Zoryan eyed the hairline slit Liri indicated, a near-invisible seam against the faded damask. He ran a gloved finger along it, feeling the faint give of a hidden mechanism. “A safe, of course. Your father was nothing if not thorough, even in his paranoia.”
“Paranoia often comes disguised as foresight,” Liri retorted, her translucent form shimmering as she pressed closer, her voice a low hum against his mental defenses. “And he had good reason. Now, how do we open it? I don’t recall the combination, assuming there was one.”
“Likely a pressure plate or a switch behind a false panel,” Zoryan mused, his eyes scanning the ornate molding surrounding the portrait. He traced the intricate carvings, searching for an irregularity. His fingers brushed against a small, stylized raven’s head near the bottom-right corner of the frame. He pressed it. A soft click echoed from behind the portrait, and the entire painting, frame and all, swung inward with a faint groan, revealing a small, iron-bound strongbox set into the stone wall.
Zoryan pulled on the thick iron handle. The heavy door groaned open, exposing a stack of leather-bound volumes, each meticulously labeled with cryptic symbols, and a scattering of tightly rolled parchments tied with faded ribbons. The air inside the safe was cold, stale, thick with the scent of aged paper and forgotten secrets.
Liri phased through the strongbox, her spectral fingers sifting through the folios. “These… these aren’t just financial records. Look at the symbols. They’re a code, a cipher. My father used to dabble in obscure languages, ancient scripts. He always said it was a hobby, a way to keep his mind sharp.” Her voice tightened. “It seems it was more than that.”
Zoryan picked up one of the ledgers. Its cover was embossed with a stylized web, intricately woven. He opened it, revealing columns of what looked like gibberish—strings of unfamiliar glyphs and numbers. “Shadow Weavers,” he breathed, remembering the names Liri had spoken. “He was involved with them.”
“Not involved, Zoryan. Targeted,” Liri corrected, her form flickering with agitation. “He was researching them. Trying to understand them. To protect us, I think. But he kept it so hidden… even from me.” Her voice dropped to a near whisper. “The Amulet of Transference… is it mentioned anywhere?”
Before Zoryan could respond, a distant chime echoed through the manor’s dilapidated halls – the front gate. Zoryan frowned. “Who in the blazes could that be?”
He closed the safe, swinging the portrait back into place just as heavy footsteps approached the ballroom door. The door creaked open, revealing Marek Belinsky, Liri’s former fiancé. Marek was impeccably dressed in a tailored charcoal suit, a faint scent of expensive cologne preceding him. His face, usually composed, held a strained expression of concern.
“Zoryan. Thank the stars, you’re here,” Marek said, his gaze sweeping over the dusty ballroom, lingering for a fraction too long on the empty pedestal where the statue of Kazimir Voronin had once stood. “I came as soon as I heard. Your captain, Molchan, mentioned you were… investigating the manor directly.” His eyes, the color of damp earth, met Zoryan’s. “I’m a respected historian of the occult, you know. I could offer some insight.”
Liri manifested beside Zoryan, a visible spark of fury in her eyes. *“Marek? What’s he doing here? He shouldn’t be here!”* she hissed into Zoryan’s mind, a raw edge to her voice. *“He never came here when I was alive, not unless Father summoned him.”*
Zoryan kept his expression neutral. “Belinsky. Unexpected. Yes, Captain Molchan has me looking into some… obscure angles. I’ve found some rather cryptic documents.” He gestured vaguely towards the wall where the safe was hidden.
Marek’s gaze sharpened, his composure faltering briefly. “Cryptic? From Kazimir’s studies? He had an extensive, if eccentric, collection of texts on fringe magical societies. I’ve cataloged some of them myself, years ago.” He stepped further into the room, his eyes scanning the walls. “Anything relating to the Shadow Weavers, by any chance? I understand they’ve been… re-emerging in Revensk’s underbelly.”
Liri’s spectral hand gripped Zoryan’s arm, a chill seeping through his coat. *“He knows,”* she thought, her voice tight with suspicion. *“How could he possibly know about them, and be so casual about it?”*
“Indeed,” Zoryan replied smoothly, watching Marek closely. “There are account books. Coded. They seem to detail some sort of… network. Financial dealings, I think, but with a magical bent. Your expertise would be invaluable.” He handed Marek the volume he’d been holding, the one with the stylized web on its cover. “Could you decipher these glyphs?”
Marek took the ledger, his fingers tracing the embossed web. A flicker of something unreadable crossed his face, quickly masked. “This… this is more specific than I imagined. These aren’t just general occult symbols. This is the sigil of the Velesh cult, an old offshoot of the Shadow Weavers. They deal in blood magic, sacrifices to power their rituals. Kazimir… was looking into them to counter them. He feared their influence growing here in Revensk. He even suspected they were after something specific, an artifact of great power. The talisman of Transference, he called it.”
Liri gasped, a silent, spectral sound. *“He said it! He knows about the Amulet! He shouldn’t know!”*
Zoryan’s eyes narrowed. Marek had spoken the name of the relic Liri sought with alarming ease, connecting it to Kazimir’s research. Too much knowledge. He felt Liri’s growing terror and suspicion as a cold knot in his stomach.
“Thank you, Marek,” Zoryan said, retrieving the ledger. “Your insight is… enlightening. I’ll be sure to inform Captain Molchan of your assistance.” The subtle dismissal in his tone was clear.
Marek nodded, a polite smile on his face, but his eyes held a calculating glint. “Of course. Anything to help bring Liriana’s killer to justice. Please, if you find anything else, anything at all, don’t hesitate to call. My library is at your disposal.” He offered a quick, formal bow and exited the hall, his footsteps receding down the long corridor.
As soon as the front door clicked shut, Liri erupted. *“He’s lying! He knows too much! He mentioned the Amulet of Transference, Zoryan! He shouldn’t have known what my father called it!”*
“I know, Liri. He slipped up,” Zoryan said, his mind racing. “He wanted to appear helpful, but he gave away too much. He’s playing a deeper game.” He paced, the heavy notebook in his hand. “He said he knew about the Shadow Weavers ‘re-emerging.’ That means he knew they were here, maybe even before your murder.”
A guttural snarl ripped through the relative quiet of the manor. A shadowy figure burst through the grand stained-glass window at the far end of the ballroom, glass shards exploding inward like frozen rain. The figure was cloaked in dark, formless robes, its face obscured by shadow, a glint of steel in its hand. It moved with unnatural speed, making a bee-line for Zoryan.
“Incoming!” Zoryan yelled, dropping the ledger and rolling just as the figure’s blade sliced through the air where he’d been standing, embedding itself in the wooden floor with a splintering crack. The attacker, a Shadow Weaver acolyte judging by the dark energy swirling around it, yanked the blade free and lunged again.
Liri screamed, a sound that only Zoryan could hear. *“Behind the arras! The passage! Now!”*
Zoryan didn’t hesitate. He scrambled to his feet, feinting left, then darting right, narrowly avoiding another downward strike. He sprinted towards the heavy, mildewed wall hanging Liri indicated, which depicted a faded hunting scene.
The attacker was fast, closing the distance in an instant. Zoryan felt a sharp pain as the blade grazed his shoulder, tearing through his coat. He gritted his teeth, pushing through the pain. He reached the hanging cloth and yanked it aside, exposing a narrow, stone-lined passage, black as pitch. He dove in, Liri’s presence a frantic hum in his mind.
*“Turn right at the first landing, then left down the winding stairs! It leads to the servant’s quarters!”* Liri guided him, her voice a rapid-fire torrent of directions. *“There’s a hidden bolt on the door, behind the second panel!”*
The acolyte was right behind him, its heavy boots echoing in the confined space. Zoryan could hear its ragged breathing, a chilling sound in the darkness. He followed Liri’s instructions, his hands flying over the rough stone walls, searching for the passage’s peculiarities she knew so intimately. He plunged down the winding stairs, the air growing colder, heavier. The pursuer stumbled, momentarily delayed by the tight turn, giving Zoryan a crucial few breaths.
He burst into a small, dilapidated room, clearly former servant’s quarters. The single window was boarded up, but moonlight streamed through the cracks, illuminating a heavy oak door. *“The second panel!”* Liri urged.
Zoryan slammed his fist against the door’s second panel from the bottom, feeling a recessed button. He pressed it. A heavy clunk echoed, and a thick iron bar slid into place, securing the door. He leaned against it, gasping for breath, the wound on his shoulder throbbing.
The assassin crashed against the other side of the door moments later, a frustrated growl rumbling through the wood. It slammed against the door repeatedly, the heavy impacts shaking the entire frame, but the old, forgotten mechanism held.
“You okay, Liri?” Zoryan panted, his hand pressed to his bleeding shoulder.
*“Just… just shaken,”* she replied, her voice sounding a little steadier now that the immediate threat was contained. *“That was… too close. They’re after the journals, aren’t they? Or they want to ensure we don’t look too deeply.”*
The pounding finally ceased. A long, chilling silence settled over the manor. Zoryan waited, listening. Nothing. The acolyte must have given up, or found another way out. He pushed himself off the door, wincing.
He noticed something embedded in the floor near the entrance to the servant’s quarters – a ritual dagger, its hilt made of dark, polished bone, its blade a sinister, wavy curve, etched with the same Velesh cult sigils he’d seen in the ledger.
As Zoryan knelt to examine the dagger, his phone vibrated in his pocket. He pulled it out. A call from Marek Belinsky. He answered, his voice tight. “Volkov.”
“Zoryan! My dear man, I just heard the most dreadful commotion! A terrible crash, glass shattering! Is everything alright over there?” Marek’s voice, laced with false concern, filled the quiet room. Zoryan stared at the ritual dagger, its dark bone hilt cold beneath his touch. The attack hadn't been random; it was a carefully orchestrated message, and Marek knew all about it.