Gold leaf clung to the vaulted ceilings like peeling skin, casting a sickly yellow glow over the grand foyer of Domus Magica. Huge crystal chandeliers hung from thick, rusted chains, their light flickering in sync with the storm outside.
Draco walked with a slow, measured stride, his leather shoes clicking sharply against the black marble floor. His posture was perfectly upright, a stark contrast to the decaying grandeur surrounding them.
Michael followed a few paces behind, his worn boots squeaking on the damp stone. His lungs burned with the smell of old wax, ozone, and something metallic, like dried blood on copper pennies.
Cold air drifted down from the high rafters, raising goosebumps on his arms.
Shadows stretched long and thin across the walls, mimicking skeletal fingers reaching for the ceiling.
This was his inheritance, the physical proof of his late uncle’s legendary genius.
His mother had died in a sterile hospital room only three months ago, her body wasted away by cancer. She had left him nothing but a mountain of debt and the heavy, suffocating shame of their family's sudden ruin.
Then, the letter had arrived.
Delivered by a courier who refused to speak, the thick parchment bore the wax seal of the Great Kazame.
It was a lifeline.
But the letter had also contained a frantic, barely legible warning: *Whatever you do, Michael, do not touch or open the golden cube with the divine Egyptian symbols. Keep it locked away. It is not a prop.*
Looking around the breathtaking foyer, Michael tried to push the warning from his mind.
His uncle had been an eccentric performer, a man who built a career on shadows and misdirection.
Surely, the warning was just another layer of the act.
"Your uncle was a pioneer of the impossible," Draco said, his voice smooth as silk, cutting through the heavy silence of the manor.
Draco stopped in front of a massive, lacquered wooden wardrobe resting in a recess of the wall.
Intricate brass fittings shaped like coiled vipers adorned the corners, their tiny ruby eyes catching the dim light.
"The Cabinet of Whispers," Draco murmured, tapping a pale finger against the dark wood.
Michael stepped closer, staring at his own distorted reflection in the polished lacquer.
For a split second, he thought he saw a pale, eyeless face staring back at him from inside the wood.
He blinked, and the image vanished, leaving only his own hollow cheeks and messy hair.
"He used to place three volunteers inside," Draco continued, a faint, cold smile playing on his lips.
"They would whisper their deepest secrets, and the audience would hear them clearly, yet the volunteers swore they never uttered a sound. A masterpiece of acoustics and hidden mirrors."
"He was incredible," Michael whispered, a sudden surge of pride warming his chest.
This was the legacy he wanted to claim.
If he could master these secrets, he could restore his family's honor and erase the disgrace that had hounded them for years.
Draco turned and gestured toward the center of the foyer, where a glass platform suspended by thin, silver wires hung several feet off the ground.
"And here, the Levitating Maiden," Draco said, walking around the display.
Deep crimson silk drapes hung over the glass, pooling on the black marble floor like fresh, spilled blood.
Michael reached out, his fingers hovering just inches from the soft fabric.
"She seemed to float without a single support," Draco explained, his eyes locked on Michael’s face.
"People in the front row wept. They truly believed they were witnessing a miracle. They didn't see the steel rods hidden behind the velvet."
"Misdirection," Michael said, feeling a sense of awe.
"Exactly," Draco whispered, his voice dropping to a dangerous quiet. "You make them look at the silk so they do not see the steel. Stage magic is about control."
Something about Draco's words sent a chill down Michael's spine.
He looked away from the platform, his gaze wandering to the heavy emerald silk drapes that lined the walls of the foyer.
They hung from the high ceiling, embroidered with golden stars and crescent moons.
But they didn't hang flat.
They bunched up in strange, jagged angles, as if covering something bulky and uneven.
A sudden draft swept through the sealed room, carrying the sharp scent of wet copper.
The bottom of the green silk drapes fluttered.
Michael squinted, stepping closer to the wall.
Behind the silk, the wall wasn't smooth plaster.
Thick, solid iron plates lined the lower half of the walls, bolted together with heavy rivets.
"Draco?" Michael asked, pointing toward the shifted fabric. "Why is there iron behind the silk?"
Draco didn't answer immediately. He adjusted his cuffs, his expression remaining perfectly blank.
"Fireproofing," Draco said smoothly. "Your uncle used a great deal of pyrotechnics in his illusions. He took safety very seriously."
Curiosity pulled Michael forward.
He reached out and gently yanked the edge of the emerald silk drape aside.
Air trapped in his throat.
Etched deep into the thick iron plates were massive, jagged gouges.
They weren't clean cuts from tools.
They looked like claw marks, torn into the solid metal by something incredibly powerful and desperate.
Five distinct grooves ran down the iron, peeling the metal back like paper.
Dry, dark flakes of something that looked like rusted iron—or dried blood—clung to the edges of the tears.
"What..." Michael started, his fingers trembling as he stared at the damage. "What made these?"
"Rats," Draco said.
His voice had lost its warmth, turning razor-sharp.
"Rats can't chew through solid iron," Michael said, turning to look at the executor.
"Delaware has very large rats, Michael," Draco replied, his eyes cold and unblinking. "I suggest you do not worry about the structural anomalies of an old house."
Fear flickered in Michael's chest, but he forced it down.
He wanted this inheritance too badly to let a few strange marks scare him away.
He let the silk drape fall back into place, covering the scarred iron once more.
Draco walked toward the very center of the room, where a solitary marble pedestal stood.
On top of the pedestal sat a black silk top hat, its brim slightly dusty but otherwise pristine.
"The Great Kazame's signature piece," Draco said, stepping back to let Michael approach.
"He wore it during every performance. It was his trademark."
A sense of reverence washed over Michael.
This was the symbol of his uncle's greatness, the very crown of his legacy.
If he held it, maybe he would feel some of that legendary confidence.
Slowly, he raised his hand, his fingers spreading as he reached for the brim.
His fingertips were mere inches from the black silk.
Suddenly, the top hat convulsed.
It jerked violently to the left, the fabric bulging outward as if something inside was trying to punch its way through.
Michael's hand froze in mid-air, his heart leaping into his throat.
From the dark, hollow interior of the hat, a wet, choking sound echoed, like someone drowning in their own blood.