Shirei and Niccolò prepared to leave the tavern. The young Venetian gave the Blendbreed's clothes a quick glance and wrinkled his nose in a thoughtful expression.
"Sir, no offense meant, but with those clothes… you'll draw more attention than necessary. Not everyone is used to seeing such a singular traveler."
He gestured toward the dark robe, the fabric marked by signs of wear and stains from past battles. "Perhaps a change of clothes would be wise."
Shirei nodded without replying. He wasn't interested in discussing superficial details, but he sensed that Niccolò was right.
Every extra glance could be a risk in potentially hostile territory.
Without further delay, the boy gave a small wave of his hand and started up a worn wooden staircase that began to creak under their steps. Once they reached the upper floor, the young Venetian stopped in front of a half-open door and cast a glance toward Shirei.
"Just a moment, Sir," he murmured, gently pushing the door open and stepping into the room.
The son of Cragar chose to stay outside, his hands hidden in his pockets, while his purplish gaze lingered on the silent, bare corridor. From within the room came a soft voice, warm and filled with concern.
"Mother? It's me, Niccolò."
Shirei stepped forward, his instinct caught by those few words. The boy had only slightly opened the door, which allowed him to peek inside. Common sense told him to give them privacy, but he justified himself with a sly thought.
After all, I just want to know what symptoms she has. It's not like I'm eavesdropping on a private conversation between mother and son.
A woman lay on the only bed, stretched over the worn blankets. Her body was strangely rigid, with her arms stuck to her sides and her feet pressed together like those of a motionless statue. Her eyes were closed, her mouth tight, devoid of any expression. She seemed more like a figure carved from marble than a person of flesh and blood. The Venetian approached with quiet steps and knelt beside the bed. He spoke softly, a whisper Shirei could barely make out.
"I've met someone, Mother. Maybe an ally who can… help us. I promise I'll find a cure for you. You just have to hold on a little longer, all right?"
At those words, the woman's eyelids sprang open. The movement was sudden, almost unnatural, as if a mechanism had clicked inside her. But her eyes, though open, were empty, devoid of emotion or life. She didn't open her mouth nor did she move; she remained still, staring into nothing.
Shirei watched the scene closely, his senses sharpened. Something was profoundly wrong. He could feel it—an unnatural energy. It wasn't just her rigidity: particles of mana hovered around her, like an invisible force keeping her imprisoned.
It was the confirmation he needed: Niccolò's mother hadn't been infected by any illness—she had fallen victim to some magical power the Blendbreed didn't yet understand.
Young Verardi kept speaking, his voice steady. It was clear he was used to her strange behavior.
"Now I'll go. I hope a bit of rest brings you some relief." He squeezed her hand and stood up.
He returned to the door, but by then, Shirei had already stepped away. He cast one last glance at the woman and offered her a smile. "I'll be back soon. See you later."
Then he turned the handle and crossed the threshold, closing it behind him. His face was a mask of determination, but the tremble in his hands betrayed his vulnerability.
"Sorry to keep you waiting, Sir," he said, trying to sound composed. Then, with a forced smile, he pointed to another door at the end of the hallway. "My father's clothes are in there. He is a very tall man, just like you. They should fit perfectly."
The son of Cragar didn't answer right away. He tilted his head slightly, his piercing gaze fixed on Niccolò. He asked no questions about the mother, but he quietly filed away that disturbing scene in his mind.
"Any preferences?" the boy asked.
Shirei shook his head and waited for him to choose the right garments. The tavern keeper moved quickly and was soon standing before him with a black suit folded over his arms. He handed it over with a slightly embarrassed expression and avoided meeting his gaze.
"It's not very modern, but I think it suits your build. My father used to wear it for important events." A small, nostalgic smile followed.
The Forbidden Heir took the clothes with a nod of thanks and asked, "Where can I change?"
Niccolò stepped past him and opened the door to an adjacent room. "Please. If needed, I can prepare this room for you to rest tonight."
He wants my help and is trying to show he's ready to repay me with a place to stay, if necessary.
The son of Cragar considered the idea. "I don't plan to stay long, but I'll remain if the situation demands it."
"I understand."
With the situation made clear, he entered the room to change. The tavern chamber was simple yet welcoming, typical of the Renaissance era. The walls were plastered in a dull white, with a few cracks that bore witness to the weight of the years.
The only window, fitted with dark wooden shutters like a cupboard, let in a faint beam of light—just enough to illuminate the sparse furnishings. A canopy bed occupied one corner, its curtain fabric now worn and faded, while a chest suggested the idea of a traveler who had once lodged there in better times. On the opposite side of the room, a wobbly table held a jug and a terracotta basin for water, beside a candlestick with a spent tallow candle.
The oval mirror hanging on the wall was cracked, but still reflected enough for Shirei to observe his image with care.
Once he had put on the outfit, he studied his reflection. The clothes were sober, almost perfectly aligned with the Venetian style of the period: a fitted jacket adorned with fine embroidery, long trousers, dark stockings, and a pair of sturdy boots. The ensemble was pitch black, with a high collar that framed his serious, distant face. Despite the simplicity of the design, the outfit enhanced his mysterious aura. He glanced at the garments left on the chair with a doubtful grimace.
If the reset happened, would I end up with my clothes again?
He weighed what he knew about the Temporal Rift and decided to ask for help.
Reno, do you have an answer for me?
The shadows in the room seemed to stir, gathering in a corner before taking the shape of the dark creature. The Tenebrae appeared as a blurred figure, but the ghostly contours of his face were visible—and that ever-present smile hadn't abandoned him.
"You're worried about your style, my lord?" he asked with his usual teasing tone, nodding toward the outfit he wore. "I must admit, it's a bit too… funereal."
Shirei stared at him with his usual impassiveness. "Answer the question."
Reno stepped closer, peering into the cracked mirror as if he, too, were pondering the matter. "Oh, without a doubt, the reset will bring everything back as it was, including your charming original garments." His voice dripped with irony. "But don't worry—your new look will stay burned into my memory, and in the minds of everyone who sees it… until the next reset, of course."
The Blendbreed sighed, turning toward the door. "Nothing more to say, then."
"Renopedia, always at your service," quipped the Tenebrae, before the darkness of his form melted into shadow.
Left alone, the Blendbreed opened the door and stepped out of the room, leaving the cozy gloom behind.
Waiting for him in the hallway was Niccolò, who greeted him with a satisfied smile. "Now you truly look like a real Venetian. Let's go."
Shirei nodded, and together they left the tavern, determined to prepare for the meeting with the Sect of the Abyss.
They made their way through narrow streets lit by the glow of twilight. The water in the canals shimmered with golden and green hues, while the shadows of gondolas stretched beneath the arched bridges. The city was wrapped in an unreal stillness, broken only by the distant murmur of waves and the tolling of far-off bells.
As they walked, Niccolò cast a furtive glance at the traveler—something that didn't go unnoticed.
I suppose finding out you're not just a common mortal makes you want to ask a lot of questions…
Shirei's mind wandered to his first moments of consciousness, when he had emerged from the Uchia River. He remembered that feeling vividly.
The chill of the water receding from my skin and the uncertainty wrapping around me like a shroud. It all felt like a distant hum at the time. I didn't give it any weight…
He felt it stir within him—the certainty that he had changed in those three years, that he had become more alive. He had no memory of who he was or how he had come to be there, but he knew, with an unsettling certainty, that he was not a common mortal. That awareness—innate and potent—had stayed with him in those first days.
He had wandered aimlessly, learning to exist in a world that felt alien and hostile.
Then came that first meeting with Cragar. The god of the dead had welcomed him with a disarming calm, as if he already knew everything about him—everything Shirei struggled to remember.
The scene of their first meal together resurfaced in his mind. He had been seated at a long obsidian table, a silent banquet. Cragar, with his inscrutable face, had told him who he was: a Blendbreed, a Forbidden Heir, a fragment of eternity incarnated in mortal flesh—his son.
He hadn't resisted the revelation; he had no reason to. His existence hadn't been shaken, because he had not lived a full life believing he was someone else. The truth had shattered no illusion. And yet, even as he accepted it with composure, he had always wondered if that was truly his only reality.
Niccolò's voice pulled him back to the present. "Sir. Sir Shirei. Are you alright?"
The Blendbreed gave a slight shake of the head, as if to dispel the memories. "Yes. I was lost in thought."
"No problem. I hope they were noble thoughts," he smiled, though his tone shifted, becoming more hesitant. "May I ask a question?"
Shirei tilted his head slightly, focusing again. "What about?"
"You saw my mother, didn't you? What do you think of her?"
His voice betrayed deep concern, despite the intentionally light tone. The violet-eyed youth remained silent for a moment, then replied with his usual calm.
"It isn't natural. I can confirm my suspicions—the condition isn't caused by an ordinary illness. The Sect must be responsible."
Niccolò lowered his gaze. It wasn't an unexpected answer, but hearing it confirmed struck like a blow to the gut.
"I feared as much," he murmured, almost to himself, then shook his head and tried to change the subject.
Yet in his mind, an uneasy doubt began to creep in—a fear growing with every step that took him further from the safety of the tavern.
He had trusted the stranger far too quickly. He had welcomed him into his home, told him about his mother, was even about to lead him to a place where he would face the Saint of the Tides.
But who was that young man with the extraordinary violet eyes, truly?
Maybe he had made a mistake. Maybe, in his desperation, he had wanted to see a miracle in Shirei—a savior sent from heaven or by God to change the course of his life and save his mother.
But could it be he had been deceived by his own hope?
Shirei was too perfect: his presence emanated an aura that felt almost beyond human—and yet, Niccolò knew only what the traveler had chosen to reveal.
Beyond the veil of reality lay a world of magic, profane and long abandoned by the light of the Lord.
He knew nothing else about Cragar's son—neither his family, nor his origins, nor his goals, nor what drove him to stay in Venice. He had no idea what his occupation was, if he even had one. For a man who called himself the son of a deity, Shirei did not seem particularly interested in proving his blendbreed nature or earning others' trust. He was taciturn, mysterious, and elusive.
Niccolò was a young man passionate about politics, a man of logic. He had learned to distrust appearances, and failure with his peers only fueled his guilt and the need to do things the right way. He had already lost too much, and the idea of making another mistake consumed him.
What if they sent him to confuse me, infiltrate my life, and gather information?
The saint was skilled at manipulating people, and he could be just another expendable pawn. The espionage might not be limited to Venice; maybe it was a secret foreign organization. In that case, the young Verardi would be recorded in the history books as the cause of the city's fall.
Or, and that possibility disturbed him even more, Shirei was just a madman, a dangerous man who believed himself to be a blendbreed but was merely a simple con artist. Yet, despite those thoughts, he could not deny what he had seen.
The unnatural calm, his ability to face the monster without flinching. It was all real. There had been no hesitation in him when he killed the Anguana. Maybe there was a way to get answers. If he couldn't trust him blindly, then all he could do was investigate. He had to find out who he was.
"Sir?" he decided. "You told me that the blendbreeds are children of the deities. I was wondering, who is your parent?"
The boy walked with a steady pace, his gaze fixed straight ahead. "Cragar, the god of the dead," he replied curtly.
The other stopped for a moment, surprised. "A god of the dead… is he one of the masked deities? What are they?"
Shirei turned without interrupting his march. "Immortal beings who wear masks. They live in the Highworld, from where they watch every corner of this planet with superiority. It's hard for you, I realize, but it's the truth."
Niccolò was still incredulous, but the gravity in the words just spoken was undeniable, so he decided not to insist. He seemed to be telling the truth, yet the Venetian was not satisfied; he wanted to know more.
A long moment of silence passed, after which he asked, "Forgive my insolence, sir, but I need to understand why you came with me. Why are you in Venice? Do you want to stop the saint or do you want to kill her?"
"No, I'm in Venice to destroy what the saint used to make your mother sick. I want everyone to be free and healthy—that is the goal my companions and I follow. One of them was injured, and the others are healing him. I left ahead to scout and discover what awaits us."
The young citizen nodded. "I understand. It must be… complicated, being what you are. Surviving is already an insurmountable challenge."
"You'll understand one day, when you see the monsters trying to hunt you down, just like this morning."
Their dialogue was interrupted by the majestic profile of a church rising before them. Because of the conversation, they hadn't noticed the path they had traveled.
Niccolò swallowed and said, "Sir, we have arrived."