Cyrus felt detached as the fight unfolded. It was as though he were watching the events play out on a television screen, separating him from his body. Nothing could stop what was to come. And yet, it had to be done. After all, the director had declared it: the performance had begun, and he was cast as the lead.

So there, Cyrus knelt before Caitríona. She pleaded and begged before devolving into a frenzied struggle, clawing against his unyielding grip on her face.

But it was of no use.

They say that death by fire is among the most agonizing of fates, a prospect Cyrus would have never wished upon anyone. And yet, there he was. Dazed and listless, he was compelled to witness the young woman struggle and scream with all her might. The acrid stench of burning flesh and hair assailed his nostrils while the muffled screams of a woman in anguish drowned all other noises. All the while, his cloudy gaze gleamed with the reflected light of an inferno.

It had all felt so surreal.

Even when her shrieks gradually dwindled to feeble whimpers and weak struggles before ultimately ceasing altogether, along with the blaze subsiding, Cyrus felt as if he were a million miles away. And what did she see in her last moments? Was it only flames? Was it the ever-blinding light escaping his eyes and mouth?

It didn't matter.

With glazed eyes, Cyrus surveyed the charred remnants before him, standing up and searching his surroundings. Her death seemed to be the trick, for the void that had circled the two for what felt like an eternity slowly receded, revealing the dark and desolate alleyway where this had all begun.

Chirp!

The sudden sound of Bird and his flapping, followed by the canary's landing on top of Cyrus' head, snapped him back to reality. And only now, the consequences of what had happened finally penetrated his consciousness.

"What have I done?" Cyrus' voice quivered.

With hands trembling, he reached downwards toward the charred corpse. Maybe Caitríona was still alive. Maybe he could save her. Yet, as Cyrus looked at the exposed flesh cracking under the char like magma, he knew the truth. He wanted to throw up.

Weakness overtook him. Cyrus' legs buckled under the weight of it all, and Bird took off again, startled by the sudden drop. He landed hard on his backside, propping himself up with his arms to stay upright. And what now? He had just killed a woman. But... he had to. He did! She wanted to kill him! Wait, did he kill her? Why was everything so hazy?

"What have you done?" A stony, muffled voice came behind, followed by a cold metal press on the back of Cyrus' head.

Startled, Cyrus flinched. "It wasn't my—" but he quickly shut up once he felt the steel press harder against his skull.

"Stay still. You're under arrest," the voice commanded. The air around the two drew colder. "Slowly stand up and place your hands behind your back. Make any sudden moves, and I won't hesitate. Understand? No matter what powers you have, would it stop a bullet passing through your skull?"

With a bitter sigh, Cyrus complied. A moment later, he felt cold metal clasping around his wrists, followed by a sudden wave of weakness. It was as if his runes were dampened against his call—useless.

And what was it again that Cyrus wanted? Right. To begin again.

"Don't move. This is your only chance," the man warned, tossing a transparent orb past Cyrus and into the space between him and the charred remains.

A moment later, the orb erupted with subdued gray hues, illuminating everything within the alleyway. It churned its lights for minutes on end as if searching for something. And yet, Cyrus simply remained silent. Had this been any other time, he would figure it out a scanner and consider how such a device worked. But now? The charred corpse highlighted in sweeping lights only kept his attention.

It was not until five minutes later, did the orb became active. A dazed Cyrus watched a man enter his field of vision—a man entirely covered in black and wearing a large trench coat. The man faced Cyrus, revealing a mask of brass metal pieces shaped into a skull. In his hand was a revolver, pointedly trained on Cyrus.

"Female, aged 20-25." The man muttered, kneeling beside her corpse. "Deceased." Cyrus shivered but remained silent. "Victim suffered severe burns prior to death." The masked man softly sighed. "The suspect is most likely a pyromancer, as no traces of flammable reagents were found." Then, he turned slightly to fix his gaze upon Cyrus. His hazel eyes exuded an eerie calmness as they scrutinized Cyrus' bloodied hands. "Did you kill this woman?"

Yes... No... I don't know. His body moved without his input during the fight, and he did not think to stop himself. Did that thing cast glamor on him? But would that feeble excuse absolve him of his crimes? Would it forever wash off the dripping blood tainted on his hands? Would it stop Cyrus from recalling this event whenever meat sizzles around him?

Something was taken from Cyrus on this night. And it would never return again. Cyrus hesitated at first, but only for a moment.

"Yes, I killed this woman." He muttered, lowering his head, only to shoot back up with a surge of desperation. "But she attacked me first! I was only defending myself!"

There was no use in denying anything. However, the circumstances justified the outcome, regardless of his state of mind.

The man nodded. He then rose to his feet, revolver unwavering trained on Cyrus. "What happened?"

Chirp!

The next moment, Bird perched on Cyrus' head again. It silently regarded the masked man with its beady eyes before chirping at it as if it were an unwelcome intruder.

The man was taken aback. "You... are a Wayfarer?" He reassessed both himself and Bird again and again. "But I don't recognize you.

The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

His tone excluded such confidence that it implied that no bullshit excuse could run past him. However...

A chance? Cyrus felt a glimmer of hope ignite within his heart. If this man could recognize every Wayfarer and remember them among the thousands of pedestrians that walked Avalorn's streets, then could he be—

"—You're a Wayfarer?" Cyrus asked, daring to take a chance. "I'm not a Wayfarer, but an initiate. My name is Cy—er... Wade Cyrus!"

And what luck! The man flinched and became guarded at the thought of his identity being uncovered.

With this in mind, Cyrus continued with his defense: "Please, you have to believe me." He gestured toward the charred remnants, his gaze unable to follow. "I met her in Corrcho's library, where I thought she was looking for some..." —Cyrus paused, feeling a bit awkward— "...Romance. But it was just a trick to get me alone. She wanted to kill me!"

"Hold on." —The man gestured to stop before he pointed to his mask— "I'm not a Wayfarer, but a Spectre? Understand?" His harsh tone and intense gaze brooked no argument. "Do you understand?"

Well, what else could Cyrus say but yes? But this made it more difficult.

A Spectre. What did that mean? And what a joke. Of all the days to meet one, it would be on the day Cyrus was involved in a crime.

Once satisfied, The Spectre motioned for him to continue. "Start from the beginning."

Okay. Cyrus sighed. Here it goes.

Drawing patience within, he recounted the day's events from the market to dinner. However, Cyrus omitted his encounter with it. Was it a good idea? Most likely not. But Cyrus feared being called delusional. After all, he would be telling some masked individual from an unknown organization that a god spoke to him. It was hard to play with a deck of missing cards, but Cyrus needed more information. Only then would he avoid traps and incarceration.

As the story pressed on, The Spectre's demeanor shifted. He grew angrier and angrier, to the point Cyrus could hear his knuckles crack from the clenching of his fists while his hazel gaze ever hardened so. And to make the final blow, Cyrus revealed the necklace he discovered on Caitríona's person.

"Damn it." The Spectre pried the necklace from him and inspected it. "It's really one of them?" After a moment's silence, he finally spoke, his intense gaze reaching unprecedented heights. "Are you saying she was an Actor? Don't lie to me."

An Actor? Like... in movies and plays? What the hell?

Cyrus remained silent, not that it mattered. The Spectre awaited no response, pulling a bronze pendant in the shape of an eye. And with a light squeeze, its iris emitted a gray hue.

"We'll wait for backup," The Spectre muttered, pointing his revolver at Cyrus again. "Once the situation is under control, you'll accompany me back to HQ for questioning and confirmation."

Was heading off to some strange place with no clue of the consequences a good idea? What if they were to lock him up without a means to defend himself? It could only come to this...

"Lady Dílis and His Stewardship," Cyrus urgently began, quickly catching The Spectre's attention. "They know me and can vouch for my innocence. Just mention my name to them."

The Spectre remained silent. There may have been more layers to this than he initially thought. However, The Spectre offered no response, only leaving the revolver trained on Cyrus.

Time passed. With it came more Spectres, bronze masks and all. Yet, strangely enough, they each, including the hazel-eyed one, had to verify their identity with their iris necklaces.

Then came the investigation. Armed to the teeth with weapons and magic, they swiftly secured the crime scene while the first Spectre brought them up to speed. Of course, their movements drew attention from late night passersby and oncoming guardsmen. But the moment they noticed those bronze masks, they scattered like rats seen by predators.

They seem to suspect me, Cyrus thought, feeling their dagger-like gazes fall upon him. Actors...

"Here." —The hazel-eyed Spectre revealed to him a folded blank mask— "So no one recognizes you."

After half an hour, an inconspicuous black coach arrived. Cyrus was instructed to board, but before doing so, he pointed to his red camera on the ground. "That's my device. Please collect it for me."

The other Spectres hesitated and only reacted once the hazel-eyed one spoke. Even despite his reassurances, the others remained on edge, repeatedly scanning the area with their orbs for traps. Only then did someone store it in a lead box. Then, he was unceremoniously lead into the coach with Bird between two Spectres. But even then, the air was heavy. Both men appeared ready to move at a moment's notice should Cyrus try anything stupid. Not that he would.

It didn't take long for the carriage to start moving. The quiet drive was anything but to Cyrus. Deep within his mind, there was the face of a woman staring back at him. Beautiful and bright-eyed, her face would slowly crackle and burn until only char remained. Then, it would all repeat. Such a sight was too much for him. But all Cyrus could do was helplessly shut his eyes tight. Drowning everything with imaginations of the future.

On, did they move. Eventually, the carriage arrived at The Guardsmen headquarters, where he was silently ushered to the rear of the building. Meanwhile, any patrols that approached for inspection quickly veered away, avoiding even glancing at the group of brass skulls. It was as if they feared drawing attention to themselves under the eyes of the other group. And no one batted an eye at the Guards' reactions, pressing forward without stopping. Eventually, Cyrus found himself with Bird and the hazel-eyed Spectre in a dimly lit stone cell.

"You shall remain here until the investigation concludes," He said, his gaze remaining on Bird, who sat on Cyrus' head. "And provisions will be provided in the coming morning."

He then turned to leave. Only for Cyrus to stop at Cyrus' interjection.

"Please, speak to the Miss Dílis."

There was a brief pause before the Spectre turned back, scrutinizing Cyrus for any signs of deception. "How do you know the Dílis family?"

Cyrus remained silent. Any misstep could cast doubt on his credibility.

"Lilie herself sponsored me into the Wayfarers," Cyrus eventually said, his voice steady. "And His Stewardship personally has been overseeing my training."

And The Spectre's reaction was just as Cyrus had hoped for—a momentary pause, a flicker of uncertainty. Yes, I've been trained by the Lord Dílis himself.

The Spectre took a good, long look at his features, memorizing them. In the end, he conceded with a nod.

"Very well, I'll relay this information to the higher-ups," The Spectre said before closing the cell door.

Finally, Cyrus was alone at last. And the weight of today's events finally took hold of him. He collapsed on the bed, gaze growing hazy despite the whirlpool of thoughts in his head. But the sound of Bird's fluttering drew his cloudy attention. The sight of the small canary landing on the pillow beside him brought little comfort. It didn't help get rid of that flaming corpse in his mind. Nothing did.

And in the end, only one thought remained as his vision grew dark.

"I died again," Cyrus murmured softly, closing his eyes and surrendering to oblivion.

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