Deus Necros

Van Dijk moved lightly through the narrow streets of Bastos March, his footsteps almost silent against the cobblestone. His mind wandered as he rehearsed what he would say upon meeting the young woman from earlier. Though their interaction had been brief, her image lingered vividly in his thoughts. Her bright eyes, her soft smile—he couldn’t shake them. She had an air of grace he found captivating, and perhaps most importantly, he noticed she wore no ring.

Marriage or not, Van Dijk considered himself a catch. Being the son of the Marquise meant no one would dare refuse him outright, though he preferred to win someone over on his own merits. He decided to leave his family name out of it, at least for now. Why ruin the challenge? The thought made him smirk to himself.

Yet, a pang of reality cut through his thoughts. His reputation in the city wasn’t stellar. Known as the “Bastos Lout, or the Fool of the Bastos family,” he was seen as a wealthy, carefree lout. A harmless fool, they called him, and though the title never caused him trouble, it certainly didn’t command respect. That realization dimmed his spirits, but only slightly. He wasn’t the type to dwell long on criticism.

As he pondered, his feet carried him into the slums—a decision he made absentmindedly. It was the fastest route to the clinic where he hoped to find her, and wasting time on the broader, well-lit streets didn’t seem necessary. He barely noticed the shift in his surroundings as the air thickened with the stench of refuse and damp decay.

The slums were alive with shadows, moving figures passing in the dim corners of his vision. He hardly paid them any mind, but a small group of thugs lurking nearby noticed him immediately. Their low whispers carried through the narrow alley.

“That one’s fat with coin,” one hissed. “See the pouch on his belt? That’s a week’s food for all of us.”

Another started to step forward, but the sharp tug of a hand on his arm stopped him. “Don’t,” a more cautious voice warned. “That’s the Bastos Fool.”

“The fool?” the first thug sneered. “Perfect. An easy mark.”

“No, you idiot,” the other snapped. “You touch him and the least you’ll have to worry about is the gallows, He’s got a shadow. Always does. And the fool doesn’t even realize it. And trust me, you don’t want to meet her.”

The warning made the group freeze, eyes darting nervously around the fog-draped alley. Just as the tension peaked, a soft yet commanding voice sliced through the murk behind them.

“Good decision,” it said.

The thugs spun around to see a maid, clad in simple attire, standing perfectly still in the dim light. Her presence felt unnaturally calm, as if she had been there all along without their notice. Her eyes were cold, unwavering, and though she held no weapon, she exuded the aura of someone who didn’t need one.

“We didn’t do anything,” one of the men stammered, taking a step back.

“I know,” the maid said smoothly. “That’s why you still breathe. Now leave.”

The group didn’t hesitate. They scattered into the shadows, disappearing like smoke on the wind. The maid watched them go before turning her attention back to Van Dijk, who continued walking obliviously ahead. She sighed softly and resumed her silent pursuit, her steps light as air.

The night grew colder, the crescent moon vanishing behind thick clouds. The faint glow of lanterns barely reached the edges of the alleys, and a damp fog began creeping up from the ground. The already narrow streets seemed to close in tighter, the paths twisting into a confusing maze.

The maid frowned. “What is this?” she whispered. The fog wasn’t natural—it rose too quickly, swallowing the slums in a heavy shroud. Even she, with her sharp senses, was beginning to lose sight of Van Dijk.

“I need to keep up,” she murmured, leaping gracefully onto the rooftops. From her higher vantage, she could just make out the faint outline of her charge below, his confident stride betraying no awareness of the danger around him.

But something was wrong. The fog seemed alive, shifting and thickening to obscure her view. The streets twisted unnaturally, and even her keen memory of the city’s layout faltered.

“Damn it,” she hissed. Fear clawed at the edges of her mind. “This isn’t right.”

Abandoning her orders to remain unseen, she dropped down into the alley, determined to pull Van Dijk out of this growing nightmare. But as her feet hit the cobblestone, a cold, clawed hand gripped her shoulder. She spun around, her heart leaping into her throat, but there was nothing behind her. The alley was empty.

“This fog sucks,” Van Dijk muttered, his voice cutting through the eerie silence. He wasn’t a stranger to these slums, despite his father’s constant warnings to avoid them. He found freedom here, away from the stifling expectations of his family. But tonight, the freedom felt more like isolation.

The labyrinth of twisting streets seemed endless. Every turn brought him back to where he started, and the oppressive fog dulled his sense of direction. He cursed under his breath, frustration mounting.

Then, a new sound reached his ears. A wet, sloshing noise, punctuated by sharp crunches. It was coming from a narrow alley just ahead. The sound was primal, animalistic, and it sent a shiver down his spine.

“What the hell is that?” he murmured, his curiosity warring with his better judgment. Against his instincts, he stepped closer. The sounds ceased abruptly, and for a moment, the alley was deathly silent.

Then something burst out of the shadows.

Van Dijk yelped, stumbling backward and falling hard onto the ground. A black shape shot past him, fast and low. He caught a glimpse of yellow eyes and matted fur before the creature disappeared into the fog. His heart pounded as he scrambled to his feet, wiping dirt from his hands.

“Just a dog,” he muttered, trying to convince himself. But the tension in his chest didn’t ease. Something was wrong, and he could feel it.

“Blimey,” a voice said from the alleyway. “Don’t scare me like that.”

Van Dijk froze. A figure stepped out of the darkness, his appearance more unsettling than the fog itself. A man, scrawny and half-naked, his skin marred by grime and wrapped in filthy bandages. His face was hidden beneath layers of cloth, leaving only the faintest hint of a mouth visible.

Van Dijk swallowed hard. “Who are you?”

The man tilted his head, his voice raspy but strangely calm. “Just someone trying to get by. Same as you.”