We wrestle not against flesh and blood, but against principalities,
against powers, against the rulers of the darkness of this world…"
— Ephesians 6:12
⸻
The Subterranean Briefing Chamber — Vatican City
The Subterranean Briefing Chamber of the Vatican was carved deep beneath
the Apostolic Palace — a stone sanctum hidden behind miles of torch-lit catacombs, forgotten scriptures, and relics no longer spoken of aloud. A half-circle of ancient pews faced a single obsidian table etched with symbols older than Latin. The air tasted of myrrh and candle smoke. No windows. No
clocks. Only flickering chandeliers and the ever-present weight of judgment.
It was the kind of place built for secrets — and for burying them.
Luciel leaned back in a worn leather chair that creaked like a guilty conscience. The kind that threatened to swallow lesser men. His boots, half-cleaned and still etched with blood patterns from his last assignment,
tapped idly against the marble floor.
Across from him, a semicircle of tired old men and half-alert exorcists studied printed dossiers and digital reports like they were trying to divine their sins from the ink.
"We've had incidents in Berlin, Osaka, and now São Paulo," Luciel said, flipping a folder open with a flick of his black-gloved hand. "Different demons, different methods — but every one of them was searching."
"Searching for what?" came a bored voice from the left. Father Rafael, sleeves too starched, mouth too smug. "A proper bath? A soul that didn't scream so much?"
Luciel smirked. "Cute. But you missed the pattern. They weren't feeding.They weren't marking territory. They were digging — spiritually, ritually,sometimes even physically. Hell one of 'em was clawing through a cathedral's foundations like it lost its damn keys."
The older clerics exchanged glances. Someone cleared their throat.Another checked their watch. No one leaned forward.
"They're looking for something," Luciel continued, voice smooth as confession wine. "I don't know what yet. But they're all being pulled like threads in the same direction."
A pause.
Then Cardinal Bellamy — pale as paper and twice as dry — folded his hands and said, "Your theory is poetic, Exorcist, but not exactly… grounded.Demonic outbreaks are not uncommon. And not always related Some of them are…chaotic. Pointless."
Luciel cocked an eyebrow. "So are half the homilies in this building. Doesn't make them meaningless."
That got a few coughs — one suspiciously like a chuckle from Father Gregor at the back.
Bellamy pressed on, frowning. "And you propose… what? That demons are collaborating across continents for a scavenger hunt?"
Luciel stood slowly. "Not collaborating. Converging. There's a difference. You're looking at the fires. I'm watching the smoke. And the wind's blowing east."
He dragged his fingers across the surface of the Fate-Weave tablet embedded in his rosary ring. In faint lines of gold and ash, a map shimmered into view — incident reports, location marks, and thread-thin pathways bending inward like veins toward a heart.
London.
Not that anyone else could see the threads.
Only Luciel.
Only him.
"Coincidence," Father Rafael muttered. "A spiritual Rorschach test for someone who stares too long into his own miracles."
Luciel turned to him, smile razor-thin. "And yet I'm the one still breathing after tangoing with an archfiend in Prague. Strange, that."
He let the room sit in silence for a moment — long enough for the weight of doubt to thicken the air, but not long enough to suffocate him.
"Dismiss it if you want," Luciel said, turning toward the door. "But I'm not staying here while demons play archaeologist across three continents."
"Are you requesting a formal investigation?"
"No," he said without looking back. "I'm not requesting anything."
A pause.
"I'm following the thread."
Luciel turned to leave.
"You will do no such thing," Father Rafael snapped, standing abruptly. "You are under Vatican jurisdiction, not some freelance vigilante operating on divine whims."
Luciel stopped mid-stride, the shadows catching the sharp line of his jaw as he half-turned, eyebrow cocked. "I wasn't aware faith had jurisdiction hours, Father."
The chamber shifted. A low murmur passed through the room like a breeze through old leaves. Tension laced the air.
"Enough," said Cardinal Bellamy, voice iron-wrought and brittle. He tapped his fingers once against the obsidian table. "If Exorcist Luciel believes this is worth following, then perhaps we should listen — even if we
disagree with his method."
"But to go unsanctioned? Alone?" Rafael countered, incredulous. "This is the exact behavior that got him exiled once already."
Luciel gave a sharp grin. "That was a misunderstanding. Also — worthit."
Before the argument could reignite, Father Gregor, older and quieter than the rest, cleared his throat. "Let him go. But we'll assign a watcher. Someone to track his movements, report back. If it's nothing, we'll know soon enough."
A few others nodded, murmuring assent.
Cardinal Bellamy exhaled and turned his gaze to Luciel. "You'll go to London. You'll investigate your… thread. But any deviation outside our covenant, and the collar comes off. You understand me?"
Luciel gave a mock salute. "Crystal clear, your Eminence."
"And we expect full reports," Bellamy added.
Luciel was already walking. "I'll send postcards."
The heavy doors creaked shut behind him.
And the chamber, once again, descended into its holy silence.
For a moment.
Then Father Rafael scoffed, breaking it. "You've made a mistake."
Cardinal Bellamy raised an eyebrow but said nothing.
Rafael pressed on, gesturing toward the door Luciel had vanished through. "He's reckless. Disrespectful. Unpredictable. He treats sacred protocols like suggestions and causes more destruction than order."
Father Gregor folded his arms. "And yet, every time we send someone else, they come back empty or not at all."
Bellamy chuckled — a dry, knowing thing. "That's exactly why we let him loose."
He looked down at the scorched edges of a report still on the table. "Luciel doesn't walk the clean road. He carves one where there isn't a path at all."
Rafael frowned, unconvinced.
Bellamy stood, adjusting his crimson stole. "You don't send a scalpel to cut bone, Father Rafael. You send a hammer."
He moved toward the door, the hem of his cassock trailing like smoke.
"And Luciel, God help us," he added, almost fondly, "is our favorite
hammer."
⸻
And far from the shadows of Rome, across old seas and older curses, the thread continued to tighten…
⸻
University College London — Folklore Division, Afternoon
It began, as most things do, quietly.
In the library's upper floor — past a gauntlet of dusty reference texts and grumpy grad students pretending to study — Thalia was exactly where she always was: seated behind the old oak circulation desk, half-reading,
half-daydreaming, wholly pretending the world made sense.
The air smelled like lemon wood polish and ancient paper. Afternoon sun filtered in through tall windows, slicing the room into warm, silent grids. Jazz's thermos was sweating against a forgotten paperback novel on the corner of the desk. Classical piano hummed faintly from Marta's record player
somewhere in the back.
It should've been peaceful.
But Thalia hadn't slept in three nights. Not properly.
And that morning, she'd watched a pale wraith drift past the library's stained glass — its face like smoke trapped in skin, its eyes following her.
Not attacking.
Just watching.
Waiting.
She blinked. No one else had seen it.
She was sure.
Almost.
"Earth to Book Witch," came a voice beside her — cheerful, chaotic, and carrying two lattes and a cinnamon bag. Jazz Navarro flopped into the desk chair like she was made of zero bones. "Please tell me you've finished the Midwinter paper. Or are we both doomed?"
Thalia managed a half-smile. "I'm fifty percent doomed."
Jazz snorted. "Cool. I'm a solid seventy percent. Let's die together."
The rhythm returned — ordinary, human, warm. At least for a moment.
Until the front doors creaked open. And in walked Caleb, all politeness and leather satchel, history textbooks under one arm and
political family blood in his smile.
Jazz glanced at him. Then at Thalia.
Thalia didn't look up.
Not really.
Jazz bit into her cinnamon bun like it had done something to her in a
past life.
At the same time, across the room, Cassandra Vale— socialite, literature major, high cheekbones with even higher ambition —caught sight of Caleb and beelined toward him like he was her family's
inheritance.
Thalia groaned inwardly.
Cassandra's voice rang like cathedral bells. "Caleb! Oh, I didn't know you came here this time of day…"
Jazz muttered under her breath, "She's got an internal radar for 'Caleb enters a building.' Someone should study it."
Thalia said nothing.
She just watched — quiet, unreadable, but no longer entirely sure of
what she wanted.
Something about the air felt different lately.
Heavier.
And she didn't just mean Cassandra's perfume.
"Jazz," Cassandra called sweetly across the desk. "Didn't you say you were going to give me that Midwinter reading list?"
Jazz, still chewing, blinked slowly. "Oh. Right. I lied."
Cassandra laughed. "You're so funny."
Caleb gave an apologetic smile to both girls, clearly caught in the crossfire. "Thalia, hey. Didn't expect to find everyone here."
Thalia nodded. "Librarians haunt. It's what we do."
"Like ghosts," Jazz added helpfully, licking cinnamon off her thumb. "But with cardigans."
Cassandra leaned casually against the desk, too close. "So, Caleb. Are you still doing your project on post-war folklore? Or did you switch to… what was it? Occultism and trauma?"
"Still folklore," Caleb said, running a hand through his hair. "But the trauma part's tempting."
Jazz smirked. "Mood."
Something flickered outside the library window — just for a second. A faint shimmer, like heat off pavement. No one else seemed to notice.
Thalia glanced up. Nothing was there. Just clouds moving slow.
Cassandra glanced at her and followed her gaze. "You alright? You look…pale."
"Lack of sleep," Thalia said, too quickly.
"Library ghost keeping you up?" Caleb joked, unaware.
Jazz elbowed him. "Don't joke. Thalia attracts weird stuff."
Thalia opened her mouth to deflect, but then—
The lights above flickered once.
Just once.
Barely.
Everyone looked up.
"Old building," Jazz muttered. "It always does that."
They all nodded. No one said more.
Cassandra picked at a thread on her sleeve. Caleb adjusted his bag. Jazz sipped from her coffee, slower than usual.
And Thalia… just listened to the silence between heartbeats.