Episode 7 – The Battle of Blythe Road Scene 1 – Of Murder, Masks and Magic The carriage jolts over a rut in the road, its iron wheels grinding against the uneven stones of Blythe Road. The horses snort, their breath rising in quick bursts as the city’s damp chill settles into the leather seats. Inside, the air smells faintly of pipe smoke and damp wool. Three men ride in silence for a moment—each lost in thought, each carrying a different kind of burden. The city outside is quiet, but something in the air feels coiled, like a spring waiting to snap. Oscar Wilde sits like a man posing for a portrait no one asked to commission. His frame is relaxed but deliberate, angled against the velvet of the carriage bench as though resisting gravity itself. A velvet frock coat clings to him in deep garnet, the cuffs embroidered with faded gold thread that glints when the lantern light sways. His hair, immaculately tousled, frames a pale face too composed to be anything but theatrical. Even in stillness, Wilde seems to shimmer with rhetorical potential—his gaze flitting between the carriage window and his companions. OSCAR Now Doyle, don’t be so pessimistic. Just because a man wears a robe and chants in Latin doesn’t mean he’s plotting to summon the apocalypse. Sometimes he’s merely trying to impress a woman. DOYLE Or summon a demon. Arthur Conan Doyle adjusts his gloves with the exactness of a surgeon preparing for an operation. His brow is furrowed, his eyes sharp behind round spectacles. His greatcoat is heavy, trimmed with frost-worn fur and a salt-and-pepper beard obscures his jaw but not the weight in his expression—a face furrowed by recent sleeplessness and some quieter, older burden. His eyes, typically sharp with medical clarity, have softened into something distant. One hand clutches his satchel, the other rests limply on his knee, as if unsure whether it should draw a pistol or a pen. Doyle doesn’t so much occupy the carriage as haunt it. DOYLE The Order of the Golden Dawn is no parlor trick, Oscar. Yeats and MacGregor Mathers were once inseparable—until Crowley came between them. That man is a walking scandal. Drugs, rituals and lovers of every persuasion. He’s not just a libertine—he’s dangerous. OSCAR Dangerous? Perhaps. But also delightfully theatrical. I’ve always said, if you’re going to be scandalous, at least be stylish about it. Crowley, for all his sins, seems to have a flair for the dramatic. A bit too outlandish for secret magic societies, perhaps—but then again, so was I. Harry Houdini snorts from across the carriage, arms crossed, eyes narrowed with skepticism. HARRY You were kicked out of a gentleman’s club for quoting Greek poetry too loudly. That’s hardly the same as summoning spirits in a basement. OSCAR I was invited to leave. There’s a difference. Harry is all compression and coiled energy—shoulders tight, hands gloved but restless, fingers drumming silently against his thigh as if mapping the lock of the universe itself. His tailored coat is utilitarian, dark and precisely buttoned, no ornament beyond the slight bulge of hidden tools tucked beneath the lapel. His eyes are deeply set and constantly scanning—the kind of gaze that dissects the world one mechanism at a time. If Wilde dresses to be seen, Houdini wears the shadows like armor. DOYLE Regardless, the split in the Order was real—and bitter. Yeats stayed loyal to the London temple. Mathers fled to Paris. And Crowley… well, he didn’t go quietly. OSCAR Oh, I do love a good coup. Especially when it involves robes and magic amulets. HARRY You’re both mad. Secret societies, magical relics—none of this is real. It’s smoke and mirrors. I’ve made a career out of exposing this nonsense. OSCAR And yet here you are, Harry. In a carriage bound for a magical temple, chasing a murderer who may or may not be using enchanted jewelry to do something terribly inconvenient to the laws of nature. HARRY I’m here because someone was murdered. That’s real. The blood was real. The pawnbroker’s body was real. The rest? Tricks. Illusions. Sleight of hand. DOYLE And yet the amulet is missing. The one the killer took from the scene. Dr. Bell has traced it to the Golden Dawn. That’s why we’re going to Blythe Road. OSCAR Speaking of Doctor Bell—he’s taken the clues to Scotland Yard, yes? DOYLE He has. And I’ve sent a courier ahead to Yeats. He knows we’re coming. OSCAR Is this an investigation, then? Or an interrogation? DOYLE That depends on what Yeats tells us. OSCAR Delightful. There’s nothing quite so invigorating as a conversation where the outcome is uncertain and the stakes are entirely unclear. The carriage turns a corner, and the street narrows. The last of the day’s light lingers on the rooftops, painting the brick façades in a warm, golden hue. A butcher’s sign creaks overhead, forgotten in the breeze. Somewhere nearby, a church bell tolls the hour—slow, deliberate, and slightly off-key. Oscar leans back, his expression softening, as if the sound has stirred something half-remembered. OSCAR I believe it was Christmas, 1888. I invited William Yeates to dinner at my home on Tite Street. He was young then—nervous, brilliant, full of questions. A fellow Irishman too. After dinner, I read to him from the proofs of The Decay of Lying. He listened, wide-eyed, as I argued that art must never imitate life—that truth is a vulgar thing, and beauty is the only reality worth pursuing. He pauses, the memory flickering behind his eyes. OSCAR He didn’t care much for my writing. But he listened. And I saw something shift in him. A seed planted. He began to understand something about masks. You see, masks are not lies. They are revelations. They are the only way to speak truth without being destroyed by it. HARRY That’s poetic. And completely impractical. OSCAR That’s the point, dear Harry. Practicality is the enemy of magic. DOYLE Are you of the opinion that Yeats is hiding something? OSCAR I think Yeats has always been a man of symbols. He speaks in riddles because he believes the truth is too sacred to be spoken plainly. If he knows something about the amulet, he won’t tell us directly. We’ll have to read between the lines. The carriage slows. Outside, the silhouette of a townhouse emerges from the fog—nondescript, unremarkable. But behind its doors lies the heart of a magical war. DOYLE This is it. 36 Blythe Road. HARRY Doesn’t look like much. OSCAR That’s the idea. Magic rarely announces itself. It prefers to whisper. The carriage stops. The driver taps the roof. The three men step out into the mist, their breath curling in the cold air. The door to the townhouse creaks open before they can knock. A figure stands in the doorway, robed in deep blue, his face pale and drawn but his eyes sharp with recognition. YEATS Gentlemen. You’re expected. Oscar smiles, stepping forward with a flourish. OSCAR Good evening, Mr. Yeats. It’s been far too long. Shall we see what secrets your temple holds? He eyes the ceremonial robe with a glint of mischief. OSCAR I do hope you have robes for the rest of us. I left my ceremonial silk at the opera. Yeats steps aside, and the trio enters the house. Scene 2 – Isis-Urania The door closes behind them with a sound that doesn’t quite match the wood—too deep, too final. The air inside is warmer than expected, but dry, like a library that hasn’t been opened in years. The scent is a strange blend of beeswax, incense, and something metallic beneath it all. They step into a narrow corridor lined with dark wood paneling and faded portraits—faces that seem to follow them as they pass. At the far end, a heavy curtain embroidered with golden symbols parts silently. W.B. Yeats stands in the center of a large chamber, lit only by candlelight and the faint glow of a stained-glass skylight overhead. He wears a deep blue robe trimmed in silver, and his expression is unreadable—somewhere between welcome and warning. YEATS Gentlemen. Welcome to the Isis-Urania Temple. OSCAR I must say, William, you’ve done wonders with the place. It’s like a cathedral designed by someone who got lost in a bookshop and decided to stay. Yeats offers a faint smile, but his eyes remain sharp. YEATS The temple is not meant to impress. It is meant to focus the mind. HARRY Or distract it. Yeats turns to Harry, his tone cool. YEATS Skepticism is a useful shield, Mr. Houdini. But it can also blind you to the blade behind it. DOYLE We’re not here to debate philosophy. We’re here about the amulet. Yeats folds his hands behind his back and begins to pace slowly. YEATS You’ll need to be more specific. The Order has studied hundreds of artifacts—amulets, talismans, relics of questionable origin. What exactly are you looking for? OSCAR The one recently removed from a murdered pawnbroker’s shop. Oval. Bronze. Engraved with symbols that scream “cursed heirloom.” Frankly, it would look ghastly with an overcoat. Or anything else, for that matter. Yeats stops pacing. His face doesn’t change, but something in the room does—like a string pulled tight. YEATS I’ve heard whispers but nothing definitive. There are always rumors. Always collectors. Always those who believe they’ve found the key to something ancient. DOYLE And are they wrong? YEATS Often. But not always. Yeats gestures toward a side chamber. They follow him into a smaller room lined with glass cases and velvet-lined drawers. He opens one and removes a tray of amulets—some cracked, some gleaming, all strange. YEATS These are what we’ve catalogued in the last year alone. Some are fakes. Some are dangerous. Some are both. HARRY And none of them match what we’re looking for? YEATS Not precisely. But there is something else. He crosses to a pedestal covered in a black cloth. With a slow, deliberate motion, he removes it—revealing a wide, shallow bowl carved from obsidian. Its surface is so polished it reflects the candlelight like water. YEATS This is no amulet but it may offer answers. It’s what’s known as a scrying vessel. It’s used for visions. Divination. If the amulet is tied to something larger, this may show us what. OSCAR A bowl that shows the future? Marvelous! I’ve always said dinnerware should be more ambitious. DOYLE You want us to look into it? YEATS Each of you. One at a time. The bowl reveals what it chooses. Nothing more. OSCAR And what if it chooses to show us something we’d rather not see? Oscar gives a quick wink to Houdini, clearly recalling the last séance Harry attended—an evening that ended with broken chairs, two men in the hospital and one very annoyed constable. He is about to make a pun involving a “punch” bowl, then thinks better of it and simply smiles. YEATS Sometimes the harder things are to look at, the wiser they make us. A new voice enters the room—smooth, theatrical, and unmistakable. STOKER I do hope I’m not too late. I brought wine, but then I remembered this crowd prefers incense and existential dread. Bram Stoker steps into the chamber, removing his gloves with a flourish. He’s dressed impeccably, as always, and carries the air of a man who enjoys being the most interesting person in any room. He carries a walking stick that looks more decorative than necessary and surveys the room like a man entering a stage he already owns. OSCAR Bram! I was beginning to worry you’d been lured into some other secret society. Perhaps one with better lighting and maybe a cheese plate! The two men shake hands as Oscar gives brief introductions to Harry and Doyle. STOKER Forgive my tardiness—I was detained by a mirror that refused to flatter me. We’ve come to an uneasy truce, though I suspect it’s still holding a grudge about last Tuesday’s cravat. HARRY You’re a member of this lot too? STOKER I dabble. I find the occult makes excellent research material—and even better dinner conversation. DOYLE We’re not here for dinner. STOKER Pity. I was promised robes and revelations but I came for the pastries. OSCAR You’ve arrived just in time. We’re about to stare into a bowl and confront our deepest fears. It’s like a literary salon, but with more chanting. STOKER Ah, then I’ll fit right in. I’ve been confronting my deepest fears since I started writing about them. Yeats, who has been quietly preparing the space, finally speaks. YEATS Five is the proper number of participants. Now we may begin. The five men form a loose circle around the pedestal upon which the obsidian bowl rests. Yeats begins to chant softly in a language none of them recognize—low, rhythmic syllables that vibrate in the bones more than the ears. The candlelight flickers, though there is no breeze. YEATS One at a time. The bowl reveals what it chooses. Do not speak until it is done. He gestures to Harry, who eyes the bowl skeptically. HARRY If this thing starts spitting out dry ice and playing phonograph records, I’m walking. He leans over the bowl. The polished black surface ripples—though no one touches it. Harry’s breath catches. His eyes widen. He sees a vast underground chamber. Stone walls slick with moisture. An altar carved with symbols that pulse faintly in the dark. Behind it, a massive stone archway—he knows it is a gate and for now remains closed. Something stirs behind it. Something sentient is watching. Harry jerks back, blinking hard in disbelief, frowning at Oscar. HARRY There’s no trick. No wires or mirrors. That was… real. YEATS Now Oscar. Oscar steps forward, his usual levity dimmed. He peers into the bowl. A foggy London street. A girl with flowers in her arms—young, laughing, unaware. She pushes a wooded cart full of colorful blossoms. A shadow moves behind her. A glint of metal—a scalpel. Blood splatters on cobblestones. A scream swallowed by the mist. The flowers scatter, petals darkening as they fall. Oscar recoils, visibly shaken. OSCAR We have to find her. She’s next. Oscar steps back relieved but shaken. His head swims not with clever quips or lighthearted quotations, but with the unmistakable urgency of unstoppable dread. YEATS Mr. Doyle, if you please. Still staring at Wilde, Doyle hesitates and then leans forward slowly with apprehension. He stares into the bowl. Nothing happens. Just his reflection, flickering on surface. DOYLE I see nothing. Just my own reflection. Suddenly, his reflection smiles back at him. Then a wink - as if Arthur’s reflection was in on an unspoken joke between them. Doyle startled, jerks back and straightens as his eyes dart at the other men, his face pale. DOYLE That…that wasn’t me. Before anyone can speak, the chamber door explodes inward with a thunderous crack. Smoke and wind rush in. A figure stands silhouetted in the doorway—tall, wild-eyed, cloaked in shadow and fury. CROWLEY You meddling fools! You have no idea what you’re touching! He raises a curved blade that gleams with unnatural light. The candles flare, then extinguish all at once. STOKER Finally. A proper climax. Scene 3 – The Ascension of Aleister Crowley The last echoes of Doyle’s gasp are still hanging in the air when the chamber door blasts open—not with force, but with a howling wind that smells of sulfur and roses. The candles flare back up in unison. The stained-glass skylight above pulses with a sickly green glow. Aleister Crowley strides into the room like a storm given human form. He wears a tartan kilt, a ceremonial robe, and a golden mask of Osiris that gleams in the candlelight. In one hand, he holds a curved dagger, its blade etched with symbols that seem to writhe when looked at too long. His other hand is raised high, fingers twisted in a sigil of invocation. Behind him glides his mistress—barefoot and veiled, her eyes glowing faintly violet. She hums a low, dissonant melody that seems to warp the air around her. CROWLEY [voice booming], [unnatural] You fools! While you played at parlor tricks, my disciples have it now! The amulet is ours! The gate will open—and the First Magus will rise! You thought you were chasing shadows—but you’ve led me straight to the threshold of godhood! He slashes the air with his dagger. A shockwave of force ripples outward, knocking over chairs and shattering a glass case. The obsidian bowl trembles on its pedestal, its surface swirling with smoke. CROWLEY You’ve handed me the key! The London chapter will fall, and from its ashes, I will rise—Magister Templi! Herald of the New Aeon! He begins to chant in Enochian, the ancient language of angels, his voice rising in pitch and power. The shadows in the room stretch and twist, forming grotesque shapes that flicker and vanish. W.B. Yeats steps forward, voice raised but steady. YEATS Aleister! You’ve gone too far! CROWLEY Not far enough! He hurls a bolt of crimson fire toward Yeats. The bolt of crimson fire streaks across the chamber—searing the air, warping the candlelight. Yeats raises his hand, fingers splayed. A silver sigil flares to life in the air before him, absorbing the blast with a crackling hiss. The force knocks him back a step, but he holds his ground. YEATS You invoke chaos, Crowley. But you forget—I know the names that bind it. He draws a circle in the air, and a ring of glowing runes ignites around his feet. The temperature drops. The shadows recoil. CROWLEY [laughs] You cling to order like a drowning man to a stone! The First Magus is beyond your dusty rituals! Crowley slams his dagger into the floor. The ground shudders. A serpent of smoke and bone erupts from the stone, coiling toward Yeats. Yeats chants in a low, resonant voice. The runes around him rise into the air, forming a barrier of light. The serpent strikes—and shatters against it in a burst of ash. CROWLEY You can’t stop it! The gate will open! The stars are already shifting! He raises both arms. The stained-glass skylight above fractures, letting in a shaft of moonlight that turns black as it hits the floor. The shadows in the room begin to move on their own, crawling toward the obsidian bowl. YEATS Then I’ll seal the gate with your bones. Yeats thrusts his hand forward. A lance of white fire shoots from his palm, striking Crowley square in the chest. Crowley staggers, smoke rising from his robes—but he grins beneath the mask. CROWLEY Yes! More! Let the veil tear! Oscar ducks as a shard of stained glass whistles past his ear. OSCAR I knew I should’ve worn something less flammable. He grabs a heavy brass candleholder from a nearby altar and hurls it at Crowley. It clangs off the Osiris mask, staggering him just long enough for Yeats to regroup. Harry’s eyes start scanning the room. HARRY There’s always a trick. Always. He moves low and fast, weaving through the chaos. His eyes lock onto Crowley’s mistress, who is now kneeling beside the obsidian bowl, whispering feverishly. Her hands trace symbols in the air above the swirling surface. Harry reaches into his coat and pulls out a small pouch of iron filings—a magician’s trick, but one with roots in older traditions. He tosses it into the bowl. The surface hisses and flashes, disrupting the ritual. The mistress screams, clutching her head as the shadows recoil. HARRY Not today, lady! Doyle, ducking low to avoid the chaos, slowly stands and grabs a ceremonial staff from the wall. He hesitates for a moment—then charges. DOYLE You want a story, Crowley? Observe: the curious case of the occultist who didn’t duck! He swings the staff like a cricket bat, catching Crowley in the ribs. The magician snarls, retaliating with a burst of black smoke that sends Doyle sprawling. CROWLEY You think this is a game? You’re ants beneath a rising sun! Bram Stoker keeps low, hands over his head. STOKER I say, remind me next time to bring a revolver and something clever to say before dying! The chamber is complete bedlam—sigils burning in the air, shadows writhing across the walls, the obsidian bowl now cracked and leaking smoke like a dying volcano. Crowley, bloodied but grinning, raises his dagger high. His mistress, still dazed, begins to chant again—her voice rising in pitch, summoning something vast and unseen. CROWLEY The First Magus comes! The gate will open! You cannot stop what has already begun! Yeats, breathing hard, steps forward. His robes are scorched, one arm limp at his side. But his eyes burn with focused fury. YEATS You’re right. I can’t stop it. He raises his good hand and draws a final glyph of sealing in the air—an ancient symbol that glows white-hot, brighter than the moonlight, brighter than the fire. YEATS But I can stop you. The glyph launches forward like a spear of light. Crowley raises his dagger to block—but the force blasts him backward, sending him crashing through the temple doors and tumbling backwards down the stone staircase beyond. A beat of silence. Then—boots on stone. A dozen figures rush in, led by Joseph Bell brandishing a revolver. BELL Nobody move! He stops midway up the stairs, looking down at Crowley, who groans and tries to rise—only to be pinned by two officers. BELL Aleister Crowley. You’re under arrest for assault, conspiracy, and— He takes a few steps up to glance around at the chaos in the chamber. BELL —whatever the hell this is. Crowley laughs, even as they drag him to his feet. CROWLEY You’re too late. The gate is opening. The First Magus is coming. You’ll all see. His mistress is seized as well, still murmuring in tongues. OSCAR My goodness, Willie. Had we waited until tomorrow, Crowley might’ve had time to rehearse. I do prefer my magical duels with a touch more choreography. HARRY I’m going to need a drink. And possibly a new coat. DOYLE What did he mean? The gate is opening? YEATS [quietly] It means this isn’t over. The chamber is quiet now. The smoke has cleared. The broken glass glints in the candlelight. The five men stand among the wreckage, bruised, bloodied, and silent. DOYLE So… that’s it, then? We stopped him? YEATS We stopped this attempt. Crowley was never the real threat. He’s just the one loud enough to draw attention. HARRY The amulet’s still out there. Whoever took it knew exactly what they were doing. OSCAR And the pawnbroker? Murdered to cover their tracks? YEATS Most likely. It’s true—we had hoped to secure the amulet ourselves. But we would never kill for it. It was intercepted, most likely by Crowley and MacGregor’s faction, in a bid to seize control of the London chapter. I personally opposed Crowley’s elevation within our ranks. As you can see, he’s not exactly a model fit for our particular brand of order. The truth, as always, is more complicated than it first appears. The amulet never reached the Order. It was intercepted—stolen in silence, its trail hidden beneath blood and misdirection. Crowley’s assault was loud, theatrical… but it was never the real threat. Just a distraction. A flare to blind them from what was truly unfolding. Now, the artifact is missing. The gate remains closed—but not for long. Somewhere in the shadows of London, someone is preparing to open it. And when they do… the First Magus will rise. The game has changed. The hunt has begun. Scene 4 - Epilogue Somewhere beneath London, far from the gaslight and the noise, a man runs. We don’t know his name. We’ve never seen his face. But we’ve seen his work—the pawnbroker’s blood, the careful silence of a professional killer. And now, he carries something wrapped in cloth. Something ancient. Something stolen. He reaches his destination. A door opens. Voices greet him—not with words, but with whispers older than language. He delivers the amulet. And with it, the final piece falls into place. He says only one thing: “The master’s been caught. But it doesn’t matter now.” And he’s right. The ritual is nearing completion. The gate is waiting. And what lies beyond it… is waking up.