The street was dim beneath the flickering kerosene lamps, veiled by drifting mist and the faint crimson glow of the moon. The long shadows cast by the gaslights made the Bridge District appear older, darker—almost ancient.
Eli Walker no longer bickered with Alice. She too had fallen silent, though she occasionally sniffed at the air, her nostrils twitching faintly like an alert hound sensing prey. Martin trailed behind them, nerves taut. If not for the tavern's light still visible in the distance, he might have mistaken the oppressive silence for a bad omen.
When they arrived near the pub, Eli slowed.
"Martin," he said without turning, "go on inside. Order something warm to eat."
"Yes, Young Master." Martin obeyed instinctively, taking one step forward—then hesitated.
Eli remained where he was, and Alice had already turned to enter a narrow side alley.
"Go take a look?" she asked casually.
With the natural rhythm of someone accustomed to sudden detours, Eli followed her in. Martin, his face paling by degrees, clenched his fists and, after a brief internal struggle, went in after them.
The Bridge District reeked of the era. The mechanical grind of factories could still be heard in the distance, and the stench of smoke, oil, and chemical effluents clung to the cobblestones like mold. Yet beneath the oily stink, a more primal scent lingered—blood.
Eli reached forward and held Alice back, signaling her with the sacred gesture of the Sun. Alice understood at once and clasped her hands in the prayer pose. The sacred radiance of Light burst forth from her fingertips, illuminating the alley's Darkness.
A black-furred creature, crouched and covered in dried blood, winced violently as the holy light pierced its veil of shadow.
It shrieked—almost.
"Shut up," Eli said calmly, raising his white birch cane and thrusting it into the creature's maw with unflinching precision, as though administering a brutal medical examination.
The makeshift strike choked the Werewolf's roar into a strangled whimper.
Then came the light.
Alice's palms erupted with the golden flame of Radiance. The spell arced out like a hunting falcon, searing the monster's fur and flesh.
As the burning, snarling creature recoiled, Eli withdrew his cane, grabbed a broken beer bottle from the street, and brought it down on the Werewolf's skull in a sharp, final blow.
Bang!
The beast trembled once, then collapsed with a heavy, flaming thud.
"Young Master!" Martin finally caught up, blinking against the lingering glow.
"That was a Werewolf?" Eli asked, glancing at the scorched corpse. "Rather disappointing."
He nodded at Martin's revolver, which was still trembling in the valet's grasp. "We didn't even draw our guns."
"By the Goddess…" Martin muttered in awe. "We actually killed a Werewolf…"
It was a strange mixture of reverence and thrill in his voice—he was, after all, still young. This sounded far more impressive than hunting rabbits on a noble estate.
Alice frowned. "Werewolves shouldn't be that weak. According to what the tribunal sisters told me, real Werewolves can infect others with wolf venom. The infected become pseudo-Werewolves… usually short-lived, unstable, but deadly."
"In that case," Eli said, brushing some ash off his robe, "wherever pseudo-Werewolves appear… there should be a real one nearby."
He paused, glanced at his cane, and muttered, "I wonder if stabbing someone with this will infect them. Dangerous weapon, this."
Martin's fleeting pride turned to dread in an instant. "W-we should leave," he stammered.
He wasn't wrong.
A rustling sound above drew his gaze upward. Lit by the dying embers of Alice's spellfire, a second Werewolf was scaling the wall above them, claws embedded into the brick, coiled for a pounce.
Its green eyes glowed unnaturally in the misty darkness.
Whoosh.
The Monster launched itself from the rooftop with terrifying velocity.
Martin, reacting on raw instinct, fired his revolver wildly—six shots, none of which struck the intended target.
Then—
Bang!
Eli, cool and composed, raised his custom large-caliber revolver, cocked the hammer, and fired.
Sparks danced as the bullet was deflected by the Werewolf's claws. But the beast's leap faltered. It hadn't expected resistance.
"Mid-air pause?" Eli raised an eyebrow and began unloading the rest of his cylinder.
Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang.
The Werewolf roared—its lower body riddled with gunshots—and abandoned its headlong charge in favor of defense.
Its growl was more than just pain. It was rage. But before it could leap again—
Bang.
The final shot burst through a halo of summoned Radiance, its bullethead glowing with holy light. It struck the Werewolf's arm and splattered blood like a small explosion.
Eli twirled the gun.
Then Alice grabbed his wrist and yanked him backward.
Without pause, she turned and pulled Martin as well. They sprinted toward the main road.
"We're running?" Eli asked, reloading as they ran. "I thought we were winning."
"That's a Sequence 7 Werewolf," Alice hissed. "What do you want me to fight with? Harsh language?"
"We could've taken it," Eli said, only half-joking. "Martin, was your aim always that bad?"
"I'm trying my best!" Martin shouted, breathless, trailing behind.
But Eli was already slowing. He spun mid-step, aimed, and fired again. The bullet found its mark this time, grazing the Werewolf's shoulder as it leapt between rooftops in pursuit.
His eyes gleamed, not just with thrill, but with focus—like someone born for battle, or madness.
Because Bennett Maynard's body, combined with the Secrets Supplicant's spiritual sensitivity and the unwavering calm of a former Fourth Epoch Elf, was precisely that:
The making of a new storm.
*Thank you for the power stone AZETH0TH and The_WheelOfFortune