They wandered deeper into the city, past rows of spirit lanterns and folded shrines, when a sudden shout rang out through the plaza.

“I said it’s traditional!” barked a stone-voiced gargoyle, his wings rigid as he stood behind a food stall carved into an obsidian fountain. “My grandmother served these marrow dumplings every Solstice!”

On the opposite side of the stall, a tall angel stood with crossed arms, his porcelain skin glowing faintly gold. His expression was tight with restrained fury.

“That doesn’t change the fact that soul marrow is a sacred substance,” he said coldly. “Using it in snacks is blasphemy.”

A murmur spread through the crowd. Some locals paused to watch. Others stepped back.

The gargoyle spread his claws. “It’s not your soul marrow! It’s synthetic! It’s legally sourced!”

“That’s not the point,” the angel snapped. “You're mocking our rites for profit.”

Two demon enforcers in tailored red coats appeared from the crowd, horns gleaming. They stepped between them, calm but firm.

“Sir,” one said to the gargoyle, “we’ve warned you about advertising this dish in the central district.”

“But it’s my culture—”

“We’re not asking you to stop serving it,” the other said. “Just don’t advertise it here. We’re trying to keep the peace.”

The gargoyle growled low in his throat but backed down, retreating behind the stall with a rustle of wings.

Leonis, who had watched the exchange silently, narrowed her eyes.

“See?” Willow muttered under her breath. “Eggshells.”

Miles frowned. “That felt... wrong. He wasn’t doing anything bad. Just... feeding people.”

“It’s the city,” Leona said with a sigh. “We’re all walking on thorns now. One side’s always offended.”

They turned onto a quieter street, winding past arcades of silver bone and shops that gleamed with eerie, underlit glamour. The tension in the air began to fade.

Then Leona bumped into someone.

“Oof—!” A stack of colorful cloth exploded in all directions, raining down like confetti in every hue.

Underneath the cascade, a tall, green figure stumbled back. Lanky and hunched, his entire body seemed to be stitched together from rags—quilted limbs, button eyes, a mouth sewn with silken thread. His voice was muffled and high-strung.

“S-sorry! I didn’t see—oh no, my samples—!”

He dropped to his knees and began hurriedly gathering the spilled fabric, trying to untangle a bundle of ribbon from his bootlace.

Leona’s expression lit up like someone discovering a limited-edition corset.

“Oh,” she said with delighted surprise, “you must be Taylor. I’ve heard so much about you.”

The ragboy froze, mid-reach.

“…You have?”

“Darling,” she cooed, brushing threads off her skirt, “everyone knows about the Slice of Life Boutique in the fashion circles. Your new designs? Revolutionary.”

Taylor blinked his mismatched button eyes, clearly not used to compliments—or being seen. His voice trembled slightly.

“Th-thank you. Um. Wow. I—uh—I really need to go, though. Busy day. Markets are crowded. Best to avoid the city center. It’s… it’s really not safe today.”

He clutched the last bundle of cloth to his chest and ducked into a side alley before anyone could respond.

Willow whistled low. “Well, he was nervous.”

Miles tilted his head. “He’s made of fabric. Was he—stitched?”

“Taylor’s a patchling,” Leona explained. “Very rare. He was handmade. And from what I hear? He's the only one of his kind still conscious.”

“Conscious?” Miles echoed.

“Most patchlings unravel,” Leonis murmured, eyes lingering on the alley where Taylor vanished. “Or get used.”

“…Used how?”

Leona just gave a delicate shrug and twirled her parasol.

Willow cracked her knuckles. “Better question: what did he mean by not safe today?”

They all glanced back toward the city center.

In the far distance, smoke was starting to curl above the rooftops—thin and black.

Miles’ smile faded.

They weaved through the dusky streets of the Underworld’s capital, the pale glow of spirit lanterns casting long shadows over ancient stones. Reapers passed them without notice, their forms blurred like memories wearing cloaks. Vendors hawked cursed trinkets. Echoes of bells from shrines tolled across the broken skyline.

Then Miles let out a gasp, floating upward with excitement. “Oh my gosh—is that a museum?!”

Leona followed his gaze to a sprawling domed building nestled between obsidian spires, its gothic archways crowned with weathered gargoyles.

“I have to go inside,” Miles begged, hovering in front of her with clasped hands and puppy eyes. “Come onnn. Please? It’s a real Underworld museum!”

Leona’s face broke into a smile, warm and slightly exasperated. “Adorable,” she muttered, glancing over her shoulder. “Willow? Leonis? He wants to go in.”

Willow clutched her own face dramatically. “Oh my gods, he hasn’t seen any of our monsters yet—he’s gonna lose his mind. Yes. Yes, let the chaos commence.” She pointed toward the looming doors. “Skeletons, ghosts, cursed heirlooms—he’s about to freak out.”

Leonis sighed, rubbing her temples, but said nothing. Her silence was permission enough.

Inside the museum, the air felt different—older. Like memory itself had been pressed between its walls, layered in the scent of dust and waxed wood. Tall columns cradled the domed ceiling, and the ambient light flickered with the steady pulse of spirit lanterns. A whispering hush blanketed the halls, as though even ghosts dared not speak too loudly.

Miles floated midair in his ghost form, arms spread like wings, gleefully spinning above a model of the ancient Underworld before it fractured. “Look at this! It’s like… haunted Hogwarts meets National History Museum!”

Leona laughed, barely restraining herself from joining his floating antics. “I warned you he’d enjoy it.”

Willow dragged him toward the monster wing with a wicked grin. “Skeletons first. You haven’t lived until you’ve stood inside a kraken skull.”

But Leonis didn’t move.

She stood in front of an immense oil painting near the atrium, its gilded frame taller than she was. She didn’t speak. Her shoulders had gone still in a way that made even the air hesitate.

The painting showed The Four Guardians standing in a radiant circle—wings outstretched, hands locked, halos glowing like new dawns. Across from them, draped in darkness and fire, were the Four Horsemen—each bearing their own dominion: war, famine, pestilence, and death. They were posed mid-clash, not in hatred, but in equilibrium. Yin and yang. Creation and undoing. A balance few dared name.

Miles floated closer, phasing down to the marble beside her. “You know them?”

Leonis didn’t blink. Her eyes were fixed on the figures—particularly the fourth Guardian, a pale one with hair like burning silk and runes scarring their arms.

“No one really knows them,” she said eventually. “Only what’s passed down. But I was taught the Guardians were naïve. That they tried to stop the inevitable. That it cost them everything.”

Miles studied the painting. “And the Horsemen?”

Leonis’ eyes flicked briefly to the figure of Death—half-veiled, holding a scythe made of starsteel and frost. “…They didn’t want to destroy. But they were made to.”

Miles tilted his head. “Do you believe that?”

Leonis finally looked away from the painting. “I believe we all carry what we’re given… until someone proves we don’t have to.”

He watched her for a moment longer, then gently bumped her elbow with his. “Hey. For what it’s worth, I think you’d make a good Guardian. If that was still a thing.”

Leonis didn’t smile—but a slow blink, soft and slow, betrayed something loosening in her chest.

“…Come see this!” Willow called from the other end of the hall. “There’s a manticore skeleton big enough to eat a train!”

Leona waved them on with a grin. “Go on, boys. Let the weirdos educate you.”

Miles lingered a moment more with Leonis before jogging to catch up—pausing only once to look back.

She was still standing there, face turned up to the painted Guardian with scarred arms.

And this time, when her hand brushed the edge of the frame, her fingers didn’t tremble like before.