shifted as his grin widened, his broken mask gleaming in the rain. “Yes… I suppose it has.”

  His voice was smooth, almost conversational, but his eyes - those sickly green eyes - glimmered with fever.

  “I had hoped these people would take the attention off me with this attack today,” he went on, almost wistful. “But it seems an Angel decided to intervene. I can't decide between being proud and disappointed. And now you've destroyed the evidence. Do you enjoy ruining my plan, little one?”

  His eyes were thin, and his smile was twisted as though he was conflicted.

  My stomach tightened. I could feel eyes all around me, staring at me in shock.

  Shit, did he have to say all that out loud?

  Better change the topic quick.

  My eyes narrowed. “What have you done with the Cardinal? What are your intentions in this city?”

  The Bishop’s grin widened, teeth flashing through porcelain. “Intentions? No, no, no. Today was nothing but a distraction. Your precious city-” he spread his arms, voice rising, “-has thirty-six hours left.”

  Laughter tore from his throat, jagged and manic, echoing off the ruined walls. Soldiers shrank back, rifles trembling in their hands.

  “Thirty-six hours until what?” I demanded, voice sharp.

  He leaned closer, mask splitting wider. “Thirty-six hours… until judgment. Until the heavens open, and your people face retribution. The Cardinal has been a great help! It took some convincing, though...”

  He acted depressed, as though he was pained for having to 'convince' the Cardinal.

  I ignored his antics as my eyes narrowed.

  What is exactly is this crazy bastard planning?

  The black-purple ooze dripped from his limbs, pooling at his feet. He didn’t seem to notice. His laughter rose again, higher, sharper, until it drowned the rain itself.

  “But in consideration of you, my lost child…” His voice dipped, suddenly soft, almost fond. “…I’ll help get rid of some more evidence, and offer a little taste of whats to come. Until we meet again...”

  His gaze pierced into mine, the green eye glowing like a lantern through cracked porcelain.

  “Also, take the other little angel with you next time. I miss her already~.”

  My breath caught. Mary.

  He was talking about Mary.

  The mask split into a grin wider than human. Then his body sloughed apart, collapsing into a flood of bubbling tar.

  The rain hissed against it. The soldiers stared, pale and frozen. The noble commander turned to me, lips parting in horror.

  “What did he call you?” he whispered, his hand trembling toward his pistol. “He called you an Ang-”

  He never finished.

  The ooze had reached his boot. The moment it touched, his body dissolved, crumbling into the same sludge with a scream that was cut short.

  “Fuck,” I hissed. "Guess that's what he meant by helping with evidence."

  One by one, the soldiers followed - eyes wide, bodies unraveling like wax under flame as the ooze swallowed them whole. The cobblestones bubbled with the flood, voices crying out in agony as their shapes melted into it.

  The noble’s pistol clattered uselessly to the stones. His mouth opened, no sound but a wet gurgle before he collapsed into the tide.

  I stood there, heart pounding, surrounded by the stench of dissolution and the horror of dissolving bodies.

  The ooze began to rise.

  Arms. Legs. Faces. Dozens of them, stretched and broken, clawing at the air before melting back in. Mouths shrieked wordless cries, layers of agony tangled together until it was more sound than meaning. The mass swelled, fused, towering into a grotesque blob of limbs and torsos. A thousand fragments of humanity, all screaming at once.

  My pistol was already raised, my finger white on the trigger as Charlotte's eyes shone from my own, dying the world in red.

  With my free hand, I dug Arthur’s medallion from my coat pocket. The sharp edge bit into my palm, blood dripping down the chain as I clenched it tight.

  The metal pulsed, faintly at first, then stronger, as though answering.

  I aimed at the writhing horror and muttered under my breath.

  “Arthur… you’d better come quick.”

  The first shot cracked like thunder. The bullet tore into the writhing flesh - then sank uselessly, vanishing like a stone into the sea. No blood. No reaction.

  “Great,” I hissed through my teeth, snapping off more rounds. “Just great.”

  The blob surged. Dozens of arms sprouted at once, slick with tar, each one lashing toward me like spears.

  I bolted, boots slipping across the rubble. The air screamed as the arms stabbed through stone and steel, missing me by inches. I ducked behind a shattered crate - splinters exploded as three arms punched straight through it, nearly skewering my ribs.

  I moved without thinking. The world became a blur of limbs and shattered cover. The creature shrieked, each cry layered with a hundred screaming voices, until my eardrums throbbed like they’d burst.

  I dashed toward the ship. Its iron hull loomed like salvation. My boots clanged against the ramp as I sprinted inside, the arms tearing gouges into the steel behind me.

  The walls shook. Metal screeched as limbs punched through both sides at once, stabbing where I’d been standing a heartbeat ago - the only thing keeping me alive being Charlotte's Eyes. I dove forward, rolling across the deck, my pistol barking uselessly at the oncoming tide.

  “Goddammit,” I muttered between gasps, shadows swirling frantically at my feet. “I really need to start carrying a sword.”

  For a moment, the barrage stopped. The arms withdrew, vanishing into the mass outside.

  I froze, chest heaving. Sweat slicked my face. “Maybe it’s… tired?”

  The thought barely left my lips before the sound hit me.

  A tearing shriek, iron ripping like paper. The entire ship lurched. The hull split down the middle, beams snapping as the monster’s mass tore it apart from the outside.

  “Shit, shit, shit!” I bolted deeper, down narrow ladders and slick gangways. Above me, the roof peeled away like skin, daylight cutting jagged holes through the steel. Each screech made my teeth ache, each slam of arms splitting bulkheads closer and closer to where I fled.

  Finally, I hit the lowest deck. No more ladders. No more stairs. Just rusted steel walls and seawater rising at my boots.

  The hull tore open.

  The blob’s bulk loomed through the breach, its mask-faced core staring down at me with that broken grin, arms writhing as they reached inward.

  My pistol clicked empty. I backed against the wall, lungs burning, heart hammering like a drum. The arms shot forward. Charlotte's Eyes burned.

  And then - light.

  A golden streak cut through the gloom, cleaving one arm, then another. The monster froze. Its mass trembled, shrieking so loud I thought the ship itself would collapse.

  The glow spread through its body, splitting it from within. For one awful second, it looked like the thing was trying to scream and laugh all at once. Then-

  It burst.

  Tar and gore rained across the deck. I staggered, drenched in the slime. The stink clung to my throat, bile rising - until fire caught.

  Golden fire.

  The ooze on my coat, my skin, the deck itself - all of it ignited in sacred flame. It didn’t burn me. Not even a singe. Only the monster. Only the filth.

  I blinked through the haze, stumbling toward the breach in the hull as Charlotte's Eyes retreated. Smoke curled upward, rain hissing against burning sludge.

  And then I saw him.

  Arthur stood on the pier, his blade wreathed in golden fire, his coat soaked in a mixture of blood and blood, but his posture remained steady. His eyes were hard, his expression carved in iron.

  He lowered the sword, embers dripping from its edge like molten gold.

  “Who did this?” His voice was cold, sharp as steel.

  I met his gaze. My lips tightened, my jaw clenched.

  Well, it's now or never.

  I forced the words out steady.

  “The Bishop.”

  The rain kept falling. The fire burned on.