1887 AD
London had always worn its darkness like a second skin, by day, the choking fog rolled in from the Thames, stealing the sun’s warmth; by night, that same fog gave the city an air of malevolence, swallowing the dim glow of gas lamps until only shadows remained, if a city called be called a predator; Victorian London surely fit the description, it’s alleyways were labyrinths, it’s people either prey or hunters.
It was here George would find himself on the hunt.
James Clubb winced as his hand trembled, spilling ink across the page of his hasty letter; the candle flickered feebly on the desk beside him; the flame no match for the chill in the room, or the looming threat that clung to his every thought, his home tucked away at the end of an East End alley was hardly grand, but James lived well enough…, until now.
He’d underestimated them.
He thought he could outmanoeuvre the Cult of the Minotaur; believed himself clever enough to play both sides, feeding scraps of information about the Imperium and its prized politician to an outside faction without ever catching the Cult’s sharp, unrelenting eye.
But James had gambled one too many times, he found himself now holding hands with the devil.
The streets outside were quiet save for the occasional bark of a stray dog, or the raucous sinking of a drunk; James had taken precautions of course; the door was bolted, the windows boarded up, and the knife within an arm’s reach away, but deep inside his gut, he knew this wasn’t enough; George would be coming for him, and the one man he knew not to cross was the leader of the Cult himself.
George was not the type to forgive betrayal, much less a treasonous act so bold it nearly toppled the entire operation; the politician – the Imperium’s prized puppet in Britain’s Government had narrowly escaped an assassination attempt; it didn’t take long for the Cult to discover who had put him in danger; because of James’ actions it wasn’t simply just one Politician’s life that hung in the balance, but the Cult’s very foundation wavered, and Smythe was not a man who allowed weakness to fester.
George Smythe moved through the maze-like alleyways with a hunters precision, his heavy boots hardly made a sound against the damp cobblestone; the fog wrapped around him, an unspoken alley, shrouding his movements, he carried no lantern – he didn’t need one.
His mind was a razor, his discipline unparalleled, he had a lifetime of training that had honed him into a blade sharper than any knife.
George reached into the pocket of his long coat, retrieving a scrap of parchment he had been given earlier that evening; a name scrawled on it; James Clubb, an addressed followed; Smythe memorised it before crumpling it into his gloved hand, before letting it fall to the gutter.
The Cult; the Imperium; all was being entrusted to him, and this worm had dared tamper with the labyrinth; George’s lips tightened as he strode forwards, his eyes catching the flicker of candlelight in a second-story window ahead; there it was, Clubb’s hiding place.
James was counting time with uneven breaths; he had tried to calm himself earlier with a tumbler of brandy, but his shaking fingers had dropped the glass, spilling its contents across the floor.
The liquids fragrant bite had merged with the stale air of the room, a sickly cocktail of desperation, he couldn’t tell how much longer he had until Smythe arrived – or worse, until the man was already inside.
There was a sound; Jame froze, his eyes darting to the door; it wasn’t a knock but something more ominous, a weight against the wood, silent forewarning that someone stood just beyond it.
He reached for the knife, it’s wooden handle slick with sweat-soaked palms, his breathing grew erratic, his heartbeat a drum in his ears.
The lock rattled once; twice – the stopped.
The silence that followed was unbearable; louder than any noise he could imagine, James edged backwards, putting the table between him and the door, he kept his eyes trained on the lock, his chest heaving.
And then, it happened.
The door didn’t just open; it erupted inwards with a deafening crash, tearing from its hinges; James let out a strangled gasp, he stumbled backwards, standing in the gaping maw of the doorway was George Smythe, he was a towering figure, framed by the fog and shadow.
He didn’t speak, he didn’t need too; his cold icy eyes fixed on James with a weight that was paralyzing.
“S-Stay back!” James squeaked; he brandished the knife, his voice betrayed his cowardice “I’ll…, I’ll kill you if I have too”
George stepped forwards; his boots crunching over shattered wood; the air seemed to grow colder with each measured step, his eyes flicked to the knife, unimpressed “You dare take up the Imperium’s wrath?” he said, his voice a low growl like that of distant thunder “You have no idea the depth of the sin you’ve committed”
James scrambled; he lunged with the knife in desperation, but George was faster; his gloved hand caught James’ wrist mid-swing in an iron grip; squeezing until the knife fell to the ground with a dull clatter.
James let out a yelp, clutching his now useless arm as George flung him to the ground with the ease of swatting a fly.
“You sold us out” George’s voice was laced with a cold disdain as he loomed over the trembling man “The Imperium’s grip on this city, the Cult’s lifeline; the will of our master, all, jeopardised by you; did you think this betrayal would go unanswered?”
James made the attempt to crawl away; his mouth working uselessly as he tried to form words, George wouldn’t allow him another inch; within a fluid motion, he drew a short, but distinctive club from beneath his long coat; made of wood there was a faint glint in the candlelight, the instrument was brutal; primal – the choice of an executioner “Mercy is not something you find within the Imperium” George said coldly as he raised the club
The first blow shattered James’ shoulder, it sent him sprawling with a howl of agony, blood splattered across the worn floorboards, mingling with the brandy and fear; Goerge didn’t stop.
He swung again, this time meeting bone and flesh with a sickening crunch; James pleaded; begged, screamed for his life; but it all fell upon deaf ears, George’s face remained stone, his eyes like those of a labyrinth’s creature – unyielding, merciless.
When the final blow came, silence reclaimed the room.
George stepped back, inspecting his work with detached precision; James body lay twisted and broken, a testament to the price of betrayal; blood pooled around the corpse, its coppery scent thick in the air “This is where Betrayal leads” he whispered
By the time the body was discovered days later; Clubb’s home had already begun to decay, blood had dried in the grooves of the floor; whispers of a haunting demonic being spread across the East End.
And somewhere in the fog-drenched expanse of London, a cold and unamused George prepared for his next hunt; the labyrinth demanded order and George was its keeper; there would be no mercy for those who dared disrupt the Imperium or her design.
Written By: Westley H.
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