The silence in the workshop was not complete.
It whispered.
Faint sighs behind the walls. Soft groans in the rafters. The tick of the old clock that no longer worked.
I sat at the workbench, fingers stained with ink and chalk, the last of the binding circles drawn and laid with care. The null-quartz crystal pulsed gently at the center, drinking the faint glow of the wards.
Outside, the wind stirred, scraping the shutters.
I wiped sweat from my brow, my breath pale in the chill. The hours dragged thin. Ashra and Liran were late.
The salt line on the threshold trembled—just a little.
I froze.
A sound.
Soft.
Like bare feet on stone.
I turned slowly, knife in hand, eyes sweeping the dark.
Nothing.
But the air smelled wrong. Damp. Old. Like the Vault ruins beneath the Guild towers. Like the dust of things that had no breath left.
I moved to the window, careful, silent.
And there—at the far end of the alley—a figure stood in the fog.
Tall. Wrapped in gray.
A mask of iron.
The Carrion Order.
Watching. Waiting.
No movement. No word. Just presence.
My throat tightened.
I stepped back.
The wards at the door flickered faintly—weak, thin, old. Never meant to hold against a true Order Adept.
Not yet. Not ready. Too soon.
A faint pressure built behind my eyes, like the echo of a voice without sound.
You cannot keep it shut forever...
I gasped, breaking the link.
The figure remained, unmoving.
And then...
It raised its hand.
A slow, deliberate motion.
One finger.
Pointing.
At me.
The workshop floor shuddered—faint, but real. The circle trembled. The quartz flashed darkly, swallowing the light.
A line of salt broke.
Just a crack. Small.
But enough.
The whispers grew louder.
A breath at my ear. A flicker of shadow beneath the workbench. The old sigils on the wall bled blue light.
I stumbled back to the circle, frantically redrawing the line, sealing the gap.
The pressure faded.
The figure in the alley was gone.
I stood alone.
Heart pounding. Hands shaking.
And the old journal—my father's journal—lay open on the bench, its pages fluttering though no wind stirred.
Words written there that had not been there before.
Scrawled in a hand I knew too well.
My father's hand.
"The Vault stirs.
The Gate weakens.
They are coming."
A soft knock sounded at the door.
Once.
Twice.
I froze.
And then—
"Ashra. Open up. Quickly."
Liran's voice. Urgent. Low.
I tore the door open.
They slipped in fast, breathless, cloaks damp with river mist.
"Trouble?" I asked, voice tight.
Ashra grinned thinly.
"You could say that."
Liran dropped the pouch onto the workbench.
"Flux stones. Salt. Everything you need."
I nodded, still staring at the journal.
Liran noticed.
His smile faded.
"What is it?"
I pointed.
The page turned gently in the cold air. The fresh writing still glowed faintly, traced in pale green alchemical ink.
Liran's face darkened.
"Your father's hand?"
"Yes."
Ashra leaned close, reading. Her eyes glittered.
"The Gate weakens..."
Her voice dropped to a whisper.
"Corwin. We may be too late."
The circle on the bench pulsed softly—dull light shifting to amber.
Beneath the floor, faint and deep, something moved.
Like chains, stirring in the dark.
~~~~ Interlude — The Carrion Creed ~~~~
Beneath the hollow towers of the ruined Guild Halls, far below the streets and markets where the living bartered, the Carrion Order gathered in silence.
A circle of iron-masked figures stood in the dark.
No voices. No motion. Only the cold hum of The Chain—that great machine of seals and gears, still turning somewhere deeper, far beneath the earth, hidden in the black vault called The Sanctum of Ash.
The master stood at the circle's center.
Tall. Shrouded in gray. His iron mask old and cracked, inscribed with runes no alchemist dared use. From the cracks in his mask leaked faint threads of dark vapor—soft and ceaseless.
He raised a hand.
A single, broken sound escaped the gathered Order.
A prayer.
"The Gate hungers... and we obey."
The Purge—fifty years past—had been their work. Their triumph. Their offering.
The Alchemists' Guild had grown arrogant. Prideful. They had sought the First Secret—the true transmutation, the breaking of the veil between life and death.
And they had nearly opened the Vault completely.
The Carrion Order stopped them.
Their agents spread fire in the Guild towers. Poisoned the Library of Nine Seals. Hunted the Archmasters in their stone chambers. Burned the books. Shattered the circles. Sealed the great Vault again with blood and iron.
But never completely.
A fragment of the Gate had remained awake.
Sleeping.
Waiting.
It stirs now.
The master lowered his hand. The circle stirred.
One of the lesser Adepts stepped forward—cloak stiff with old symbols, mask smooth and blind.
"The boy has the letter. The last key. The First Alchemist's trail."
The master nodded, slow as centuries.
"Then the Vault will open, by will or by force."
"His blood would suffice," the Adept whispered. "A living circle. The Gate hungers for new breath. New life."
The master was silent.
Then—
"No. Not yet. His hand may yet serve the Gate willingly. Let the dream ripen. Let hope drive him deeper. Until he cannot escape."
A hiss of iron breath.
"And when the Vault opens... we take what remains."
The circle bowed low.
"The Gate hungers. The Chain turns. The world will break and be remade."
In the darkness below the city, the old seals groaned.
And something vast shifted its weight.