Instead, it came from elsewhere.
Following the sound, Anger returned to the main tunnel and delved deeper. The sound grew clearer.
When he reached the innermost point, he saw a severely damaged circular altar hidden within a chamber.
The two items in his pocket—the ThreeDay Betrothal Ring and the ivory die obtained from the puppet theatre—suddenly fused together.
The ring, originally missing its gem, now had the die embedded into its claw setting of its own accord.
The ring slipped from his pocket on its own.
A blinding white light erupted.
Anger instinctively shut his eyes. When he opened them again, he saw the white light expanding in the air, forming a fragmentary, phantom map.
Coastlines twisted, the outline of a central island shrouded in mist, marked everywhere with ancient symbols. The edges of the map were tattered. One marking stood out conspicuously: Dark Isle — BloodStone Altar.
"What is this—"
Before he could react, he found himself standing on an open stone platform.
Strictly speaking, not "standing"—he could see he was attached to a fragment of someone's memory. He couldn't move, only watch.
Dark Isle — BloodStone Altar.
The stone platform was circular, its edges carved with countless chain motifs. At its center stood a raised altar of bloodred stone, from which blood droplets continuously seeped of their own accord. Tied to the altar was a silverhaired girl, about sixteen or seventeen, dressed in a simple flaxen robe, with green eyes and bare feet.
Her wrists and ankles were bound by crimson crystal manacles. The crystals writhed, constantly burrowing into her skin.
The girl trembled, but did not cry out.
Three groups of people stood around the altar.
To the left were several highranking members of the Parish, clad in black robes, their features indistinct. They held gemencrusted staves, the tips pointed at the girl, chanting Edictal prayers. Their appearance and attire differed little from Morris whom Anger had seen. Anger couldn't make out the specific words, but he could feel the oppressive Edictenergy in the air. They seemed to be binding the girl to the altar.
To the right were two men and a woman. Their robes were embroidered with stars, moons, and eyes, their faces equally blurred. One held an ironbound book, its pages turning automatically. Another held a silver platter bearing seven gemstones of different colors. The woman... her profile bore a faint, unsettling resemblance to the portrait of Anger's mother in his memory.
But what shocked Anger most was the group in the center.
They formed a semicircle, wearing dark gowns and thorned crowns, watching silently. Yet the air shimmered with invisible energy flowing towards them, which they then channeled into the altar.
"The Ritual of the BloodStone," intoned the elder woman at their forefront. "With the Messenger's blood, we anchor the roots of the chains. With the kin's agony, we forge the counterweight for the Scales. Girl of House Bethany, your sacrifice shall become the cornerstone of the Edicts."
The silverhaired girl lifted her head.
"Brother..." she rasped. "He... will come."
"His coming is futile," a Parish member spoke. "Beneath the Edicts, even Messengers must bow. After today, the Dark Isle shall be sealed forever. Your bloodline shall become part of the cage."
The man holding the ironbound book flipped a page, beginning to implant the seeds of debt.
The gemstones on the silver platter flew up one by one, embedding themselves into the girl's chest, forehead, and limbs. With each embedding, she convulsed, golden chain patterns surfacing beneath her skin. Her silver hair began to lose its luster, the ends turning ashgray.
Anger was filled with immense rage. Though it wasn't him, the residual emotions from this memory stirred an impulse. He wanted to rush forward, to interrupt the ritual. But as an observer, he couldn't move a finger.
Just as the seventh gemstone was about to embed itself between the girl's brows, the sound of hoofbeats and shouts came from beyond the platform.
A company of knights charged into the ritual ground. At their head rode a knight on a black horse, his armor battered, a longsword in hand.
Anger couldn't see his face—the knight wore a helmet, darkness beneath the visor—but the inverted cross emblem on his sword's crossguard was unmistakable.
KnightCaptain Greffin. Anger's mind flashed to the figure from the Mute Tower echo. This image was identical to the knight from the puppet theatre.
The knight swung his sword at the nearest Parish member. The blade swept through, trailing black flame. The Parish staff parried, erupting in a blinding white light. The two forces clashed. The Parliament members simultaneously retreated, one of them waving a hand to release a silver mist that enveloped the area.
In the chaos, the knight reached the altar. With one stroke, he severed the crystal manacles and scooped the girl into his arms.
"Go!" he growled.
But the girl shook her head, her golden eyes filled with despair. "It's no use... The chains are already seeded in the bloodline. Brother, you must esca—"
The knight stiffened. Looking back, he saw dozens of translucent chains extending from the girl's back. Their other ends plunged deep into the altar, vanishing into the earth. Those chains were already bound to her very soul.
The knight let out a bestial roar, slashing at the chains. The blade passed through them without effect.
"Fool," the elder woman sneered. "Once a debt is incurred, it can only be repaid. You are her bloodkin. Your pain can serve as interest. Will you bear it for her?"
The knight turned, pointing his sword at the elder woman. But before he could strike, the Parish staves glowed in unison. A pillar of light descended from the sky, engulfing both him and the girl in his arms.
The echo ended abruptly.
Anger was thrown back to reality, kneeling on the mine floor, utterly suffocated.
He looked up. The fragmentary map of the Dark Isle in the air was dissipating. The last of the light fell into his logbook.
A new page generated itself.
Echo: The BloodStone Punishment
Location: Dark Isle — BloodStone Altar (Coordinates for the EightStep Shallows of the Ashen Sea have been recorded.)
Victim: The Messenger's Sister. Bethany Bloodline.
Executing Parties: Parish High Tribunal / The Witch Parliament (Third Seat) / Remnants of the Observer Association.
******
The vision from the echo replayed relentlessly in his mind. The silverhaired girl's green eyes. The writhing bloodstone. The knight's inverted cross sword. The witches. The Messenger. The Bethany bloodline. The Messenger's sister... my mother?
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"Not... not quite. Perhaps an ancestor," Anger murmured to himself. "The knight was Greffin. But who was Greffin?"
His logbook turned another page.
The Truth of the Weeping Mine.
Approx. 80 years ago: House Bethany discovered this gold vein on the northern border. Mining proceeded normally at first.
Approx. 60 years ago: Bloodstone fragments were unearthed from the deep veins. Anomalies began.
Approx. 50 years ago: House Bethany entered a secret pact with the Witch Parliament. Using the bloodstone fragments and soul remnants of the Messenger's sister, they transformed the vein into a site for producing cursed gold.
Approx. 40 years ago: Mining disasters became frequent. Female workers died en masse. The mine began to weep. House Bethany transferred ownership to Elswick Mining.
38 years ago: The Parish intervened. Declared it a banshee's curse. Destroyed all records. Sealed the mine.
That was the reason for the Weeping Mine.
"So, the colours Lady Vinter saw... the curse of the Bethany bloodline. It fits what Professor Croft said."
Witches exist. Curses exist. But why is the perception of these things so faint for most? Why is the vast majority utterly oblivious? And why does the Church itself work to suppress such knowledge?
Only now did Anger fully comprehend the sheer madness of Londinium's fog. It smothered the truth of the world.
Rumination was useless now. He took a deep breath and moved deeper into the chamber. Now he could see the golden dust clinging to the rock walls.
This must be the raw material for the cursed gold present in the mine. It needed to be collected. Watson could examine it later.
As he gathered samples, the weeping from the depths of the chamber suddenly sharpened. The cries overlapped, resonating within him.
Anger covered his ears, but the sound drilled directly into his mind.
Dig. Keep digging.
The gold is yours. I am yours.
Three days. In three days...
It was the lingering echo of the ThreeDay Betrothal Ring's contract. The agony of the women who died here, trapped forever within this mine, becoming part of its very fabric.
A wave of nausea hit him. He thought of the twelve nuns in the Sunken Bell Priory. More direct. More violent. And yet, ultimately covered up with a simple sheet of paper declaring it a wild dog incident. Who, precisely, was backing this?
The weeping grew louder. Anger had to leave. Now.
******
After taking a few steps towards the hollow, the weeping stopped abruptly.
It vanished in an instant, plunging the mine shaft into a dead silence, broken only by the dripdrip of water seeping from the rock walls.
Anger tensed, gripping his pistol tighter as he peered into the darkness.
At the edge of the hollow stood the Gothic doll, motionless.
She still wore that black lace gown, her pale, perfect face turned not towards him, but towards the central pile of bleached bones. Slowly, she raised her left hand and slipped a ring onto her left ring finger.
Unlike the ThreeDay Betrothal Ring, this one was set with a small gemstone, within which cloudy filaments swirled and flowed.
The doll extended her ringed hand towards the empty air. Anger saw no one there, yet she spread her fingers, making a gentle, soothing gesture.
From the depths of the hollow came a long, weary sigh.
Then Anger saw points of light begin to rise from the bone heap. They drifted, not towards the doll directly, but flowed around her, converging into the fissures in the rock wall behind her before disappearing entirely.
"You are guiding them to rest," Anger called out from where he stood.
The doll did not answer.
"I need to know more. Who are you? What is your connection to the Messenger's sister? To the Bethany family—"
The doll suddenly raised a hand, her index finger pressing against her own lips.
Silence.
Then she pointed directly at Anger's chest—at the very spot where his shirt pocket held his logbook.
In that instant, he understood. The meaning was clear. The answers lay within the book, within the investigation—not in any explanation she could offer.
And just like that, the doll's form began to fade. She dissolved into the mine's darkness from the edges inward, until finally, only those two green eyes remained, glowing faintly before they too winked out.
His logbook slowly presented a new line of text:
Doll Identity Confirmed: Beannandi Bethany.
Status: Neither alive nor dead—a construct of the Edicts.
Anger remained where he was. The doll, for all her Gothic trappings, with those green eyes and silver hair… the resemblance to the girl in the portrait was uncanny. They were surely connected. He was certain of it now.
******
Upon leaving the mine, Anger did not return directly to Scotland Yard. Instead, his carriage made its way to Professor Croft's residence.
The name 'Bellatorum' churned in his mind the entire journey, a puzzle he couldn't let rest.
The carriage pulled up before the familiar, slightly unkempt townhouse. The professor, spotting the inspector through the window, set aside his work—a tangle of wires and antique brass components—and waited.
"Professor," Anger began as he entered the cluttered study.
"Even through the door, I could smell it on you," Croft said, peering over his spectacles. "That peculiar... scent. Like cold earth and something older. Been digging up something interesting, have we?"
Anger reached into his coat pocket and placed the ring on the low table between them.
Croft leaned forward, picking it up with delicate, precise fingers. "How old is this piece?"
"Acquired just this afternoon."
"And the provenance?"
"A mine shaft. With connections to both the Bethany and Bellatorum families."
The professor examined it minutely, turning it over and over, his gaze missing nothing. "Scarscript," he murmured finally, tapping the inner band. "Ritual text. This sort of thing is usually tied to pacts. There aren't many artefacts like this left, and fewer still who can read them."
The AshGuild of Forged Scars. Anger had been aiming for this. "The AshGuild... where did you hear that name?" Croft asked, setting the ring down carefully.
"Old summaries in the archives. And a chat with one of the older sergeants on the force. William, I believe."
"William..." Croft said the name slowly, a flicker of surprise in his eyes. "He's still with us? I'd thought the man long gone. After the... incident in Herwitia, thirty years back, he was one of the few who had direct contact with the events. Came back... rather unstable. Your mentor, Morgan, was another."
Anger waited.
"The AshGuild of Forged Scars," Croft continued, his tone measured. "Most consider it legend. It was a... tumultuous time. All related archives were ordered confiscated and destroyed by the Church."
"Witches?" Anger ventured, watching the professor's reaction closely.
Croft gave no direct confirmation or denial, his face an unreadable mask. Anger wasn't sure if the word 'witch' held any particular power to loosen the professor's tongue.
The professor, however, seemed to glide past the word. "Regarding the AshGuild... their theory posits that extant supernatural phenomena are related to the Edicts."
"The Edicts?" Anger hadn't expected to hear the term here. He was keen to learn how much the professor knew. "What kind of Edicts? Who issues them?" He deliberately framed 'Edicts' as something more mundane and transparent, knowing full well they were not mere laws.
"Edicts, in essence, are a form of covenant. Generated by certain special artefacts."
"You mean, according to AshGuild theory, specific artefacts under certain conditions become vessels for Edicts. They spontaneously generate a set of rules that bind whoever or whatever comes into contact with them. Those rules are the Edicts."
Anger was acutely aware of several such rules already—Edicts 2, 3, 9, and 10. Edict 4 had been mentioned and would likely surface soon.
"Are these Edicts... categorized?" he asked.
"Indeed. Some artefacts generate a DebtEdict. It means when a person breaks a promise or incurs an unpayable obligation, punishment follows. Then there is a SilenceEdict. Certain information is forbidden to disseminate. Those who attempt to spread it pay a price."
The Muffling Veil. Anger recalled the grey mist used by Bishop Morris at the funeral and the Sunken Bell Priory.
A subtle shift passed through Croft's eyes. "Ah, you've seen the Church's Veil. Though what they possess is likely an imitation. The genuine article would be... considerably more potent."
Anger picked up the ThreeDay Betrothal Ring again. "So this ring, now, is an Edictvessel?"
"Most probably," Croft nodded. "Judging by the complexity of the inscription, the Edict it generates likely falls under the Debt category. More specifically, it appears to be a matrimonial or betrothal covenant. The bearer must fulfill a certain promise, or face punishment."
"What is the punishment?"
"Unknown. But according to some AshGuild lore, the mechanisms of an Edict's punishment aren't always explicit. But to violate it... one always pays a price."
"Most instructive," Anger said. "But why can the Church conceal all this?" He pressed again.
"Unclear. But the Church alone likely couldn't manage something of this scale. There must be other... covert organisations propelling it from the shadows. Thirty years ago, an event occurred in Herwitia. The official story calls it the Night of Falling Stars—a tragic accident. But according to William and Morgan, it was, in fact, a catastrophic Edict失控."
"Out of control?"
"An Edictvessel ran amok. Turned an entire district into a hellscape. Discussing it is forbidden within the Church. They marshalled tremendous resources to suppress the incident and destroy all related records. After that, the AshGuild of Forged Scars went underground. It's said their remnants still operate, but no one knows where."
Anger digested this. Thirty years. The Night of Falling Stars was barely a generation past, yet he'd found no trace of it. It was clearly pivotal.
And he finally understood. The words spoken by the ScarScribe representative at Lady Vinter's funeral—"Her silence was bought too late"—likely referred to a DebtEdict. Only debts involve transactions. But why would Lady Vinter be entangled with the ScarScribes? And their debt surely wasn't over something trivial.
"Can you tell me more about the Night of Falling Stars?"
"It's not that I won't, it's that few truly know. You'd have to ask those who were there. They might shed some light."
Seeing the professor's limits, Anger changed tack. "If I needed to learn about the Bellatorum family's recent activities, might you suggest an avenue?"
Croft retrieved a newspaper. The Art Connoisseur's Weekly, last month's supplement. He handed it to Anger, open to page sixteen.
Salon for Forgery Authentication
The Philosophical Boundary Between Truth and Falsehood
Host: The Londinium Society for Artistic Appreciation
Honorary Patron: Mr. Lorenzo Bellatorum
Date: The Third Friday of This Month, 7 PM to 10 PM
Location: No. 3 White Elephant Street (Converted Old Printworks Gallery)
Special Segment: Public Participation in Authenticity Verification. The victor shall receive an authentic 19thcentury master sketch.
Note: This event aims to elevate public artistic appreciation. Granted special permit by the Parish Office of Cultural Affairs.
It was scheduled for that very evening.