The hallways of the house are long and silent. The wood creaks under firm footsteps as a figure advances without haste. The light is dim, barely enough to cast elongated shadows across walls covered in ancient portraits.
The man stops in front of us—before his invisible audience—and smiles with an unsettling serenity.
"Human nature," he says, "is a strange garden… where ambition grows faster than morality."
He continues walking as his voice fills the silence.
"Power does not corrupt. It only reveals. It reveals who we truly are when no one can stop us."
He reaches a dark oak table. On it rests a thick book with a worn cover and yellowed edges. He picks it up carefully, almost reverently. He pours himself a glass of deep red wine—like blood beneath the skin—and sits down.
"Today," he murmurs, swirling the glass between his fingers, "you will witness one of the most incredible stories ever recorded by humanity."
He opens the book slowly. The pages whisper as they part, as if awakening from a long sleep.
"A story about ambition… sacrifice… and the price of defying the limits of what is possible."
He tilts the glass slightly.
A drop of wine falls.
It stains the page.
The red spreads like a wound.
The man watches the stain, and his smile widens just a fraction.
"Ah… it seems it has already begun."
And then, the world changes.
United Kingdom, 1841 — London
The fog descended like a shroud over the slanted roofs of Hollowmere Street.
Gas lamps burned with an irregular fsss… fsss…, struggling against the thick dampness that seeped into everything. The wheels of a carriage echoed in the distance—clop… clop… clop…—until they faded into the distant murmur of the Thames.
On the third floor of a brick building blackened by industrial soot, a man stood by the window.
Of solid build, his face marked by deep dark circles that seemed to have settled there for months. His brown hair fell slightly disheveled over his forehead, and his green eyes—clear but exhausted—watched the street with silent tension. He was dressed simply for a gentleman of the era: dark trousers well fitted, polished boots… but only a white shirt with the sleeves slightly rolled up. No waistcoat. No coat.
A tobacco pipe rested between his lips. The smoke rose in lazy spirals, thick and grayish, spreading through the room like an inner fog competing with the one covering the city outside. Each inhalation was slow, deep, as if he were trying to fill the emptiness in his chest with smoke. The bitter, earthy aroma of the tobacco mingled with the smell of dampness and coal from the building.
Toc… toc… toc.
The sound was dry, deliberate.
The man did not move at first. He only drummed his fingers on the table—tap… tap… tap…—an irregular, nervous rhythm, while his eyes remained fixed on the tall grandfather clock dominating the corner of the room. The hands advanced with torturous slowness. Six. Six-five. Six-ten. Each tick-tock felt heavier than the last.
Toc… toc… toc.
Firmer this time.
The man's jaw tightened.
"Ahh, damn it… who the hell is it at this hour…?" he muttered in frustration, exhaling a long plume of smoke that dissolved against the fogged windowpane. "The tax collectors? I already paid them last week…"
The grandfather clock showed six-twenty in the evening.
The man took one last deep drag from the pipe, let the smoke burn his throat, then carefully set it in the brass ashtray. The tobacco still glowed faintly, releasing thin threads of smoke that curled in the still air.
Toc… toc… toc.
More insistent.
The man rose with a low growl.
"I'm coming, I'm coming…" he said aloud, angry, as he began descending the stairs.
Crrkk… crrrk…
Each step creaked under his weight as if the building itself were tired of interruptions.
Toc… toc… toc.
"I said I'm coming, damn it!" he repeated, louder, quickening his pace.
He reached the vestibule, the air already colder and damper seeping through the door cracks.
He yanked the door open, brow furrowed, patience exhausted.
"Shit, what the hell do you want? I already paid you lot…" he snapped before fully opening it.
But then he saw the postman.
A man in a dark postal uniform, cap fitted, mustache neatly trimmed, holding a worn leather bag. Not a tax collector. No ledgers, no air of fiscal authority. Just a professional expression, slightly surprised by the greeting.
"Good evening, sir. Looks like you haven't had a good day," the postman said calmly, raising an eyebrow.
The man passed a hand over his face, rubbing his eyes hard, and sighed.
"Sorry…" he muttered. "These days I haven't been able to rest well. I'm a bit stressed."
The postman nodded understandingly, though with a touch of caution at the man's obvious bad mood.
"I understand, sir. These days are tough for everyone. Too many changes."
The man glanced sideways at him, still leaning on the doorframe, arms crossed, patience hanging by a thread.
"Changes?" he grunted, with little interest. "What changes?"
The postman stepped closer, lowering his voice.
"They say they've already tested another one of those flying machines. A dirigible, I think."
He let out a sarcastic chuckle.
The man let out a tired snort, no desire to laugh.
"You're probably talking about the steam aircraft model 1. They tested it months ago."
The postman scratched his chin, nodding.
"That's what I heard, yeah."
The man yawned openly, covering his mouth with the back of his hand.
"Technology keeps moving forward, sure…" he muttered wearily. "Now there are new sentinels patrolling. At least the city's a bit more protected."
The postman nodded more seriously.
"Wonderful, yes. But these days the crimes don't stop: murders, disappearances… everywhere."
The man frowned, frustration showing again in his voice.
"Well, we need to be more careful. You can't trust anyone these days."
He took a step back, clearly ending the conversation.
The postman caught the hint immediately, slapped his forehead, laughing at himself.
"Ah, almost forgot. I've got a letter for you."
He reached into the bag while still chuckling.
"Got distracted by the conversation. It was quite interesting."
The man looked at him strangely.
"You sure this building is the right one?"
The postman nodded as he pulled out a thick envelope, slightly damp from the fog and covered in a fine layer of dust.
"Of course, sir. Are you Mr. Henry Evans?"
The man nodded cautiously.
"Yes, that's me."
The postman offered the letter with a smile.
"Then this is for you, Mr. Evans. Good night. Take care."
"Good night."
He closed the door firmly.
The door shut with a dry click.
Henry stood motionless for a few seconds.
The vestibule felt colder.
He climbed the stairs slowly.
Crrrk… crrrk…
He entered the living room and placed the envelope on the table, next to the pipe that still gave off faint wisps of smoke.
He sank into the high-backed chair. He rested his elbows on the table and began staring toward the window.
The fog continued pressing against the glass like a living presence, blurring the distant lights of the streetlamps. A carriage passed far off; the echo of its wheels quickly vanished into the mist.
Henry was restless. His fingers drummed again on the wood—tap… tap… tap…—an irregular rhythm that failed to calm him. He looked back at the letter. He sighed deeply, a tired and resigned sound.
"Let's see what this is about…" he murmured to himself, voice hoarse from tobacco and lack of sleep.
He stood abruptly. He took the letter in both hands, looked at it with renewed curiosity. He turned it over. There, on the front, written in black ink with elegant but slightly hurried strokes:
Henry Evans
He rubbed his eyes hard with thumb and forefinger, pressing as if to erase the fatigue. He looked at the name again.
He froze in astonishment.
He recognized that handwriting perfectly. Every curve of the "H," the way the "y" tilted to the right, the small flourish on the final "s"… unmistakable.
"It can't be from who I think it is…" he whispered, almost as if saying it aloud could make the suspicion vanish.
But it didn't vanish.
On the contrary: it became sharper, clearer.
Henry examined the letter again. He held it against the gas lamp light. The ink wasn't fresh; there was a faint yellowing at the edges of the paper, and in some spots the dampness had caused it to run just enough to suggest it was written under pressure… or in motion.
The wax seal on the back was almost broken irregularly, as if someone had opened it hastily. No official seal, just plain wax, dark red almost brown.
His pulse quickened.
With fingers that no longer trembled as much—now driven by a mix of fear and determination—he began to open it.
With tense fingers he broke the seal. Rrrip.
The paper opened with a dry, almost fragile sound, and immediately a faint metallic odor—like oxidized iron mixed with ancient dampness—escaped and clung to the back of Henry's throat.
The first line appeared before his eyes, written in the handwriting he had memorized in hundreds of notes, love letters, and everyday reminders:
Henry… if this letter has reached your hands, it means they haven't found me yet.
The gas lamp outside flickered violently. Fsss…
From there, the ink grew increasingly unstable. The letters wavered, some words retraced two or three times with nervous strokes, as if the pen had hesitated, trembled, returned to reinforce what it feared might not be clear. There were irregular stains, tiny splatters where ink had dripped before drying, and in several places the paper looked as though it had been crumpled and hastily smoothed again.
Do not try to contact the police. Under no circumstances. If you do, you'll only make them find me faster… and you too. Please, Henry. Don't do it.
A long pause in the stroke; a dark blot where the pen had lingered too long, as if Jane had looked up toward the door, the window, any shadow that might move.
You were right. All this time you were right. I've been lying to you from the beginning. I'm not a sanitary inspector. I never was. That story… it was just a convenient excuse, a mask I wore so I could keep breathing beside you without you seeing what I really did. And I'm sorry. I'm so sorry.
I know it's been a long time since we shared the same roof. I know the separation left wounds that never fully healed, that the words we didn't say weigh more than the ones we shouted. But now I need you to read this calmly, even if your heart races. I need you to trust me one last time, even if you feel I no longer deserve even a gram of that trust. Even if what comes next seems like madness to you.
I belong to an ancient organization called the Strategic Alchemical Research Division (SARD). It is not a club nor a circle of dusty scholars. It is something far deeper, far more dangerous. Something that should not exist in the world we know.
I have been part of it since before we met. Since before I loved you. Since before Alice.
The pressure of the ink intensifies; the letters sink deeper into the paper, as if each word cost her a physical effort.
They assigned me a mission in a remote village called Blackthorn Vale.
My task was to confirm the existence of an artifact that, according to reports, had manifested in that place. A fragment. They informed us it had been sighted there, buried or awakened—they weren't sure.
The handwriting begins to slant to the right, as if the hand writing it were being pulled by an invisible weight.
I was to identify it, determine its exact nature, and report immediately. Make sure no one else claimed it. I thought it would be a quick, discreet operation.
Mistake.
From the moment I set foot in the valley, everything changed. Symbols are everywhere. They are not mere drawings or ancient scribbles. They are incomplete equations. Transmutation circles someone tried to create and couldn't. Patterns repeating on walls and under floors.
I found identical marks beneath the floor of the abandoned church. The same design I studied for years in the Order's forbidden archives.
Henry, what I'm about to write now should not be on paper. It should not even exist in thought.
I came to protect the artifact. To make sure no one touched it. But I arrived too late. Much later than I imagined.
A thick, trembling line crossed out half a sentence, as if she had tried to erase it and then regretted it.
I will tell you everything if I manage to get out of here alive. I don't have much time. The nights here… they are not normal. The whole valley seems to breathe.
The ink drags in the final words, thins out, as if the pen had been pressed in desperation.
The arte…fact I'm looking for is—
The word cuts off abruptly. A violent diagonal line slashes across the rest of the page, as if someone had tried to tear it or as if Jane's own hand had been forcibly pulled away.
Lower down, written in hurried, almost illegible script in places:
Don't worry about Alice. She is in a safe place. I won't say more now. Just believe me: she is protected.
Henry felt a blow to the chest when he read his daughter's name.
The signature is barely distinguishable, an exhausted scrawl where the ink seems to have run out completely:
—Jane
Henry remained motionless, the letter still trembling slightly between his fingers.
The silence in the room became deafening. Only the distant tick-tock of the clock and the occasional sputter of the gas lamp broke the stillness.
He was stunned.
For a fleeting moment, an absurd idea crossed his mind: maybe it was a cruel joke. Someone who knew their intimacies, who had imitated Jane's handwriting with sickening precision.
But no.
It was impossible.
The handwriting was identical: the slight upward turn in the "J" of her name, the way the final "n" curved as if embracing the previous line, the small loops in the "e"s he had always found charming… Everything matched. And beyond the shape of the letters, who else could know? Who else would know the details of their separation, the sanitary inspector excuse, Alice's existence, the exact weight of the lies accumulated over years? No one.
This was not a joke.
This was real.
Henry placed the letter on the table with a slow, almost mechanical motion, as if afraid the paper might burn his skin. He brought both hands to his face. First he rubbed his eyes hard, pressing until white spots danced in the darkness of his eyelids. Then his hands lowered, one resting on his chin, rubbing it roughly, as if trying to tear the disbelief from his face.
Suddenly, his fist struck the table with a dull thud.
"Damn it…" he growled through clenched teeth.
"I knew it. I knew it, damn it. I knew there was something strange behind all this… but she never wanted to tell me. Never."
His voice came out hoarse, laden with years of accumulated anger. He walked two steps toward the window, then back, as if unsure where to go.
"We almost never spent time together. Me working late at the facilities… and you… you with your double life. Your disappearances. Your perfect excuses. And me… always believing it was the job, that you were loyal to your damn sanitary commission…"
He stopped abruptly.
The fury shattered all at once.
"And… and Alice?" —the question came out halting, no longer angry, but with a voice breaking on every syllable.
He leaned on the back of the chair, knuckles white against the dark wood. He lowered his head. The smoke from the forgotten pipe still floated in lazy spirals around him, but it no longer calmed him. Nothing calmed him.
Alice.
His little girl.
The only pure part left of what Jane and he had once been.
And now Jane said she was "in a safe place."
Henry slowly raised his gaze, eyes glassy, jaw trembling.
"A whole year… a whole year without knowing anything about her," he murmured, almost as if the words hurt coming out. "Jane just left. Took her. One morning I woke up and they were gone. Not even a decent note, just a short message saying it was 'best for everyone.' And after that… nothing. No letter, no visit, no damn photo."
He ran a hand through his hair, pulling hard, as if trying to rip the memory out by the roots.
"Every day I wondered if she was okay, if she was eating, if she was sleeping, if someone was taking care of her… Every night I imagined the worst. And now… this?" He let out a nervous, short, bitter laugh that sounded more like a broken gasp. "A letter that appears out of nowhere saying that now my ex-wife is in some remote village on a supposed mission for a secret organization?"
His voice broke completely on the last word. He didn't cry—Henry wasn't one to cry easily—but the sound that came from his throat was something between a choked sob and a raw growl of pure pain.
He straightened abruptly, as if someone had pulled an invisible thread at his back.
"No," he said through gritted teeth. "I'm not going to sit here waiting for someone to tell me everything's 'fine.' Not after a year without knowing anything about my daughter… or about you."
He clenched the letter in his fist until the paper crackled, then carefully tucked it into the inner pocket of his shirt, pressed against his chest, as if it were the only thing still keeping him connected to them.
There was no time for more doubts. Jane was in danger—that was the only clear thing in all this madness—and she had begged him not to contact the police. Why? If he did, he would only make them find her faster… and him too.
The warning echoed in his head like a sinister echo: there was no escape if the authorities were involved. Whatever was hunting her in Blackthorn Vale had eyes and ears in places where the police didn't reach… or arrived too late.
Henry took a deep breath, trying to calm the knot tightening his stomach. He didn't fully understand the danger, but he understood one thing: if Jane had broken years of silence to send him this letter, it was because she had no one else left.
And he was not going to leave her alone.
Not this time.
He walked toward the hallway bathroom with heavy steps. The floor creaked louder than usual—crrk… crrrk…—as if the house itself protested the decision he had just made.
He entered and slammed the door shut.
The mirror was fogged from the building's perpetual dampness. He turned on the faucet. The water fell with a hollow, metallic sound.
He leaned over and splashed cold water on his face. Once, twice, three times. The cold burned his skin and cleared his head enough to think clearly.
He raised his gaze to the mirror. His green eyes were darker, ringed by deep circles, but there was no longer only pain in them: there was something hard, determined.
"What the hell have you done now, Jane?" he murmured in a hoarse, almost inaudible voice.
He didn't sound angry. He sounded broken… but also resolved.
He dried his face with the rough towel and lingered a second longer staring at himself, breathing deeply. Blackthorn Vale. A shiver ran down his spine as he repeated it mentally. He was not an impulsive man. For years he had lived by precision and logic, working as an Artificer at Harrington Mechanical Company.
He left the bathroom.
The hallway felt longer, colder.
He went straight to the shelf beside the desk. He opened the lower drawer without hesitation.
There was the photograph: Jane seated with Alice in her arms, him behind with a hand on the chair's backrest. Jane's smile had always hidden something; now he understood.
He gazed at it for a few seconds.
"You never let me into your world…" he whispered.
He brushed his thumb over Alice's tiny face.
Protect Alice.
His jaw clenched hard.
He carefully put the photo away and took out a Colt Paterson Model 1836 revolver, wrapped in dark cloth.
The metal was cold, heavy, familiar.
He checked it with precise movements: opened the cylinder, verified the loads, closed it.
Click.
Dry sound. Definitive.
He put on the thick dark wool coat. Adjusted the collar. Took the hat.
He looked around the room one last time.
The clock read six thirty-seven.
Night had already swallowed the city.
He turned off the lamp.
Total darkness.
He opened the front door.
The damp, cold air hit him like a warning.
He locked it.
Click.
His footsteps echoed on the cobblestone street.
Tac.
Tac.
Tac.
They were not hurried.
They were firm.
Each one carried him farther from the life he had known.
The fog slowly enveloped him as he walked toward the carriage station.
Toward Blackthorn Vale.
Toward Jane.
Toward Alice.
Toward a truth that would surely shatter him.
But there was no turning back now.