The old carriage groaned softly as it rolled over the slippery cobblestone road, its wheels grinding against the wet stone with a rhythmic protest. Inside sat Charles and Vespera, bound for a land barely mentioned in the city’s records—Eastreach Hollow.

The sky above London was gray as always, but as they approached the distant borders, a delicate mist began to rise from the ground, draping the trees and road like a thin, spectral veil. Rain tapped gently against the carriage windows, whispering like a lullaby meant for the dead.

Charles sat still, his silhouette sharp against the dim interior. His long black coat fluttered faintly with each jolt of the wheels. Resting on his lap was a thick stack of parchment bound in worn leather. The royal seal remained stamped clearly in red wax at the corner.

His expression was as cold as ever, but beneath that still surface, suspicion churned.

Across from him sat Vespera, her form cloaked in the guise of a noblewoman. Her blackish-blue hair fell like ink over her shoulders, and her white gown—spotless and smooth—contrasted starkly with the dark weather outside. A silver pendant swung from her neck, ticking gently against her chest in rhythm with the rocking carriage. One leg crossed the other in effortless poise.

"Your face says more than your silence, Charles," she said softly, her voice barely rising above the murmur of the rain.

Charles did not look up. His fingers tapped the edge of the dossier absently.

"Eastreach Hollow," he replied with a monotone calm. "The only region without reports of food shortage, unrest, plague, or corruption in the past two years."

"A miracle?" Vespera quirked a wry smile.

"Or a lie."

He flipped open the top parchment, revealing shipment logs, harvest yields, tithe records, and letters from the villagers. Everything was immaculate. Too immaculate.

"Lord Averrin oversees the region," Charles continued, "while also serving as High Priest of the Church of the Cleansing Light. Not much political involvement, but he holds sway in the noble religious councils. And every record about him… is spotless. Unrealistic."

Vespera gazed out at the thickening fog beyond the window, her ruby eyes glinting like coals in shadow.

"Too perfect is always wrong. Like skin with no scars."

As if summoned by her words, the carriage slowed to a crawl. The faint scent of wet timber and incense drifted in from outside.

---

They stepped down in the center of the village. Eastreach Hollow stretched before them like a portrait—quaint, peaceful, pristine. Cobblestone streets were perfectly aligned. Whitewashed wooden houses lined both sides, each adorned with flower boxes, their windows crystal clear. Front doors were left open—not in carelessness, but in welcome.

The villagers bowed politely as Charles and Vespera passed. Their smiles were wide. Sincere. Too sincere.

And yet…

Charles noticed immediately.

There were no shouts of children. No giggling boys chasing each other down the alleys. Only girls could be seen—sweeping porches, carrying baskets of flowers, or drawing water from wells adorned with crosses.

He slowed his steps.

"You see it, don’t you?" Vespera murmured beside him, her tone barely audible.

Charles nodded.

"Too quiet."

They approached the village’s centerpiece—a grand church carved from pale stone. The Church of the Cleansing Light stood like a monument of stillness. Golden pillars framed its façade. The scent of incense wafted through the air inside, clinging to the immaculate floors that gleamed like polished ivory.

At the altar stood an elderly man in flowing white robes, draped with a sash of gold. His hair was thin, his eyes serene, and his smile warm like morning sun. But beneath that calm… there was no fear. No deference. Only the still confidence of a sculptor who already knows the shape of the marble he’s cutting.

"Welcome, Lord Milverton," the priest greeted, his voice gentle, as though he had been expecting them all along. "It is an honor to receive a guardian of the Crown."

Charles bowed slightly. "Your region… is remarkable. Serene, clean, orderly. There are few places like this left in London."

"The Light guides us," the priest replied. "It purifies both the body and the soul."

"But I couldn’t help but notice," Charles said, his voice dropping an octave, "there are almost no boys here. In fact… I’ve seen none."

The priest's smile did not falter.

"Ah. A question we often receive. But rest assured—our children are safe in the Light’s embrace."

Charles narrowed his eyes. "I’m not questioning their safety. I’m asking… where they are."

The priest did not answer at once. Instead, he walked slowly toward the altar, fingers gliding across its wooden surface with reverence—like caressing something sacred, something buried.

"Not all children," he said at last, "are born from blessed wombs. Some… are born from sin. From the union of base blood and noble lineage."

Charles remained silent. His gaze sharpened, but he held his tongue—for now.

"In Eastreach," the priest continued, "we believe in cleansing. In Light. If a child is deemed worthy by the Light, they are guided. If not… the Light rejects them."

"And how," Charles asked slowly, "do you determine who is accepted… and who is not?"

The priest’s smile wavered—just for a moment. Then he looked away, almost wistfully.

"That is not our decision to make. It is the decision of the Light."

---

Outside, Charles stood at the top of the stone stairs, staring out at the too-perfect village. His face was blank—like carved marble—but within him, a fracture was forming.

"They’re hiding something, Charles," Vespera whispered beside him. "And worse… the people believe it."

Charles gave a single nod. His jaw clenched.

"We’ll find out what this Light is made of. And what it burns."

That night, as the fog thickened and the stars disappeared behind the veil of clouds, the hunt began.

A hunt not for beasts…

But for the truth behind the Light.

---