The night was thick with storm clouds as Jackelin moved through the city, her steps silent, her figure a shadow among shadows. Each step brought her closer to the heart of the Church’s sanctum, the very place where those who had condemned her held their power. Tonight, she would tear that power apart, one life at a time, until the Church’s secrets lay bleeding in the streets.


    The twins moved like shades, slipping through the city’s underbelly with ease. Jackelin could feel the phantoms at her back, spectral presences lingering just beyond her sight, their resentment woven into the very fabric of the night. These souls were once victims, but now they were instruments of retribution, bound to her will by a power she had learned to wield with ruthless precision.


    Their first target was a cleric known for his sermons on purity, yet he secretly preyed upon the desperate. Jack signalled to her, his eyes dark with purpose, his grin as sharp as his blade. Jackelin whispered a command, and her phantom slipped through the wall, materializing beside the cleric’s bed, a ghostly figure wreathed in fog.


    The cleric awoke with a start, his eyes widening as the phantom’s hands closed around his throat, silencing him with a choked gasp. Jack’s smile was grim as he watched, his blade lowered, content to let the phantom exact its vengeance.


    As they moved on, Jack’s laughter was a low murmur in the darkness. “One down,” he whispered, his voice dark with satisfaction. “And many more to go.”


    They struck with precision, each kill a silent whisper of retribution. Jackelin felt a grim satisfaction with each life taken, a vindication as the phantoms she had bound rose up to destroy those who had shaped her into this shadowed creature. These were the men who had condemned her, who had wielded their power to break others. Now, she was their reckoning.


    Jack was relentless, his violence brutal and unrestrained, each strike fueled by his own hatred. But for her, the satisfaction was tinged with a strange emptiness–a hollowness that gnawed at her, an ache she could not name. She was avenging her past, yet with every life she took, she felt herself slipping further into darkness.


    They reached the last of their targets, a sanctuary where their father Jason had once preached. Jackelin hesitated outside, cloaked in her own glamour–a guise of solemn modesty, her face softened and veiled, her presence demure yet haunted. She looked nothing like herself, but the disguise felt constricting, an eerie reflection of the piety she had long since abandoned. Her steps faltered as they approached the sanctuary door, each one echoing with the phantoms that lingered behind her, their resentment as heavy as her guilt.Reading on Amazon or a pirate site? This novel is from Royal Road. Support the author by reading it there.


    Beside her, Jack’s form began to shift, his features morphing with uncanny precision. Within moments, he had become their father–a perfect replication, down to the lines around his eyes and the sanctimonious set of his jaw. His face wore a twisted semblance of authority, a look that left her cold.


    Jackelin swallowed, watching her brother inhabit their father’s form with unsettling ease. He stepped forward, his gait mimicking the priest’s practiced solemnity, each movement precise, studied. He crossed the threshold with a chilling sense of ownership, his eyes sweeping over the sanctuary with something like disdain. Jackelin followed, feeling the weight of their father’s sins settle upon them, heavy as the silence that cloaked the empty pews.


    Their target–a priest–stepped out from a side room, his eyes widening as he took in the sight of his former mentor standing by the altar. A look of confusion crossed his face, then fear as Jack stepped forward, his gaze sharp with barely suppressed rage.


    The priest stammered, backing away, but Jack advanced with grim purpose, the glamour of their father’s face twisted in fury. In a sudden movement, Jack seized a heavy iron candelabra from the altar and swung it with brutal force, connecting with the man’s shoulder in a sickening crunch. The priest fell to the ground, a gasp escaping his lips as he tried to scramble backward, his eyes wild.


    Jackelin felt a shudder pass through her, but Jack moved with brutal efficiency. He raised the candelabra again, his face–a horrifying mirror of their father’s–twisted in a sneer. She watched, transfixed, as he struck the priest across the chest, the impact resounding through the sanctuary.


    The man lay sprawled across the floor, his breaths ragged, his gaze flickering from Jack to Jackelin with a dawning sense of horror. Jack dropped the candelabra, the echo of metal against stone reverberating in the silence, and knelt beside him, his face hovering inches from the priest’s.


    “What are you?” the priest whispered, his voice laced with terror, eyes fixed on the impossible sight of his former mentor.


    Jack’s expression shifted, his voice low and mocking. “I am your reckoning,” he said, his voice an echo of their father’s, laced with a venom that was entirely his own.


    As they turned to leave, Jackelin felt the phantoms press closer, their sorrow and resentment a weight she could barely carry. Jack’s expression remained triumphant, the glamour dissolving as they stepped out into the night, leaving only the shadows of his fevered satisfaction.


    She cast a final glance at the broken figure on the floor, the priest’s trembling gaze still fixed on the place where his mentor’s ghost had loomed. All she felt was a hollow ache, the weight of vengeance pressing down on her, each life claimed another chain she could not break. And in the silence, she felt her own face begin to slip, her glamour faltering as the darkness of their father’s legacy clung to her.