Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

October 12th,

To Mr. Jayce Talis,

You may remember me from your childhood, when you oftentimes pilfered tools and other implements from the shed in my back garden to repurpose for your curious creations, but perhaps you recall my daughter Caitlyn with sharper clarity, as she followed you barefoot around the yard, dragging mud and weeds into the foyer and babbling nonsense about hexes and ghosts for years to come.

If your memory is sufficiently jogged, I have a most unpleasant request for you. I write on behalf of the people of Piltover, once your hometown before you and your mother stole away in the night, following your father’s untimely death. While it was shocking at the time, I see the wisdom in such a decision now.

I will be straightforward with you: there is a monster prowling in the woods surrounding our community, and while it normally stays within the deepest parts of the forest, lately it has grown bolder, venturing beyond the line of paper birches. Do you remember the circle of pale-bark trees? They aren’t far from the town, and we fear for our children’s lives, should they go wandering near the edge of the woods, as you often did in your youth, I imagine.

But I received word through my contacts that you have grown into a hunter of some renown, and I would like to employ your services. The authorities have paid little heed to our concerns, writing this off as some wolf or bear, but those of us who have spent our entire lives here know better than to ignore the woods. What our town needs is a proper hunter, someone who has experience with the arcane.

Please come at once if you are available. I trust you remember the address. We have not moved.

Respectfully,

Cassandra Kiramman

Mayor of Piltover

Jayce clutched the letter in his hand as he stared out of the carriage window, a heaviness weighing on his chest. He hadn’t returned to Piltover since his mother ferried them away in the dead of night, grief-stricken by her husband’s death and in need of a change from the dreary woodlands. He was a teenager then, full of bright ambition and his head stuffed with dreams, always chasing after the next idea, the next spark that lit his imagination.

His reflection in the window told a different story, the eyes that stared back at him filled with a disparate hunger that suggested darker moods and fancies, and he shifted his gaze to the suitcase lying at his feet, searching for a distraction.

Inside were the tools of his trade, creations of his own design: a heavy firearm, folded for easier transport, that doubled as a blunt instrument for close combat; a case filled with hex-crystals, the fuel source for his weapon; and an arcane sensor, which appeared to the untrained eye just an ordinary compass, albeit a fancy one.

Jayce never travelled anywhere without the suitcase. It had become like an extra limb, the phantom ache of it present if he dared to leave it behind. He was clever enough to call it what it was: an obsession, bordering on paranoia. But he was still alive, in times because of the case, so it wasn’t a habit he intended to break anytime soon—if he ever did.

Speculating on his work was a good time-sink, especially during a long journey. There were avenues still unexplored, stones yet to turn over, where his arcane research was concerned, and Jayce often found himself pondering variables, editing journals to reflect changes in discoveries, or tinkering with his equipment, until shadows swallowed him, the day completely lost to his musings.

He thought about what sort of monster lurked in the forest: if it was something he could kill with his current tools, or if there was even a monster at all but instead the wild imaginings of isolated townsfolk.

He glanced again out the window.

The fog had become thick as honey, a great wall of white mist that swallowed the broken lines of trees that had been Jayce’s view for the past several hours, and he hadn’t recalled it ever being this misty in this area, but his memory of the weather was just as foggy as the landscape. There was also a chill in the evening air, creeping into the carriage through the slits in the doors, and Jayce felt the cold dampness invade his lungs, tasted the crispness of autumn heavy on his tongue.

Abruptly, the carriage sped up, the horses braying as the sound of their hooves against the packed earth quickened, and Jayce set his heavy boot atop the suitcase to keep it from sliding around, one hand gripping the handle overhead to secure his own person in his seat. He thumped a fist to the carriage roof, pitching his voice loud to inquire after the sudden speed increase, and his inquiry was met with a shouted reply from the driver.

“It’s safer to be off the roads before nightfall, sir!”

It’s also safer to stay on the roads, Jayce almost retorted, fearing they would swerve into a ditch at any moment with the fog pressed in around them, thick as it was. But the driver must have experience navigating this part of the mainland, because they soon reached the crossroads where a left turn guided them into Piltover, and that—at least—was familiar to Jayce.

The lettering on the ancient signpost was just visible in the fading daylight as the carriage rolled past, the word “Piltover” still bold and legible, unmarred by time and the elements. Another name shared its place on the post, cut into the wood just below, but someone had run a knife or chisel through the word, whatever it said now obliterated.

Jayce frowned at the strange act of vandalism, wondering who had stopped their carriage or horse to pause at the post and deface the name of this other place with such hateful vehemence. He couldn’t remember another town or landmark near Piltover, but it had been nearly two decades since he last visited this secluded part of the continent—seventeen years, to be precise—and many things could have changed since then.

Two miles stretched between the crossroads and the town, and Jayce clenched his teeth as the bumpy ride continued, until at last the intertwined tree canopy parted and the trunks buckled backwards, roots spilling out towards the river bank, and they reached the bridge spanning the water, the driver slowing the carriage as hooves clattered across sturdy wooden planks.

The fog had grown so dense at this point that it seemed to Jayce that tiny mist-creatures danced upon the water, flirting with its surface, and in the distance, instead of a sprawling town, he viewed vague shapes clustered together and points of sulphurous amber lights spread out across a pale tapestry, backlit by the crimson glow of sunset. It was disconcerting.

Yet the carriage proceeded in this direction, cutting through the mist with blatant disregard, heading deeper into the main thoroughfare just as twilight descended.

When Jayce thought of the place he left behind all those years ago, he remembered lamp-lit streets paved in bright cobblestone, tall brick houses with arched windows, a park with a grand fountain that cast rainbow arcs in the sunlight, street vendors with their little carts, and children playing at the forest’s edge, daring each other to run into the shadows to touch the birch trees.

Tonight there was a forlorn atmosphere to the place, a far cry from the world Jayce had left behind. Although there had always been talk of supernatural occurrences and tall tales of spirits and haunted barrows within the forest, there was never any real danger—or even truth—to these stories. Most were constructed from the imagination, born from the shadow of a tree branch raking across a tall stone or from a shrill wind screeching through a hidden cave. People saw movement in the dark and assumed something sinister was afoot.

In Jayce’s experience, only a handful of claims out of a hundred were true. Everything else was the product of a bored or anxious mind, or a child prone to telling tales about things they didn’t understand.

But he had to admit that Piltover looked different than how he had left it.

The streets should still be busy at this hour, people on their way home from work and others on their way out for a night of entertainment, seamlessly switching roles. Instead he was greeted with empty roads and shuttered windows, shops with darkened interiors, and boarded-up buildings with “For Sale” signs swinging from posts. The few people he spotted in the fog walked with a hurried step, sticking close to the lampposts and shooting the carriage suspicious glances as it rattled onwards.

Mayor Kiramman hadn’t exaggerated in her letter. These people were afraid.

The carriage climbed a street heading up, following its winding switchback path to reach a higher elevation where the more ornate and elaborate manors sat all in a row, each competing to outdo the other. Jayce had fond memories of sneaking through lush gardens and thorny hedge mazes, exploring with childlike wonder until metal barriers prevented him from advancing, and then he would turn around and find another route, climb a lone fruit tree or slip through a gate left unlocked, to reach the centre of these sprawling yards where many vast discoveries awaited.

Rarely, a gardener would chase him away with threats, or a guard dog would bark until Jayce bribed it with some jerky or table scraps. It was always an adventure, until he grew old enough to learn what trespassing was and how his parents would be fined if a homeowner pressed charges. Then Jayce learned how to be craftier about his exploring, instead chatting up the residents while they were outdoors on their patios or in their front gardens, offering to rake leaves or trim hedges or water their plants.

That was how he met the Kirammans and befriended their young daughter, and sometimes during the tasks set upon him by the owners of the house, he would borrow things from the large shed in their backyard; his first compass prototype was designed from metal scraps he had found there, although it hadn’t been tuned to arcane forces at the time. While Jayce had been fascinated with the arcane all his life, he had been ignorant to what his obsession truly was at the time.

The carriage pulled up outside the Kiramman estate: a lofty, four-storey building with a peaked roof and two balconies facing outwards. The front garden was expansive, hydrangeas of blue, purple, and white grown in neat clusters flanking the path leading to the front door; a slender river cut the yard in half, and a tiny bridge led to a gazebo encircled by tall willows, where under its domed top was a secluded seating area.

Jayce took his suitcase and his travelling bag and stepped out of the carriage onto the street, inhaling the cold air as his boots touched firmly onto solid ground once more, and he was thankful the journey had come at last to an end. The carriage driver didn’t delay, snapping the reins with urgency, and the carriage lurched away, vanishing into the mist.

A face materialized within the pale haze in the wake of the vehicle, emerging so abruptly that Jayce’s hand twitched to grab for his case’s latch, but it was only an old man that appeared. He carried with him a long pole and a lantern that clanged at his hip as he moved, and his face was gaunt and drawn, bushy brows over dark eyes. He raised the pole to light the nearby lamppost, and an orange glow spilled out around him, further rendering him as a mere mortal and not some spectre of the mist.

He turned to look at Jayce, who had at this point not yet moved, still transfixed by the strangeness of the town, and the stranger gave the younger man a sombre expression and a shake of his head. “It’s late,” he said. “You should be getting on.”

The sun had only just set. Jayce hardly qualified it as being late. “And you don’t care about the time?” he asked, curious about the superstition.

The man shrugged. “Got a job to do.”

Without further commentary, the old man crossed the street to the next lamppost, his silhouette becoming hazy the farther he walked, and soon he disappeared entirely, just a point of light visible near his belt where his lantern hung.

Jayce drew in a long breath and started up the walkway, gravel crunching underfoot as he approached the front door and took the brass knocker in hand, rapping it three times to the wood. He was beginning to feel nervous about this visit. It was only early evening, yet he felt like a midnight intruder with the way everyone was acting towards the dark. Should he have waited until morning to summon the family?

But it was too late for misgivings, as he had already knocked and someone was already answering, the door swinging open to reveal a young woman in her early twenties, her dark hair cropped to her shoulders. She wore a pleated blue skirt and a white blouse, her sleeves rolled to the elbows and a golden brooch fastened around the frills at her throat.

Her blue eyes pinned him in place, narrowing ever so slightly as she studied the stranger on her doorstep, and Jayce couldn’t help the twitch of a smile as he recognized her: fully grown up now, no longer the barefooted, chubby-cheeked little girl from his memories.

“Hey, Sprout,” he greeted.

Caitlyn Kiramman looked suddenly indignant, recoiling as if he had cursed at her. “Excuse me—Sprout? Who do you think you—”

“Darling, who’s at the door?” A man came up to her side, sharing a strong resemblance to his daughter, with his dark hair brushed neatly to the side. His beard faded to grey at the edges, and crow’s feet crinkled around his kind eyes. He took Jayce in with a pleased yet sombre expression, his gaze momentarily cutting across the left side of his visitor’s face before he politely looked away and held out a hand in greeting. “Jayce Talis,” he said. “You have grown so much since the last time we spoke.”

Caitlyn glanced between them, her mouth popping open. “Jayce? This is the hunter Mother has hired? Jayce Talis? The boy who prattled on about ghosts and magic?”

Jayce took the outstretched hand, giving it a firm shake. “It’s good to see you, Mr. Kiramman.” To Caitlyn, he said, “Don’t tell me you don’t believe in the arcane anymore?”

Her nose scrunched in disapproval, and she lifted her chin a fraction. “I will believe there is a monster in our woods when someone brings me proof of its existence and not before.”

This surprised Jayce, although he supposed viewpoints towards the arcane often changed when a child became an adult, especially when they experienced nothing of the supernatural themselves. The minds of children were susceptible to the fantastical, but maturity robbed them of the veneer cast over such things. Jayce himself might have relinquished his belief of the arcane if he hadn’t lived the life he had.

“Well, come in,” Tobias said. “My wife will have matters to discuss with you.”

He cast an anxious glance outside as he closed the door behind his daughter and their guest, but fitted a smile onto his face as he gestured for Jayce to follow him. Caitlyn lingered at Jayce’s side for a moment, and she eyed him with pursed lips, her arms crossing. “I can’t believe you still remember the nickname you gave me,” she muttered as she turned, heading deeper into the manor, and Jayce quirked a smile of his own as he trailed after them.

While Jayce had been a frequent visitor to the Kiramman manor, he had only been inside a few times as a child: once to apologize for breaking a garden ornament, twice to have cake and tea in the sunroom with Caitlyn, and a final time shortly before his father’s passing, when Mrs. Kiramman had offered to pay for Jayce’s tuition.

That was back when Jayce had wanted to enrol in the university farther inland, to study engineering. Mrs. Kiramman had surprised him with the offer, as they hadn’t shared many conversations up to that point, but she had seen something promising in his talents and wanted to set him on a bright path to success. It would benefit Piltover in the long run, she had told him. But Jayce was certain she was simply doing him a kindness.

When his father died, Jayce abandoned those dreams.

“In here,” Tobias said. He threw open two opulent doors at the end of a hallway, guiding them into a finely furnished drawing room.

The wallpaper was a deep red with a golden trim, large paintings in ornate frames decorating each wall except the windowed one, which was instead mostly covered in long drapes that brushed the floor. A grand fireplace occupied the innermost wall, its mantlepiece bearing several gilded vases and an elaborate clock that Jayce admired for a fleeting moment. Rugs covered nearly every inch of the floor, soft underfoot as they crossed the room to the arrangement of chairs, the floral upholstery a dark plum and stitched with gold thread.

Cassandra Kiramman was seated in one chair, a streak of grey in her dark hair, with one ankle tucked behind the other as she sifted through a stack of letters on the side table, quickly scanning the contents of one before she discarded it to one of the many piles she had created. She was still dressed in her day clothes, a full ensemble consisting of a neat dress, jacket, and gloves, as though she planned on going out again tonight.

Only when Jayce had lowered himself into a chair did she glance up, and she bore the same stern countenance as her daughter, her features softening when she laid eyes upon their visitor. “Jayce,” she greeted, setting aside her work to give him her full attention. “I hope the trip here was comfortable.”

“It was, thank you,” Jayce lied. The trip had begun with an unbearable train ride for roughly fifteen hours, in a cabin he shared with three others, on a seat with wooden slats beneath threadbare cushions; and then when he was dropped off at the station up near Holdrum—the middle of goddamn nowhere—he waited almost six hours for a carriage to pick him up.

It was then a two-day ride to Piltover. They had stopped at an inn towards the end of the first day, and the room Jayce lodged in was damp, stunk of cigars and ale, and the roof sprung a leak partway into the night, dragging him out of bed to switch rooms. When he returned to the road on the second day of travel, he was regretting his decision to come with a fierceness that only lost its battle due to his curiosity towards seeing his hometown again and to confirm the monster was indeed real and a danger to the people.

“The southern coast is nice,” Jayce added, worried that his lie hadn’t been convincing enough.

“A pity we can’t see the ocean from here,” Cassandra said, “but the forest provides us with ample beauty throughout the seasons, which the ocean cannot. Would you like some tea, Jayce?”

“Oh, um, sure.” Truthfully, he was starved. He wouldn’t mind a full-course meal, although he feared he would have to wait on proper food until he found lodging for the night.

The mayor called for an attendant, and they hurried off to fulfill the request, heading to the kitchens. Those in the drawing room chatted about inconsequential subjects while they waited, discussing the weather and inquiring after family members, never straying too close to the subject Jayce was itching to discuss, which was why Piltover felt like a ghost town.

He learned that Caitlyn had become a journalist, many of her evenings spent pouring over documents down at the Archives Building, scouring for stories. The house he and his mother abandoned had been resold—though Jayce hadn’t cared for the information. There was an influx of new residents around the time Jayce had left, many new shops opening up and providing Piltover with increased revenue through tourism.

Jayce distractedly listened, offering a polite word here and there, only vaguely interested in the city’s economic progress and the tumultuous years following his absence. Finally, the attendant returned with a silver tray, which was set on the low table between the chairs, and on the tray was a piping hot teapot, four teacups, and a plate of scones, biscuits, and cream-filled pastries. Jayce’s mouth watered looking at the baked goods, and he waited until Mrs. Kiramman had begun pouring tea for everyone—which he figured was an appropriate amount of time—before he moved one of each onto a napkin in his lap.

“We would have taken a late supper if we knew you were coming,” Mr. Kiramman said, taking notice of Jayce hoarding the sweets—or perhaps he had heard the low growl of the other man’s stomach, sitting just next to him. It made Jayce flush under his collar.

“It’s fine,” he said, fully aware that he hadn’t sent a letter ahead to warn of his arrival. “I don’t want to interrupt your evening too much.”

Cassandra passed a cup over to Jayce, and he juggled a scone and the hot cup, unable to relinquish either, the small saucer rattling a little in his grip before he wrangled everything under control. Caitlyn snorted a laugh into her hand, covering it swiftly with a cough, before accepting her own cup and delicately taking a sip. “It would probably turn into a morbid affair, anyway,” she said, “with how things have progressed.”

Jayce glanced between the mother and daughter, seeking an explanation for the comment, and Cassandra released a small sigh, touching a gloved hand to her forehead. “The circumstances for which I invited you here have worsened. The monster has claimed its first victim, just two nights ago.”

Jayce went very still, his fingers going taut around his cup handle. “Was it a child?”

“No,” Tobias said quickly, exchanging a look with his wife. “A man, his identity currently unknown. No one has come forward to claim him.”

“If you would just let me go have a look at him,” Caitlyn muttered into her teacup, “there wouldn’t be an identity issue.”

Both of her parents frowned at the suggestion, ignoring their daughter’s petulance to continue with the discussion. “A body was found near the paper birches,” Cassandra explained. “I haven’t been to the morgue myself, but I’ve spoken to Dr. Reveck and he has put the body on ice until you can examine it yourself. Perhaps you might find clues the authorities have missed.”

She gave him a pointed look as she said this, and Jayce felt deep in his gut that he shared a solid understanding with Mrs. Kiramman about the mortal world: there existed things—terrible things—that most couldn’t wrap their minds around, or refused to, but they existed and so must be dealt with; magic was real, the Void wasn’t a children’s ghost story, and everything that poured out of it must be returned there.

He recalled clearly her words in the letter: What our town needs is a proper hunter, someone who has experience with the arcane.

She believed in the arcane forces of this world just as he did.

Jayce carefully set down his cup and made to rise. “I’ll go tonight.”

“No,” Tobias said, holding up a hand, and Jayce sank back into his chair. “It’s better to go in the morning. You shouldn’t be wandering around after dark.”

“But the body—”

“Can wait until morning,” Cassandra added, reinforcing her husband’s advice. “Besides, it’s likely that Dr. Reveck has gone home for the night.”

The town’s superstition about the dark was beginning to grate on Jayce’s nerves, but he agreed he would go in the morning. It was probably for the best, because he was hungry and tired, and he wanted neither as a distraction when he started his investigation.

“There’s an inn close to the town’s entrance,” Caitlyn spoke up, nibbling on a biscuit. “The Second Last Drop. Perhaps you saw it on your way in?” Jayce shook his head, and he noticed both of the young woman’s parents stiffen at the name, their features darkening. “Well, I recommend staying there. It’s close to the morgue, and to the woods.”

Cassandra cleared her throat. “We would lend you the guest room here, but we have another visitor arriving tomorrow.”

This time it was Caitlyn who scrunched up her nose, her arms crossing as she glanced away from her mother, her mood instantly soured by the mention of this other mysterious guest. Jayce gave the Kirammans a smile. “It’s fine. I’ve gotten used to inns—and I don’t want to impose.” He also didn’t want to drag his grim work back to their home, but he didn’t say that.

They discussed the unpleasant business of payment for Jayce’s services—a fair sum, more zeroes written on the cheque than he usually saw—and he finished his tea and pastries, thanking the family for their hospitality. Then he stood and buttoned the front of his jacket, ready to depart for the evening.

He was halfway down the hall when he noticed someone following him, and he swivelled to find Caitlyn shadowing his steps, motioning with a subtle flick of her hand to keep going—to put more space between them and her parents. They ended up in the porch alcove, standing next to the coatrack and a line of polished shoes, plunged into shadows.

“You have something else to say?” Jayce guessed, the serious expression on Caitlyn’s face only just discernible in the dark.

“I don’t know if it’s useful to you,” she admitted. “But another odd thing happened shortly before you arrived. A man named Viktor showed up out of the blue, told me he had heard of monster sightings in the area and wanted to investigate. Weird, right?”

“Huh.” Jayce rubbed his chin in thought. “Do you think he’s a journalist, like you?”

Caitlyn shook her head. “I looked into it, but his name isn’t in any directory I could find.”

“Maybe he’s a thrill-seeker?”

“I doubt it. He looked like a recluse—like someone who stepped off the pages of an old newspaper.”

Jayce cocked an eyebrow. “Meaning?”

“It’s hard to explain. You’ll just have to meet him yourself. Maybe you can collaborate with him on this mystery.”

That was unlikely to happen. Jayce picked up his suitcase and his travelling bag, angling himself towards the door. “I work alone,” he said. “But if you hear anything around town about the victim or the monster, let me know.”

“Right,” Caitlyn said, a little dryly, “the monster.”

Jayce again wondered where Caitlyn’s belief in the arcane had faltered, but he wouldn’t push the issue; with someone like her, she would need to see it with her own eyes to be convinced. “Anything at all,” he insisted.

“I will,” she promised, and before he could leave, she reached out to grab his arm, giving it a light squeeze. “It’s good to see you again, Jayce,” she said, smiling.

Seeing that familiar expression, the same shine in those perceptive eyes, was the first bright spark of warmth Jayce had felt since he arrived, and he savoured the feeling, knowing there would be only darkness ahead. “It’s good to see you, too, Sprout.”

He bid her goodnight and walked back down the gravel path to the road, where he stopped to search for a carriage. In most towns and cities, there were cabs lined up for patronage at this hour—especially on a street like this one, where pockets were weighed down with coin. But Jayce saw not a single horse or curve of a wheel peeking out of the fog, and as he looked down both ways, the streets, buildings, and benches all seemed to be sucked into the white mist, as if consumed by it. He suddenly wasn’t sure even where to go to find the switchback path he had travelled up to get here.

Making a decision, Jayce followed the hazy points of light cast by the lampposts, held suspended in the fog like the enticing lures of angler fish, until he found a narrow stairway cut into the rocky hillside and descended the stone steps, hand alighting upon the sturdy railing to keep his balance in the dark. It let out onto a path splotchy with grass, where weeds encroached upon the packed dirt and brushed against his trousers, and buildings flanked the path, the brickwork overrun with creepers and moss.

Eventually Jayce found a proper road, and once he established where he was, it wasn’t difficult to find his way to the town’s entrance. It was still difficult to see, even while following the main street, and there seemed to be a lot that he didn’t recognize. Tobias had mentioned residents moving in and new shops opening up, though Jayce hadn’t expected the changes to be so significant. This new Piltover would take some getting used to.

Jayce found the Second Last Drop exactly where Caitlyn said it would be, near the town’s entrance, not quite on the thoroughfare, but skirting it. The building seemed to materialize out of the gloom, strong wooden pilasters at each corner and a sunburst awning over the front door. Warm light poured out of the stained glass windows, painting the mist with an array of colours. A sign hung to the door’s side read “the Second Last Drop”, with a cheerful mug carved beneath it.

He ventured inside, pushing open the door to a warmly-lit interior and the smell of pipe smoke, cooked meats, and a hint of cleaning chemicals. Moving amongst the circular tables with chairs flipped up onto their tops was a young woman with long, blue hair pulled into a thick braid that hung down her back, wearing a striped apron with various cleaning tools tucked into the front pocket, and she wielded a cloth and a spray bottle as she scrubbed down a dirty table. She was humming to herself, or maybe murmuring something; it was hard to tell at a distance.

On the other side of the tavern, behind the counter that wrapped the length of a wall, stood a woman just a few years older, her rosy hair cut short and her sleeves pushed to her elbows. She was counting bills, one hand reaching for the crystal glass beside her to take a sip of amber liquid, her eyebrow quirking up when she spotted Jayce approaching.

“Haven’t seen you around,” she said, her tone standoffish. “You new to town?”

“Something like that,” Jayce answered. “Are you the owner of this inn?”

She finished stacking one pile of bills, taking them in hand and deftly aligning them with two snaps to the counter. “Nope. I’m Violet. That’s my sister, Jinx—” she nodded to the blue-haired girl, who had managed to creep up to Jayce’s left without him noticing, “—and Vander’s all tucked in for the night.”

Jinx lifted a hand to cup her mouth, bringing her voice down to a whisper. “He’s old.”

“But I can check you in.” Violet glanced at the two bags Jayce carried, her upper lip raising as she scowled. “Planning on staying long?”

“A few nights, I think.” That would give him enough time to do some investigating and also scout the area before he went out for the hunt.

“Great.” Violet accepted his money and added it to one of her neat stacks, and then she retrieved a brass key from under the counter, sliding it across to him. “Room three on the second floor. We don’t do turndown service or wake up calls. That okay, pretty boy?”

Jayce offered a tight smile, saying nothing. He snatched up the key and made straight for the stairs, his boots heavy on the planks as he ascended to his room. Once he was inside, he locked the door and set his suitcase and bag to the side, out of the way. The room was small, with a single bed, a wash basin on metal legs, a storage trunk, and a narrow window that overlooked the dark line of the woods.

Jayce approached the basin, falling onto the short stool and peering into the oval mirror set into the wall. The nickname that woman had called him—it grated on his nerves, made his jaw lock with both frustration and bitter regret. He didn’t know if she had meant it as truth or mockery, but it didn’t matter.

A close-shaved beard darkened his jaw, and his brown hair fell messily around his ears, in desperate need of a trim. There were shadows under his hazel eyes, and the left one flirted with the edge of a scar that ran from its corner, across his cheek, and partway down his throat. It didn’t pucker his bronze skin, as most normal scars did. This one was an amalgamation of deep purple and sickly yellow and moonshine silver lines, each colour slightly tinging the skin around it.

His face had been this way since he was sixteen years old, since the night his father died.

Jayce stared at his reflection, an old and familiar trepidation pressing into his skin.

Here was a truth he admitted only to himself: he didn’t enjoy his job. Monsters existed, so he hunted them. Once you tampered with the arcane for long enough, you started to hear things—see things—and once you got a taste of what lurked on the other side, in that realm where madness married chaos, you didn’t want any of it spilling out into the place you called home. You didn’t want others seeing what you had seen, there in the quiet Void, where the light couldn’t permeate; and if you killed enough abominations, maybe they would get the hint and stay where they were.

That was wishful thinking, of course. Jayce knew the horrors would never truly be contained.

He splashed his face with cold water from the basin before heading back downstairs to have a late supper, his hand already itching for his gun and an end to what stalked the woods.

Every night Jayce dreamed of something different.

After his mother dragged them away from Piltover, he dreamt of pale spectres with hollow faces and long, stringy hair. When that faded, he had nightmares about his father, still and grey in a square box, slowly being lowered into the ground, except Jayce would lean too far over the edge to watch and he would tumble in after the corpse, sharing the velvet bed as cold arms encircled him and the lid closed over them both.

Night sweats were a common thing, even now in his thirties when he thought himself immune to the terrors that manifested after he shut his eyes. But Jayce had knocked on a door that should have remained undisturbed, and he would pay the price for that until the day he died.

In the morning, while Jayce was finishing breakfast down in the tavern’s main floor, seated near the entrance where he could see out the tinted windows, he watched a large man come out through the door behind the counter. The man was muscular, a tray of clean glasses held in his meaty hands, his sleeves rolled up his thick arms and a dishcloth slung over one broad shoulder.

Presumably this was Vander, the owner of the Second Last Drop, although Jayce wondered if the man didn’t have a secondary job that was more physically demanding, because lugging dishes around couldn’t have given him that sort of build. Maybe he worked as a logger on the side; there were plenty of trees around for it.

“Morning,” Vander greeted, as he passed Jayce’s table. Up close, Jayce could see the dark shadows ringing the man’s eyes and the weary set to his frame, as though he hadn’t slept a wink—despite having turned in quite early, according to Violet.

“New to town?” Vander asked, as he came back around a few minutes later with a pot of coffee, slowing to catch Jayce’s answer.

“Returning, actually,” Jayce said. “It’s… been a long time. I’m here on business.”

“Ah. Business.” Vander lifted the coffee pot. “Need a refill?”

Jayce declined the offer and headed out, leaving a tip on the table and taking his suitcase with him. He noticed Jinx watching him from the stairwell as he ventured out the front door, her head tilted to the side and her body crunched forward, as if she had been in conversation with someone else on the step. But her sister was nowhere to be found, just an empty space beside her. She lifted two fingers in a wave, her gaze sort of distant, and Jayce nodded back, a little disquieted by her behaviour, before he stepped out into the crisp October air.

His first stop was the morgue.

Jayce had visited quite a few morgues in his line of work, usually at the request of a family member who had hired his services, but sometimes by pretending to be related to the deceased, because examining a body was oftentimes necessary for his investigation into the paranormal if murder was involved. Some people believed in the arcane and were helpful, and other people thought Jayce belonged in an asylum. He took it in stride.

The fog from the previous night had cleared, though the sky was a uniform grey, casting a sullen pallor over the town. Jayce was just happy to see more than a few metres ahead, a rush of nostalgia filling him as his sight fell upon the plaza. The fountain was still there, just as he remembered: the marble statue of an old founding father, book in hand, while surrounding him on the lower level were children of various ages, who grew into scholars and crafters, artisans and explorers; and water spouts, carefully hidden amongst the statues, sprayed arcs into the pool, where coins glittered at the bottom on sunny days.

Jayce had a strong impulse to walk up to the fountain and toss in a coin, to give himself the extra luck, but he resisted the temptation and went past the park, envying the young children and their parents who were already out enjoying the morning, knowing their week would be far better than his.

Beyond the park was the maze of commerce, shops lining every street in neat little rows, tucked away in secret corners and wrapped around cul-de-sacs. Jayce searched for a while on his own, but he eventually gave up and had to ask someone for directions, the roads having expanded since he last lived in town.

Before long he stood outside Piltover’s morgue, his suitcase clutched in hand and a heaviness weighing on his chest. The building was low to the ground, the roof sloped to the side and the foundation set with dark bricks. Jayce opened the door to find a small reception area inside, where the receptionist pointed him to another door at the end of a short hall, and that door opened to a stairway that led into the ground.

Great, Jayce thought, his lip curling. He hated deep underground morgues—ones that didn’t have a convenient exit. They were always too cold, too damp, too soaked in years of rot and decay. He would try to make this visit quick.

Descending into the gloom, he could already smell the musty air and the creeping mildew, and his footsteps echoed off the stark walls, loud in the tight space. The door at the bottom creaked open, revealing a long basement chamber. There were iron lamps outfitted into the walls, their fires burning low, and tallow candles were clustered upon every available surface. Examination tables were rolled out, one of them occupied by a covered corpse, and just behind them were square metal doors set into the wall, three in a vertical line and six to each row, where bodies were stored until identification and release.

A man hovered near the occupied table, his back turned to Jayce, though he subtly turned his head when he heard the door open, the clipboard in his hands lowering. Jayce wasn’t sure what to make of the doctor. He was a tall and gangly sort of fellow, his skin bleached of colour, with scar tissue along one side of his face that may have been caused by a burn or some other accident, and he had a cloth tied around his mouth and nose to block out the fumes.

“You must be the hunter the mayor hired,” the coroner stated.

“Yeah…” Jayce moved to the opposite side of the table, setting down his suitcase. “I guess that makes you Dr. Reveck.”

“Mmh.” He gestured to his face, his eyes tightening in what Jayce presumed to be an amused expression. “The children call me ‘Singed’.”

Not sure what you want me to say to that, Jayce thought, already ill-at-ease. Was he supposed to laugh or sympathize? He cleared his throat. “Mayor Kiramman suggested I should inspect the body. Are we ready to get started?”

“No reason to further delay,” the doctor said, as he pulled back the sheet.

Beneath was a grisly sight, even by Jayce’s standards of a corpse. It was the body of an older man, his flesh wrinkled and pale—turning a sickly chartreuse at this point, despite having been iced. The autopsy had obviously been finalized, incisions across the chest and down to the navel. But more disturbing were the jagged tears across the body, folds of skin hanging loose like shredded meat. A particularly nasty slash ran through the man’s face, completely obliterating his features.

Well, Jayce now understood why identification was so difficult.

“My preliminary findings won’t offer much insight,” Dr. Reveck said, referring to his clipboard. “Obviously he was murdered, although I am puzzled by what could have left such wounds.” He exchanged a thoughtful look with Jayce. “But you are here to hunt a monster, so perhaps the answer is simple.”

“Nothing’s been confirmed yet,” Jayce said, taking out his notebook and pencil. “In your professional opinion, do these injuries look consistent with those suffered from the claws of a bear or wolf?”

The doctor snorted, his head tilting to the side as he gazed down at the victim. “It would have to be a very large creature to have done this. But it doesn’t fall within the realm of impossibility.”

Jayce tapped his pencil to paper, eyeing the doctor. “So you believe the mayor? You think there’s a chance that a monster could be roaming around out there?”

“I think it would be wise to examine all possibilities, in the interest of finding the root of this problem before it escalates. And fewer bodies in my morgue means less work, which leaves me with more time for… personal projects.” The doctor handed Jayce his clipboard over the corpse. “Here. I need a coffee break.”

With that said, he pulled off his cloth mask and went upstairs, leaving the door ajar behind him. Jayce looked at the clipboard, scanning its contents for information the doctor hadn’t shared. Everything looked normal internally, save for the damage sustained from the wounds, which was the cause of death. There were trace amounts of dirt under the man’s nails, implying he had tried to crawl away from whatever had killed him, and he had cataracts in his right eye, which likely meant he had been prescribed glasses.

Jayce glanced at the tray of personal effects. There was a stack of torn clothes, a coin purse, a few coins, what suspiciously looked like a set of lock-picks, and a tattered copy of a small scripture book. But no glasses. The man was probably a squatter, drifting between abandoned houses in town. It explained why no one had come forward to report him missing.

Jayce set down the clipboard and lifted his suitcase up onto the neighbouring table, rolling the combination pins and clicking up the cover to reveal his collection of tools. His Mercury Gun lay folded and polished in its bed, the twin barrels tucked beneath the blunt end of the weapon. Beside it was a small device that resembled a compass in appearance, and Jayce took that out, closing the case lid.

He clicked open the device and adjusted the dial on the side, recentering the needle before he activated the hex-crystal fragment, and he held it over the corpse, moving the device from the man’s head all the way down to his toes, monitoring for traces of the arcane.

The needle jumped wildly, unable to pinpoint an exact location, and Jayce frowned, tapping the device with a finger. His equipment didn’t usually act up like this; maybe the device needed a tune-up.

He didn’t linger on the device for long, shoving it into his pocket so he could tackle other aspects of his investigation. He picked up a scalpel and used the blunt side to push around skin flaps, jotting down notes in his book.

It was easy to lose himself in his work, in the quiet hum of the gas lamps and the almost imperceptible dripping of water from someplace within the walls, becoming so engrossed in his developing theories that he didn’t at first notice the rhythmic tapping behind him. It came from the stairwell, steadily increasing in volume, a low thump, thump, thump—until the noise came to a sudden halt within the doorway, a final echo of metal striking stone to disrupt the calm.

Jayce glanced over his shoulder.

The man in the doorway was lean, but not gaunt, with concave cheekbones and a stern brow. His nut-brown hair was brushed neatly away from his face, though a few strands curled around his ears, tickling the edge of his sharp jaw. He dressed in a brocade vest with golden threading, black lace at his throat and wrists, and an old, dark coat fell almost to his knees, flared out at the ends in two tails. The noise Jayce heard had originated from a walking cane with a metal cap, its brass knob clutched between long, pale fingers as the stranger leaned against it. He stared at Jayce, his amber eyes narrowing with curiosity.

“Am I interrupting?” he asked, his voice low and accented.

Jayce blinked owlishly at the stranger before jumping to attention. “No,” he said quickly, stepping forward and shoving his notebook into his coat pocket. He extended a hand in greeting. “Jayce Talis. I’m here on business.”

The stranger’s mouth twitched almost imperceptibly. “Viktor,” he said, accepting the handshake, his hand cold and firm in Jayce’s grasp. “I sense you must be this ‘monster hunter’ I have heard about.”

Jayce abruptly realized what Caitlyn had meant by Viktor having stepped off the pages of an old newspaper. The man looked like he belonged to a previous decade, like he had been plucked out of time. Jayce imagined a portrait of Viktor hung in some old manor, in a gilded, oval frame, high on a stairwell wall overlooking the foyer, or perhaps above a grand fireplace in a drawing room. Jayce could see him sitting in a winged chair, one ankle resting on a footstool, a glass of scotch in one hand and a book propped open in the other, reading until the fire died to embers and he retired to bed.

“Assuming there is a monster, then yes,” Jayce said. “What about you? Why are you down here?”

“Research.” Viktor stood casually, almost languidly, leaning against the cane and studying Jayce with piercing, golden eyes, a carefully guarded expression on his face, though his voice was warm. “I intend to learn all I can about this creature.”

“And you’ve lived here long, in Piltover?” Jayce fished.

“Ah, no. I eh, moved to town recently—”

Reveck returned then with a mug of steaming coffee, nearly bumping the door into Viktor’s back as he slipped into the room. His gaze passed across the two men with disinterest, and he continued with an awkward gait towards his desk crammed into the back corner. “The doctor has been very informative about local monsters,” he said in passing. “For an outsider.”

Jayce switched his focus back to Viktor. “You’re a doctor?”

“Not a medical doctor, Mr. Talis.” Viktor offered him a small, strained smile. “I harbour an interest in arcane discoveries—the unexplained phenomenon in this world, too strange to comprehend. This area is teeming with potential. It makes for an intriguing study.”

“Parapsychology?” Jayce guessed.

Viktor shrugged. “Something of that nature. But I would consider myself more of a scientist than a philosopher. I ah, studied mechanical engineering… but that’s not relevant to our conundrum.”

The echo of Jayce’s old dream, spoken aloud by this stranger, was loud in the quiet underground, and a flare of anger burst to life inside of him—anger and envy, twisting into something wretched and ugly. His hand curled into a fist at his side, and he swallowed down the bitter resentment, the regret of a future taken from him by his own hand, his own damnable curiosity.

“Why do you care about the monster?” Jayce asked, changing the subject before he said something crass. “What do you gain from your research?”

Viktor glanced at the body on the table, a grim slant to his mouth. “I would like to help these people.” The answer stunned Jayce, and he aborted the interrogation he had planned, not expecting this sudden altruism. “That is the ultimate goal of research, no? If we can uncover the truth behind these events, we can put an end to the killings.”

Jayce’s eyebrows lifted. “We?” he repeated.

“I propose a partnership.” Viktor moved a few steps forward, walking past Jayce and towards the examination table, his cane thumping against the floor. Jayce followed with his gaze, strangely fascinated by the man. “I cannot move through the woods like you can. Your firsthand observations of this creature would be invaluable. It would greatly benefit my research.”

“And what do I get out of this partnership?”

Viktor peered over his shoulder. “I have a laboratory here in town, near the lake. The space should prove useful in aiding your search for the creature. To track something of its nature, you must first understand it. Would you not agree?”

Understanding the monster Jayce hunted was always a priority; it was his first objective after getting the lay of the land. Working in a laboratory, having access to expensive equipment, sounded much better than working out of the small tavern room he rented, using only his limited tools.

But Jayce never partnered with other people—even believers in the arcane. Those who offered aid were usually fanatics or reporters, never useful when real danger presented itself. Yet Viktor seemed different. There was genuine conviction in his voice when he spoke of his research and his desire to help.

And if it turned out that Viktor was connected to the monster in some way, then Jayce was in a prime position to keep an eye on him.

“All right,” Jayce said. “You’ve convinced me.”

Viktor looked a little surprised for a second, his eyes subtly widening with disbelief, before he shuttered his expression and fully turned to face his companion, one hand in his pocket. “I have a condition: we only meet during daylight hours, when it’s safe.”

Jayce resisted rolling his eyes, disappointed that even this man of science had fallen prey to the town’s superstitions, but he agreed to the simple request and handed over his notebook so Viktor could scribble down the lab’s address.

When he passed back the book, his thumb holding the pencil against the cover, and Jayce accepted it, he didn’t let go, his amber gaze fixed intently upon Jayce, staring across the short expanse at him with a fierce and sudden curiosity that made Jayce’s pulse stumble.

“Meet me tomorrow afternoon,” Viktor said, as he released his hold on the book, and Jayce felt his tension rapidly unspool, his unexpected nervousness melt into a puddle at his feet. “We can compare notes. Share what we know of this creature.”

“Yeah—I’ll be there,” Jayce said.

With a half-smile to Jayce and a farewell nod to the coroner, Viktor departed the morgue, heading back up the stairs, the click of his cane against the stone fading into silence. Jayce held the notebook between two hands, staring at the empty space at the foot of the stairway with a concentrated dip in his brow, playing over in his mind the conversation he had just shared with this new visitor to town.

Something had been nagging at him since last night, after the meeting with the Kirammans. Jayce had shied away from his past, from his old life in Piltover, deflecting where he could. But his aversion had blinded him to an important detail regarding his newest acquaintance.

“A man named Viktor showed up out of the blue,” Caitlyn had said, reporting his arrival shortly before Jayce himself had come into town.

“Your childhood home was resold just this week,” Mrs. Kiramman had gossiped, as they exchanged pleasantries over tea and biscuits.

“I moved to town recently,” Viktor told him, only moments ago. His laboratory was near the lake, he said.

Jayce cracked open the notebook to the page Viktor had written on and found—in slanting, careful script—his old address staring back at him.

Chapter Text

There was a game children liked to play in Piltover, near the forest’s edge, where they would take turns daring each other to hop across the stones spanning the river and walk up to the line of white birches on the other side, claiming a piece of papery bark before fearfully skipping back across. When they grew some years, their courage bolstered by youthful ignorance, they would cross the river and stand before the trees, where one child would be blindfolded and guided past the tall, silent sentinels to be left stumbling alone in the fabricated darkness for a while, until they became too frightened or the others became too bored, and then they would rip off the scarf and sprint back to safety, skin clammy with fear.

Jayce had participated in these games. He still remembered how completely alone he had felt once he crossed the threshold of what the kids believed to be safe into what they deemed dangerous, how the wind had abruptly chilled and the hair on his arms had raised in anticipation of what might be coming for him, out there in the woods. Through the blindfold, he could see only grainy shapes, the shadows cast by the canopy moving across his darkened vision by each shift of the clouds over the sun, and he heard only his own heartbeat thick in his ears and the teasing voices of the others, counting down the seconds until he was allowed to come back across the river.

The paper birch grove had frightened Jayce as a child, but standing before the trees now, he was able to appreciate their beauty. They stood in an almost uniform row across the river that bordered the eastern edge of Piltover, tall and slender, with white, papery bark that curled at the edges. Their leaves were a vibrant yellow, packed in tight clusters amongst their spidery branches, a canopy of gold that blotted out the sky.

Looking back over his shoulder, Jayce could see roofs in the distance, the bridge he had crossed yesterday towards the southeast, and the stretch of grassy land between the grove and the town. There was a shallow bank leading down to the river, blocking most of Piltover from view, only the upper neighbourhood where the Kirammans lived visible at this low angle.

Standing here at the water’s edge, tucked out of sight with only the birches for company, it was easy to feel isolated. It also made for a good location to kill someone without your crime being witnessed.

Jayce turned from the woods and set his suitcase on one of the many wide stone slabs bordering this side of the river, unlatching the case to reveal his arsenal of tools within. He withdrew his Mercury Gun, briefly inspecting it before sliding it into the holster at his side, and he popped a few hex-crystals from their foam bed and slotted them into the bandolier across his chest, joining the row of bullets. He kept his arcane sensor and hex-light in his pockets, one to each side.

He wasn’t going to stay after nightfall in the forest, as today was a recon-only trip, but if he encountered any caves or dark patches in the woods, he would be prepared.

With his gear all situated, Jayce left his case behind and stepped beyond the paper birches, moving between their slim trunks and into the heart of the woods. Dry leaves crunched underfoot, the forest floor a golden carpet beneath the birch canopy, and Jayce couldn’t help but think of the last time he had wandered into these woods, unable to suppress the shiver that rolled down his spine as he left the safety of the grove.

It wasn’t difficult to find the spot where the body had been discovered. A pool of blood had darkened the compressed yellow grass, and many bootprints trailed to and from the area, disturbing whatever evidence might have been left behind by the monster. Jayce sighed aloud at the chaos, one hand on his hip as he surveyed the mess of kicked-up dirt, broken twigs, and the remains of someone’s lunch.

“Really professional,” he muttered, scowling at the sandwich crumbs.

The police were definitely going to pin this on wild animals and close the case, and it was certainly possible they were correct and the dead man had gotten too friendly with a bear, but if there was something more sinister out there in the forest, then this killing wouldn’t just be a sad accident; the killings would continue until the monster was dealt with.

Jayce took a few steps back and surveyed the whole of the scene.

The body he viewed in the morgue had been in rough condition. The damage sustained from the injuries would have left far more blood behind than what he viewed here, and he couldn’t find a single trace of arterial spray on the grass or trees.

It meant this wasn’t the place where the man had been killed.

Jayce crouched low to the ground and brushed his hand through the grass blades, searching for discolouration, until he found specks of tarnished red leading away from the area, deeper into the forest. He straightened and followed the trail, moving slowly and scanning the ground for details: snapped branches, indents, footprints.

He began to recognize a strange pattern after some time.

Where the moss was soft and springy, it held the shape of prints that looked human in nature, but longer. The bracken too had been flattened by something heavy, their fronds bent at an unnatural angle. Jayce took out his arcane sensor to see if this creature had left an impression behind, but the needle was still wonky, stuttering back and forth. He would have to fix it before he returned tomorrow night, else he would have to track the monster the old-fashioned way.

The forest became darker farther in, the canopies of great beech trees obscuring the sky. The beeches grew long distances apart, their trunks the width of carriages and their branches thick fingers that reached from a meaty palm; while others were slender and shot straight up, grown in tight clusters across the sloped earth.

A disturbance amongst the foliage snagged Jayce’s attention, and he bent to one knee, pushing aside dried, crinkled leaves to uncover a pair of spectacles. A crack ran through one lens, and the nose piece was fractured; the arms were also mismatched, meaning one or both had been replaced in the past. Jayce slipped them into his pocket. Maybe he could find a place to identify them—a store or glasses repair shop. Still crouched, he glanced around the area.

This was definitely where the actual killing had taken place. Several pints of blood darkened the earth, the bracken darkened in blotches. Bits of torn clothing littered the ground, gory flesh still attached. Tracks in the dirt led away from the site, though the shape of them puzzled Jayce. He recognized bootprints—made by the victim—but also kicked-up dirt and moss from another pair of prints. The pattern suggested something had chased on all fours—a creature that used its front and back limbs to run—but the earlier prints definitely suggested the beast had been walking upright.

Moving the body from one location to another showed intelligence. The monster had either wanted to hide where it had killed the man, to throw investigators off the scent, or it had shown remorse after the killing, wanting people to find the body.

Jayce was stumped. He had never encountered something that showed such violence paired with critical thinking skills. It definitely wasn’t an animal. But it did make him wonder why—after all this time—the monster had decided to kill someone. This level of violence, without the body being eaten—as an animal would do—was akin to the behaviour of a serial killer, and with a town so nearby the creature’s prowling grounds, it should have gone hunting for targets there, yet this was its first victim.

Could it not leave the woods? Maybe it was bound to an area, which would be great news to bring back to Mayor Kiramman.

Jayce got to his feet and followed the tracks deeper into the woods, intrigued by this mystery. He had already gathered plenty of information to share with his new partner, yet he would like to have something physical to take back to him—some part of the creature that could be identified in the lab.

The lab in my old house, Jayce thought, feeling that sickening swoop in his stomach again. For the past few hours, he had been compartmentalizing the fact that he had been invited to visit where he once lived, to again walk the halls where he had slipped and cut his brow, the scar still visible now; to see the kitchen where he stood on a stool and helped his mother with the cooking, while below his father worked in the forge, the sound of hammering a familiar chord.

Despite Jayce’s trepidation, he couldn’t help but wonder what the old house looked like now, if it remained the same as the day he left it, with its scuffed tiles and argyle-print wallpaper, or if construction had changed the property. Were there more rooms now, or fewer? Had the back patio been torn up, or did it still face the lake? Which bedroom had Viktor claimed as his own? Had he fully explored the basement?

Thinking about the basement—even a flicker of it across Jayce’s mind—made him refocus on his current goal, putting Viktor, that house, and his visit out of his thoughts. He had been walking for a good half-hour, carefully following the tracks, discovering where the man had noticed he wasn’t alone and had started running, his footprints spaced wider apart in the earth; and Jayce continued past that, following now the uneven gait of the monster who had hunted the victim.

It was still early afternoon, though the sunlight came murky through the treetops, rendering the forest in strange shadows that stretched long into the distance; and where the forest bowed to meet that dark horizon, there crept the beginnings of fog, rolling low and obscuring what laid ahead. Jayce was quite sick of the mist, and he thought it bizarre to see it in this setting. He remembered trips to the sea with his parents, following the road east of Piltover until the woods were behind them and there was nothing between them and the ocean but flat plains and lone alder trees; and the fog had been thick then, sweeping in from the sea like a terrible blizzard, making it difficult to follow the road home.

Here in the forest, Jayce liked the mist even less. It seemed an ill omen, hindering his progress. But there were still hours left in the day and he wasn’t about to let poor visibility stop him from scouting when he still had the time.

Funerals were for the living, although Jayce hadn’t understood that as a child. At sixteen, he had begun to grasp the concept, but it didn’t make him feel any less awkward, like he wasn’t sure what to do with his hands, or what to say to people who wished him condolences, or if he should smile or frown or remain perfectly neutral. The silence at a funeral was a tangible thing; it sunk into your skin, rang in your ears, dug in behind your teeth. It made you wish for laughter, for anything other than the pin-drop quiet; and whenever someone cried, Jayce would feel a rush of cold fear sweep through him—the terror of confusion, of not knowing if he should be doing the same.

Graveyards reminded Jayce of his father’s funeral, of standing chilled in the misty rain while he held an umbrella for his mother and wrapped an arm around her shoulder while she sobbed into a kerchief. That day had passed so quickly, each step of the funeral just another hurdle to get past before Jayce could sink into his bed that night, ready to wake up the next morning and try to put it all behind him. But his mother had other plans, and those plans had been better than Jayce’s intention to block it all out.

At least, he thought so at the time.

Finding a cemetery in the middle of the woods perplexed Jayce.

It seemed a modest burial place, encircled by an old, wooden fence, the paint chipped all the way down. Some of the planks were rotten, fallen askew or lost in the foliage, overtaken by bracken and moss. Beyond the fence were rows and rows of gravestones, small and unimposing, riddled with lichen and weeds. Many looked unmarked, cracked and weathered, ancient as the woods itself.

Piltover had its own graveyard next to the old church on the highest level, where Jayce’s father had been buried, so he wondered why he was stumbling across tombstones in the middle of the forest, where people feared to tread. It was possible this cemetery had been in use many generations ago, when Piltover had been smaller and people less superstitious, but its presence so far from civilization made him hesitate at the threshold.

Without going in, and with his arcane sensor acting up, it would be impossible to determine if this cemetery had been naturally made or if it had spawned from some sinister force; and if it was the latter, then he would have a hell of a hard time finding an exit.

But the monster’s tracks had led him this way. If he turned back now, he would perhaps lose its trail and the possibility of finding its lair.

Jayce found a gap in the rotting fence and stepped through, the smell of decay rising quick to his nostrils. His hand on the post sunk into soft, pulpy wood, old splinters breaking loose and showering to the earth, and he wiped his palm against his trousers as he stepped onto a gravel path.

The mist had crept into the cemetery, blanketing the tombstones in the distance, and that strange chill Jayce had felt the previous night pervaded the air, causing gooseflesh on his arms. He followed the trail between rows of headstones, walking quietly and without haste, scanning each one for familiarity. Nothing jumped out at him, any legible name he discovered a complete mystery.

There was a shape farther ahead: much larger than a tombstone, flanked by tall figures that looked humanoid at a glance. Jayce cautiously approached, one hand on his gun, ready for anything.

What he discovered was a beautiful mausoleum. It stood stark and proud in the grey light, elegant carvings along its corner pillars and a set of sturdy gates blocking the entrance. The figures surrounding the crypt were marble statues, oddly reminiscent of mannequins, their arms extended elegantly towards the sky in different stages of a ballerina’s dance. Their eyes were white orbs, smooth and empty.

The name engraved above the gates, carefully cut into the stone, spelled “Reveck”.

Jayce knew the coroner’s surname was Reveck. Perhaps an ancestor of his was buried here. Whomever it was, the mausoleum had cost a pretty coin and was well cared for, even now, which led Jayce to believe the doctor still visited the place.

It made Dr. Reveck a suspect. Maybe he caught the squatter inside his private property and killed the man, then made it look like the town’s fabled monster had done it. Not a good motive, admittedly, as Jayce hadn’t clocked the man as experiencing random fits of violence, but it was as good of a lead as any.

Jayce pocketed the theory to analyze later.

He walked up to the gates, mindful of the statues’ soulless eyes, and gave the metal bars a strong tug, finding resistance. It was dark inside, the faint light rendering only murky shapes and drifting dust particles. Jayce thought he glimpsed a tall podium and a stone coffin, an epitaph cut into the base, but everything else was drenched in shadows. He pressed his face close, squinting as he stared inside, the metal cool against his cheek.

A faint noise came from within, barely audible above his own breathing. He inhaled and held his breath, tilting his head as he listened. It sounded almost like scratching, nails or claws against stone, but weakly, as though something was inside the walls, trying to get out. A mouse or rat, most likely, that had gotten stuck in a crevice too small to squeeze through or fallen into a hole too deep to escape. Jayce pitied the poor thing, but there was nothing he could do for it.

He slowly retreated, again with eyes upon the statues. Each was sculpted with such loving detail that Jayce assumed they specifically paid homage to whomever rested here—were maybe even a likeness to the deceased. But the limbs—so very much like a puppet’s—were a little distasteful, and unnerving to look at for too long.

Jayce backtracked, following the gravel path, hoping to find evidence that the monster had cut through the cemetery. Its tracks had led here, but it seemed to have vanished into thin air.

After some minutes of walking, Jayce slowed to a stop. He should have reached the fence by now, and as he searched the ground, he found no evidence of his own footprints leading inwards. Jayce withdrew his gun, unlatching the locking mechanism and unfolding the weapon to its proper length. He proceeded with caution down the path, expecting that something like this might happen, surveying the fog and the hazy outlines of headstones it obscured, his gun readied to fire if something should emerge.

There seemed to be nothing out of place aside from the worryingly long path, the tombstones still as decrepit as he left them. But the temperature was steadily dropping, his breath faintly visible in the air as he exhaled, and Jayce felt the cold slide down his back like an icy finger, his skin pebbling from the unexpected chill.

Something caught his eye to the right—the grey outline of a person, partially swallowed by the mist and standing motionless amongst the graves. They darted away when Jayce left the path, vanishing behind the lone beech tree growing at the cemetery’s centre. Jayce advanced towards the scenic respite, coming around the tree to catch whomever was following him, but they had disappeared, just a broken bench braced to the tree where they should have been.

Jayce stepped back, craning his neck to look up at the branches, wondering if the person had scrambled up the tree to hide, when his heel met the edge of an open grave. The loose soil crumbled underfoot and Jayce slipped, flailing as he plummeted six feet into the earth, his back slamming to the ground.

The workshop was quiet, the forge dark and cold. Upstairs, Jayce could hear his mother walking from the kitchen to the hallway to the parlour, her footsteps muffled against the wooden floors. She was softly humming—a song her grandmother had taught her when she was a little girl—the gentle tone of her voice distorted through the layers of wood and stone between them.

There was a creature in the forge with Jayce, a skinny, lanky-looking thing, with stringy hair and limbs that looked all wrong, bent in directions they shouldn’t be in. It was just sitting there in the dark corner, its face hidden by its mop of long hair, very still and quiet.

Jayce wanted to call for his mother, but if he raised his voice the thing might move—might leap at him and show its face. Worse, his mother would come downstairs and the thing would get her instead.

There was something else in the forge, too. Something Jayce didn’t want to look at or even acknowledge. A presence directly behind and to his right, just visible at the edge of his vision. It was cold, and the faint light it emitted was black in hue—like a shadow without a source, a void in which the sunlight couldn’t touch.

Scattered around Jayce’s feet were shards of crystals, glinting blue in the glow cast by the lamp on the desk. Blood trickled down Jayce’s arm, curved off his fingertips to drip onto the floor.

The creature wanted Jayce to go into the darkness.

The darkness wanted them both.

Jayce didn’t move a muscle.

When Jayce blinked back to consciousness, the light had faded even further from the woods. It was in that state where light and dark merged, leaving the world difficult to perceive without squinting or waiting for twilight to pass.

Jayce sucked in a harsh breath.

Something loomed above him, blocking the view of the sky: a spindly, black shape against the dull light. It was perched like a spider, its long arms and legs braced against the earthen sides of the open grave, its body held suspended. Two points of molten gold stared down at Jayce, set within what must be its head, and they moved as the head moved, its body leaning down into the hole, stretching with slow intent.

Jayce couldn’t move, his body still numb from the fall. The thing above him detached one thin arm from the grave’s side and reached a skeletal hand towards him, fingers splaying wide to grab, each pointed in a claw-tip.

Sharp enough to kill, Jayce thought.

He blinked again and the world had grown even blacker, the forest plunged into darkness. The monster was gone—if it had even been there at all.

Jayce winced as he pushed himself to standing, his temples throbbing and a jolt of pain lancing down his left leg. He gritted his teeth against the old injury and holstered his weapon, thankful that he hadn’t landed on his gun.

Night had fallen while he was knocked out. Jayce had planned on returning to town long before darkness had settled, but now he was out here in the middle of the woods—stuck in an open grave, no less—with a murderous creature loose and god knew what else lurking around.

Things were not going his way. But what else was new?

Jayce found a decent-sized rock in the vertical wall of dirt and wedged it out, and then he used it as a trowel, digging holes into one side of the grave to use as hand- and footholds. It took longer than he liked, and he was damp with sweat when he finished—not just from the exertion; every minute he spent here was another opportunity for something to find him, and the thought of running into the monster unprepared left him shaky with fear.

Jayce felt along the wall in the dark, finding the holes he had made and climbing out of the grave, throwing himself over the lip and onto level ground, rolling away from the hole. He stared at the dark sky for a few seconds while on his back, panting hard into the chilled air, before gathering his wits and getting to his feet.

He pulled the hex-light out of his pocket and twisted it, hearing the familiar click of the mechanisms inside, and it flickered to life in his hands, emitting a bright, bluish glow. Jayce gently pushed it into the air, where it hovered above his palm, humming like a contented bird.

Withdrawing his gun, Jayce started backtracking towards Piltover.

He moved with a hurried step, although his eyes were peeled for other pitfalls, careful not to disturb any mounds or stray too close to the tombstones. When he followed the gravel path this time, he found the old fence and the gap he had come through, and Jayce stepped over the rotten planks, exiting the cemetery.

An exhale stirred the air beside him—not near enough to brush against his cheek, but far too close for comfort. Jayce lifted his gun, pointing the barrel towards the sound, but there was nothing in the deep fog—nothing perceivable, at least. He walked away while still facing that direction, gaze scanning the darkness, his pulse jumping whenever a tree took shape amongst the shadows, and he continued on the way he had come, chasing his own tracks.

His light illuminated the forest in a small radius, blurred where it touched the edges of the mist, but the ground was revealed in full detail, a blue tint to the bracken, moss, and dead leaves. Jayce felt clumsy as he followed the trail, his clothes damp with sweat and his limbs strained from exertion. He could sense something out there in the woods with him—a crack of twigs in the distance, a groan from the branches above, harsh breathing again too close.

Occasionally he caught a flicker of gold eyes in the dark, but when he dimmed his light to better see, they would be gone, nothing but shadows staring back at him.

He was being too loud, the leaves crunching heavy underfoot as he marched on. There was a dull ringing in his ears—that noise brought on by acute fear—and it distorted his senses, making him flinch at every owl’s cry or the flutter of a moth through his light’s reach.

Jayce was beginning to curse himself for coming out here when he spotted the faint outline of white stalks in the distance, and he broke into a run, slinging his gun around his shoulder as he sprinted for the paper birches. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw two amber points in the darkness, moving quickly through the trees parallel to him, giving chase, and Jayce’s heart leapt into his throat, fear washing through him so swiftly that he stumbled and fell to the ground, his gun jamming into his ribcage.

He scrambled back up, slipping on the damp leaves and spongy moss, holding his weapon to his side as he again ran, almost flinging himself forward as he reached the grove’s threshold. Water soaked through his boots and trousers as he splashed through the river, not bothering with the skipping stones, and he grabbed his case without stopping, ascending the short hill to stand at the top.

Only then did he snuff out his light and glance back.

Beyond the paper birches, prowling on all fours like a jungle cat, its eyes glowing in the reflection of the moonlight, was the thing that had perched over the open grave. It was large with long limbs, and if it were to stand upright, Jayce knew it would tower over him. He didn’t know how he had outran it.

Maybe it let me go, Jayce considered, unnerved by the knowledge. Maybe it’s all part of whatever game it’s playing. Like a predator that enjoyed playing with its food.

Jayce watched the creature until it retreated, slipping back into the forest, its glowing eyes vanishing into shadow.

He turned and went back to town.

Bone-weary and craving sleep, Jayce returned to the Second Last Drop, dragging himself across the fields and into Piltover, following the road to the inn. The town was just as deserted as the previous night, the streets empty and quiet, just the lamplighter out doing his job, keeping the lamps burning.

As Jayce approached the tavern, he spotted movement coming around the side of the building, and heard the creak of the kitchen door swing shut as someone headed back inside. A cloaked figure hurried away from the establishment, their hood drawn up, and as they passed Jayce—on the opposite side of the street—they glanced up, startled to find someone else out at this hour.

Caitlyn’s eyes widened, and she pulled her hood lower and turned away, quickening her pace as she crossed through the plaza and headed deeper into town—perhaps back to her home, on the upper level.

She was the one who recommended the inn to me, Jayce thought, and then wondered why one of the wealthiest heiresses in Piltover knew enough about a tavern to recommend it—or why she was sneaking out the back.

He didn’t linger on the strange interaction, his mind already too swamped with discoveries and buzzing with waning adrenaline. He went straight up to his room and bolted the door, dropped all of his equipment onto a chair, and started disposing of his clothes into a pile, watching as loose dirt and dead bugs showered to the floor.

What he needed was a proper bath, but he dreaded the idea of sinking into another hole after what he had just gone through. Maybe tomorrow he would make a request for a bath—whatever that looked like here—before he began his errands. Tonight Jayce was content with just sliding into bed and catching a few hours of sleep before dawn broke.

Yet as he slid beneath the covers and blew out the candle on the side-table, all he could see as he shut his eyes was the creature from the woods: perched up on the ceiling, over his bed; crouched near the window, its indiscernible face reflected in the glass; standing over him, one clawed hand reaching for his throat.

Jayce didn’t sleep much that night.