Gray clouds hung low above the stone towers, and a thick fog descended like a curtain of death, swallowing the city’s ancient buildings. Night had long since fallen, yet the gas lamps lining the capital’s streets barely held back the suffocating darkness, as if reluctant to challenge the gloom. The oppressive air that smothered London that evening was not ordinary. There was something in it—something that made the guards’ horses restless and the crows spin endlessly in the skies like a sinister omen.

Inside the palace, the sharp sound of leather shoes echoed down a long marble corridor.

Charles August Milverton walked in silence, but his mere steps were enough to make the royal guards bow their heads. Their faces were tense—more than usual. As though everyone knew: when Charles was summoned to the palace at this hour, it could not simply be a matter of politics.

The grand doors leading to the throne hall opened on their own as Charles approached. Across from him stood a pale-faced maid.

“Her Majesty is waiting for you in the back chamber,” she said with a bow. “Alone.”

Charles stared at her for a moment, then stepped past her into the secret passage behind the throne.

No gold. No luxury. Just stone, wood, and the scent of old paper mixed with melted wax.

There, the Queen stood with her back to the lantern light. Her black gown cascaded to the floor, her hair neatly pinned as always, but her shoulders were tense. Before her stretched a long table cluttered with documents, maps, and rough sketches.

Without turning around, she spoke.

“You came.”

“Of course,” Charles replied, his voice calm yet sharp. “What could be so urgent that I’m summoned at this hour?”

The Queen touched a sheet of paper and handed it to him.

A rough sketch depicted a woman’s body—stabbed multiple times, folded like a broken ballerina doll, her eyes covered with cloth, her mouth sewn shut.

“The past four nights. Eight victims. All found in different areas—by the docks, in Whitechapel, even near the opera house. But all… left in the same dancing pose.”

Charles narrowed his eyes. “Any witnesses?”

The Queen gave a slight nod. “One survivor. A homeless woman who saw it from a distance before fainting from shock. Before collapsing, she muttered something.”

She leaned closer and whispered:

“She was dancing... I couldn't look away.”

Charles looked down, his mind racing.

“You suspect a demon?”

“We don’t know,” the Queen whispered. “But judging by the way they kill, this isn’t an ordinary human.”

She unveiled a large map. Tiny pins marked eight separate locations. Together, they formed a strange circular pattern that seemed to surround the city center. Charles gazed at it with a heavy expression.

“This looks like… a sacrifice,” he murmured. “Or rather, a ritualistic dance.”

The Queen walked to the far side of the room and opened an iron drawer. From within, she pulled out a small box containing a worn medal, discovered at one of the crime scenes.

It bore the shape of an ancient Slavic sigil, with a robed woman dancing, surrounded by gouged eyes.

“We investigated the origin. This symbol belonged to an ancient cult from Eastern Slavia… called Slujna Smrt—the dancing death.”

Charles touched the metal. It was cold—almost burning against his skin.

“Is this… some kind of vessel?”

“Our assumption is that the woman committing these murders is no longer wholly human. We found traces of a summoning ritual in the ruins of an old Serbian noble’s manor. A young woman… brought to London twelve years ago. The ritual failed. But… her body vanished.”

Charles inhaled deeply.

“And now she dances at night.”

The Queen stared at him intensely.

“The city is in a panic, Charles. I can’t leave this to mercenaries or bounty hunters. This is more than a murder case. This… is a demon cloaked in dance.”

Charles gave a thin, cold smile. “You want me to dance with her?”

“No,” the Queen whispered.

“I want you to end her song.”

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