Alan bowed his head slightly, one gloved hand lifting his top hat in a quiet gesture of respect.
"Alright," he said, his voice barely more than a breath.
Lucille didn't return the gesture. Her eyes, icy and unreadable, held his for a moment too long before she spoke.
"Could you wait outside the station for a moment? I need to prepare the materials."
Her tone was clipped, professional. Detached.
Alan gave another, shorter bow. "Of course. I'll wait for your call."
He turned, footsteps measured as he walked toward the heavy wooden door. For a moment, he paused, hand hovering over the brass knob. He grasped it, gave it a twist,
Click.
The door groaned open. Alan stepped through, letting it close gently behind him. He exhaled softly, shoulders loosening.
So this is it. The ritual the Captain mentioned...
He glanced down the hallway in both directions, silent, empty.
Looks like Murphy and Elias are gone. Just me now.
---
Inside, Lucille stood before the bookshelves, eyes scanning the rows of worn spines.
Behind her, a muffled voice emerged from under a book balanced precariously on a man's face.
"Lucille," Mercellus mumbled, not even lifting the book off his head. "Use Veilwhite Lotus... and Crimsonflare Tulip. Please. Let's avoid unnecessary risk. Cut the golden and silver threads... from the Tulip. You know the doctrine."
Lucille's eyes narrowed. She stood in thought for a beat, then stepped closer to the shelves.
Veilwhite Lotus and Crimsonflare Tulip... You want me to make White Flare Paste and use the Twin Bloom Doctrine. You're being careful, too careful, for a new recruit.
Her gaze drifted briefly to the sleeping Captain, lips pressing into a line.
Why do you value him so much, old man? What are you hiding...?
Kneeling gracefully, Lucille opened one of the lower drawers, her long coat folding neatly at the edges. Her gloved hands sorted through contents until she retrieved a handful of white chalk sticks, six half-melted candles, and a worn mortar and pestle. Rising fluidly, she placed the items on her desk with quiet precision.
She moved back to the shelves, knelt again, and this time pulled out two carefully preserved flowers, Veilwhite Lotus and Crimsonflare Tulip. Straightening, she rolled her shoulders and walked back to the desk, setting the flowers down beside the other tools.
Lucille opened a drawer, pulled out a pair of small silver scissors, and sat. With a delicate but practiced motion, she plucked three petals from the Crimsonflare Tulip, snipping away the fine golden and silver filaments that threaded through their centers. The trimmed petals dropped into the mortar with soft, papery rustles.
Next came three petals from the Veilwhite Lotus, smooth, pale, almost luminous in the dim light. She stood and leaned into the grinding, crushing the petals together slowly, weight pressed into the pestle as the scent of crushed flora began to fill the room.
Satisfied, she cleared a stack of papers from the floor and placed them on Mercellus's desk with a silent glare.
Here's your damn paperwork...
She paused.
Wait, is he asleep?
She lifted the book from his face.
Snrrrk...
Mercellus's snores filled the room. Lucille blinked, then sighed.
Unbelievable. He finally sleeps... I'll let him.
She gently lowered the book back over his face and turned to her own desk. Grabbing the chalk, she strode to the center of the room.
She studied the corners carefully, then knelt again, lowering the chalk to the floor with a gentle. With a single smooth turn, she spun a wide circle around her.
Dust trailed up the sides of her boots, and she brushed the excess off with the side of her hand.
She walked back to Mercellus, leaned in, and fished around in his coat pocket until her fingers found his lighter. She pocketed it and retrieved the candles.
She knelt again, arranging the candles into a precise hexagon within the chalk circle. One by one, she lit them, the flames dancing gently in the cool air.
Her asymmetrical skirt shifted as she crouched, she paused to smooth and adjust it carefully away from the open flames.
Then she took the mortar and smeared the crushed White Flare Paste in a thick, smooth ring just inside the chalk circle, large enough to encompass the candles but not touch them.
Returning to her desk, she plucked the remaining petals, three from the damaged Crimsonflare Tulip, twelve from the Veilwhite Lotus, and left them spread out in neat rows on the tabletop.
She exhaled. "Finally done. That was exhausting."
Stretching briefly, Lucille crossed the room and opened the door. Outside, Alan stood waiting, hands behind his back, head tilted up slightly as though lost in thought.
She called out, "Alan Moriarty. It's time. Come in."
Alan straightened, brushing down his coat and adjusting his collar.
Looks like it's time.
He followed her inside, stepping carefully past the threshold. His eyes immediately locked onto the glowing hexagonal ring, the white paste smeared in ritualistic patterns.
So it is a ritual. I was half-joking…
But that looks like something straight out of a demonology handbook.
Lucille's pale eyes locked on Alan's face, unblinking, unreadable, sharp as frost.
"Lay down. In the middle of the circle."
Alan hesitated. His jaw clenched, shoulders slightly drawn inward, but he nodded.
"Okay…" he muttered, voice barely above a whisper.
He removed his top hat with both hands, smoothing the brim nervously before setting it aside.
His fingers trembled as he unbuttoned his tuxedo, folding it neatly, too neatly, before placing it atop the hat.
His knees creaked as he knelt, then stretched his body back onto the floor. Each movement was stiff, hesitant.
A shiver ran down his arms as he settled into the chalk circle, limbs twitching with restless tension.
He looked up toward Lucille, his voice tight.
"T-Then… what's next?"
Lucille's expression didn't change. Her voice was hollow, mechanical.
"Go to sleep."
Alan blinked. His breath caught.
Wait… sleep? Just like that? Why? What happens when I-
He turned his head toward her, brows furrowed. "Do I need to actually slee-"
"YES," she snapped. The word struck like a thrown blade. "Close your eyes."
Alan flinched. "Okay…" he whispered, curling slightly as if to shield himself from something unseen.
Lucille turned away without another word. Her boots tapped lightly across the room as she returned to her desk.
She tore a piece of parchment with a swift rip, the paper bending and crinkling in her hand as she walked back.
Kneeling beside him, she leaned in and gently, but firmly, tucked the paper scraps into his ears. Her face remained unreadable, focused, detached.
Then she stood. And waited.
Alan squeezed his eyes shut.
Just sleep. Just… fall asleep. Easy, right?
But his mind didn't slow. His thoughts coiled and snapped like snakes in a cage.
Too quiet. Too quiet. What if this is a trick? What if I don't wake up? What if-
His fingers twitched. His breathing sped up, shallow.
Lucille exhaled through her nose, a slow, frustrated sigh.
"…He can't sleep."
She muttered to herself, voice like rusted iron. "Looks like we're doing the full ritual."
She turned back to the desk with precision, her long coat sweeping behind her like a shadow. She gathered the remaining petals, soft, delicate, fragrant, and moved with solemn purpose. One by one, she scattered them across the circle.
Some petals fluttered through the air like snowflakes, others dropped directly onto Alan's chest, their soft weight unnoticed by him.
Several petals drifted too close to the candle flames and curled into ash, releasing a sharp, heady perfume, part floral, part natural
Lucille stepped to the edge of the circle. Her boots stopped just short of the chalk line. She brought her hands together, palm against palm, fingers tightly woven, like a lock. Slowly, she raised them to the center of her chest. Her eyes closed.
And she began to chant.
"By sealed will and locked fate, I prepare the path."
A candle lost it's flame, the shape changed to pentagon.
"The anchors are set. The self is unfastened."
A candle lost it's flame, the shape changed to a Square.
"Let the mind release its grip on form and body.
Let the shape yet chosen await in silence."
A candle lost it's flame, the shape changed to a triangle.
"This dream is not mine. I pass no judgment."
A candle lost it's flame, the spape changed to a line.
Petals began to stir on their own across Alan's chest, shifting against invisible wind.
"Through fracture, the descent begins.
Sleep now, and enter the shape beneath your name."
A candle lost it's flame, the shape has vanished.
The room fell still, and silent.
Alan's fingers relaxed. His breath slowed
Alan's eyelids parted, slow, hesitant, like heavy curtains drawn back by an unseen hand.
There was no sky. No ceiling. No stars.
Yet his eyes were full.
Shapes bled into thoughts. Memories leaked into colors that didn't exist.
He saw his mother's face, warping into a night with no stars.
He saw himself at a desk, writing, writing, then drowning in ink.
He saw a path made of hands. His hands.
All reaching toward something burning.
And then-
A coil of numbers, spiraling through a tunnel of screams and clocks.
A fate. A map? No… not readable. Not… his?
He tried to move.
The ground vibrated once, like a heartbeat.
Then it vanished.
Gone.
Nothing remained but sensation, swirling into the void.
Alan's lips moved. His voice felt like a ripple on the surface of something far deeper.
"Where… where am I?"
He turned, though turning required no movement.
"Where did Lucille… and the Captain go?"
He floated in place, unanchored. "What is this place…"
Beneath him, no, around him, there was no land.
Only a sea.
But it wasn't made of water.
It was a black so pure it consumed understanding.
Infinite. Expanding forever but folding into itself, as if ashamed of being perceived.
Alan's voice emerged again, dulled, detached.
Expression meant nothing here. Faces were useless.
"It's dark," he said,
"not because there is no light. It's dark… because there is no color.
This place isn't empty. It is the emptiness.
Everything here is Nothing…
and Nothing is Everything."
He couldn't see.
But he could feel.
He felt the numbers, vast, ancient, curling like serpents through the non-space.
They didn't glow. They didn't move.
But they were.
And they touched his mind in ways language couldn't hold.
Am I blind? Or is this the ritual?
Alan lifted his foot. There was no floor.
Yet he walked.
Because the idea of walking didn't need ground.
He knew how. And in knowing, he did.
The void rippled. A wave passed, not through the sea, but through the feeling of presence.
Something was there.
A boat.
Carved from absence. Floating without floating.
It had no color, because color had been forgotten here, but Alan could sense it.
A presence. Not a threat. Not a friend.
Just… there.
Should I go there?
Should I not?
Just because I can understand this place… does that mean I should voyage further?
Then-
A sound.
Not quite a voice. Not quite a noise.
A mumbled thread of unformed syllables, curling into the shape of meaning.
Alan didn't hear it. He felt it ripple through his soul and mind.
"A Roamer."