Fort's eyes fluttered open as the soft creaking of the old house settled around him. For a moment, he remained still, listening to the faint hum of the world outside. His body felt heavy, his mind groggy from a restless sleep on the worn-out sofa.
He blinked, squinting as sunlight poured through the half-drawn curtains, casting sharp, golden beams across the floor.
"Afternoon already?" Fort muttered groggily, rubbing a hand over his face. His fingers brushed the rough stubble on his chin, and he sighed.
Then, it hit him.
His chest tightened as his mind snapped back to reality—the meeting. His heart gave a sudden thud against his ribs, and he fumbled for the crumpled piece of paper in his coat pocket. His hands, still shaky from sleep, smoothed it out on his thigh.
16:00.
"Damn it," he cursed under his breath, his voice barely more than a rasp. Panic surged through him as he spun around, eyes locking on the wall clock. But the moment his gaze settled on the hands, a wave of relief washed over him.
15:45.
Fort exhaled deeply, shoulders loosening as he crumpled the paper back into his pocket. "Fifteen minutes to spare," he muttered, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his lips. "Plenty of time."
Yet, even as he said it, a knot of unease remained coiled in his stomach.
He pushed himself up from the sofa, stretching out his stiff limbs, his joints cracking in protest. The room was a mess—his books lay scattered across the floor, the half-eaten plate of food sat on the small coffee table, and the fireplace, just barely smoldering, filled the air with the faint scent of burnt wood.
Shaking his head, he straightened his clothes and reached for the revolver on the side table. The cold metal felt solid in his hand, grounding him as he turned it over in his palm, inspecting it carefully. His fingers moved instinctively, loading the bullets one by one with a precision he no longer had to think about.
But as the final bullet clicked into place, something gnawed at the back of his mind.
Wait.
His hand froze. He stared down at the fully loaded chamber. Slowly, a frown creased his brow as the realization hit him.
Four shots. He distinctly remembered firing four shots last night. The recoil, the noise—they were too vivid to forget. And yet…
The revolver was full.
For a long moment, he stood there, unmoving, just staring at the gun. Then, with a small shake of his head, he chuckled dryly, knocking his temple lightly with his fist.
"...Heh, right. It was just an illusion," he muttered. But the words felt hollow.
The night before had been too real to dismiss so easily. He could still feel the weight of the revolver in his hand, the way the air had crackled with danger. And his body… His body still ached with phantom pains—cuts, bruises, reminders of a battle that had supposedly never happened.
"An illusion that leaves real wounds," Fort whispered to himself, his gaze drifting down to his hands, to the faint scars that traced across his knuckles.
muttered under his breath, gripping the revolver tightly. His thoughts darkened. If the pain and injuries were real... what about death?
Would death there be just as real?
He shook his head, trying to dispel the lingering questions. They would do him no good now. He had a meeting to attend, one that couldn't wait.
Holstering the revolver, he grabbed his keys and reached for the binding time lying on the table. It's symbols still clearly seen.
He tucked it into his coat pocket before heading to the door.
As his hand hovered over the doorknob, he paused. Something made him glance back, a strange sensation prickling at the edge of his mind. The room behind him was still and silent. The sofa cushions were disheveled from his restless sleep, books were tossed haphazardly across the floor, and the half-eaten meal sat on the plate like a memory of a life he wasn't sure he would return to. The fire he had put out earlier still sent up thin tendrils of smoke.
Fort's eyes lingered on the mess. He couldn't shake the feeling that this might be the last time he saw it.
"I don't know if I'll be coming back," he whispered to no one in particular, his voice barely audible over the soft creak of the floorboards beneath his feet.
Finally, he turned, pulling the door shut behind him with a soft click.
Clack.
The sound of the lock turning echoed faintly in the quiet of the late afternoon. Outside, the air was crisp, the sun already sinking lower in the sky. The horse-drawn carriage he had requested earlier waited at the end of the path, the driver idly adjusting the reins.
Fort straightened his coat, his mind already preparing for what lay ahead. He walked toward the carriage with steady, deliberate steps, but deep down, his thoughts were a whirlwind of questions, fears, and the unsettling certainty that whatever awaited him would blur the line between illusion and reality even further.
As Fort settled into the horse-drawn carriage, the worn leather seat creaked beneath him. He leaned back, his gaze drifting toward the streets beyond the small window. The late afternoon light bathed the city in a soft, golden glow, casting long shadows across the cobbled roads.
People were everywhere, rushing about, eager to return home after a long day. They moved in a rhythm, their faces weary but calm, caught up in the routines of their lives—unaware of the darkness that coiled beneath the surface of their everyday existence. Unseen threats, hidden dangers, things they couldn't possibly imagine.
Fort's eyes narrowed as he observed them, his fingers absently tracing the cold metal of his revolver hidden beneath his coat. He had seen that darkness. Felt it. Survived it.
The carriage jolted slightly as the driver gave a soft click of the reins. The horses snorted and began to move, their hooves clattering against the stone streets. Slowly, the carriage rolled forward, blending into the steady hum of city life.
The rhythmic creaking of the wheels echoed in Fort's ears, a strange contrast to the busy streets outside. His mind wandered, thoughts heavy with the knowledge of what lay ahead. These people—laughing, chatting, living their lives—were blissfully ignorant of the shadows that lurked in places they'd never think to look. Fort envied them, in a way.
But there was no time for envy. He was headed into something far darker, something that might not allow him the luxury of returning to this bustling, unknowing world.
The carriage turned a corner, the streets growing narrower, quieter. Fort leaned his head back, eyes half-closed as the city began to fade into the distance, the crowd thinning as the sun dipped lower into the horizon.
---
Under the orange glow of the sinking sun, Fort climbed down from the horse-drawn carriage, his boots hitting the cobblestone street with a soft thud. The museum where the late Mr. Aries had worked stood nearby, its once-pristine facade now faded and cracked, like a ghost of a time long past. The shadows it cast stretched long and ominous, swallowing parts of the street in gloom.
"Thank you," Fort said, flipping three worn coins into the hand of the carriage driver, whose weathered face barely acknowledged the gesture. With a flick of the reins, the horses snorted and began to move, their hooves clattering against the stones as they slowly pulled the carriage away, vanishing around a corner and disappearing into the labyrinth of the town.
Fort lingered, watching until even the sound of the wheels had faded, replaced by the distant hum of a quiet evening. His fingers absently traced the leather strap of the satchel slung over his shoulder. "No turning back now..." he murmured, squinting down the dimly lit alleyways ahead.
He began to circle the museum, his footsteps muffled by the thickening shadows. The alley he entered seemed to darken with each step. Broken lanterns hung overhead, swinging gently in the evening breeze. "It should be around here somewhere," he muttered to himself, scanning the crumbling walls and overgrown weeds that lined the alley's edge.
After a few minutes, Fort found himself at a T-junction, two narrow paths stretching out into the darkness. He paused, breathing deeply, trying to remember. To the left was the smell of mildew and something rancid, to the right, a faint flicker of light from some distant source.
"To the right..." Fort whispered, furrowing his brow. He closed his eyes for a moment, the memory of his last visit creeping back like a half-remembered dream. His hand reached up to rub his temple, the dull ache of uncertainty gnawing at his mind.
He turned right, the path narrowing with every step. Old, dented trash cans lined the walls, some tipped over and spilling their contents into the alley. A rat scurried by, disappearing into the shadows.
"Feels like the wrong place..." Fort muttered, his unease growing. The alley seemed endless, every corner looking the same, every noise amplified in the stillness.
Just as doubt began to claw at him, his eyes landed on a sign, barely visible through layers of dust and grime. The Hidden Brew. The once-vibrant letters were faded, nearly blending into the rotting wood that held them up.
"There you are..." Fort sighed with relief, though the sight did little to calm the knot forming in his stomach.
He approached the café, its windows clouded with dirt. Peering inside, he could barely make out the shapes of tables and chairs, all covered in a thick layer of dust. Cobwebs clung to the corners of the ceiling, swaying gently in the breeze sneaking through the cracks.
"Looks abandoned... just like last time," he muttered to himself. The atmosphere felt heavy, as if the walls themselves were holding their breath.
But Fort had no choice. He couldn't afford to leave, not after everything that had happened. His fingers tightened around the strap of his satchel. "If I go back now... whatever happened last night will just happen again. And next time, I might not be so lucky."
His heart beat faster as he stepped up to the door, half-expecting it to swing open like before. But when his hand gripped the doorknob, it didn't move.
"What...?" Fort frowned, rattling the handle. The door was locked, something it hadn't been the last time he was here. He glanced around the alley, the silence pressing in on him.
After a moment, his mind clicked. He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a small, brass key. "Of course... this has to be it," he murmured, staring at the key that had been given to him under strange circumstances only days ago.
The key slid easily into the lock, and with a soft click, the door gave way.
Fort hesitated, his hand still on the doorknob. Something was different. He couldn't explain it, but the air inside felt... off. It was more than just the dust and disrepair; it was as if the shadows inside were watching him, waiting.
Steeling himself, he pushed the door open and stepped across the threshold.
As Fort stepped into the café, his eyes widened, a mix of disbelief and confusion flooding his expression.
The sight before him was beyond comprehension, as if reality itself had warped.
"H-how?" he stammered under his breath.
Moments ago, from the dusty windows outside, he had seen chairs toppled over, tables strewn with abandoned plates, and counters cluttered with grime. But now, everything was immaculate. The chairs were perfectly aligned, tables gleamed as if freshly polished, and the counters reflected light with an almost supernatural sheen. Even the air smelled fresh, tinged with a faint, pleasant scent of lavender—so out of place for an establishment that had seemed abandoned just moments before.
Behind the counter stood a bartender, his movements slow and deliberate as he polished glasses that had clearly been used moments before. There was no trace of any disorder, no evidence that anything had been amiss.
What kind of magic could do this? Fort wondered, his mind racing. Is this the power of celestial creation?
He'd read about powerful enchantments, but this was different. Mastery over reality itself is the mark of an illusion... but this is no illusion. This is real.
It would take immense power to shape reality like this. Far more than any ordinary spellcaster could muster.
Fort's thoughts spiraled, his mind adrift in a sea of questions. Could there be something far greater at play here? His thoughts returned to the legends—tales of sequences far beyond the 4 Act Cards, powers that could reshape the very fabric of existence. Was such a force hidden within this unassuming café?
His body tensed, a deep unease settling in his gut. Casually, he slid his hands into his pockets, fingers brushing the cool metal of his concealed weapons. He had learned long ago to never let his guard down, especially when things seemed calm.
As Fort stood there, scanning the room with wary eyes, he felt the prickling sensation of being watched. His gaze snapped back to the bartender, who was observing him with unsettling calm.
"Mr. Fortis," the bartender called out, his voice breaking the thick silence, "please come to the counter."
Fort's heart skipped a beat. His name. How do they know my name? The thought echoed in his mind, amplifying his growing sense of dread.
He hesitated for a moment but then slowly made his way to the counter, every step heavy with caution. His eyes never left the bartender, who continued his calm, measured movements. The closer Fort got, the more he noticed small, unsettling details—the bartender's perfectly ironed uniform, the way his black hair seemed almost too neat, and his brown eyes, which held no warmth, only a cold, knowing gaze.
When Fort reached the counter, the bartender placed a glass in front of him. The liquid inside shimmered a deep, unnatural purple, the surface swirling slightly as if alive. It was no ordinary drink. It exuded an aura of something... otherworldly, its scent rich and intoxicating, like aged wine mixed with a sweetness that clung to the air.
"Please drink," the bartender said softly, his eyes never leaving Fort's. "Mrs. Azzel will see you soon."
Fort's blood ran cold. Azzel? His mind raced back to the rumors—whispers of a woman who had once belonged to the royal family. Mrs. Azzel, the widow of the late prince, whose murder had sent shockwaves through the kingdom. She and her family had disappeared the night of the tragedy, their mansion at the North Gate abandoned without a trace. Many believed they were dead... or worse.
Why would she reappear now? And why would she want to meet me?
Fort swallowed hard, his mind a tangle of confusion and fear. He couldn't let them see his panic. He had survived too long by keeping a cool head, no matter how dire the situation.
He nodded slightly at the bartender, though his muscles remained taut, ready for anything.
While waiting for Mrs. Azzel's arrival, Fort studied the man in front of him. The bartender's movements were deliberate, almost mechanical, as he wiped down the already spotless glass. Everything about him seemed too perfect—his immaculate uniform, the precision of his motions. Even his face, with its sharp features and cold brown eyes, seemed more like a mask than a human expression. Was he truly human?
Fort's gaze shifted to the surroundings. The café was eerily quiet, its pristine condition almost unnatural. There were no other patrons, no sound save for the faint clinking of glass and the soft hum of ambient magic that seemed to pulse through the air.
If anyone from the Azzel family had access to an Act Card sequence above four, Fort knew this conversation could end very badly. He tried to steady his breathing, already feeling the weight of the unknown pressing down on him. The stakes weren't just personal—they were astronomical.
Every second of waiting was agony. The café was too quiet, too still, as if it existed outside the natural world, removed from the flow of time itself. The shadows in the corners seemed darker, stretching farther than they should. He could feel the weight of unseen eyes on him, his instincts sharpened to a razor's edge.
Finally, a figure emerged from the darkness behind the counter, her presence a stark contrast to the eerie stillness of the room. A woman, tall and striking, stepped forward with an unsettling grace. She wore a black gothic dress, its intricate lace details glinting in the dim light like the web of a spider. Her pale skin gleamed, and the black fabric clung to her form, giving her the appearance of a figure from a painting—someone who didn't belong in this world.
"Good afternoon, Mr. Fortis," she said, her voice smooth and controlled, yet carrying an undertone of something far more powerful. "I apologize for the delay."
Her eyes met his, dark and piercing, as though they could see straight through his facade. She glided toward him, every step calculated, and sat across from him with an elegance that belied the tension filling the room.
Fort forced himself to breathe. "It's no trouble," he said, his voice coming out more steady than he felt. Every instinct screamed at him to remain calm, but he could feel the edge of danger creeping closer with every second. As she sat down, her presence felt overwhelming, like the air had thickened just from her proximity.
The woman—Mrs. Azzel, there was no mistaking it—was exactly as he had remembered her from the portraits at the North Gate Mansion. The likeness was too perfect to be anything other than the truth. The high cheekbones, the regal posture, the haunting gaze. Fort's pulse quickened. This is her. The widow of the late prince.
Mrs. Azzel's lips curved into a slight, melancholic smile, but it carried no warmth. Her eyes never left his face, and in that moment, Fort felt like prey under the gaze of a predator who was deciding how best to strike.
"Before we begin," she said, her voice softer now, but laced with an undertone of grief, "I want to apologize. We've caused you and the Pioneers considerable trouble."
Fort stiffened, his mind racing. Was this guilt? Or something else? He chose his words carefully, keeping his tone neutral. "There's no need to apologize. It's our job to find the murderer."
Her smile faded, and her eyes darkened as if she were seeing something far beyond him. "Yes, but this is no ordinary task," she said, her voice now laden with sorrow. "The circumstances are far more complex than you realize."
Fort's skin prickled at her words, and an uneasy tension settled in his gut. What is she hiding?
Her gaze flickered back to him, sharpening with purpose. "Let's not waste time," she said, her voice suddenly firm. "You've come for answers, and I'll give them to you."
Fort leaned forward slightly, his heart pounding in his chest. His entire body was on edge, ready for the revelation he knew would come.
"The one who killed my husband," she began, her words slow and deliberate, "has ties to the Void."
A cold chill swept over Fort, as if the temperature in the room had suddenly dropped. His blood ran cold. The Void. He'd heard whispers of them in dark corners—zealots, madmen, worshipers of nothingness. They weren't just a cult; they were a plague, an ideology of annihilation, bent on tearing apart the fabric of reality itself.
He tried to hide his shock, but Mrs. Azzel saw it. Her lips pressed into a thin line, confirming the gravity of her words.
"They have been hunting us for years, ever since Azzel's fought against them." Her voice trembled slightly, but she held her composure. "But this... this was different. This was personal. They came for him because of what he represented. And they won't stop."
Fort swallowed hard, trying to make sense of it all. "But why now? Why your husband? And what about the others? The victims who had no ties to you or the Empire?"
Mrs. Azzel's eyes glistened, and for the first time, Fort saw the raw pain in her expression. "That's what I'm afraid of, Mr. Fortis." Her voice wavered. "They've come for more than just revenge. They're after something much darker."
She paused, and when she spoke again, her words were barely a whisper. "Before my husband died, he warned us to hide. He said the Void was coming... for all of us."
Her words hit Fort like a hammer. His mind spun. The Void wasn't just after the Azzel family—they had a much larger, far more terrifying goal in mind.
Mrs. Azzel's voice broke as she continued. "He said the Void was preparing for something... something that would change everything."
Fort's breath hitched in his throat. "What do you mean?" His voice was tight with disbelief. "Are you saying their god... could come here?"
Mrs. Azzel's face paled even more. Tears spilled down her cheeks, though she tried to keep her voice steady. "That's what my husband feared... that the Void's god—the one they worship, the being of nothingness itself—would descend upon this land. If that happens, there will be no stopping them."
The weight of her words sank in, suffocating Fort in an avalanche of dread. If the Void's god truly did come to this world, it would mean the collapse of everything. There would be no empire, no kingdoms, no people—just nothingness.
Fort gritted his teeth, trying to focus despite the storm of fear raging in his mind. He had to keep his wits about him. "Thank you," he said, his voice low, thick with the gravity of what had been revealed. "This information will help us. I swear, we'll find the murderer. And we'll stop whatever they're planning."
Mrs. Azzel looked at him with a mix of hope and despair, her tears now drying on her pale cheeks. "Thank you..."
Fort lingered for a moment, hesitating before saying his goodbyes. Mrs. Azel, her face unreadable, simply replied, "Good afternoon," her voice carrying an unsettling calm.
He stepped out of the café, rubbing his temple, trying to shake off the disbelief. His thoughts were a whirlwind. A dark cult, an ancient god... It felt surreal, as though he had stepped into a nightmare from which there was no waking. He never expected his investigation to uncover something so sinister.
Fort walked down the alley, the walls of the narrow passageway closing in on him, shadows creeping with the fading light. The city seemed quieter than usual, as if it, too, sensed the growing threat of the Void.
---
Outside the Alley
The alley opened up into the street, where Fort stood at the edge of the road, scanning for any passing carriages. The usually busy street was now eerily still, the late afternoon sun casting long shadows across the cobblestones. His mind raced, unable to settle. The realization that the Void—a force so terrible it was only spoken of in whispers—was in this city weighed heavily on him.
He could feel it, a presence lurking just beyond the edge of perception, waiting. It could be anywhere. It could be right here.
Fort's heart pounded in his chest, each beat a reminder of the looming danger. His breath was shallow, his body tense. A bead of sweat rolled down his temple. The sun dipped lower on the horizon, casting an ominous glow over the city.
Finally, the sound of hooves on cobblestone broke the silence. A horse-drawn carriage approached, its wheels creaking as it came to a stop in front of him. Fort wasted no time, giving the driver a hurried address, his voice tight with urgency.
Fort stepped into the horse-drawn carriage, hesitating for a moment as his eyes swept over the darkening street. The dimming light cast long shadows across the cobblestones, and every flicker of movement seemed suspicious. His senses were on edge, trained for any sign of danger.
The alley behind him was quiet, but the silence felt unnatural, almost oppressive. He couldn't shake the sensation that unseen eyes were watching his every move, lurking in the fading light. The weight of the city's hidden dangers pressed down on him.
As he settled into the worn leather seat, his gaze lingered on the street beyond the window. The twilight was deepening, the soft golden hues of sunset now giving way to the encroaching darkness. Every shape outside the carriage seemed to shift, to blur—his mind racing with the possibility of illusions or something far worse.
The driver snapped the reins, and the carriage lurched forward. Fort leaned back, still alert, eyes flicking to the window at every passing shadow as the night swallowed the streets.
---
Inside the Carriage
The interior of the carriage was dim, the fading daylight barely filtering through the small, dust-covered windows. Fort leaned back into the worn leather seat, but the tension in his body refused to ease. He watched the city pass by, the streets growing quieter, the shadows lengthening as the sun sank lower and lower.
His mind wandered to darker places. The Void. If it truly emerged, would the Empire stand a chance? Could anything withstand such ancient power? His thoughts swirled with images of chaos and destruction, of cities swallowed by darkness, of people lost to madness.
Fort clenched his fists, the leather of his gloves creaking under the pressure. He needed to prepare, to face this with Ignis and Alaric tomorrow. Together, they might have a chance to uncover the truth—before it was too late.
But now, his priority was getting home. The illusion attack earlier had nearly broken him. He could still feel the lingering effects—the cold touch of fear on his spine, the disorientation. He couldn't afford to face that again, not tonight.
As the carriage rattled along the streets, Fort's eyes were drawn to the sky. The sun was setting, casting the city in a soft, golden light. For a moment, it was almost peaceful. But beneath that beauty, Fort could feel the encroaching darkness, lurking just beyond the horizon.
The Void was coming. He could feel it