Amberhold, Central Chamber.
Night had settled over Amberhold. The city's lanterns glowed faintly through the fog.
Inside, two Inquisitors sat across from each other at a long marble table. Callum, surrounded by his clones, looked unusually quiet. The room was still, the chamber bare of decoration, save for the royal crest carve into the marble table.
He broke the silence first.
"So… what now? I'm pretty sure he noticed us watching."
Selene sat opposite, fingers steepled, her expression unreadable as always. "I guess we'll have to stop the surveillance for now," she said.
Callum raised an eyebrow. "Seriously?"
Selene nodded. "Until we know what we're dealing with, we'll stay quiet."
"Whatever your clone saw in those final moments..." Selene's voice dropped. "I'd rather observe from a distance."
Callum exhaled. "Alright."
The meeting didn't last long after that.
Selene was about to leave.
Callum remained behind, summoning a few more hundred clones. They filed into the room like silent sentries.
"In the meantime," he muttered, "I'll monitor the customers. Someone might trigger something they don't want."
Selene glanced over her shoulder, "Keep me updated."
...
Dorian's Curiosities, Nightfall.
Dorian finally returned to his shop just as the chill wind picked up. He juggled a wrapped loaf of bread, a wedge of cheese, and a bottle of middling brandy. The sack of beef he'd bartered for smelled a little too fresh, but that was tomorrow's problem.
His keys jingled as he unlocked the door, which swung open with its usual creak. Inside, the warmth hit him first, followed by the scent of old wood, varnish, and… something else.
He paused.
His head throbbed, an uncomfortable, tight kind of pain just behind his eyes. The shelves looked oddly warped, or maybe it was just the light. As he blinked, he thought he saw something move.
But when he looked again, everything was still. Just the same cluttered shelves and fake treasures he surrounded himself with every day.
"Ugh…" he muttered, rubbing his eyes. "Am I hallucinating? Brilliant... Or maybe I'm just tired."
Still, something tugged at his nerves.
He dropped the groceries behind the counter and headed for his small workbench tucked into the corner of the room. Carving tools lay scattered across it, alongside unfinished bits of wood, bone, and marble stone.
Dorian settled at his workbench, the light from a small oil lamp casting long shadows over the cluttered table. He took a block of marble in hand, cheap, chipped, nothing special, and began to carve.
His hands moved with practiced ease, chipping away at the stone with a dull chisel and a well-loved file. Slowly, the shape emerged. A small angelic figure with wide, blank eyes and folded wings.
Once he was done, he leaned back and wiped his brow. A crooked smile tugged at his lips.
"Well, look at you," he murmured. "You look like you mean business."
He cleared his throat, adopting a dramatic tone.
"You... are the Guardians of Virtue," he declared, while pointing at the statue. "Forge by the Old Creed you are to protect any abode you are placed in, warding off evil and misfortune. But..." he leaned in, voice low, "only if the owner is pure of heart. Should their soul be tainted… you'll strike them down."
The Church isn't going to burn me at the stake for this, right?
He let the question linger, before a dry chuckle escaped him. "Nah, they've got bigger things to worry about."
(Like me)
Satisfied with his work, he set the statue on a nearby shelf and grabbed another block.
He carved three more, similar in size, slightly different in pose. A collection. He planned to give them names too, maybe spin a little myth around them. Guardians of the pillars, or some other nonsense.
But before he could start the fifth, the headache returned, sharper now, like someone twisting something deep inside his skull.
He winced as his tools slipped, smashing onto his foot.
Son of a!! ah, shit... He cursed inwardly, steadying himself.
"Right... Bed. I really need sleep."
He rubbed his eyes and pushed away from the bench. The statues stared at him from the shelf, unmoving and harmless.
With a low groan, he shuffled toward his bed in the back room, not noticing the faint warmth still lingering in the marble.
...
Sometime After Midnight.
The shop was silent.
Two men stood outside the front door, wrapped in patched cloaks and jittery grins.
"You sure about this?" the first one asked.
"It's an antique shop," said the second, broad-shouldered with a lazy eye. "There's bound to be something right? Just remember. We're in, we're out."
They both laughed, too loud for the hour.
One pulled out a bent crowbar and wedged it under the doorframe.
The angel statues stood where Dorian had left them, on a shelf beside the front counter. Their carved wings opening in the dark. Eyes glowing faintly.
When the door gave way with a cracking sound. The robbers slipped inside.
"All right, you grab the box on the left, I'll take the what's on the shelves," he said, stepping over the threshold.
The angel statues turned its head.
Neither of them noticed. The taller one reached for a lantern while the other crouched near the counter.
Then, the angels moved.
There was no blur of speed. Just an instance of movement.
The thief turned just in time to see a hand swing toward him, marble fingers slicing his throat open with uncanny precision. He collapsed without a sound, eyes wide, and still twitching.
The other man gasped, raising a small knife. The second statue was already beside him, its hand buried in his chest. The light died in his eyes before the rest of him hit the ground.
For a moment, silence.
Then a broom in the corner twitched.
It floated upright, shook once, and swept forward. Slowly, efficiently, it began dragging the bodies, toward the trapdoor that led to the basement.
When the broom returned, it swept up the blood. The trail vanished with ease.
The statues stood motionless again.
Its hands were red now.
...
Early Dawn.
Dorian awoke to a runny nose and a parched mouth. He groaned as he sat up, blinking against the too-bright light peeking through the curtains.
"Did I catch a cold?" he muttered. He shuffled to the front room, still wrapped in his sleeping robe. A faint draft kissed his ankle.
The door was wide open.
"Damn it!" he coughed. "Again?"
He slammed it shut and latched the bolt. "I really need to get a new one."
As he turned to walk, he paused.
His eyes landed on two of the angel statues.
Its hand was red.
He leaned in. "Did I paint this?"
He rubbed the back of his neck. "I don't… remember painting this."
Still, the color was kind of nice. Maybe he'd just been experimenting late at night again.
He fetched a little jar of red paint and brushed the same color onto the others, muttering to himself as he worked.
"Yeah," he nodded. "You all look pretty cool now."
He placed the statues back in line, then moved to tidy the counter.
...
Amberhold, Central Chamber.
Callum stood in the heart of Amberhold, watching as his clones relayed memories of the ongoing investigation.
He didn't know what Dorian had done. He didn't even know if Dorian had done anything.
But something had happened.
And he was sure of it.
His clones now surrounding the entire city, dread curling in his chest like smoke.
Then, calmly, he whispered a command, "Keep watching him."