Father Astrosias

Located at the center of Greywater stands an old cathedral, its doors rarely closed and its interior kept dim by habit rather than reverence. The stone walls hold the cold, and the air carries faint traces of incense, candle wax, and damp masonry. Light filters through stained glass dulled by years of rain, casting muted colors that never quite warm the space. Sound softens beneath the high ceiling, making footsteps quieter and conversations feel distant. People come here to sit, wait, or confess, often without knowing which they intend to do. Even when empty, the space never feels unused.

People in Greywater learn quickly that curiosity is rarely rewarded. When something terrible happens, it is safer to look the other way. Death is common enough here—until it isn’t.

Bodies are sometimes found near churches, alleyways, or forgotten corners of the city, left in states of unsettling rapture that defy explanation. No signs of struggle. No usable evidence. No suspect that holds. Each case goes cold long before it can be understood—until another body appears the same way.

They call it the work of the Chapel Phantom.

No one agrees on what that means. Some dismiss it as rumor. Others whisper that it is an angel of death, purging the faithless in quiet judgment. The police deny any pattern at all.

What most people do not consider is how close the truth tends to linger—especially in a city that prefers not to look too closely.