In Tenebris, Verita

8th Meadcrown, 1855 — Morning

Ragnar slung the worn satchel across his shoulder and descended the staircase two at a time. The hallway below was hushed, filled with the waiting figures of his brothers, his kin, and Vincenzo, whose pale presence hovered near the front window.

"What happened?"

He asked, scanning their faces.

No one spoke. Throats tightened. Gazes faltered. Words withered in the air.

Ragnar turned to Halina. She stood by the newel post, small beneath the weight of everything she carried. He stepped toward her and gently cupped her cheek.

"I took care of the paperwork. You're officially a Brooke now."

Halina nodded, her voice a whisper.

"Okay, brother."

Ragnar gave a small, firm nod and turned to Varkis.

"Bring me a pen and paper."

Without a word, Varkis produced the requested items from his coat. Ragnar gripped the pen, brow furrowed as he scribbled with practiced urgency. The ink scratched across the parchment, each stroke a vow pressed into time.

He held up the sheet once it was done.

"These are the promises I made to Mother," he said.

"Each one of them—I intend to keep."

Torren stepped forward, posture square, chin high.

"Let's fulfil them together."

Ragnar blinked.

"Aren't you headed back to the Marines?"

Torren shrugged, then grinned sheepishly.

"I resigned. I'm joining the army."

"What?!"

Torren blushed, waving his hand dismissively.

"Yeah, yeah. Let me tag along already."

Ragnar seized his shoulders.

"You absolute fool! Why would you—"

"I already told you,"

Torren interrupted, voice softening.

"I'm not losing my family again."

Before Ragnar could speak, Varkis chimed in, hands in his coat pockets.

"I transferred as well."

Ragnar turned to him, eyes wide.

"You bastards…"

He clutched his hair with both hands, pacing.

"Fine. Fine—you two defected."

He looked at the others.

"What about you two?"

Levi glanced away, avoiding Ragnar's eyes.

"I'll send my request today."

Anthony's eyes flicked to Annabelle, standing quietly beside the stair rail.

"I'll join in a week. I need to finish some things first."

Ragnar exhaled sharply and dragged a hand across his face.

"You don't need to follow me. If you're doing this out of guilt—"

"It's not guilt,"

Anthony said firmly, stepping closer.

"We're doing this because we want to. We choose to."

For a moment, silence descended like fog.

Then Ragnar turned to Halina.

"The civil exam—you said you wanted to sit for it. Where's the test center?"

Halina pressed a finger to her chin.

"It's two weeks from now. The centers are in Sombravia, Westry, Nancent, and Kendon."

"Westry's too dangerous. Nancent's too far. Kendon's too expensive…"

Ragnar muttered, weighing each like stones in his palm.

"Sombravia, then."

He looked to Halina.

"Do you agree?"

Halina smiled.

"I trust my brother's decision."

"Good." He nodded.

"Submit a request for Sombravia."

He turned back to the group, his voice firm again.

"Torren, get your things. We leave today."

Torren raised a hand in salute.

"Aye-aye, sir!"

"Anthony,"

Ragnar continued,

"Go find Gabriel. He'll be at the diner on the square—he is your soon-to-be brother-in-law, after all."

Anthony gave a short nod, already halfway to the door.

"Levi," Ragnar said,

"Stay here with Halina. Bring her when it's time."

Levi inclined his head silently.

Finally, Ragnar's gaze landed on Varkis.

"Gregory wants to meet you at the station at three. He's got something lined up—we'll need your help."

He paused, his voice softening.

"Before you go… spend a little time with Mother."

Ragnar made for the door, but a hand caught his shoulder. It was Percival.

"You don't have to leave now. Stay. Spend time with us."

Ragnar offered him a faint, weary smile.

"I will return, Uncle. But today… I have a promise to keep."

He glanced once more at Ian, seated solemnly by the hearth, and at Aunt Selena, who stood by the lace-curtained window.

"Goodbye, Grandfather. Aunt."

Then he stepped out into the morning light, the house behind him still and watching like a cathedral.

A voice boomed across the courtyard.

"Hey!"

Ragnar halted mid-step, jaw tightening. He didn't need to turn to recognize it.

Vincenzo.

The silver-haired youth strolled toward him, hands in his coat pockets, the morning sun catching faint glimmers in his amethyst eyes.

"Aren't you forgetting something?"

He said, stopping just short of Ragnar.

Ragnar exhaled through his nose.

"What now?"

Vincenzo extended a hand. A card rested between his fingers—ivory white, bordered in black foil.

"My cousin lives in Sombravia," he said casually.

"He's a professor. Show him this. Tell him I sent you."

Ragnar took the card, eyes flicking over the ink—Vergil Duskrane, Professor of Criminal Psychology—and slipped it into his coat pocket.

"Why are you helping us?" he asked.

"And what could your cousin possibly offer?"

Vincenzo didn't answer. Instead, he smiled as if the question amused him.

"You're enlisting, aren't you?"

His tone sharpened.

"You have three months. If you train under my brother, he'll make a Mystarch out of you by then."

Torren's eyes widened.

"A Mystarch? In three months? That's suicide—"

"Not if you're trained by a Duskrane,"

Vincenzo interrupted, grinning.

"I would've done it myself, but—"

He glanced upward, mockingly reverent,

"—some people didn't take well to a few... creative choices. So, exile for now. He's the weakest of us, but he'll do."

Ragnar folded his arms.

"Why should we trust you? Why would you want us to reach that level?"

Vincenzo's smile deepened—something ancient and cruel lurking beneath it.

"You're going to war, Ragnar. Ardenmark isn't just fielding riflemen. They'll send Mystarchs. Dozens."

He leaned in slightly, his voice dropping, conspiratorial.

"If you don't keep up, you'll die. Plain and simple."

He straightened his coat and turned away, casting a glance over his shoulder.

"Don't ask questions you're not ready to hear answers to. Just know this—I'm bigger and scarier than anything you can imagine. Use me. It'll work out in your favor."

He paused. The wind stirred his coat.

"An opportunity missed," he said softly,

"Is an opportunity wasted."

Ragnar reached out instinctively.

"Wait—what are you—?"

But Vincenzo was gone.

Vanished.

As if the space he'd occupied had swallowed him whole.

Torren blinked.

"He… really knows how to make an exit."

Ragnar stared at the empty air, the silence closing in around them.

Then he glanced at the card once more and tucked it deeper into his coat.

"Let's hope his cousin is saner than he is."

LOCATION- Velvarin University of Sombravia

"In tenebris, veritas."

The words echoed in the lecture hall. Students sat in rows, their eyes to the white-haired professor before them,

"These words belong to the founder of our university, Lord Éras Velvarin. Can anyone tell me the meaning of this phrase?"

A ginger-haired girl raised her hand,

"Please,"

Vergil nodded.

Hesitant, the girl's lips parted,

"In darkness, truth."

Vergil smiled, clapping his hands,

"Wonderful, a round of applause for Miss Mandy."

The hall erupted in enthusiastic cheers.

"Now, now,"

Vergil tapped the board, the chalk in his hand trailing slow, deliberate lines as if he were drawing a noose rather than a sentence.

"When investigating a criminal," he continued,

"One must not look at what they did—at least, not at first."

He turned, silver hair catching the low, amber light of the gas lamps overhead. His pale eyes swept over the room, the rows of eager faces now taut with silence.

"One must ask—why? Why did they act? Why did they deviate from the moral spine the rest of us cling to?"

He paused, letting the words sink like teeth into flesh.

"A murderer doesn't simply stab a victim. No. He peels something open inside himself long before he touches a blade."

Some students flinched. A few scribbled nervously. The ginger-haired girl—Mandy—stared down at her notebook, fingers frozen.

Vergil walked slowly down the steps of the amphitheatre, cane tapping rhythmically.

"People often ask me—Professor Duskrane, how do you profile the mind of a killer?"

He smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes.

"I don't. I unearth it. I exhume the bones of their thoughts, still warm, still writhing in the mud. I listen to their silences. I read between the bruises they leave behind."

He stopped beside a student in the front row, leaned slightly toward him.

"And that... is where truth begins."

The student swallowed audibly.

Vergil straightened and returned to the board, writing in bold strokes:

MOTIVE IS MEMORY.

TRUTH HIDES IN SHAME.

EVERY KILLER LEAVES A SIGNATURE.

The chalk snapped in his hand. He didn't flinch.

"Now," he said smoothly, turning back to the class, "open your casebooks to the assigned reading—The Silvertown Butcher. Today, we dissect the dissectionist."

Outside, the bells of Sombravia chimed noon.

Inside, no one dared breathe too loudly.

Vergil set down the broken chalk and dusted his fingertips with a handkerchief. He turned to face the class again, voice dropping lower, quieter—yet somehow more dangerous.

"Now. Strip away the myth of the madman with the knife," he said, pacing slowly.

"Let's deal with reality."

He gestured to the board behind him, where he'd written the phrase:

"EVERY KILLER LEAVES A SIGNATURE."

"This isn't poetic fluff. It's forensic fact."

He tapped his temple with a finger.

"The signature is not the method. The method is how they kill. The signature is why they kill."

He paused, letting it settle.

"Two stab wounds to the chest? That's method. Leaving a wedding ring on the tongue of the victim? That's signature."

A few students scribbled furiously. Mandy's pencil snapped from the pressure.

Vergil continued, his tone growing sharper, more clinical.

"Always separate the three elements: Modus Operandi. Signature. Staging."

He chalked the abbreviations on the board:

SIG. STG.

"MO evolves. A killer's method gets cleaner, faster, smarter. But the signature—the psychological compulsion—never changes. You want to catch them? Don't follow their knife. Follow their ego."

He turned again, walking toward the side wall, where a projection screen hummed to life.

An old photograph appeared—grainy, black-and-white. A woman, mid-thirties, staged in a dining chair with a glass of red wine in her lifeless hand. A violin resting across her lap.

Several students gasped.

"Case study," Vergil said calmly.

"Marlena Voutier, 1848. Found in her apartment. Not a drop of blood spilled—yet every rib was shattered internally. No forced entry. No sign of struggle."

He clicked again. Another woman. Different year. Same staging.

"Different cities. Same posing. Same wine. Same violin. Same fracture pattern. The killer left no fingerprints, no DNA, no direct link. But he left us himself. Every time."

He turned to the class.

"Criminal profiling isn't about playing psychic. It's about pattern recognition. It's about knowing the architecture of obsession."

He walked back to the center.

"You want to hunt predators? Fine. But understand this—you will not win by being clever. You will win by being patient. You build the map. You learn the rules of their ritual. You bait them into breaking their own rhythm."

Another pause.

Then, quietly:

"And you remember that monsters don't look like monsters. They look like lovers. Neighbors. Brothers. Professors."

A few students glanced at each other. A cold ripple ran through the room.

Vergil smiled faintly.

"Now," he said, smoothing his coat,

"Open to Chapter Seven. Victimology. Because the best way to understand a killer—"

He raised a finger.

"—is to understand who they choose not to kill."

The bell above the door chimed softly—no jarring clang, just a genteel tone.

Vergil glanced at the clock.

"That's all for today, then,"

He said, snapping the notebook shut.

"Your assignment is due next Friday. I want full behavioural breakdowns, not bedtime speculations. And no Freudian clichés."

Chairs scraped back. Books shut. A blur of tweed, wool, ink-stained fingers, and shoes clicking across marble. Students filed out into the corridor, murmuring about his final line—monsters looking like brothers. Professors.

But one stayed behind.

"Professor Duskrane?"

He paused, halfway through putting on his gloves. The girl—Mandy—stood there clutching her copy of Crime and Compulsion.

He raised an eyebrow.

"Yes, Miss Mandy?"

"I had a question… about the Vanmoor case,"

She said, eyes flicking toward the projection screen he'd switched off.

"You said the staging didn't match the killer's usual psychological profile, but… wasn't the violin detail consistent?"

Vergil stilled.

He turned, smiling faintly.

"Excellent observation. Most miss that."

Mandy brightened, hopeful.

"But then—how do you explain the deviation? Why would someone so ritualistic suddenly pose the victim differently?"

Vergil looked at her for a long moment.

Then stepped forward.

"Because staging is often not for us," he said softly.

"It's for them. Sometimes, a killer doesn't want to relive the fantasy. Sometimes they want to say goodbye."

He reached past her and gently tapped her book.

"And sometimes,"

He added, voice almost conspiratorial,

"They want to see if anyone will notice."

Mandy blinked.

"You noticed," he said.

Her lips parted to respond, but something in his gaze—something bottomless—unmoored her.

"Careful, Miss Mandy,"

Vergil said gently, brushing a speck of chalk from her collar.

"The deeper you peer into the abyss…"

He trailed off, then smiled.

"Well. You know the rest."

He turned, cane tapping against polished marble, and vanished down the corridor like smoke slipping beneath a locked door.

Vergil's cane tapped softly down the corridor—then stopped.

He turned his head slightly, eyes sliding to the marble column on his left.

"Tigranclaw," he said quietly.

"You really ought to breathe quieter."

From behind the pillar, a shadow stirred. Out stepped a young man in his early twenties—sharp suit, wind-ruffled black hair, and eyes the colour of crushed emeralds. A smirk tugged at his mouth.

"Every damn time,"

He muttered, amused.

"How do you do that?"

Vergil exhaled through his nose.

"Bartholomev. What is it now?"

Bartholomev reached into his coat and handed over a sealed envelope.

"It's from Lucien. About Vincenzo."

At that, Vergil's brow twitched upward. He slipped a glove off and broke the seal with a practiced flick.

"What's that little menace stirred up this time?"

Bartholomev shrugged.

"No clue. Lucien said it's better if you read it."

Vergil scanned the first line, and his smile tightened. Not amused. Not surprised. Just tired in a way only family can make you.

"You heading somewhere?"

He asked without looking up.

"Roma. Arslan's tangled in something strange."

Bartholomev turned to go.

"Asked me to keep an eye on it."

Vergil nodded absently.

"And Frederick?"

Bartholomev stopped at the stairwell, scratching his chin.

"Ferros. Still stuck in Lorentia. Something about... I don't know, rising feminist factions? He sounded genuinely afraid."

Vergil chuckled dryly.

"That does sound like Frederick."

Bartholomev gave a two-finger salute and walked off, coat billowing behind him.

"See you soon, old man."

Vergil folded the letter back into its envelope and looked down the empty hallway.

"Vincenzo…" he murmured.

"What storm are you dragging us into now?"