Sunday Town was dominated by rows of old, densely packed buildings with steep roofs and narrow streets. Rain threatened to fall, but all it could manage was a little drizzle, the wet rooftops and cobblestone streets reflecting faint light from scattered windows and street lamps through the dim atmosphere.

Walking through the streets was a woman, black umbrella in hand, dark hair brushing her shoulders, a sheepish look about her. Denzel.

After a few steps, a large clock tower came into view to her left, its roof ornate and weathered. The face was illuminated, becoming a focal point in the composition.

The streets were nearly deserted, with only a handful of tiny figures in sight: young newsboys shielding their newspapers with their clothes. It wasn’t dark yet, and the rain wasn’t pouring heavily, so leaving simply wasn’t an option for kids of their caliber.

A tent by the clock tower pulled Denzel from her stupor soon enough.

A tent, with the Firstlight Goddess rendered in small statues before it. The whole look wasn’t quite settled yet, but they were evidently dragging their feet on opening with the rain threatening to come down. An Oracle Parlour, obviously.

Denzel knew what needed to be done, but rushing wasn’t her style. She made her way to the newsboys instead and handed over the umbrella, unhurried as ever.

"You children can have this. May the Goddess watch over you."

They were hesitant, or perhaps not stupid. One of the four boys began shivering, sneezing all the same, and that was enough to make the remaining two reconsider, even if only slightly.

A soft smile suffused Denzel’s lips.

She had been just like them. Only days ago, all she’d dreamed of was crawling out of the slums and polishing boots for something to eat. People like them were versed in everything, and they knew well enough that the most expensive things were always the free ones.

Denzel dropped the umbrella soon enough, snatching up a newspaper in exchange.

"Hey, old lass!"

One of the boys yelled out angrily.

She didn’t mind them. They’d probably chew her ears off about the newspaper not being worth an umbrella. But she’d got what she came for, and that was fine.

She raised the newspaper above her head and made for the Oracle Parlour.

She’d been sent to find out how the Divine Church of the Firstlight had been controlling people into Sunday Town. After two hours of roaming, she had her answer.

The newsboys knew the dangers well enough, they’d sooner stand in the rain and be beaten to death than take shelter under the Oracle Parlour’s tent. That meant the church was using their free divination to make people fall sick. But what disease? How was it done? Who was behind it?

Soon enough, Denzel was soaked to the bone and the newspapers were in tatters from the rain, the perfect look for someone cornered. With the heavy breath of someone who had nothing to lose, she walked into the tent.

—

At the other end of Sunday Town, Lawreign. Second member of the Souls of Cinder. Dark hair slicked back, composed, with the calmness of still water. His glasses and elegant suit gave him a sharp, unhurried look.

He stood in an Oracle Parlour chamber. The walls were lined with books, jars, and curiosities, the surfaces taken over by candlesticks, potion bottles, and antique instruments. The kind of room that had accumulated itself over the years.

Lawreign adjusted his glasses and sat at the round table. It was draped in deep purple velvet, the fabric pooling to the floor in elegant folds. Tarot spread across the top in a circular arrangement, and at the center of it all, a crystal sphere, glowing red.

Across from him sat a woman dressed in an elaborate dark robe, makeup overdone, and accessories excessive. The sort that wanted to be looked at.

"What’s your name, young man?"

When Lawreign spoke, his tone was gentle and sharp in equal measure, careful not to throw the woman’s gaunt voice off its axis.

"I am Lawreign... Lawreign Nicola."

Her eyes narrowed slightly at Lawreign, guarded. Then, after a moment or two, she shut them and began whispering.

Not a word reached him, but he’d been around enough Oracle Parlours to recognise a hymn to the Firstlight Goddess.

"What is it you wish to know first — the past, the present, or the future?"

Lawreign mulled it over. In the right hands, these divinations were not to be trifled with, tied to the Goddess as they were. They had a nasty habit of telling the truth. So he picked something that wouldn’t stir up too much bother.

"Present... the present."

The seasoned fortune teller whispered again. Her hand moved across the reddish sphere in circles, steady and practised. The sphere turned at a gradual pace, and then came the golden sparks, coiling around it like something alive.

The tarot cards began rotating before him, each spin carrying them a little higher off the table until the whole lot hung suspended in the air. When it stopped, something shifted in Lawreign.

"Choose the card before you and reveal it."

Lawreign frowned. There was something in his nostrils, something that didn’t resonate with his body.

He sneezed, then another, then another... three in a row. That was no coincidence.

’When did she get me? There wasn’t anything unusual about it, was there?’

Everything the woman had done was exactly as it should be, and yet somehow he’d come away with the very ailment most of this town was plagued by.

He cursed.

He couldn’t let a seasoned woman get the wrong idea. He reached for the card in front of him and flipped it and frowned almost before it had settled.

"Inverted cross? The Hanged Man?"

—

The rain was heavy on the other side of Sunday Town. Before the fortune teller sat Denis, with spiky red hair and the same cocky look he wore everywhere he went.

"The Hanged Man, huh? And what is that supposed to mean?"

The woman motioned her agreement. Her eyes narrowed right after, deadly, and dropped to the card. To the fiend hanged from the inverted cross.

"The path you walk is fraught with danger. Stop resisting the current. Step back, reflect upon your journey, and allow fate to reveal a new path."

Denis let out a nonchalant shrug.

"Interesting..."

Denis had taken the woman’s words to heart, more than he probably should have. It was his first divination — he had nothing to measure it against, no sense of whether there was another way to read it.

...One word had lodged itself in him, "danger." Which meant his discovery was true.

Moments ago, during the woman’s divination, he’d caught something most people would have missed entirely. Years as a thief had left him with eyes sharper than a hawk’s, and worse for her, a poison immunity that meant her tricks didn’t work on him.

With a daunting smile, he spoke: "Can you tell me something else? I want to know when I will become rich."

The Oracle’s frown said enough. Denis’s arrogance alone would’ve been grating, but the fact that he showed no sign of discomfort, not a flicker, seemed to needle her more.

"Each soul is granted but one divination per day. Return tomorrow."

"Oh, what a shame. I don’t think any of us would enjoy such a bummer. Surely you can make an exception just this once?"

The smile he forced was unsettling enough to put the woman off her step, her face gone pale. None of it was for enjoyment, Denis was stalling. Waiting... waiting on the Ancient Saint to show.