At times, learning new information could prove quite unpalatable—even for one who appreciated the necessity of not avoiding knowledge out of fear of discomfort.

Awareness of that did not keep Veit from feeling as though he were looking around the Rīsan estate for the very first time. Through a new lens, perhaps. He'd known it to bear the hallmarks of a former fell territory since the moment he set foot upon it, but something had changed.

A Forger. Despite his best attempts at pushing the matter to the back of his mind until time did its work and dulled the sting of it, there was little he could do to deny that lingering rage. He'd grown to quite like the strange girl—and it perhaps had not been fair to take it out on her—but he couldn't help himself.

No one could change the past—but it would have been life-changing to have been on decent terms with someone like her when Pola still lived. He ignored the treacherous part of him that acknowledged this could likely still be of use for him, even if it was too late for his wife.

Veit sighed, still leaning under the shade of the building as he allowed his Stealth to shroud him, as unsurmountable as if it were a force of nature. Spying on Malwine's uncle was tough work—it was overwhelmingly boring, and nothing so far hinted at him even knowing a deity was affecting him. The closest Veit had come to finding anything out was the discovery of these gardens, when the young man had started moving potted plants here.

The sight of a Rīsan—especially this one—actually partaking in physical labor was admittedly surprising, Veit had to concede. Looking as frail as this yet still going through the effort of working on something was commendable.

Veit drew the line at believing the claims that this boy—this young man—was a qualified alchemist, however. Not once had he seen Anselm Rīsan measure anything. It was as if the man based his concoctions off recipes he'd come up with on the spot.

Or recipes that did not exist at all.

With nothing eventful enough to focus on, Veit found his mind wandering in yet another unwanted direction. The sibyl under this estate had been a discomfiting reminder of his own problem with such a being—and of the fact that the second one was likely to be an Immortal as well. The shell of an Immortal, in any case.

To say he was wary of Immortals would have been an understatement.

In the capital—Devils, even in Pikkōnheim—there had been forces at play that could curb the worst of an Immortal's impulses. While power mattered, no one wanted to develop the type of reputation that could lead to the Crown tolerating or even justifying any ill-fortune that came their way.

But here, in what might as well have been the middle of nowhere? Here, Veit would not be as eager to try his luck at preventing any Immortals from wrecking havoc, undead or otherwise. As much as it pained him to recall, he couldn't deny the most bothersome of his past deaths had been at the hands of an Immortal, even if it had been preceded by the opposite.

Neither he nor his late wife could ever agree on just how that argument had escalated, in all their discussions of it through the centuries. It had occurred at a festival, in an isolated village that no longer existed, and the Immortal in attendance had been used to getting his way—after all, unchecked power led to its holders thinking they could act with impunity.

That Beuzaheim had not one but two hollow cores—of all stages!—that were undoubtedly responsible for countless and frequent deaths served as a sobering reminder of how common such types of people ultimately were. Neither Rīsan nor Maryem would have been anything more than a spec of dust anywhere else in the Principality, both held aloft in their current positions by circumstance and fortune alone.

Veit digressed—there was a reason for his hesitance to even think of the second Immortal sibyl, beyond conjecture. Apollonia had met one of her deaths that day, at the Immortal's leisure—not her first. It could have ended at that, for he would have resurrected his wife regardless, but the Immortal's attempt at destroying her obit had cemented a different course of action, and Pola had not been the only one to temporarily bid Existence goodbye then.

Consequences had been swift—mostly for the returned Immortal who slew him in retaliation. He had the benefit of hindsight to appreciate how amusing parts of the outcome had been, but he could not deny it had left a scar. Never again had Veit found himself capable of acting against anyone stronger than himself without dreading any and all potential ramifications of it.

Certainly, Khaiman had wasted no time sanctioning the Immortal who'd killed him, even taking a break from her long days of terrorizing the capital's population in order to give a proclamation.

Their father's reaction had been much worse, for the Immortal in question possessed a sprawling complex. It bustled with activity both thanks to the size of his family and to how many allies chose to reside there, enough that it might as well have been a sect.

Said unofficial sect found itself having to deal with how—seemingly all of a sudden—thousands of constructs had been hidden throughout the property. All were small, inert things crafted from bone, until they sprung to life in the shape of beasts. It didn't help that they were seemingly impossible to detect, and all official requests for aid were mysteriously redirected to Khaiman—that series of events had been one of the few times in Veit's memory when his only remaining family members had both been on the same page about anything.

Even to this day, centuries later, whispers persisted of how if one was particularly unlucky, the snake in the bidet that nearly sent the Immortal himself into cardiac arrest could be encountered—he had it on good authority that no one recalled the inciting incident anymore, however.

The trip down memory lane helped ease his nerves, to an extent, but Veit remained still. He would… he would much prefer not to deal with any undesired drama, should this gnawing feeling have something to it. He had little to no desire to face the sibyl again.

Another day of watching the supposed alchemist work went by, and Veit found his patience tested. In this time, he could have concatenated portals to Sunnōfels, tedious as the trip would have been. If he was to find anything related to Forgers, that would be the place to start. His father wasn't the type to relinquish a property—no matter how old and decrepit—so it went without saying that the villa there should still stand.

He would nonetheless need to revise his conclusions—there was already something odd to be noticed. Namely, the fact that the man hardly ever stopped once he was at work. Sleep and sustenance appeared to be secondary concerns compared to tending to his cauldron.

By the time Anselm Rīsan started putting items away and dismissing filled vials into his inventory one by one, Veit had set his mind on the plan to just follow the man. He could go unnoticed almost anywhere, whether a deity was involved or not—it wasn't a matter of arrogance, but one of factuality. Of all Proclivities, {Vanagloria} was the only one that could boast being the antithesis to divinity by design.

Not to mention, it meshed ridiculously well with the ability to detach—and his skill there might have been the sole victory he could ever claim over his sister.

Anselm Rīsan crossed the archway that led away from the small garden.

It was time.

After an exhale that stretched on forever, Niemat Khödan undid the woven cage he kept around his more primal instincts—all that was born not from Skills or even Affinities, but from the intrinsic nature of his Kind itself.

The shift to his Existence was subtle yet impossible to ignore, a pleasant warmth that settled within him like the early inklings of nausea. It was disorienting and illuminating, all at once.

Veit followed the young Rīsan in silence, his steps bordering on a glide. Moving like this felt like being unable to tell the difference between where each step took him and how the world itself moved—instinctively, he knew he needn't even make the effort to physically follow, for the result would have been the same regardless.

Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

Between this and {Vanagloria}, he must have been taking more measures than anyone would deem necessary to remain undetected—let alone from one mortal man. The backlash would come back to haunt him, and the worst of his jumpiness likely stemmed from the matter of the sibyl, but he would not have acted differently regardless.

The eldest Rīsan boy had numerous chambers to his name, it seemed. Beyond the bedroom itself, he had several adjoining rooms full of materials and working areas Veit could not identify at first glance. Each appeared surprisingly clean, considering they were most definitely not organized in the slightest.

Likely a Skill or Trait, Veit mused. It wouldn't be out of place for a crafter. It was natural to avoid letting filth accumulate in any work area, but no one could manually clean a space this large without at least picking up some of the glasswork that had been strewn about.

Did the boy work with anyone else? The 'man', Niemat. He must truly had been spending too much time arguing with that literal toddler, that he was struggling to remind himself that he was not currently in a position allow himself free rein like this. If he did, he might slip and actually speak of someone like this.

But the signs were there, if hard to pinpoint. Veit lacked the expertise to know how many sets of tools an alchemist could need, but seemingly seven of each did not appear to line up with a one-man operation. They might have been unused, but that was similarly hard to determine, when there was no difference between items in use and those that had presumably been sitting in a corner for months.

He'd have to remember to inquire about this with the lady of the house. It would be easy enough to come up with an excuse for why he wanted to know, with how his duties had grown to encompass keeping an eye on the comings and goings of visitors. Despite her demeanor, this Bernadette had proven far more amenable than he would have expected from a noble with relatively unchecked power—a former one.

Veit wondered if Anselm Rīsan knew how bizarre he looked, lying on his back in bed without even pulling the blankets over himself. Seemingly staring at the ceiling. In his youth, he'd had opportunities aplenty to stalk around and watch his father's guests sleep—he wasn't about to deny he'd been a weird child—and he believed, without the shadow of a doubt, that humans usually closed their eyes when they went to sleep.

"Name yourself," Veit pushed to the tone of {Vanagloria}, not quite speaking within the confines of his mind. He repeated the demand thrice, before stepping closer. It was entirely possible that the deity in question was even more distant than Malwine's recollection of her trial implied.

Distant enough that not even this proverbial siege engine of a Proclivity could draw its eye.

That ruled out the most direct method of investigation. Perhaps it was for the best—he doubted the girl would have been thrilled if he ever explained this was how he'd gone about obtaining answers for her.

He was also not anywhere near as shameless as his father, further limiting his options.

Had it been possible to do so while detached, Veit would have sighed as he manifested a thin sheet of glass. It grew opaque as he willed it to, pressing it against the ceiling and expanding it until it reached the appropriate size. There existed more efficient ways to direct one's sensory range, but none of his Mana Sources were geared towards performing tasks in a simple manner. It was not unlike how he could likely teleport instantaneously, but still considered the creation of portals a necessary step.

Regardless of circumstances, he would not risk actually getting any closer to the 'sleeping' man. His certainty that he could handle this was no reason to forsake safety.

Had the girl not asked him about combining the power of various Affinities, Veit would not have spared much thought for the act. It was something he did by instinct, so perhaps it would be wise to pay attention to the details of how it worked, in the event he ever followed up on the implied future lesson there.

He'd yet to fully process his emotions about this technical student he'd picked up—and the consequences of his own outburst.

{Vanagloria} and {Alienans} were old friends, a clear presence in his very soul from the first moment he'd drawn mana in. Unfathomably simple to weave together, taking like fish to water. He imagined two strands—their layers implicit—soon joined by another. {Yore} was useful, if tedious to build upon. It relied on the permanence of things, and the building value of everything anyone ever treasured.

A Proclivity that stood for implicit defiance, an Affinity related to the underlying currents of that which Existed, and {Aliens} at the center of it, shifting that for which the two of them reached.

Though nigh invisible, Veit's glass planes shimmered to his senses as he released the makeshift spell. He could waste time thinking about how he wasn't a mage some other time, for he simply shut his eyes and allowed his power to overwhelm him.

One moment would be enough. The light of the sun was a sight he could recognize, but this reeked of something gilded, as if its appearance and hue were intentionally exaggerated. Sunlight, reflected upon ceramic. That did not match the description of any deity his father had mentioned, so he pushed further.

A sensation of floating accompanied the light, and Veit shivered despite himself. It was awfully reminiscent of the sea, yet not quite. It was unsteady, quavering. A wounded god, or perhaps a young one. Likely the latter.

Veit pulled away—further examination would not be of much help, if that was the case. Even if he could somehow contact his father to ask, if this was a god above the waves, and a young one at that, the man himself wouldn't know.

With a hitched breath, Veit stilled.

He watched the oldest of Rīsan's children through narrowed eyes, and once the lack of reaction persisted for long enough to satisfy him, he disappeared from the estate—crossing the wards that kept The Snow out without so much as a ripple took effort.

Now, onto the reason for his abrupt exit. Still detached, his senses were so much more than they normally were. Returning to normalcy right now would be a needless act—dangerous, even. He'd blamed The Fog when Malwine asked, but each time he did this, he would be out for the count for days at a time. At least days.

"Sibyl," Veit called out between the mangroves, nearly hovering. He'd noticed the shift in the air as it had… descended. For all he'd yet to catch sight of it, he could tell it was the same one he had encountered before, still frightful as ever. "I would hope my words were not unclear, and if they were, I would seek to correct any misconceptions. I did not call upon you."

Had he been a more superstitious man, Veit would have wondered whether thinking so much about it had exacerbated the problem. Then again, he could hardly wonder much, over his growing panic.

"Knew. From her," the sibyl answered with a horrid impression of a smile. Its head dangled to the side, as if it had forgotten how to hold itself upright in the short time it had taken it to walk here. "But see now. Little Camb—"

A chill went down Veit's spine, and he imagined being halfway across the forest before it could even finish speaking. The sibyl still almost reached him, the thin fingers of its hand closing around air before him.

"Ungratefulness begets sadness," the sibyl noted, otherwise impassive. It did not move again until Veit did, despite being clearly on the prowl. "But patience. Patience runs deep."

It was as if it enjoyed the chase—was such a thing even possible? Sibyls were not alive. Whether they even thought was debatable, as whatever remained of the shell's brain would be irreparably damaged by now.

Yet Veit felt hunted all the same.

At these speeds, they would damage anything—anyone—they ran into. And while being detached like this meant he could avoid being seen, the same could not be seen for the sibyl.

"Never, you said," Veit forced out. His lungs burned, as if continuously changing places without lifting a finger were an arduous exercise. He dared not exit the mangrove forest, for fear of drawing the sibyl out and into the path of anyone it might choose to harm. "Yet here you are."

"The waves mean no harm," it shot back before twisting its neck the whole way as it shifted directions to follow him before he had even gotten there. That was one of the longest sentences it had uttered on either visit—perhaps the longest.

But most concerning yet was the detail that grew clearer by the second—the corpse this particular sibyl had been made from was strong. This was worse than he'd feared, and the only explanation for its failure to catch him so far was that it was toying with him.

Veit threw all caution to the wind, pausing in place and letting go of his focus to stay detached. This was not a card he would have otherwise played, but he had no choice. The sibyl halted, its back looking as though it might snap in half from the abruptness of the movement.

"Cease this at once," Veit spoke, allowing his presence to reattach itself to the world. "Cease this at once, or I will call upon my father. The real one."

That was not something he could do—but there was no reason for it to know that. It was one of the few things he never dared to address, not even with Pola alone.

So why had the sibyl thrown its head back in a horrid imitation of laughter?

For once, its expression betrayed something that truly seemed to hold meaning—disbelief. "How endearing."

And then it was gone. Reflexively, Veit opened a portal to his room, but the mere act felt like running a marathon.

Stepping through, Veit didn't have the time to process the sibyl's last words, as the backlash of reattachment hit him all of a sudden, and the world faded to stars.

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