(Varithiel Estate — Just Past Midnight)
The fire came without bells.
No cries. No panic.
Only the quiet scent of something ancient being set in motion.
Cornelius noticed first—smoke curling unnaturally down the east wing like a whisper with purpose.
He ran.
From the opposite side, Dantes moved as if pulled by instinct—blade at his side, cloak flaring behind him, jaw already clenched.
They didn't speak.
They didn't need to.
They both knew exactly where the fire had been sent.
---
Smoke seeped beneath the door of Alberta and Francesca's chamber.
Cornelius kicked it open.
Inside—
Alberta, already armed, eyes sharp.
Francesca, coughing near the window.
Flames licked at the edges of a curtain, now half-extinguished.
No spreading.
No destruction.
Just heat, and deliberate placement.
A fire meant to be seen.
---
"We're fine," Alberta said before Cornelius could speak.
Francesca added hoarsely, "It didn't try to spread. I put it out fast, but it was like it only wanted the wall."
No one answered.
Because Dantes was staring at the mirror.
---
It hung tall and heavy on the wall across from the bed. The glass had warped with heat—but at its center, through the blackened fog, something had been branded into the reflection:
> You want the truth — go to Varnashil.
Beneath the message:
A sun, cracked down the middle.
But that wasn't all.
Dantes stepped closer, eyes narrowing. It wasn't just the words.
At the bottom-right of the glass, burned into the frame itself, was a symbol none of them had seen in years—yet somehow recognized.
> A sun, cleaved clean down the middle.
One side golden, radiant.
The other scorched black.
At its heart—an eye, sealed shut.
Alberta's breath hitched. "That's not just a symbol…"
Cornelius murmured, "It's Varnashil's mark. The seal of the lost sanctuary."
Francesca swallowed hard. "I saw it once. On a scroll we weren't meant to open."
Dantes said nothing.
But in his eyes—recognition.
And a shadow of something colder.
---
Silence.
Even the air felt heavier.
Cornelius stepped forward, jaw tight. "That name's not spoken in court. Not in the Church. Not anywhere."
Francesca backed away from the mirror. "I've only heard it whispered. Once. In the archives."
"It's real," Alberta said. Her voice wasn't afraid.
It was remembering.
Dantes didn't speak at all.
He just watched the cracks spread across the glass—like something inside it was trying to break free.
---
Later that night, Alberta couldn't sleep.
Her chamber had been cleaned, the mirror taken away. But the air still smelled of ash.
She rose to check the door.
Nothing.
But as she turned, a small envelope slid silently beneath it.
Unmarked.
Waxed in green. No crest. Just one word written inside:
Her name.
And a letter:
> "They fear the name because it cannot be owned."
"What was buried in Varnashil is waking again."
"You must remember her."
"You must find Mercedes."
---
Alberta's breath caught.
The paper trembled in her hand. Not from fear.
From something older.
She whispered her name aloud, like it had been buried in her throat:
"Mercedes…"
The wax shattered in her palm.
---
Far across the manor, Lord Fraun stood silently in the sanctum with a cracked mirror before him.
The mark still lingered, even after fire.
Even after cleansing.
The name burned in the center:
Varnashil.
One of the advisors whispered, "Shall we strike back?"
Fraun didn't speak.
For once, the executor of the Church's will… was afraid.
---
Outside, the wind curled through the gardens.
Dantes stood alone, hands tucked into his coat, eyes following the arc of the moon as it slid behind the clouds.
His thoughts burned louder than any fire.
> The mark was too clean.
The message too tailored.
And whoever placed it… knew exactly who would see it first.
He thought of the watcher.
The silent presence.
The figure in shadow.
Always near. Always vanishing.
---
"Was it their work?" he muttered.
"If so... why show us that name?"
"Why now?"
He narrowed his eyes, voice dropping to a rasp.
"What's the motive?"
And the mist answered with nothing.
Only silence.
And the faint smell of smoke that refused to fade.
---
(An Hour Before Dawn – The Sanctum)
The sanctum doors slammed open.
Lord Fraun entered like a storm loosed from the sky—robes dragging behind him, face twisted in rage. His voice cracked like thunder.
"FIND the culprit! This is no accident—this is the work of Jesmeurdam's filth!"
Guards scattered down the halls, armor clanking, but Fraun's fury only deepened. His gaze locked on the cracked mirror—still humming faintly with heat. The mark hadn't faded.
He gritted his teeth.
"Only Jesmeurdam loyalists would be mad enough to brand that name in this house. Only one blind rat would dare…"
His voice dropped, heavy with venom.
"That cursed oracle—Mercedes. Blind hag of Jesmeurdam. Yara's rotting mistake."
---
A sharp voice rang out behind him.
"How do you know this is Jesmeurdam's doing?"
Fraun spun.
Alberta Montagne stood at the sanctum threshold, flanked by Cornelius, Francesca… and Dantes, who lingered just behind with his arms crossed and a familiar fire brewing in his gaze.
Fraun pointed a trembling hand at Alberta. "Because no one else speaks that name! No one dared until you and your foreign-born priestess friend came sniffing through the archives!"
"That mirror was an omen. And only Jesmeurdam's crawling breed would treat it like a message—like some prophecy!"
His lips curled.
"Mercedes was a liar even before the gods blinded her. Let her rot in a crypt—where all cursed blood belongs."
---
Steel sang through the air.
Before Fraun could blink, Dantes had crossed the space and drawn one of his twin blades.
The edge kissed Fraun's throat.
Silence.
Total.
Crushing.
Fraun's back hit the mirror pedestal. His voice faltered.
Dantes didn't speak right away. His gaze bore down like iron.
Then he leaned in—his words calm, cold, merciless.
"Say another word about her."
"I dare you, you sanctimonious worm."
Fraun's jaw clenched, but no sound came.
Dantes twisted the blade just slightly—not enough to cut, just enough to make the pressure known.
"You act like you're chosen—but even the gods would gag on your breath."
"If Mercedes was a witch—then may every kingdom pray for more witches like her."
He glanced toward Alberta, then back at Fraun.
"You wouldn't last a day in the ruins she crawled out of. You'd cry if your sermon robe got wrinkled."
---
Cornelius stepped forward, tense. "Dantes—don't make this worse—"
"Too late," Dantes muttered.
"It already reeks in here."
Francesca added, "This isn't justice. It's provocation. Someone wanted us to find that name. We should be asking why."
Cornelius nodded grimly. "Varnashil isn't just a name—it's a memory buried under lies. And someone just unearthed it."
---
Alberta stepped forward, voice calm but full of command.
"Enough."
Dantes didn't move at first, but then with a single breath, he pulled the blade away—slow and deliberate.
He wiped the flat against Fraun's robes before sliding it back into its sheath.
Fraun looked like he wanted to speak, but Alberta didn't give him the chance.
She turned to the others.
"We're going to Varnashil."
Fraun's lips parted in protest.
She didn't even glance his way.
"You will not stop us."
"And if you try again—next time it won't be smoke that answers you."
---
The cracked mirror still shimmered faintly in the torchlight—its etched message clear:
> You want the truth — go to Varnashil.
A sun, broken down the middle.
---
(Moments Later — The Gardens)
Wind coiled through the gardens.
Dantes stood alone beneath the cold moonlight, his eyes fixed on the dark horizon.
> The fire was too precise.
The message too personal.
And the one who placed it… knew exactly who would find it first.
He thought of the mirror.
The watcher in the shadows.
The silence that lingered after the smoke.
He muttered beneath his breath.
"Was it their work?"
"If so… why show us that name?"
"Why now?"
The wind didn't answer.
Only the scent of ash that refused to fade.
---
(At Dawn – The War Room)
The sun barely crept past the horizon, yet the war room was already steeped in tension.
Alberta stood at the head of the table, her expression unreadable. Dantes lingered nearby, Francesca and Cornelius seated across the scattered papers and relics of prophecy.
At the center:
The message.
The mark.
The name.
Varnashil.
---
"We can't go there yet," Alberta said at last.
Francesca looked up. "Why not?"
"Because we're missing the key."
Her hand reached inside her coat, pulling out the letter—the green wax, shattered.
> "You must find Mercedes."
Dantes leaned forward.
"She's alive."
"Dead women don't send fire and riddles."
---
Francesca stepped forward. "There's a lead. Back in the archives—when I was under Father Hugh—I found a prayerbook. Hidden beneath a stone tile."
Her voice dropped.
"It had the sun symbol. And a note."
Cornelius narrowed his eyes. "What did it say?"
"'She was last seen near the edge of the salt flats—where the earth remembers light, and the blind still see.'"
A pause.
Then Dantes muttered, "That's Jesmeurdam's southern rim. No maps. Wane-ridden. Perfect."
Alberta nodded.
"Then that's where we start."
Cornelius sighed. "We follow the trail."
Francesca added, "We follow her."
---
"To the salt flats," Alberta said.
"And if Mercedes is waiting—we'll find her."
"And the truth with her."
Outside, the wind stirred again.
Ash. Salt. Memory.
The road to Varnashil had not yet opened.
But its gatekeeper had just been named.
---