A threestory structure, its exterior paint long since peeled away in great swathes, revealing the brick beneath. The windows were coated with a thick fur of dust. The streetlamps were sparse, the entire lane preternaturally quiet. No signage, no playbills, not even a legible house number.
A side door stood slightly ajar. This doesn't look like a theatre with a regular clientele.
Anger approached. He crouched, using a gloved hand to sweep aside the loose grime on the stone step. A clear drag mark. Fresh, too—the disturbed earth hadn't fully dried, yet the trail was intermittent.
He rose and circled via the alley to the building's flank. Here, deeper wheel ruts—likely from a goods wagon—led to a loading bay door. It too was halfopen, revealing a maw of darkness within.
Returning to the side entrance, Anger mused that as a detective, he had ample justification for entry. 'Received an anonymous tip about illegal performances' would suffice. No one would dare stop me. It was his duty, after all. For now, it would serve as his pretext.
The moment he pushed the door open and stepped through, a figure flitted past in the periphery of his vision across the street. He paid it no mind.
The theatre's corridor was narrow, the wallpaper equally decrepit, blotched with mould and crumbling plaster. Gaslight sconces were set into the walls, their flames jumping fitfully. He proceeded straight down the passage.
The interior auditorium was a stark contrast to the derelict exterior. The seating fanned out in a semicircle, perhaps a hundred red velvet chairs—faded in places, yet curiously wellkept. About half were occupied by figures in what appeared to be respectable evening dress and greatcoats, though Anger perceived only blurred outlines.
The stage curtains were a deep crimson, embroidered with a vast pattern in silver thread: an inverted cross.
A chill skittered down Anger's spine at the sight. The silver threads glinted eerily against the dark red backdrop. Abnormal, through and through. He chose a seat in the back corner nonetheless.
No ushers, no managers in sight. No anticipated confrontation. He removed his bowler and placed it on his lap. But as his eyes began a proper sweep of the room, the true anomalies unveiled themselves.
Some patrons were shrouded in a faint, bluish haze. Others had no aura at all.
His attention fixed on a woman in the front rows. She wore a black veil and a gown of bottlegreen. Her manner was, on closer inspection, unnaturally rigid. Stiff. Each turn of her head was a tiny, stilted pivot, as if pulled back by a taut spring.
Anger squinted. The skin at the nape of her neck showed a seam. And that pallor… too porcelainlike.
Puppets. The audience is seeded with puppets.
Just as he debated investigating further, someone settled into the empty seat to his left.
He'd heard no footfall. Anger didn't turn immediately, but his peripheral vision caught a man in a grey formal suit, sitting perfectly erect, hands neatly folded on his knees.
When Anger finally shifted to look, the sight was… unexpected.
The man's profile, cast in the gaslight, was flawlessly smooth. Glazed white ceramic. A web of fine cracks radiated from the corner of his eye.
A puppet. Not a man. A walking automaton.
A cold sweat broke on Anger's palms. His instinct to reach for his revolver warred with sheer disbelief.
The puppet did not look at him. It stared fixedly at the stage. Its lips did not move, yet a voice printed itself directly upon his mind:
"Will you enjoy tonight's conclusion, Inspector?"
Anger's hand clenched around the gun butt in his pocket.
"That depends on the performance," he replied aloud, unsure of what would follow but refusing silence.
He waited for the puppet to say more. Nothing came.
When he looked again, the ceramic face had lost its sheen. It was now merely a network of fissures on a dull, greyish plane.
Anger remained still in his seat. Don't make a move. Not yet.
After a quarterhour's tense silence, the heavy curtains began to draw fully open.
******
Anger saw no live actors appear on stage—only several marionettes. Though called marionettes, he could see no strings, nor anyone operating them.
A curtain dropped on the left, bearing the words: Act I: The Pact Is Signed.
The backdrop was a huge moon cut from tin foil, hanging before the curtain. Moonlight—actually gaslight from the stage wings—reflected off the foil in a silvery white glow.
Two puppets entered.
On the left was a female puppet in a long gown, about a foot tall. Even from a distance, her face was identical to the Green?Eyed Maiden from the auction?house painting—down to the faint tear?mole at the corner of her eye.
On the right stood a male puppet in knight’s attire, noticeably taller. Strangely, this puppet’s face bore no features—only a blurred, mirror?like surface.
The two puppets met at center stage.
No narration, no music—only the sound of gears turning from beneath the stage floor. Click?clack, click?clack, click?clack.
The Green?Eyed Maiden raised a ceramic arm, plucked a strand of thread from her own head. The thread shimmered with a genuine luster in the moonlight—less like a prop, more like real hair. She offered it to the faceless knight?puppet.
The knight?puppet took the thread. Upon contact, it coiled around his wooden hand of its own accord, tightening until it bit into the grain. Then he removed a badge from his chest—one that looked terribly familiar.
A Dust?Coin. Yes, a mute coin.
The exchange complete.
The maiden?puppet pressed the Dust?Coin against her own chest. The badge embedded itself, leaving only a raised circular outline on the surface.
She began to tremble—no operator, just a high?frequency, mechanical quivering. Her joints clacked against each other.
The knight?puppet stood motionless, clutching the silver strand.
You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.
The moonlight intensified abruptly. Anger saw patterns ignite on the stage floor, spreading from the feet of both puppets toward the audience—but halting sharply at the edge of the stage.
“The Pact,” Anger heard himself whisper unconsciously.
The ceramic?faced puppet on his right, silent till now, twitched its lips.
“The First Debt.”
Anger whipped his head toward it.
The ceramic puppet did not look back, still staring fixedly at the stage.
Another curtain fell: Act II: Betrayal and Pursuit.
The backdrop flipped over with a rustle—an instant, jarring change that made Anger start. The gear?noise grew louder; a heavy rumbling of moving weights echoed from behind the stage.
Moonlight vanished, replaced by a gloomy forest setting: twisted trees cut from cardboard, hung with moss?like grey rags.
The Green?Eyed Maiden began to run.
Her movements were fluid—the hem of her gown swayed, ceramic calves alternating strides. She passed through the cardboard forest; the paper trees leaned aside as she passed, revealing a path behind.
The knight?puppet appeared at the forest’s edge.
He now held a sword, likely cut from sheet?iron. The blade was cracked, bearing the inverted?cross emblem of Knight?Captain Greffin from the Mute Tower.
He gave chase. Could this play be about Greffin?
The backdrop changed again.
The forest flipped away; a castle rose—a painted flat of stone walls and narrow windows, orange?red light glowing from within. The maiden?puppet rushed into the castle; the knight?puppet followed.
The castle flipped away; a graveyard rose—crooked crosses, tilting headstones. Some stones bore familiar crests: wolf?heads and crescent moons. The maiden?puppet hid behind a tombstone, her ceramic body curled in fear.
The knight?puppet halted in the graveyard.
He turned slowly. That faceless face swept across the stage—though eyeless, every spectator could feel the movement of his gaze. Finally, he looked toward the tombstone where the maiden?puppet hid.
Background music sounded for the first time: a muffled human hum from both sides of the stage. The melody was a distorted variation of a lullaby, drawn?out, gloomy, twisted.
The knight?puppet raised his sword.
The maiden?puppet stood up from behind the tombstone. She did not flee again, but faced her pursuer directly. She lifted a hand, pointing upward—toward the nonexistent sky above the stage.
The knight?puppet’s sword hung in mid?air.
A brief stand?off.
What is she pointing at? Anger wondered involuntarily.
The ceramic puppet’s voice invaded his mind again.
“To bear witness.”
“Witness against whom?”
The puppet did not answer.
The knight?puppet’s sword fell—not toward the maiden, but toward the stage floor.
The iron blade struck the boards with a thud. The floor cracked open; silver light gushed from the fissure—liquid moonlight, the rail?mucus, now manifesting on stage. The mucus spread along the crack, climbing the hem of the maiden?puppet’s gown.
Her trembling intensified.
The backdrop changed a third time. The graveyard flipped away.
A final curtain dropped: Act III: Filial Murder.
A coffin?model rose at center stage, lid open. Scattered around it were glittering gold coins—not the usual sort Anger knew. Not Dust?Coins, nor pence, francs, or pounds.
The maiden?puppet retreated to the coffin. The knight?puppet advanced.
Now the background music became truly mechanical: the whirring of clockwork, meshing gears, the hiss of released steam—chaotic, rhythmless. The sound rose from beneath the stage, vibrating the floor under Anger’s feet.
The knight?puppet raised the sword overhead with both hands.
The maiden?puppet tilted her face upward. Her green eyes reflected a final glint of stage?light—then the light died. The ceramic pupils turned matte, then hollow black.
The sword fell.
Crack.
The ceramic head separated from the torso.
No blood appeared on stage—only the fractured ceramic cross?section, revealing an intricate internal metal skeleton: gears, linkages, springs.
Only one place came to Anger’s mind with such technology: the clockwork techniques of the Rhine Federation.
The head rolled across the stage, along the floor, all the way to the edge—stopping in the footlight’s glow.
Then the head split open.
The ceramic shell peeled apart, revealing inside a dense swarm of bees—each no larger than a thumbnail. They beat their wings, emitting a high?frequency buzz, and surged out from the cracked skull.
Dozens. Hundreds.
They flew toward the audience. Anger, in the back row, leapt up and scrambled backward. He even drew his revolver, tore down a hanging theatre?velvet drape, and threw it over himself.
He dropped flat onto the rear floor, hearing countless thuds and wails.
Only after a good while did all sounds cease—including the drone of the swarm—did Anger push aside the drape and stand up.
His first instinct was to aid the stung—but glancing down, he found no normal humans here at all. Those fallen were all puppets.
A chill shot down Anger’s spine. What sort of damned place is this? No wonder Elizabeth went mad, watching this night after night.
How to report this? Anger was stumped.
The theatre had fallen into dead silence.
With no living souls in sight and the swarm gone, he walked to center stage and picked up a glowing gold coin. The moment he touched it, his journal displayed a name: Rafa?Coin.
No further details on its purpose were given, but since the journal showed it, it must be of use. Anger pocketed two intact coins; the others, though glowing, were incomplete.
The stage was a veritable graveyard of puppet parts—severed arms, heads, scattered gears, springs. Only the skull was hollow inside.
A side door stood ajar, likely leading backstage. Anger walked toward it.
******
The backstage area was even more chaotic than imagined.
A dustcoated dressing mirror hung on one wall. The table before it was strewn with an assortment of antiquated tools. Yet, a few things managed to seize Angor's attention.
Nailed to the wall were over a dozen structural sketches of a puppet from various angles. To be precise, it was a mechanical puppet.
At the centre of the room, sprawled across a workbench, lay a heavy folio. It contained a portrait of the Green?Eyed Maiden—but this was an exploded?view diagram. Scattered amidst the drawings were disorderly notes on topics like "defective components" and "ritual procedures." Angor couldn't possibly digest it all; he only skimmed the pages.
He continued to rummage. Beneath a pile of wood shavings in a corner of the workbench, he discovered an ivory die.
Picking it up, he found it completely different from the one carried by the Bone?Bird assassin. This die was larger than those used in common gambling, and it sat heavy in his palm.
Its six faces were not marked with pips, but with twisted symbols. Some resembled astral constellations, others hydrological charts—patterns Angor had never seen before.
He pocketed the die.
As he turned, his gaze caught on a waste?bin in the corner. Protruding from the debris was a left?hand puppet.
The index finger of this left hand was broken off clean at the root. The wood at the fracture was still fresh, free of dust. He retrieved it. It was palm?sized, painted with a flesh?toned lacquer, its joints revealing intricate mortise?and?tenon craftsmanship.
Just then, his journal provided feedback.
Item: Ivory Die.
Symbol Analysis: Coordinates for the Wailing Sea acquired.
Location: Eight?Step Shallows.
Angor's first thought was of the information Lorenzo had mentioned at the salon—about pirates and the Wailing Sea.
Just as Angor was still sifting for evidence, a carriage pulled to a halt outside the theatre.
******
A church deacon leaned halfway out the carriage window, his gaze fixed on the side door of No. 1 Elspeth Street. In his hand was a document case containing three vials of holy water, a small silver knife, and a palm?sized Manual for Handling Anomalous Sites.
The driver on the front seat yawned. “You really going in? Even stray dogs avoid this place.”
“Orders from above,” the deacon replied wearily. “Someone has to collect the designated ceramic fragments at this hour. The directive says no more than ten pounds.”
He pushed the carriage door open. As he turned to fetch a sack from the floorboards, a flicker of light caught the corner of his eye—from a second?floor window of the theatre.
He paused.
“Tom?”
Perhaps his voice was too soft; the driver, busy rolling tobacco, didn’t hear.
The deacon looked again.
Might be a tramp with a candle. Or just a reflection on the glass.
Still, he hoisted the sack and walked toward the side door.
It stood ajar. From within seeped a faint strain of music, followed by a series of clack?clack?clack sounds.
He took half a step back.
Every time, he was the one with the sack—don’t look too closely, don’t ask too much. He was just a deacon.
Just as he hesitated, a shadow shifted inside the doorway. A fleeting glimpse, but John saw clearly: a man.
Protocol.
Article I: If active entities are encountered on?site, regardless of whether their form conforms to human definition, immediately terminate the recovery mission. Withdraw to a safe distance and report as a Level?III Anomalous Contact.
Article II: Strictly prohibit interaction with active entities. Do not remove items beyond the listed inventory. Do not record unnecessary details.
Run. That was his first duty.
The man inside seemed to be moving toward the backstage—wearing what looked like a detective’s uniform.
A detective, at three in the morning, rummaging through puppet limbs in an abandoned theatre.
This was decidedly not normal. But it was also none of his business.
The driver finished rolling his cigarette and struck a match—only to see the deacon hurrying back.
“What’s wrong?” the driver asked, puzzled.
“Go.”
“Not collecting?”
“Situation’s off?script. Go. Now.”
The carriage swiftly turned around. The deacon hastily scribbled his report:
Time: 03:00
Location: No. 1 Elspeth Street
Status: Active entity encountered. Did not enter. No recovery.
The carriage vanished into the night.
By the time Anger stepped outside, the street was cold and deserted.
A place this remote—who the devil would come here?