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baying of wolves. I turned toward the sound, but there was
nothing. When I turned back to face the mother, I was met
by a wave of them, monstrous and starving. As I sank into
their numbers, I spied the woman made of two mothers. She
only smiled as the beasts tore the flesh of my mind from the
bones of an old dream.
When I awoke, it was night. It pleased me to imagine the
black statue’s shadow having swallowed up all the light. The
goddess above me had exchanged her smile for a faraway
stare that likely settled upon invisible worlds filled with the
laughter of lost children, thrilling to games only the dead
may play. As I rose to my feet, a third woman entered my
thoughts—Black Molly Patience. I had no idea where to find
her. She roamed under the night with the flow and freedom
of a whisper, devouring whomever her appetite adored.
However, like the deathly woman carved from coal, she was
not without a following of faithful. I would start with them.
The next town was hardly in need of a name, untroubled
as it was by any meaningful distinction. I roamed muted
streets coiled lazily around staggered lines of nearly identical
houses—if it weren’t for the numbers engraved upon them,
there would have been no telling them apart. The few people
I observed were as iterative as the buildings, and I wondered
if numbers hadn’t been carved into them as well.
Coldchester—it did have a name, for whatever reason—
was either remarkably brave, or so foolish it considered its
fine view of the nearby mountains an acceptable reason to
risk its close proximity to New Victoria. Although, oddly
enough, the place did appear untouched by the sleeping
metropolis. And I detected none of the characteristic
screaming and moaning that generally accompanies an
outbreak of the sleeping sickness.
Before long, I’d broken into the city’s Museum of
Darkness, which was significantly smaller than others of
its kind. This was likely owing to the want for all evidence
of the Darkness to be destroyed—despite the law decreeing
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