They learned the truth too late to stop it cleanly.
The Septinarius were gathering beneath Bögenhafen’s smiling face —
in Warehouse Thirteen, dressed as benefactors, hosts, patrons of celebration.
A public feast.
A private selection.
Scarlett went in first, the singer’s name opening doors that locks could not.
Desmi followed, quieter, watching the floor instead of the faces.
They found the symbols quickly.
Chalk and ash worked into the stone.
Marks meant to be missed by those who never looked down.
And in the cellar below —
a shape that was not decoration.
A ritual space.
A promise waiting to be kept.
They were interrupted.
Young workers.
Paid hands.
Preparing lanterns, tables, banners.
Men who thought they were setting a party —
not a threshold.
Scarlett and Desmi withdrew.
Not defeated.
Waiting.
They returned after nightfall.
The warehouse breathed with music and bodies.
Laughter layered over intention.
Scarlett vanished into the crowd, voice and presence pulling attention where it was needed least.
She learned the truth there, between smiles and spilled wine:
Tonight was not the ritual.
Tonight was the choosing.
Several candidates.
Several futures.
All of them meant to descend into the cellar before dawn —
to be initiated by Septinarius hands.
They acted under Morrslieb’s green glare.
Not with blades.
With consequences.
They called the Witch Hunters.
And the city answered.
Boots.
Torches.
Authority wrapped in iron and prayer.
The celebration shattered.
Guests scattered.
Hosts protested innocence until morning light stripped the lie bare.
From dusk until dawn, Bögenhafen did not sleep.
Neither did its secrets.
But daylight brings no mercy.
The Septinarius survived.
They always do.
And everyone knows who they are supposed to be —
the city’s greatest benefactors.
Its pillars.
Its protectors.
Now the question is simple, and deadly:
What price does Bögenhafen demand
from those who exposed its favorite monsters?
🜍 Now…
The green moon fades.
The hunters sharpen their warrants.
And Scarlett and Desmi wait for the answer the new day will bring.
Because cults do not forgive interruption.
❓ If you ruined the plans of the city’s most powerful benefactors…
would you trust the dawn — or prepare for the knives that follow it?