Unexpected Alliances

The silence hung thick in the study, the scent of old paper and leather binding the air.

Impheil exhaled a quiet sigh, almost regretful.

"I had hoped," he said lightly, voice calm and conversational, "that you'd walk out on your own."

He tilted his head slightly, studying Graham the way one might inspect a cracked mirror.

"A pity. Cooperation would've been... cleaner."

Graham managed the barest twitch of his mouth, a sneer half-born. His body remained rigid under invisible chains, but his eyes gleamed with unbowed contempt.

At a subtle flick of Impheil's gloved fingers, the door to the study creaked open.

Two estate staff members entered — faces slack, steps too smooth. One carried a thick ledger; the other, a sealed, iron-clasped box bearing Constantine's sigil.

Parasitized.

The sight twisted something deep in Graham's gut. His staff. His household. Hollowed and bent without a fight.

The staff approached silently, setting the items down on the side table before retreating, vanishing back into the hall without a sound.

Impheil didn't spare them a glance. His focus remained pinned to Graham — steady, cold, inescapable.

"You've built yourself quite a web," Impheil mused, idly flipping open the ledger with one hand, the faint shimmer of his crimson gloves catching the study's gaslight. "Broker ties… contacts in the Black Market… Interesting company for a man of respectable standing."

He turned a page, unhurried.

"And yet," he continued, glancing up, "they invest far too much effort to shield you."

The ledger snapped shut with a soft, decisive thud.

"So," Impheil said smoothly, folding his hands behind his back, "what exactly do you possess that the Brokers — or those behind them — want so badly?"

He took a slow step closer.

Graham let out a low, bitter chuckle.

"Funny," he rasped, voice raw with contempt, "you worm your way into my home, hijack my body—then ask politely for confessions."

His jaw set, but the pressure nudged again..

"You're no better than the rats you pretend to chase."

Impheil only smiled faintly, unfazed.

"You'll find," he said gently, "I can be far worse."

Graham's jaw tightened, breath steadying as he weighed the consequences of every word.

"They came for something old," he said finally, voice low, clipped. "An heirloom that's been in my family for generations."

He paused, as if sorting through a thousand cautionary instincts, before continuing.

"It's a relic. Passed down since before the fall of the Solomon Empire. Its purpose…?" A faint, sardonic smile crossed his lips. "Not exactly written in clear letters."

"From what little I understand, it's not the prize itself—only a tool. A piece meant to uncover something else. Something older and larger."

Graham's fingers twitched once against the armrest, a reflexive frustration.

"They approached me," he admitted. "Not recently. Months ago."

He gave a dry chuckle, hollow as scraped bone.

"And I... played along."

His gaze lifted, sharp under hooded lids.

"Leveraging it, drawing out better offers. Connections. Gaining what I wanted."

Another pause.

"But I kept the relic. Never trusted them enough to hand it over."

He leaned back slightly, the faintest shadow of defiance flashing in his eyes.

"They think it's a key."

Across from him, Leonard — Impheil — remained silent, absorbing every word.

The air in the room felt heavier now, as if the story itself had rooted something deeper into the floorboards.

Impheil's smile didn't waver.

He tilted his head slightly, the lamplight brushing the lenses of his spectacles with a fleeting shimmer.

"And where," Impheil asked, voice mild but edged, "is this key now?"

Graham's mouth tugged into a bitter half-smile.

"You'll enjoy this," he muttered dryly.

He let the moment stretch a second longer, savoring the quiet irony before answering:

"It's in the Church of Evernight's custody. Their Sealed Artifact vault beneath the Cathedral of Silent Revelation."

His gaze lifted, hard and steady.

"I had it moved months ago—quietly. No better place safer than the Church itself, nor would anyone guess."

He paused, breathing evenly.

"I could still retrieve it," he added, voice level. "But it wouldn't be simple. And it wouldn't be fast."

Across from him, Impheil let out a low chuckle, the sound light but edged.

"Clever," he said, almost admiringly. "Bury it under the lock of Official Beyonders."

He tapped his gloved fingers idly once against his thigh.

"Tch." Impheil exhaled sharply, a sound somewhere between a sigh and a dry laugh.

"Needlessly tangled... but nothing beyond fixing."

His fingers tapped once against the edge of his sleeve — a small, absent gesture, like someone idly considering which thread to tug first.

Graham's eyes sharpened slightly.

Before the conversation could turn deeper into that particular danger, he seized the moment, steering the current.

"You mentioned something earlier," he said, voice steady. "A meeting at the docks. The Warehouse."

He leaned forward faintly, the lamplight sharpening the lines of his expression.

"That wasn't part of anything I arranged. What exactly are they planning?"

There was a faint tension beneath his words

Impheil regarded him in silence for a heartbeat, as if weighing how much to divulge. Then, with a casual flick of his wrist — as if brushing dust from a table — he spoke:

"A disguised meeting, made under the table."

Graham's frown deepened. "A meeting? For what purpose?"

"Hard to say," Impheil replied, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

"Could be them setting up contingencies — in case something goes wrong with your side. Or maybe a third party trying to stir things up for their own reasons. Depends on whose lens you're looking through." 

Graham's fingers twitched on the chair arm, sharpening his gaze while raising his brow.

"A facade," Impheil answered smoothly.

"What they're walking into…"

He paused, savoring the weight of the next words. "...is a trap."

Graham stiffened slightly, instincts bristling. "A trap," he repeated.

"Orchestrated by the Church of Evernight." Impheil added lightly.

The study's dim light seemed to sharpen at those words. For a moment, Graham said nothing, processing. Then — a sharp, humorless bark of laughter escaped him.

"Well." He leaned back slowly. "If nothing else... I suppose my instincts weren't so off after all."

Another breath, colder this time. "They're trying to wipe the board clean."

Impheil smiled without warmth. "And now you're caught between it."

He stepped closer, boots near soundless against the aged wood.

"But lucky for you," he said softly, "you're not as alone as you think."

Graham's gaze narrowed. "Is that supposed to comfort me?"

Impheil chuckled low under his breath, the faintest glimmer of mischief sparking behind his lenses.

"No," he murmured. "It's supposed to remind you... that survival is still an option."

Graham's fingers flexed slightly against the armrest, his movements slow, controlled — the only outlet he had left.

"And what," he said, voice low, "do you want in return for this... reminder?"

Impheil tilted his head slightly, as if weighing the question. The light from the study's gaslamp caught the faint ridges of his crimson gloves — the weave of power resting there, coiled and patient.

"Simple," he said at last. "You're going to help me clean up the mess you helped make."

Graham's lip curled faintly. "Help you?" He spat the word like it tasted bitter.

"You still hold leverage," Impheil continued smoothly, unfazed. "The Brokers want the relic. You're the thread tied to it. Your existence complicates their plans — whether they realize it yet or not."

"And you'll use that. You'll stir the pot where I tell you to."

Graham's gaze burned now, fierce under the crushing leash wrapped around his body. "You expect me to be your puppet?"

"No," Impheil answered, smiling thinly. "I expect you to be desperate enough to pretend you have a choice."

The silence that followed felt almost heavy enough to break the walls themselves. Graham's breath came slowly, through his nose.

"...You intend to use me to smoke out their hand," he said finally, voice edged with realization.

"Correct," Impheil replied. "Starting tomorrow — at the warehouse."

Graham's eyes flickered — a faint tightening around the lids. "You expect me to walk into a Church trap, holding a leash they think leads to bigger prizes."

"You're more useful alive than dead," Impheil said mildly. "And if you're clever — which I think you are — you'll stay that way."

Another beat passed. Then Impheil added, almost conversationally:

"Or..."

He glanced sideways at the parasitized staff standing silently in the hall.

"You can stay here. And rot quietly when they no longer have a use for you."

The choice, unspoken but absolute, hung in the air like a blade.

Graham's jaw tensed.

For a long moment, he said nothing — only the faint sound of his breathing broke the silence. Behind his locked muscles, his mind spun furiously, measuring consequences, weighing outcomes.

Rotting in a cell, forgotten and stripped of all standing… Or becoming a piece on someone else's board — temporarily.

Neither option tasted good. But survival rarely dealt clean hands.

Slowly, almost begrudgingly, Graham exhaled a shallow breath through his nose.

"...Very well," he said at last, his voice low, grating against the last fibers of his pride.

"But if I do this—" his gaze sharpened, steel behind the words

"—I will choose the risks I take. I won't be your hound on a chain."

Impheil's smile returned — smaller, quieter, but somehow more genuine.

"I wouldn't expect anything less."

A short pause stretched between them, tense but settled.

The pressure on Graham's Spirit Body loosened slightly.

"You'll still be monitored, of course," Impheil said lightly, as if commenting on the weather. "But for now — you can walk, speak, act... as yourself."

"What now?" he asked, voice cold.

Impheil shifted his stance slightly, the faintest edge of amusement tugging at his mouth.

"Now," he said lightly, "we recognize the reality of the board."

He flicked a glance toward the sealed windows and the heavy doors beyond.

"You resume normalcy. Wait. Keep the Brokers believing you're still tangled in their net. Field whatever messages come. Stall if necessary. "Meanwhile..." He tilted his head ever so slightly. "...you provide me with the information and access I need. Quietly."

Graham's jaw tightened, but he nodded once — a clipped, sharp motion.

"And if I do," he said, tone like frost on glass, "what do you offer in return?"

Impheil smiled — a thin, professional thing. No warmth. Only acknowledgement.

"You get to keep breathing," he said. "And if you're clever, you might even come out of this richer, cleaner — with fewer knives at your back."

The words hung between them for a moment — plain, ruthless, real.

Graham exhaled slowly, bitterness knotting in his throat, but calculation shining in his eyes.

A deal struck between two men who would trust each other only so far as necessity demanded.

"Fine," Graham said curtly. "Temporary allies, then."

"Temporary," Impheil agreed, amusement flickering behind his lenses.

He turned, cloak stirring faintly at his heels.

"Prepare yourself," he said over his shoulder. "Tomorrow will be louder than you think."

And with that, the brittle understanding was sealed.

Impheil stepped away, his shadow gliding across the floor like something half-detached from the body.

"Rest for today," he said, almost kindly. "You'll need it."

At a subtle motion of his gloved hand, the estate staff stirred quietly. They drifted back to their duties as if nothing had happened, faces regaining faint traces of their former awareness. A careful wipe of recent memories, the last hour folded away like a discarded page, while the parasites remained.

Without another word, Impheil slipped toward the door, boots whispering against the wood.

Graham stayed seated, breathing slow, shallow—the chessboard rearranging itself behind his shuttered gaze.

…

The crimson light from the moon slanted through the high, broken windows, washing the vast hall in a sullen glow. Shadows clung to the crevices like a second skin. Jack sat casually in one of the worn armchairs, one leg thrown over the other, the aged leather creaking beneath him.

In his hands — an old, leather-bound notebook. Its pages fanned open across his knee, the ink still stark and sharp despite the passage of centuries.

After days of methodical testing, Jack had confirmed a few important things. His Spirit Body Thread connections to his marionettes hadn't been severed. He'd cleaned the cathedral of the dead marionettes and loose threads left behind before. Yet for all his probing, the Cathedral hadn't surrendered all its secrets, only hints. Enough to learn, for instance, that he could enter this place directly through the Spirit World if he wished, bypassing the material thresholds altogether. An access limited solely to him... and anyone he brought with him.

A hollow monument, he thought dryly.

 No gods here. No keepers. Just echoes and the soft, patient weight of time gnawing at the corners.

He smiled thinly, tapping the spine of the notebook against his fingers.

"Still better company than most," he murmured under his breath, the words swallowed quickly by the thick, stagnant air.

He turned another page slowly, almost lazily, his gaze dancing across the cramped handwriting — narrow, angled strokes that practically bled caution.

Jack's thoughts traced the old records with mocking ease.

In the final days of the Empire, with war clawing at its doorstep, Solomon hadn't bothered with lofty oaths or grand declarations. Faced with the certainty of collapse, the so-called Black Emperor simply gathered what he could, buried it into the folds of the world, and scattered the keys into the hands of those still standing. Angel Families — some powerful, others merely convenient — became the holders of his remnants. The Constantines were among them. 

Jack chuckled dryly under his breath. It wasn't belief in bloodlines that had driven Solomon, nor trust in any future resurgence. It was desperation. A last, trembling wager made against inevitability. Not to preserve glory, but to deny it to the Empire's enemies.

Now, centuries later, the dice still rolled across the board. A relic here. A hint there. All of it locked away, still snarling and gnashing beneath the polished facades of modern civilization. 

Jack tapped the worn notebook once against his knee, smiling faintly in the crimson gloom.

"Belltaine," he mused aloud, walking a lazy circle around the cracked tiles of the floor, boots tapping in rhythm. "A city of rotting merchants, stagnant bloodlines, and rats pretending to be kings..."

He smiled wider, the moonlight catching the glint of his teeth.

"And in the middle of it all... dear Rocket." The nickname hung in the stale air, full of ironic fondness.

He had decided, early on, to prod rather than crush. To set the pieces just askew and watch how Rocket — Impheil — would realign them.

Was he useful? A potential card to be hidden in the sleeve?

Or was he simply a walking calamity waiting for the wrong moment to detonate?

Either way, the principle remained the same — an unspoken axiom among High Sequence Seers: Be resourceful.

He smiled faintly to himself, almost indulgent. After all, if Rocket turned troublesome... it wasn't particularly hard to snip a few strings.

Not at all.

"Parasites, puppets, pretenders... everyone's pulling their strings," Jack murmured. "Even me."

He placed the notebook lightly onto the nearby bookshelf, letting it land open on a random page. Then he slid his hands into his coat pockets, expression gleaming with sly satisfaction.

Behind him, the cathedral creaked — as if something old and buried had shifted, ever so slightly.

Jack didn't turn. He simply smiled wider and disappeared into the deepening crimson shadows.