The stone corridor smelled of soot and wet chalk. Valerius. Lenora. The directives bore the Arch-Inquisitor's seal, every counterfeit strand tying Isolda to her father's collapse laid plain. Dawn was three hours away. He moved with a sudden, desperate energy. The lock on his quarters, simple enough for a junior inquisitor, was a child’s puzzle to him. A flick of a hidden pick, a gentle twist of the mechanism, and the heavy oak door swung inward without a sound. He paused, Maledictum Sight flaring, searching for any lingering traces of surveillance. Nothing. Valerius, confident in his trap, had removed the listening wards once Hadrien was supposedly contained. He navigated the silent halls of the Sanctum, a ghost in his own prison. The guards, slumped by the main exit, were an easy task. A quick, precise strike to the nerve clusters in their necks rendered them unconscious, slumping gracefully to the polished floor. No blood, no alarm. Just two motionless forms and Hadrien, a fleeting shadow, melting into the pre-dawn gloom of Grauvol. The city was an expanse of gaslit alleys and misted cobblestones. Hadrien ran through the alleys toward the Weeping Spire, his breath ragged against the river damp. The iron gates of the manor loomed, now guarded by Sanctum enforcers, their armored forms stark against the paling sky. They were expecting him to flee, not return. He circled the manor, a predator seeking an opening. A rarely used service entrance at the rear, overgrown with ivy, offered his best chance. The lock was stout, but a well-placed kick, followed by a grunt of effort, splintered the ancient wood with a muffled crack. He slipped inside, the familiar scent of dust and decay washing over him. Lanterns cast long, dancing shadows through the empty halls. Sanctum personnel moved like spectral figures, their hushed voices barely audible as they secured the grounds. He needed to avoid them, to find Lord Gerhardt before the manor was fully scoured, before Valerius's scheme was completed. Hadrien ascended the grand staircase, his boots silent on the velvet runner. He knew the master suite. Isolda had spoken of it, of her vigil. The door to Lord Gerhardt’s personal retreat stood ajar, a single oil lamp casting a weak glow within. He pushed it open further, Maledictum Sight already active. The air carried the dry rot of dried elderflower, bitter balm, and stagnant magic. Lord Gerhardt lay on a massive, canopied bed, his form unnervingly still beneath a heavy fur blanket. His eyes were open, vacant, staring at the intricate carvings on the ceiling. A faint, greenish pallor clung to his skin. Hadrien approached the bed, his gaze sweeping over the room. No Umbral signatures of a destructive curse. Nothing that suggested a violent, cataclysmic magical event. Instead, there was a faint, shimmering field around the patriarch, an intricate web of energy that felt… contained. Not a void, but a cage. A magical prison, holding not just his body, but his mind. And around the edges of that field, a constant, low thrum, like a distant, melancholy hum. He extended a hand, not quite touching the shimmering field. It felt cold, almost crystalline. How to break a prison of the mind? Not with force, but with a key. A trigger. Something deeply personal, a memory so potent it could shatter the arcane walls. He recalled Isolda's accounts of her vigils, the specific cadence of the nursery songs she hummed beside Elise's bed, the habits of a household before the blight. His eyes scanned the cluttered bedside table, then the ornate chest of drawers. Amidst a collection of silver trinkets and faded photographs, a small, lacquered music box caught his attention. It was dark wood, inlaid with mother-of-pearl, depicting two children dancing in a sunlit meadow. Two girls. Isolda and Elise. He lifted the lid. The delicate mechanism whirred, then a tune, light and lilting, spilled into the heavy air. A simple, childhood melody. The tune Isolda had hummed in the drawing-room, the one she said her sister loved. He watched Lord Gerhardt. The vacant eyes remained fixed, but Hadrien saw it. A tremor. A minute, almost imperceptible twitch in the old man’s left hand, resting stiffly on the blanket. Then, slowly, painfully, his eyelids fluttered. A flicker of something, deep within the dull, glassy depths. Awareness. The music continued, a fragile thread connecting the past to the present. Hadrien leaned closer, watching the patriarch's throat tighten against a dry swallow. A soft click from the doorway. Hadrien whirled, his hand going to the hilt of his ceremonial blade. Lenora Vorga stood there, her earlier sweetness completely stripped away. Her posture was rigid, chin raised, the practiced softness completely absent. She held a small, polished wood box in her gloved hand, its surface glowing with a faint, violet light. An Umbral focus. Her latent affinity was no longer latent. “I was wondering when you’d figure that out. Now, you won’t leave this room alive.”

The Catatonic King