The Truth
The main square in central London was packed that day. As always, the sky hung heavy with clouds, though no rain fell. Amidst the crowd, a makeshift stage rose—planks of wood stacked into a platform. And upon it stood Cantarella, clad in her worn blue robes, her face bruised and scarred, but her eyes… sharp enough to slice through the fog.
Charles stood not far from the crowd, leaning against an iron post with his arms crossed. He wore a silver-grey noble doctor's suit, immaculate and cold. But today, there was no smile on his lips.
Beside him stood a tall maid with long flowing hair and a still, dignified presence—Vespera.
"She's ready?" Charles asked quietly.
Vespera nodded. "I've arranged for the false altars to be uncovered. And... the stolen wealth from Halberd's estate has been moved just behind the stage. At the peak of her speech, I'll reveal it."
Charles closed his eyes briefly. "Then it's time they finally opened theirs."
Cantarella's voice rang out over the plaza.
"People of London! How long have you believed that salvation must be bought? How long have you paid coins in exchange for 'blessings'? And… has your life changed?"
People looked at one another. Murmurs spread through the crowd.
"You give and you give… but why are your bellies still empty? Why are your children still dying in the streets? Is that the will of the 'sun'?"
> "Today, I will show you the truth."
With a sharp gesture, Vespera moved behind the curtain and flung open the lid of a large crate. Its contents spilled onto the ground: gold, jewels, trinkets of the common folk—children's necklaces, wedding rings, family heirlooms—all exchanged for 'blessings.'
The crowd erupted.
"THAT'S MINE!" cried an old woman, tears streaking down her cheeks.
"My daughter's necklace! That… that belonged to my wife!" a young man rushed toward the stage.
Cantarella raised her voice.
"All of this was hidden in the altar of Lord Halberd's home. The place where you thought you were praying. But who were you worshipping?! The sun? God? Or greedy men in the guise of angels?!"
Someone began sobbing. A child looked up at his mother and whispered, "Is God evil, Mama?"
Cantarella paused, her voice softening into a bitter sorrow:
"No, my child. But false ones… yes, they are."
Her words set the city ablaze. More people arrived from across London. Many clutched the symbols of the Blue Moon—long hidden, now raised high with trembling hands.
That afternoon, the square roared with voices. The long-forgotten Blue Moon faith had risen once more. Some cried. Others screamed in fury. But on Charles's face, there was only silence. His gaze drifted toward the old chapel where Cantarella had first brought him. Deep down, he knew—this peace would not last.
And he was right.
---
Night fell.
The sky turned pitch black. No stars. No wind. No sound—only the oppressive stillness that smothered the city.
Charles sat in his drawing room, reading through Hugo's reports. On the table lay scattered letters: "Citizens returning to the Blue Moon," "Demands for Lord Halberd's trial," "Faith in the Sun Religion faltering."
From the shadows, Vespera emerged—her face unreadable.
"She never returned," she said.
Charles stopped reading. His eyes narrowed.
"Are you certain?"
Vespera nodded. "Her presence… is gone."
Charles stood. His breath grew heavy, thick with rage.
"Halberd…" he muttered. "You're predictable."
---
The next morning.
A thick fog rolled over the plaza. Commuters stopped dead in their tracks.
There—hanging high above the stage—was a head.
Cantarella's head.
Her mouth hung open, her eyes still burning with defiance. Below, her body hung upside down, blood long dried to black.
Screams erupted. Someone fainted. A mother shielded her child's eyes, weeping uncontrollably.
A voice shrieked, "THIS… THIS IS A CURSE! THE SUN IS ANGRY!!"
Panic spread like fire. Some began burning their Blue Moon charms. Others ran to the false altars, begging for forgiveness. The false faith regained power—baptized in blood.
---
But that night… the sky changed.
Without warning, the entire city of London was swallowed in darkness. No candle would light. No lantern would burn. The heavens were shrouded in thick clouds, save for a single slit through which a blood-red moon poured its unholy light.
Screams echoed through the city.
"WHAT IS THAT?!"
"THE MOON… IT'S BLEEDING!"
Footsteps approached from the direction of the church. Not one pair—but many. As if an army had risen from the depths of hell.
And then… the voice.
A thunderous voice, sharp and divine, yet dripping with venom. It echoed across the rooftops, from the sky itself—Vespera's voice.
"That nun was the voice of truth. And you killed her."
"No good shall come from layering sin upon sin."
People trembled. Vespera's voice felt like that of God… or a devil.
"The guilty… MUST… DIE."
Tension shattered as Lord Halberd appeared in the window of his manor. Pale-faced, trembling, he stared out at the chaos.
"I… I DID IT!! I ORDERED IT—BUT I DON'T WANT TO DIE!"
"Too late," the voice answered.
"There is no forgiveness. Die like my servant."
"WITH YOUR HEAD SEVERED FROM YOUR BODY."
Halberd screamed in terror. But the crowd, once fearful… now changed. Their eyes burned with fury. With pain. With truth, now no longer denied.
They seized him.
---
Within minutes, a people's tribunal had formed. A makeshift execution platform rose in the square. Halberd was bound to a wooden post. A hastily-built guillotine stood behind him, blade gleaming in moonlight.
He sobbed. He begged.
"YOU'LL BE CURSED! I… I DID IT FOR GOD!"
No one listened.
In the crowd stood a man in white.
Tall. Calm. Eyes as deep as the bleeding sky.
Charles August Milverton.
Halberd's eyes locked onto his. Time stopped. He shivered.
"You… you… This is your doing… Milverton…"
Charles offered a faint, mocking smile.
"An eye for an eye. A tooth for a tooth. A life… for a life."
The blade dropped.
The head rolled.
Blood soaked the earth.
London fell silent.
As if the entire city… had agreed to look away.
---