The mortician drew a deep breath of the cold night air, his chest tight with exhaustion. Clutching his leather satchel as if it contained his very soul, he hurried toward the familiar silhouette of his shop. Its weathered facade blended into the surrounding shadows, the faint glow of the moonlight barely illuminating its edges. Just as his hand slipped into his coat pocket for the key, a voice broke the quiet.

"Evening."

He startled, his breath catching as he turned. At the edge of the street stood Sheriff Harwood. "Sheriff," the mortician said, forcing a steady tone despite the unease creeping through him. "What brings you here at this hour?"

The sheriff stepped forward, his gait slow but easy, his boots crunching softly against the cobblestones. "I was hoping to have a word with you. You weren’t at home, and I figured you’d turn up here sooner or later."

The mortician swallowed, his fingers tightening around the strap of his satchel. "About what, exactly?"

Harwood stopped just short of the light, his expression calm but expectant. "Why don’t we step inside?" he suggested. "Wouldn't want to keep you in the cold."

The mortician hesitated, then fumbled with his keys, his tired hands unsteady. The lock clicked, and the door creaked open, the sound stretching into the stillness. Inside, the air was thick—saturated with the acrid bite of formaldehyde and the faint, metallic tang of blood.

Harwood followed him in, scanning the workroom with quiet curiosity. The mortician lit a lantern, its flickering glow pushing back the shadows. But as the light stretched across the center of the room, his breath hitched.

There, laid out in stark, lifeless repose on the cold slab, was Finnegan.

A strangled gasp escaped the mortician’s lips as he stumbled back, gripping the edge of a nearby table. "How—how did the body get here?"

"That," came a smooth, almost amused voice from the darkness, "would be my doing."

Both men turned toward the sound as Antioch stepped from the shadows. “My poor friend Finnegan,” he said with a theatrical sigh. “I found him in such an unfortunate state, and, well… I thought the most logical place for him would be here.”

The mortician exhaled sharply, gripping the strap of his satchel as if it were the only thing keeping him grounded. “That doesn’t give you the right to break into my shop,” he muttered, casting a wary glance at the body on the slab.

Antioch’s smirk deepened. “I do have a rather nasty habit of breaking and entering,” he said, spreading his hands in mock apology.

He turned his gaze toward Harwood, who stood stiffly near the door, arms crossed. “Isn’t that right, Sheriff?” Antioch asked.

Harwood’s expression didn’t shift, but there was a tightening at his jaw. “Don’t remind me,” he said gruffly.

Antioch rested a hand on the cold embalming table, his fingers tapping idly against its surface. “Now that you know why I’m here,” he said smoothly, “let’s discuss the reason for the sheriff’s visit tonight.” His gaze flicked to the mortician. “It concerns another body that may have passed through your hands—a woman.”

The mortician exhaled. “I’ve had the unfortunate task of preparing many ladies for burial,” he said carefully. “You’ll have to be more specific.”

Antioch gestured toward Harwood.

 “It was about a year ago,” Harwood said. “She was placed in a coffin and smuggled aboard the Albatross—only to be discarded at sea.”

The mortician’s shoulders slumped, a weary sigh slipping from his lips. His grip on the satchel loosened, fingers trembling as though the weight of his past had finally caught up to him. “I knew this day would come,” he said, his voice hollow. He kept his eyes on the floor, unwilling to meet their gaze, before finally swallowing hard and forcing himself to look up. “They brought her to me in the dead of night,” he began.

Harwood’s expression hardened. “Go on.”

The mortician let out a shaky breath. “Two men brought her in,” he said. “Both were on edge—glancing over their shoulders as if they feared a ghost was trailing them.”

Or a muse, Antioch mused silently, listening intently.

“Is that how bodies usually arrive at your door?” Harwood asked.

“No,” the mortician admitted. “It was highly unusual.”

“But you went along with it,” Harwood pressed.

The mortician flinched, shame flickering across his face. “What choice did I have?” he muttered. “The men worked for the Blackwoods—a family too rich and powerful to refuse.”

Antioch’s eyebrow lifted at the mention of the Blackwoods. Only a few months had passed since he and Harahel had helped expose their corruption, unraveling their empire of deceit. Since then, they had been fugitives, slipping through the cracks of the law, always a step ahead of the noose tightening around them. And now, it seemed, the Blackwoods’ shadow stretched further than he’d anticipated.

 “Well, well,” Antioch said. “The Blackwoods do have a habit of leaving messes for others to clean up, don’t they?”

The mortician shot him a wary glance but said nothing.

Harwood, however, was far from amused. His sharp gaze locked onto the mortician. “What state was the body in? Did she show any signs of foul play?”

The mortician hesitated, his fingers tightening around the strap of his satchel once more. A shadow flickered across his face, as if wrestling with the weight of the truth. Finally, with a heavy sigh, he spoke.

"She wasn’t dead."

"What do you mean, she wasn’t dead?" the sheriff pressed.

The mortician swallowed hard. "She was breathing—barely. Her skin was cold, her pulse faint, but she was alive. I’ve seen death in all its forms, Sheriff, and I know when someone’s truly gone. This woman was under… something. Some spell, some curse. The kind you read about in old stories, where the princess only wakes with a kiss."

Antioch let out a soft, knowing chuckle. "Ah, how delightfully poetic," he mused. "Though I doubt our slumbering lady was awaiting true love’s embrace."

The mortician’s fingers trembled, the weight of the past pressing against his weary frame. “It was the darkest kind of magic—the kind that lingers in the bones, in the air. The moment I laid eyes on her, I knew she was cursed.”

Harwood’s expression darkened. “But you put her in a coffin anyway.”

The mortician hesitated, then gave a weary nod. “I had no choice. If I were a braver man, perhaps I would have done differently… but the Blackwoods, the dark magic—I didn’t dare ask questions. I simply did as I was told.”

"Such a pity," Antioch said, turning from Finnegan's body and striding toward the mortician.

His footsteps echoed softly against the wooden floor as he approached the mortician, his stride smooth and predatory, like a shadow slipping through the dark. His sharp eyes glinted with something unspoken, a dangerous mix of amusement and malice. The mortician stiffened, his breath shallow, and Sheriff Harwood's hand instinctively drifted to the hilt of his dagger. But even Harwood knew—steel was no match for a god, especially one as mercurial as Antioch.

Antioch stopped just inches from the mortician, his presence overwhelming, suffocating. With a slow, deliberate motion, he reached into the folds of his coat. The mortician squeezed his eyes shut, bracing for the worst—but instead of cold steel or something far worse, there was only the soft jingle of coins.

When the mortician dared to open his eyes, he found a small leather pouch resting in Antioch's outstretched hand. The trickster god dropped it into the mortician's trembling grasp without a word, the weight of the gold stark against the man's calloused palm. Then, as if the moment had never held any tension, Antioch turned on his heel and sauntered back to where Finnegan's body lay.

He crouched beside the corpse, tracing a finger with eerie tenderness along Finnegan's weathered face, mapping every wrinkle, every scar, as though etching them into memory. The room felt colder, the shadows deeper.

Without looking up, Antioch spoke. "Put him in your finest coffin. Bury him in the best plot you have."

The mortician, still clutching the bag of coins, found his voice, though it wavered. "How should I mark the grave, sir?"

Antioch's finger paused on Finnegan's temple. He slowly stood, casting the mortician a glance over his shoulder. "Leave it unmarked for now. But keep a headstone set aside for him."

Without another word, Antioch turned and walked toward the door, his silhouette swallowed by the darkness as he disappeared into the night.

The next morning, Sheriff Harwood walked to his office, the chill of dawn clinging to his coat. His mind was still clouded with the restless shadows of the night before, but any lingering fatigue vanished the moment he saw a familiar figure lounging casually by the door.

Antioch.

The trickster god leaned against the doorframe, a faint, smug grin curling at the corners of his mouth, his arms crossed as if he'd been waiting for hours—or mere seconds. It was always impossible to tell with him.

Harwood sighed heavily, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Why didn’t you just break into my office like you did my house.”

Antioch’s grin widened, his eyes glinting with that infuriating hint of mischief. “Consider this…” he gestured vaguely at the door, “…an evolution in our friendship.”

Harwood snorted, brushing past him to unlock the door. “If this is friendship, I’d hate to see how you treat your enemies.”

Antioch chuckled softly. “Oh, Sheriff, I assure you—they don’t get nearly as much of my time.”

Harwood rolled his eyes, pushing past him to unlock the door. The hinges groaned as he stepped inside, Antioch following uninvited, as usual. The sheriff didn’t bother to offer a seat; Antioch perched on the edge of his desk anyway, flicking dust from his sleeve as if he owned the place.

“I’m here to tell you,” Antioch began, “I’ll be handling Selene’s disappearance from now on.”

Harwood spun around, his fists clenching at his sides. “After everything I’ve gone through, you expect me to just stop?” The words shot out before he could temper them, the heat of his anger making him forget he was speaking to a god.

Antioch’s smile faded, replaced by a cold glint in his eyes. “Yes,” he said, his voice carrying the weight of something ancient and immutable. “We are dealing with dark magic, Sheriff. That’s not in your job description.”

Harwood opened his mouth to protest, but Antioch raised a hand, silencing him with a gesture. “You’ve done enough to slightly redeem yourself from your earlier incompetence. Consider that a rare compliment.”

The words stung more than Harwood cared to admit. But beneath the god’s arrogance, there was a grim truth he couldn’t ignore. He exhaled slowly, the fight draining from his shoulders.

“Fine,” he muttered. “But if you need me…”

“I won’t,” Antioch replied, already turning to leave. But there was a flicker of something unspoken in his eyes, perhaps the faintest hint of respect.

Antioch stepped out of the sheriff's office, the door creaking shut behind him with a sound that echoed faintly in the cool morning air. As he made his way down the crowded dock, a raven descended from the sky, landing gracefully on his shoulder, its dark eyes gleaming with an intelligence beyond that of an ordinary bird.

Antioch reached into the depths of his long coat, pulling out a folded letter sealed with a wax emblem. Holding the letter between two fingers, he turned his head slightly toward the raven. "Deliver this to Silvercrest Manor," he said.

The raven clicked its beak softly in acknowledgment, then took the letter in its talons. With a powerful beat of its wings, it soared into the sky, disappearing quickly against the clouds.

Antioch paused for a moment, watching until the bird was nothing more than a distant shadow. Then, as if the crowd itself had swallowed him whole, he slipped into the throng of sailors and dockworkers, his figure fading into the chaos of the busy port—until there was no sign he'd ever been there at all.

My Dearest Lady Silvercrest,

I find myself compelled to respond to your gracious letter. Your daughter, Selene, holds a place of particular significance to me. Among the many souls I’ve led astray and stolen from their families, she remains one of my favorites.

But let’s set aside such trivial pleasantries, as they only delay the true purpose of my writing. Selene lives—though her life hangs precariously in the balance. You were right to suspect that I am to blame for her current predicament. Yet, whatever opinion you hold of me, know this: I protect what is mine. I will save her.

If you find comfort in praying to Artur, by all means, do so. But understand—it will be in vain. He’s proven himself to be a rather useless god.

Your ridiculous excuse for a deity,
Antioch