Secret of the Fool

Under the wavering glow of a single gas lamp, Charlie approached the workbench with the care of a man about to perform alchemy. Before him lay the mysterious box—dark, metallic, and stubbornly sealed with a lock that seemed to defy every conventional tool in his arsenal.

Charlie retrieved his latest contraption—a marvel of ingenuity. Brass gears, intricately interlocked with polished copper cogs, whirred softly as he attached delicate tubes filled with glimmering aether fluid. The device, an amalgam of clockwork precision and arcane design, featured a miniature boiler that exhaled controlled bursts of steam, powering a series of sensitive pressure gauges and a finely wrought key-turning mechanism.

Jessica and Valentine circled the bench. Jessica's eyes sparkled with a mix of awe and apprehension as she watched the contraption spring to life; Valentine's expression was one of amused detachment, his lips curling into a knowing smirk as if he anticipated every twist and click.

As Charlie set the apparatus against the box's lock, a low hum filled the room—a rhythmic symphony of whirring gears and hissing steam that resonated with the deep mysteries of Blackmire itself. The device began to glow with an eerie, pulsating blue light that danced along the engraved surface of the box. Tiny cogs spun faster, and the machine vibrated with an almost sentient intensity, as if drawing on some secret cosmic power.

For a long, weighted moment, all was still except for the persistent clatter of machinery. Then, with a series of precise, measured clicks and a final, triumphant burst of steam, the lock relented. The box creaked open, its dark interior now bathed in the soft, spectral glow of that blue light.

Jessica leaned in, her voice hushed, "Did it work?"

Charlie, wiping a smear of oil from his calloused hand, allowed himself a small, satisfied grin. "Indeed," he replied quietly. "It seems the box was no match for a little engineering—and a bit of technique."

Valentine's eyes gleamed as he surveyed the opened box, an expression that mingled triumph with a hint of mischief. "Well, then," he said, his tone light, "let's see what secrets it holds."

And in that moment, as the steam curled around them like ghosts of a forgotten age, the trio stood together on the precipice of revelation, the mysteries of Markov's world unfolding one click, one hiss at a time.

The interior of the box was lined with a strange, velvet-like fabric—though in the dim light, it almost seemed alive, shifting under the glow of the gas lamp. Nestled inside were three objects: a syringe, a slender glass tube containing an iridescent liquid, and a letter sealed with an unfamiliar crest.

Jessica exhaled sharply. "Well. That's ominous."

Valentine, ever the picture of nonchalance, reached for the syringe first. It was elegant in design, with a silver-plated body and a thin, wickedly sharp needle. The plunger was inscribed with delicate symbols—tiny, looping engravings that seemed almost too precise to be the work of mere human hands.

Charlie leaned in, frowning. "That's not a standard syringe. It's custom work." He pointed to the fine engravings, his voice dropping. "This… this is Committee craftsmanship."

Valentine twirled the syringe between his fingers before placing it back with deliberate care. His gaze shifted to the glass tube, which housed a liquid unlike anything he had ever seen before. The substance within shimmered unnaturally, shifting colors like oil on water, yet denser—thicker, with a slow, deliberate movement that suggested something almost… sentient.

Jessica whispered, "What is that?"

Charlie didn't answer immediately. Instead, he reached out with a gloved hand, lifting the tube with the caution of a man handling an explosive. He turned it over, watching how the liquid inside reacted. It clung to the glass as though resisting motion, stretching in sluggish, sinewy strands before finally sloshing to the other end.

"I don't know," Charlie admitted. "But I don't like it."

Valentine, for once, didn't quip. His eyes had landed on the final object—the letter. Sealed with black wax, the emblem pressed into it was unfamiliar. It was neither the crest of a noble house nor any known faction. Just an eerie, unidentifiable mark that sent a strange unease curling at the base of his spine.

Slowly, deliberately, he picked it up.

"Shall we?" he murmured, a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes.

And with that, he broke the seal.

***

BLASPHEMY

To the unfortunate soul holding this letter,

This world is a rotting carcass, dressed in silk to hide the stench. A grand, decaying theater where the powerful script our tragedies and the rest of us are forced to perform. It is brutal, disgusting, and fucked beyond repair. And yet, the ones who could have changed it—the mighty, the enforcers, the architects of order—stood idle. They let the rot fester. They let the beasts take their feast. They let it happen.

So I made this.

Fate once chose who would rise, who would rule, who would shape the future. But fate is an old, broken thing, blind in one eye and foolish in the other. No more. The right to power should not be left to the whims of the stars.

Now, we will choose.

This is the first step. This is the test.

And you, dear reader, shall be the first to walk it.

The prototype of forced ascension is now in your hands.

The Staircase awaits.

Choose wisely.

***

Valentine read the letter once. Then twice.

His fingers tightened around the paper. The edges crumpled under the pressure. His usual easy grin—so effortless, so insufferable—was absent. In its place, his lips pressed into a thin, bloodless line.

The room felt colder.

Charlie, still bent over the box, caught the change before anything else. His hands stilled on the table, the gears of his contraption ticking quietly in the silence. He glanced up, eyes wary, cautious—because if Valentine Fontaine was angry, something had gone very wrong.

Jessica, frowning, leaned closer. "What does it mean?"

Valentine exhaled through his nose. He looked down at the letter again, as if willing the words to change. They didn't.

Then, slowly, his mouth twisted.

It was a grin, but not the kind that charmed its way past locked doors and into people's pockets. It stretched too far, baring too many teeth, something sharp and wrong and—hungry.

"So," he murmured, voice almost amused, "that's what they need the orphans for."

Jessica stiffened.

Charlie's fingers curled into fists.

And Valentine—Valentine's shoulders began to shake, but not with laughter. His eyes, usually alight with mischief, now held something else entirely. A gleam that coiled and flickered, like fire licking the edges of dry paper. A crack in the porcelain mask he wore so well, as if—just for a moment—something was slipping through.

Something vast.

Something wrong.

Then, just as suddenly, he exhaled. The tension in his shoulders eased. His grin softened into something more manageable, more human.

He tilted his head at Charlie and Jessica, all charm once more.

"Well," he said, voice light again, "that's inconvenient, isn't it?"

J

essica's brows knit together. She looked between them—Valentine, still holding the letter with that too-sharp grin, and Charlie, whose jaw was clenched tight, something unreadable in his eyes.

Her fingers tapped against the wooden table. "Alright," she said, voice steady. "What the hell does 'Blasphemy' mean?"

Valentine didn't answer.

He folded the letter, movements slow, deliberate, and tucked it neatly into his coat. Then, with a languid stretch, he leaned back against the workbench and offered her a lopsided, toothy smile. "Oh, Jessica. Some things are better left a mystery."

Jessica's lips pressed together. "That's not an answer."

Charlie let out a quiet sigh. "It's for your own good."

That made her bristle. "Don't give me that."

"It's different this time," Charlie said, his tone leaving no room for argument. "Just leave the room for a while."

She stared at him. Then at Valentine. The way he was watching her—no, not watching, waiting. As if testing whether she would push further.

She did not like that.

Jessica inhaled sharply through her nose, exhaled slow. "Fine."

She pushed herself off the stool, stepping toward the door. Paused.

Then, turning back, she leveled both of them with a firm look. "Whatever it is you're about to do," she said, "don't be idiots."

Charlie nodded.

Valentine winked.

Jessica rolled her eyes, muttered something under her breath, and then stepped out, shutting the door behind her.

The moment she was gone, the room felt heavier. The air sat thick, unmoving.

Charlie turned to Valentine. "Well?"

Valentine's smile didn't fade. But his fingers, still resting over the pocket where he had placed the letter, twitched.

"Oh, Charlie," he said, voice smooth, sweet, sickly.

And for the first time in a long while—

Charlie felt uneasy.

No...He went still.

Valentine's voice had been light—too light. Like a hand tracing a blade's edge, playful, careless. But the moment the words left his mouth, the weight of them settled into the room like smoke curling in a closed space.

"Do you remember May 17th? Seven years ago?"

Charlie's fingers curled slightly, nails pressing into his palm.

"…Yeah," he said, after a beat. "I remember."

How could he forget?

The day when The Hand of Blood—a name whispered with reverence and terror—was found dead in an alley. The day when the Unholy Priest of the Eclipse Order was gutted like a pig in the basement of a ruined chapel. The day when the Eclipse Order's second-in-command was left hanging from a Blackmire rooftop, throat slit so deep his head was barely attached.

It had been chaos.

No one knew who did it.

Only that three monsters, men too powerful to be touched, were suddenly… gone.

That was what the city remembered. That was what the rumors spoke of.

But Charlie… Charlie remembered something else.

Because that was also the day Valentine Fontaine—drunk, bleeding, half-mad—had come to his doorstep, smiling a smile that did not belong on a man's face.

He swallowed. "The day Blackmire changed."

Valentine chuckled. "Oh, come now, Charles. That's not the interesting part."

Charlie's grip tightened.

Valentine leaned in, elbows on the workbench, voice dropping into something softer, something not quite a whisper but felt like one.

"The day I climbed the Staircase."

Charlie didn't move.

"The day I was Reborn."

Something passed between them then.

Charlie met his eyes—and what he saw made something cold creep up his spine.

The light in Valentine's gaze was sharp, coiling, twisting. It was the look of a man standing at the edge of a precipice, one foot already off, grinning at the fall.

Charlie exhaled slowly. "Don't do this, Valentine."

Valentine tilted his head, all mock curiosity. "Do what?"

He didn't answer.

Didn't have to.

They both knew.

Valentine just smiled wider.