"They sharpen their tongues like swords and aim cruel words like deadly arrows. They shoot from ambush at the innocent; they shoot suddenly, without fear."
— Psalm 64:3–4
⸻
The hallway blurred as Caleb ran, boots thudding against ancient wood, breath sharp in his throat.
The manor felt alive now — not warm with music, but pulsing with something colder, older.
Like a heart buried in the walls.
Why Thalia?
That question spiraled behind his ribs with every step. Why pictures of her? Why that ritual?
She didn't even believe in all this weird crap. Didn't go chasing ghost stories, didn't dabble in tarot, didn't pray.
She just… lived. Quietly. Kindly. Like the world hadn't already tried to kill her once.
He rounded a corner, nearly colliding with a statue that hadn't been there before — a robed angel with a broken face and a cracked sword. No plaque. No history. Just… watching.
A shiver ran down his spine.
He kept moving.
Somewhere behind him, the faint echo of party music tried to pretend nothing was wrong. The laughter now felt like a mockery — shallow, unreal.
His phone buzzed once in his pocket.
A flash of light.
Then dead again.
Static clung to the air now, like something was breathing through the manor's bones. Not fast. Not loud. Just… present. Like it knew he was there, and it was patient.
He turned down the hall that led toward the side gardens — where Thalia had said she might clear her head.
Then he stopped.
Something was standing at the end of the corridor.
Not a person.
A thing — dressed in a professor's coat, head tilted just too far to the side, like it hadn't learned how human joints were supposed to work.
Its eyes — wrong.
Not angry. Not afraid.
Hungry.
"Caleb," it said, voice mild and academic. "You shouldn't be wandering."
He took a step back.
"You're interrupting something delicate," it added, stepping forward. "She has a role to play, you see. And you… don't."
The lights flickered. For just a second, the corridor stretched. Like a mouth.
Caleb turned and ran again — faster this time.
He didn't look back.
⸻
He ran.
The corridor twisted behind him, the air turning heavier, thicker, like the manor was trying to digest him.
Floorboards creaked, but not beneath his feet. Behind him. Around him. Too many steps.
A shadow peeled off the ceiling.
It dropped to the floor in front of him on all fours — limbs too long, head twitching, crawling with the jerky grace of a spider learning how to walk like a man.
Caleb stumbled back, nearly falling.
Another shadow giggled.
From behind.
He turned — too late — as a second one leapt sideways from a painting on the wall, the canvas warping like wet skin as it emerged.
These weren't just illusions.
They were toying with him.
One ran ahead and mimicked his gait — like a reflection in a warped mirror.
Another brushed his shoulder, then vanished into the wall again like ink in water.
They weren't hunting.
They were playing.
Like a cat with its prey — a few nips, a little chase, then the final break.
He slammed through a door, heart pounding, and found himself in an old drawing room. Fireplace cold. Windows black. His reflection didn't move.
"Found you," a voice cooed.
All five shadows slithered through the walls, crawling like smoke, jaws cracking wider, eyes glowing with an inverted light — like candle flames dancing inside out.
He backed into a corner, grabbed a broken chair leg, raised it like a weapon.
They laughed. Dry and high. Too human and not human enough.
Then—
"I stand on my authority in Christ."
A voice. Calm. Cutting.
"Reveal the threads of fate… and sever that which binds."
The air cracked.
A golden sigil exploded mid-incantation — etched in light, pulsing with sacred geometry. Six radiant threads spun outward like webs yanked from the underworld itself.
"Fate Weave."
The shadows shrieked.
Not in pain — in recognition.
A figure stepped into the room, smoke rolling off his coat, the barrel of a black gun still warm.
Luciel.
Eyes twin storms of grey and crimson. A communion wafer between his teeth like a cigarette.
"Bad manners," he muttered. "Didn't anyone teach you not to play with your food?"
He lifted the silver gun, sights already aligned.
A shadow lunged.
Luciel didn't move.
The thread around its neck snapped — and it burst into black dust.
The others hesitated.
He smiled, almost bored. "Next?"
Another one shrieked and darted to the ceiling, scampering like a beetle, trying to vanish into the cracks.
Luciel's left hand lifted — two fingers traced a fast sigil in the air, and the ceiling lit up in blinding white.
"Malakhim Seal: Light of Uriel."
The thing froze mid-leap — then shattered like glass, pieces of dark matter raining down into nothing.
The remaining three twitched, unsure. Two whispered between themselves in a dialect Caleb couldn't understand. The third tried the door.
Luciel moved forward — a blur of coat and faith and certainty.
Another thread — thin, blue — wrapped around one of the shadows. He gave it a tug with his will.
The creature twisted sideways, convulsed, and scattered.
Faith, it seemed, didn't just kill them.
It dismissed them — like lies caught under a spotlight.
Caleb watched, stunned, as the last shadow screamed something guttural and dove at Luciel.
He didn't flinch.
His foot came up, catching it midair — a brutal, casual kick that sent it into the far wall.
The shadow tried to reform, but the fate-thread around it was already unraveling — Luciel's hand still gently pulling.
"Stop struggling," he said, voice quiet now. "Your script's been rewritten."
With a final yank, the thread snapped — and the last shadow collapsed into a silent puddle of tar.
Luciel exhaled slowly. Let the silence settle.
Then looked at Caleb.
"You alright?"
Caleb blinked. "What was that?!"
Luciel holstered the gun. "Demoncraft. Old shadows. Minor entities."
"Minor?!"
Luciel tilted his head with a smirk . "Trust me you don't wanna see major."
A beat passed.
Caleb's voice broke. "Who….Who the hell are you?"
Luciel paused. Shrugged.
"Someone late to the party."
He looked toward the far wall, where faint marks glowed in residual gold. His eyes narrowed.
"She was here," he muttered. "But they took her."
Caleb froze. "You mean Thalia?"
Luciel nodded. "They used you. While you were chasing answers, they isolated her making sure she's alone . Same trick, different target."
Caleb's mouth was dry. "Where is she?"
"I don't know. But I know how to follow."
He stepped toward the wall, fingers brushing old wood — then stilled.
"She's not far. But we need to move."
The silence returned. Thick and trembling.
Caleb glanced at the broken door. At the fading threads of golden light.
Then back at Luciel.
He didn't know who this man was.
But whatever he was?
He'd just saved his life.
And maybe, just maybe…
Thalia's too.