Far from human eyes, nestled in a place between worlds—where twisted tree roots mingled with scorched soil and the lingering dust of a dead demon—a single knife lay motionless.

Its hilt bore the mark of an ancient Slavic symbol. The blade, long and elegant, still glinted faintly despite having danced through a night drenched in blood and death.

Vespera stood before it, her crimson eyes narrowed.

She crouched slowly, her pale fingers hovering over the blade before gently wrapping around it. The moment her skin touched the cold iron, a flood of images surged through her mind—flashes of blood, piercing screams, rituals long forgotten, and a girl’s body convulsing in failure.

“This weapon… doesn’t belong to this world,” she murmured. Her voice was low, fragile, nearly swallowed by the mist.

The weight of her scythe remained strapped to her back, but her attention was entirely drawn to the weapon in her hand. She spun the blade between her fingers, not in combat, but in thought—listening closely for whispers that clung to its cursed edge.

There was power here. Power that neither belonged to mankind… nor to the hells she had once called home.

“Who created you…?” she asked the silence.

The wind picked up, circling her like a curious ghost.

She tilted her head toward the dark sky. Faint stars blinked beyond the fog, distant and disinterested.

It had been years since she last returned to the world below. But now, it called to her. Somewhere in the depths, something was waiting. A truth buried in stone and bone, meant only for high demons to uncover.

With the mysterious blade still clenched in her hand, Vespera stepped into the center of the forest clearing where a pentagram had once been etched with blood and magic. The sigils were faint now, almost forgotten, but their presence lingered like the residue of smoke after fire.

She closed her eyes.

Drew a breath.

And then opened her mouth to chant.

A vibration stirred in the air—like glass beginning to crack.

The wind around her froze. The sky above trembled. Shadows warped like ink in water, forming a swirling portal that shimmered between this world and another.

Just before she vanished, Vespera cast one last glance toward London.

“Forgive me, Charles,” she whispered. “But this time… I must go alone.”

Then she disappeared—swallowed whole by a vortex of silence and darkness, leaving behind the earth, the air, and the man whose life still dangled on the edge of death.

---

Four Days Later

London began to breathe again.

The iron grip of terror loosened. People dared to open windows again. On East End, the baker filled his shelves with warm bread. Children, though wary, played once more in muddy alleys with hesitant laughter.

Yet something had changed.

Whitechapel remained eerily quiet. The usual drunkards and thieves avoided it like a plague. The streets felt too cold, too still—as though a piece of the city had been peeled away and buried.

And still… no word from Charles August Milverton.

In the royal palace, Queen Elizabeth II sat behind crimson silk curtains in her throne room. Her elegant hands rotated a teacup that had long gone cold. On the table lay a letter—sent by Charles two weeks ago. No response had followed.

“It’s not like him to vanish without a trace,” she murmured, more to herself than to anyone else.

“Shall I summon the guard, Your Majesty?” asked her closest attendant, standing rigidly by her side.

The Queen shook her head.

“Not yet. If we storm his estate without reason, it will cause unrest. And panic is not what this city needs.”

She rose from her throne with quiet grace.

“I will go myself.”

---

Whitechapel, Later That Day

A royal carriage without crest pulled by two black horses arrived at the edge of the slums. Its wheels stopped quietly in the mud, drawing little attention.

Queen Elizabeth stepped down from the carriage, cloaked in a modest, travel-worn shawl. Only two guards followed. She walked without fanfare, yet the people knew her. Some removed their hats in stunned silence. Others bowed their heads with trembling hands.

No one expected the ruler of London to walk these bloodstained streets herself.

She tread softly through the narrow alleys, listening—truly listening—to the murmurs of the people.

“That dancing girl… I saw her fly into the sky, I swear it…”

“No, no, I heard an explosion in the forest that night. Like the world splitting open.”

“It’s the Slavic spirits, I told you! They cursed the church years ago!”

Wild theories spun like broken wheels. But one thing was consistent—no one had seen Charles since that night.

The Queen stood at a crossroad, eyes focused on the distant silhouette of the Milverton estate.

Its windows were shuttered. Curtains drawn. No lights. No movement.

Nothing.

She remembered their last conversation.

Charles—eyes like forged steel, voice steady as flame. A young man who, despite walking through hell, never turned his back on the fire.

“Charles… what really happened to you?” the Queen whispered.

She turned to her guards. “Find anyone who last spoke to him. Search Whitechapel thoroughly. Quietly. We don’t want to wake another monster.”

---

Meanwhile, in His Bed

Charles lay motionless in his bedroom. His body wrapped in bandages, his skin pale but not lifeless. The air around him smelled of herbs and iron—of potions brewed with whispered hope.

He didn’t move.

But his chest rose and fell faintly. Life lingered in him, like a candle fighting wind.

Books lay scattered around the room—texts on summoning rituals, faded diagrams of Slavic runes, pages torn from hidden archives. Among them, one note stood out, scrawled in dark ink beginning to fade:

---

Elsewhere…

Deep in the underworld—beyond rivers of ash and castles carved from crystallized blood—Vespera walked through the silent corridors of demon lords.

In her hand, the cursed blade was now sealed in crystal, pulsing gently with a power that didn’t belong here.

The other demons watched her warily. They could feel it—that something foreign clung to her, that the weapon she carried was no creation of their own.

“This knife…” she whispered, standing before a black altar, “was not made by man. Nor by us.”

She placed the weapon down.

Her reflection stared back from the glass—eyes tired, thoughts spinning.

“This isn’t the end,” she murmured. “It’s only the beginning.”

Her lips pressed into a thin line.

“There’s a new power rising in the human world.”

She glanced at the silent crowd of demons, her voice now sharp and final.

“And they’ve started hunting us.”

---