Noir stood at the window, his breath misting faintly on the cold pane. The police were there, just as in the nightmare. Two figures in dark coats beside a somber carriage, their postures expectant, patient. Inspector Volkova, undoubtedly, and a constable. The ordinary morning light did little to dispel the profound sense of dread that had coalesced around him. His heart still hammered, the phantom echoes of the carriage chase and Volkova's chilling chuckle lingering in his ears. The 'herbal tea' hummed beneath his skin, a subtle, constant vibration, like a distant, unheard symphony. It wasn't just fear now; it was a cold, hard certainty. Direct flight was a fool's errand.
He couldn't wake Thomas or Grace. Their innocent ignorance was their shield. He had to handle this alone, as Alder, with the calculated precision of Noir. He took a deep, steadying breath, forcing the tremor from his hands. The strategy was clear: face them. Play the part. Let them lead him where they wished, and within that confined space, seek out the true path to his freedom and Alder's secrets. He needed information, and they, unwittingly, might provide it.
He moved away from the window, pulling on a dressing gown over Alder's thin nightshirt. His feet, still bare, glided silently across the cool wooden floor. He descended the grand staircase with a newfound, almost unnatural grace, the silence of the house undisturbed around him. Every creak of the old wood, every rustle of his gown, felt amplified in the pre-dawn quiet, but he navigated them with the precise instinct of a predator. The gothic arches of the foyer, usually imposing in their shadowed grandeur, now seemed to press in on him, silent witnesses to his impending confrontation.
As he reached the front door, the diffused light through the stained-glass panels cast muted, bruised colours across the polished floor. He hesitated for a moment, steeling himself, feeling the strange awareness from the liquid begin to prickle at the edges of his perception, as if the very air outside held whispers only he could hear.
He unlatched the heavy bolt with a soft click and pulled the door open, stepping out onto the porch. The chill of the morning air was immediate, sharp and invigorating.
Inspector Volkova, standing a few paces from the carriage, turned, his gaze sharp and unwavering. Beside him, the broad-shouldered constable shifted. Neither showed surprise at his appearance; they had been waiting.
"Good morning, Inspector," Noir said, striving for Alder's customary academic reserve, tinged with a believable weariness. "I apologize if I've kept you waiting. A rather restless night, I'm afraid." He allowed a small, self-deprecating smile, hoping to appear harmless, if a little distracted. "I wasn't expecting you quite so early. I thought we had arranged for a later appointment, once the expert had arrived?"
Volkova's expression was unreadable, his gaze piercing. "Indeed, Mr. Wilson. Circumstances have, as I explained yesterday, changed." His voice was low, gravelly, sending a shiver down Noir's spine. "We are here to escort you. The expert, a young woman of... considerable talent, has already arrived at Elias Thorne's residence. She is waiting for us there." He paused, his gaze sweeping over Noir, as if looking for any sign of deception. "And frankly, Mr. Wilson, we are rather short on patience."
The chilling finality in Volkova's tone was a blunt instrument. Noir felt a fresh pang of fear, but beneath it, a strange sense of affirmation. The nightmare had shown him this exact pressure. "I understand, Inspector," Noir replied, letting a sigh escape him. He ran a hand through his slightly dishevelled hair, trying to project the image of a bewildered scholar. "Then I suppose we shouldn't keep the expert waiting. Lead the way." He gestured vaguely towards the dark carriage, accepting his fate with a show of weary resignation, rather than the desperate fear gnawing at him from within.
The constable stepped forward and opened the carriage door. The interior was shrouded in shadow, promising a confined journey. As Noir moved towards it, Volkova's voice cut through the quiet, a low murmur that seemed to fill the space between them.
"Mr. Wilson, you see, I'm an ascended." Volkova's eyes, even in the pale light, seemed to glint with a dark amusement. "I have the Sequence-7 Nightmare pathway, which grants me the authority of manipulation of dreams, and perception over shadows." He watched Noir intently, a predatory stillness about him.
Noir, despite the shock that rippled through him, processed the words with an unsettling speed. Nightmare pathway. Manipulation of dreams. Manipulation of perception over shadows. The nightmare, the incredibly vivid, detailed trap, the crimson moon, the fear, the chase, Volkova as the driver – it all clicked into place with horrifying clarity. The 'herbal tea' must have inadvertently heightened his receptiveness, or perhaps Alder's deep, forgotten knowledge was finally surfacing. It wasn't just a dream; it was a targeted invasion, a test, a subtle demonstration of power.
Volkova seemed to notice Noir's direct, unblinking acceptance. A flicker of genuine curiosity, almost surprise, crossed his stoic features. "Usually, people don't believe in such stuff, Mr. Wilson. They're quick to dismiss it as a trick of the light, or a fanciful tale. But you... you seem to be fine with it. No shock, no disbelief."
Noir forced a weak, almost sheepish smile, hoping it conveyed a sense of long-held fascination rather than immediate, terrifying comprehension. "Oh, Inspector," he began, his voice a little softer, more contemplative, as if lost in thought. "As a child, I... I often had very vivid dreams. Dreams of powers, of strange abilities, of worlds beyond our own. I suppose I simply never quite shed the notion that such things might exist. A peculiar habit of thought, perhaps, for a scholar. It makes me... less surprised, I suppose, when confronted with the tangible proof." He offered a shrug, trying to appear dismissive of his own eccentricities, while internally, his mind raced, digesting this new, terrifying reality.
He stepped into the carriage, the air within immediately feeling heavy, thick with the unsaid. Volkova followed, sitting opposite him, his presence filling the enclosed space with an almost suffocating aura of power and scrutiny. The constable closed the door with a soft thud, plunging them into deeper shadow. The world outside, a fleeting glimpse of the quiet street under the pale dawn, vanished. The carriage lurched forward, its wheels beginning their rhythmic rumble on the cobblestones. Noir was now trapped, not just by physical restraints, but by a chilling, new understanding of the man who held his fate in his hands. He was going to Elias Thorne's residence, to face an expert, and his captor was someone who could twist reality itself.
The silence stretched for a moment, punctuated only by the clop of hooves and the distant, muffled sounds of the waking city. The gothic spires of the city's older districts, visible through the carriage window before they turned onto a narrower street, seemed to pierce the pale sky, mirroring the imposing structures from his vivid dream.
Volkova leaned back against the plush velvet seat, his gaze still fixed on Noir, unblinking. "Your 'childhood dreams,' Mr. Wilson," he said, his voice a low hum that seemed to vibrate in the confined space, "they are far more telling than you might imagine." He paused, a hint of something cold and sharp in his eyes. "You see, for someone of my Pathway, dreams are not merely fleeting images. They are a window. A subconscious confession, if you will."
He adjusted his dark coat, the fabric seeming to drink the meager light within the carriage. "I enter the dreams of individuals, Mr. Wilson. Not to simply observe, but to... explore. To search for answers. People are far more honest in their dreams, stripped of their conscious pretenses, their societal masks. Their fears, their true desires, their hidden knowledge – it all lies exposed in that malleable realm." His lips curved into a faint, unsettling smile. "And I have found that information gleaned from the dream world is often far more reliable than anything one might extract through conventional interrogation."
Noir felt a jolt, not of fear, but of profound, electrifying insight. He enters dreams. People are more honest there. The pieces of his nightmare, the premonition, the escape attempt, Volkova's uncanny awareness – it all clicked into place with horrifying clarity. This wasn't just about what Alder might have told them in a normal interview. Volkova had been in his dream, observing his reactions, his inner thoughts, his attempts at escape. The crimson moon, the chase, the reveal of Volkova as the driver – all elements Volkova had potentially orchestrated or at least influenced to test him.
But then, another, more crucial realization dawned on him, sharp and bright amidst the dread. Volkova only knew what Noir had shown him. What Noir's subconscious, reacting to the tea's strange effects and the immediate threat, had presented in the dream. Volkova knew of Alder's connection to Elias, of the investigation, of the three-day deadline Alder believed he had. He likely knew of Noir's desperate need to hide his true identity, hence the 'escape' scenario. But did he know of Thomas and Grace? Of the real circumstances of Elias's death beyond Alder's academic notes? Did he know about the tea? Or the core of Noir's original identity?
A calculated gamble. Volkova's information, as powerful as it was, was derived from a specific, manipulated context. Noir had to ensure that the dream's honesty was still his honesty, directed to misinform as much as inform. He had revealed his fear of capture, his cunning in attempting escape, but he hadn't revealed his true past, his true capabilities beyond Alder's assumed ones.
Volkova seemed to catch the subtle shift in Noir's demeanor, the slight tightening around his eyes as his mind worked furiously. "Most people, when I explain this, either scoff, or recoil in abject disbelief," Volkova mused, his voice laced with genuine curiosity now. "But you, Mr. Wilson, you seem quite... accepting. You were quite direct on the uptake. Usually, it takes a good deal of persuasion, or perhaps a demonstration, for the uninitiated to grasp the reality of the Path of the Nightmare."
Noir forced a casual shrug, letting his gaze drift towards the fleeting, shadowy cityscape outside the window, its architectural grandeur momentarily catching his eye, just as the images in his dream had. "As I said, Inspector," he replied, keeping his voice light, almost wistful. "I've often had vivid, strange dreams since childhood. Dreams of incredible powers, of different realities where such things were commonplace. Perhaps it's just a scholar's overactive imagination, prone to fanciful notions. But when presented with such... tangible evidence," he glanced back at Volkova, allowing a hint of feigned awe into his expression, "it merely confirms what a part of me has always, perhaps foolishly, suspected."
He held Volkova's gaze, trying to project a facade of a slightly eccentric, academically prone individual whose personal dream-world had simply prepared him for the impossible. The truth, however, was far more chilling: the nightmare had exposed his vulnerabilities, but it had also revealed the terrifying rules of the game he was now forced to play. He had to be impeccable, a master of deception, not just in waking life, but in the realm of dreams as well. And his first act would be to navigate this carriage, and whatever awaited him at Elias's house, with every fiber of his being.