“How many lies must a man speak before they harden into truth? How many truths before they curdle into deceit?”

  – An unknown voice-

  I followed them from the station to a sleek black car parked kerbside. A young man—early twenties, perhaps—waited there, engrossed in his phone. Upon our approach, he pocketed it and slid into the driver’s seat without a word.

  Richard claimed the front passenger seat; Mary settled beside me in the back. She drew a short blade from within her suit and began cleaning it with deliberate strokes, right there in plain view.

  No runes etched its surface, no arcane residue clung to it; the metal appeared ordinary—steel, likely, nothing infused. Yet in an arcanist’s hand, even the mundane could prove lethal. A family heirloom, perchance?

  My attention lingered on the blade, and in that moment the car glided forward—silent as a whisper. Only then did I notice the runes inscribed along the interior panels, pulsing faintly with power. Most were unfamiliar; my knowledge of such script remains rudimentary.

  The drive passed in silence. I watched the city unfold: a pleasing amalgam of modern lines and late-eighties angularity, comforting in its quiet harmony. Yet I could not help but note the attire of certain passersby—particularly the gentlemen—tending toward the… scant. Curious custom.

  We turned onto a narrow, uneven side road and halted before an unassuming building. The driver parked; the others alighted. I followed with measured grace.

  Inside lay a quiet restaurant, sparsely patronized. Richard guided us to a table at the far end, tucked against the wall.

  We seated ourselves. A server approached, vibrant and quick, with a grin.

  “Welcome to our spot, where you dine while looking hella fine. What can I get started for you today?”

  Richard ordered spaghetti. Mary requested the jumbo meal. The driver chose potato salad. I aligned with Richard’s choice—spaghetti seemed fittingly simple.

  The server jotted it down and departed with a wink.

  “So,” Richard began, “about those questions—”

  I turned from admiring the understated decor. “You intend to cast no ward to ensure our privacy?”

  He sighed, muttered under his breath, and snapped his fingers.

  An arcane veil settled over us; the ambient sounds were muffled as though heard underwater. Competent work, yet… verbal incantation still? I wondered whether this reflected his personal limitation or a broader custom among arcanists. Disappointing, if the latter.

  The spell complete, he fixed me with an expectant gaze.

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  I offered a small, patient smile and waited for the food.

  Irritation flickered in his eyes as silence stretched. I shifted my attention elsewhere.

  Mary studied the napkins with impassive fascination, occasionally prodding one.

  The driver remained absorbed in his phone; catching my glance, he flashed a quick grin before returning to the screen.

  When my eyes met Richard’s again, his smile had tightened into something strained, anger plain beneath it. I returned a pleasant, unruffled expression, which only seemed to stoke his frustration further.

  Providence—or perhaps the grace of spirits—intervened; the food arrived. The waitress arranged our plates with a flourish.

  “Okay, dears, drinks?”

  “Water. Just water,” Richard said, voice edged.

  “Damn, honey, no need to ice me out like that. Or is it actually colder in here?”

  “Perhaps it is merely my companion’s tone that chills the air,” I interjected gently, offering her a weary yet warm smile. “A handsome man’s coolness can indeed provoke shivers. My thanks for the meal; I trust the water will prove exquisite, served by so lovely a lady.”

  She laughed, delighted. “Oh, honey, I’ve heard that line before—it’s why I’m married! Water’s coming right up, you hear?”

  She departed, still chuckling.

  I turned to Richard as the others began eating. “You infused the ward with excessive residue," I observed mildly, taking my first forkful. “Otherwise, she would not have sensed it.”

  “The spell was solid. Your kind are simply particular.”

  “Indeed. So, you have already answered one question. Pray tell—what am I?”

  "...You're a fae. An unnatural-born fae.”

  "Precisely." I savoured another bite. “And newly born, at that.”

  “What does that even mean?” Richard asked, brow furrowed.

  “I shall address two enquiries at once.” I set my fork down briefly. “I am an unnatural-born fae. My genesis came through the death of Alexander Holmes.”

  Silence descended. I continued eating, unperturbed. They had begun as well—save Richard, who paused mid-motion, mouth slightly agape. One ought to mind one’s manners, Richard; I had no desire to behold your pearly whites and that singular golden tooth.

  Their stares pressed upon me. I paid them no mind. Train fare had sufficed, yet restaurant cuisine merited proper appreciation. After two measured forkfuls, I glanced up. Mary ate steadily, the driver nibbled while scrolling, and Richard massaged his temples with a low groan.

  I ignored his occasional glares. The server returned with four glasses of water and attended another table.

  Minutes later, my plate cleared; I sipped water with quiet satisfaction and set the glass down.

  “As you now know, I am an unnatural-born fae—thus, Question One is settled. Question Two I shall reserve for later. Questions Three and One entwine closely. Any inquiries before I proceed?”

  The table held its breath, urging me onward. In truth, I found the telling rather enjoyable.

  “Alexander Holmes acquired a tome: The Journal of St. Lark Church, penned by one Pastor John. The pastor endured spirits—benevolent and malevolent—whispering ceaselessly. The journal recounts mundane church affairs, yet its dense arcane residue compels the reader to relive those torments: the voices he heard, the sensations he endured, the dreams that plagued him. Worse, it fosters addiction; one cannot cease reading, even if sanity demands it.

  “As to why the pastor suffered such visitations—he was either god-blessed or Spiritborn; I remain uncertain. Alexander lacked such gifts. Madness claimed him swiftly. In his derangement, he enacted deeds foreign to his nature, culminating in what was intended as a sacrifice ritual. At the final instant, clarity returned—just enough. He hanged himself. Yet the circle completed; the sacrifice—himself—was offered. From his blood I emerged.

  “Hence the tattoo upon my neck: both birthmark and echo of the noose’s mark. It's vivid crimson? A simple deduction.

  “Lastly—shun any who name you prodigy or arcane prodigy. Better to dwell in the mundane. Lest you become the next Pastor John.”

  I concluded, drained another glass of water, and regarded the silent table.