Color Focus - The Patrol

They found her where the avenue bent between a row of freshly whitewashed tombs and another long surrendered to neglect, the contrast stark even in the dimness. Lanternlight brushed the stone in soft amber strokes, catching on flaking surfaces and the faint glow of distant Lumières. She stood as she always did - not waiting, not wandering, but present - her great form still as the crypts themselves, and yet unmistakably aware.

“Madame Mirelle,” said Sergent Reinald Lefurgey, his voice low beneath the rim of his helm. He rested his shield lightly against the ground, posture at ease but attentive. “We have had word from the southern avenues. Signs of disturbance. Tracks not made by the living.” His gaze moved briefly to the narrow seams between tombs. “We thought it best to walk this path tonight.”

At his side, Mathis Jacques shifted his grip upon the shaft of his war axe, its iron head dull and patient in the moonlight. “It is not the first report,” he added. “But it is the first that lingers.” His tone carried the weight of habit - of patterns observed, and patterns that did not quite align.

Behind them, slightly out of formation but not unmindful of it, Achille Colbert leaned forward a fraction, his helm not yet worn with the same ease. His eyes moved more often than the others’, catching shadows, measuring distances. “We were told,” he said, carefully, “that something had been feeding.”

Mirelle turned her head toward them, the motion measured, deliberate - the soft grind of stone a sound that belonged to the place as much as wind or distant bells. Her gaze settled first upon Reinald, then Mathis, and lastly upon Achille, where it lingered a moment longer. “It had,” she said. “For a short time.”

Reinald’s posture did not change, but something in his stillness tightened. “Then it is confirmed,” he said. “Ghouls.” The word was given no more weight than necessary, though it carried enough on its own. “How many?”

“Four,” Mirelle replied. “They came from beyond the tended rows. Drawn by silence, not by scent.” A faint pause followed, as though she listened for something even as she spoke. “They believed this place unguarded.”

Mathis exhaled softly. “A poor mistake,” he murmured. His gaze swept the tombs again, slower now, as if recalibrating the boundaries of what might move unseen. “And now?”

“They are no longer here,” Mirelle said.

Achille stepped forward half a pace before he quite realized he had done so. “You destroyed them?” he asked, the question quick, edged with something between concern and awe. “Alone?”

Mirelle inclined her head, a gesture so slight it might have been mistaken for settling stone. “They were not difficult,” she said. “Only hungry. Hunger makes creatures careless.” Her eyes shifted, briefly, toward a darker stretch of the avenue. “Carelessness does not endure.”

Reinald nodded once, slow and deliberate. “And their remains?” he asked. “We have seen no sign of struggle. No… aftermath.” His choice of word was careful, as though the cemetery itself might object to anything cruder.

“I removed them,” Mirelle answered. “There is a crypt no longer claimed. Its name has not been spoken in many years.” Her gaze drifted, not away from them, but through them - toward some deeper geometry of the place. “It will hold what is left.”

Mathis frowned, not in doubt, but in thought. “You sealed it?”

“I did what was required.”

Achille hesitated, then spoke again, more measured this time. “Should we mark it?” he asked. “For the Temple records? In case...” He stopped himself, but the question lingered all the same.

Mirelle’s attention returned fully to him. “No,” she said, and though the word was gentle, it did not yield. “This is not for record. It is contained. It will remain so.” A faint shift passed through the fog at her feet, as if in quiet agreement. “Some things are better left without a name.”

Silence followed, not empty, but settled. Reinald lowered his head slightly, accepting what had been given without pressing further. “Very well,” he said. “We will amend our rounds.” His voice softened, just enough to be heard as something more than duty. “You have our thanks.”

Mirelle did not answer at once. Instead, she regarded the three of them - the seasoned, the steady, and the still-learning - as though weighing something beyond the matter at hand. Then, at last, she inclined her head in return. And for a fleeting moment, the air between them steadied, as if the cemetery itself had listened… and approved.