The wind howled through Ravensbrook’s empty streets as Veyron stepped over a rusted chain-link fence, boots crunching against dead leaves and shattered glass. The scent of damp earth and decay clung to the air. He’d been gone for four days—long enough for the silence to feel different.

Saint Gideon's loomed ahead, its broken bell tower casting a jagged shadow beneath the moon. His gloved hand rested on the hatchet at his hip as he pushed open the heavy wooden doors. The hinges groaned, protesting his return.

Inside, nothing had changed. The air was thick with dust and the faint, lingering scent of candle smoke. Shadows pooled in the corners, shifting as his presence disturbed the stillness. His eyes swept the space—pews untouched, the oil lamp on his metal table undisturbed. Good.

He tossed his bag onto the altar, stained fingers unbuckling the straps, revealing bloodstiff gloves and a bundle wrapped in burlap. Something inside twitched once, then stilled.

Veyron exhaled slowly, rolling his shoulders. The weight of travel settled deep into his bones. He unfastened his hood, letting damp black hair fall over his forehead. The wind outside rattled the broken windows, whispering through shattered glass.

He moved toward the back, gripping the iron handle of a locked basement door. He listened.

Nothing.

Good.

Dropping his hand, he turned to his cot and sat, unbuckling his boots. His body ached, his mind already sinking into that quiet void between exhaustion and readiness.

Home, for now.