Mist clung low to the stones, thick as breath in winter. The bell tower loomed in silence-its crown shattered, its body cracked, like it had once cried out and was punished for it.

Ruins whispered of prayers once spoken here. Now, there was only dust.

Statues lined the path, faceless and crumbling, as though time itself had tried to forget them.

"This town..." Francesca murmured, "it's heavier than it looks."

Alberta didn't speak.

But her hand brushed the hilt of her dagger beneath the folds of her robe.

---

Their robes were plain, ash-colored and faded. Hoods drawn low. A noble's veil to hide Alberta's hair. Francesca's steps rang with false confidence, but her eyes flicked too often to corners.

Dantes followed behind, silent. Just another escort-stoic, lean, forgettable.

He moved like a shadow with a heartbeat.

Alberta walked ahead of them, shoulders straight, as though this place had once belonged to her in a life she couldn't name.

A priest nodded as they passed, his fingers trembling over prayer beads made of bone.

---

The inn was pressed between two half-collapsed shrines. Inside, the air was thick with damp incense and old regret.

Carvings of the goddess lined the cracked walls, barely visible beneath peeling paint. One mural showed a dawn star crumbling under a black sky. Someone had scratched the eyes out of every figure in it.

"Don't speak loudly here," the innkeeper muttered, not looking at them. "They listen. The ones that were left behind."

Alberta opened her mouth to ask more-but the woman had already turned away.

---

Night fell like ink spilled across parchment.

From the bell tower, the wind passed through the broken bronze mouth. It didn't chime. It gasped.

Francesca lingered by the door, arms crossed. "This place is wrong. We shouldn't stay long."

Dantes leaned against the wall, sharpening a dagger out of habit. "We stay till she gets answers."

In the dim room, Alberta lit a candle and watched it flicker.

Something was out there-waiting just beyond the edge of the firelight. Watching like the cracked statues had eyes.

---

Down the alley, half-lost in fog and shadow, a figure stood still beneath a broken arch.

His cloak was dry despite the mist. His hands folded behind his back.

He watched the candlelight in their window flicker-slow, steady, like a heartbeat just beginning to panic.

And then, he smiled.

---