https://www.writersworkout.net/potluck

“Do It Scared”

My whole life condensed.

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5: Dinner

Kumar Adani was already seated when Gary arrived in the dining room for dinner. The aromas of the main dishes were pervading the room.

Gary came forward hurriedly, “Sorry to keep you waiting.”

“It is no trouble. I came early to prepare myself for our discussion. Please have a seat.”

“I had hoped to ask you a few things about the initial interviews.”

“Yes, I imagined. There must have been a lot of superstitious talk. Many of the staff are from an older version of the world and prone to such beliefs. However, I am afraid I can’t discount it all. There are some strange occurrences being reported and unnerving the rest of the staff.”

“There was talk about the Tower being cursed.”

“Yes, I’ve heard some of the talk. I took the liberty of inviting Dr. Meher Anjuman to dinner. She’s a cultural anthropologist and Zoroastrian scholar, an expert in these matters.”

“Her name did come up.”

“She has a personal connection to the staff through her great-grandmother, a former caretaker in Mumbai.”

“Caretaker?”

“The people that prepare the bodies for the funerals.”

A staff member announced the arrival of Meher, without the doctor title as she insisted, as she entered the room. She was an attractive middle-aged woman who carried herself well. Kumar did the introductions and led the standard small talk that followed. Dinner was served as soon as they were seated, distracting from the topics of interviews and superstitions briefly. Kumar reopened the topics once the main courses were finished.

“So, how are you finding the staff and their families, Meher?”

“Most are a little skittish, but the mood should calm soon, provided there are no more incidents.”

“Do most of the people in the family compound believe in the superstitions and curse?” Gary asked.

“Not exactly,” she replied, “But the Tower isn’t just architecture. It’s a piece of their collective memory. And memory has a way of bleeding into reality when disturbed.”

“You believe in all this superstitious talk?”

“I believe in symbols. In grief. In the power of belief to shape behavior. Something is happening here. And it’s not just superstition.”

“I can have one of my staff take you to the compound tomorrow,” offered Kumar.

“I’d prefer to go myself,” replied Gary, “I like to take my time and look at different things.”

“Would you allow me to tag along?” asked Meher, “I don’t mind the pace, and I could help break the ice with the families.”

“That sounds acceptable.”

The three adjoined from dinner, each headed back to their own quarters.

Back in his room, Gary made a call to a former colleague.

“Hey Mark, sorry for calling so late. I have a favor to ask.

“Yes, this one pays.

“Got a report of a guy who went missing who reappeared, tried to set up some internet service and hasn’t been seen since. I’d like some details.

“Yeah, contract conditions, account details, that sort of thing.

“O.K., here are the particulars I have.”

Gary read from his notes giving all the information he collected.

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4: Back to the Facts

During the break, Gary reviewed the detailed police report summary once again: missing persons, timelines, interview notes. No signs of criminality, no motive or opportunity among the staff. Only one report stood out. One of the missing persons was said to have met with a sales agent, and signed a contract, for internet services, two days after being reported missing. The service was never used or paid for and the businessperson was never seen again. Was it just a case of date mix-ups, the likeliest possibility, or something to look into?

Gary scribbled a note, “Official position: No foul play.” His instincts told him the initial investigators called it right.

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First up: Submittable: “Purpose is your power. Submittable is your Excalibur.”

https://www.submittable.com/

Recommended by a published poet. it is a formidable site, something for everyone, but I kept hitting fiction submissions for high schoolers. Takes some practice.

Second up is: The Grinder “Brewing your submissions into something usable…”

https://thegrinder.diabolicalplots.com/

Easier for me to use. Still a very formidable site.

Fiction writers be sure to sign up at our very own Flame Tree site:

https://www.flametreepress.com/reader-exclusives/

And I would be remiss in not mentioning Wood Pig Press:

https://woodpigpress.com/

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Adjusted Strategy

Gary changed his line of questioning following the break, focusing on the fear that was coloring the responses. He led with the story on the brief reappearance of one of the disappeared and told each interviewee that others have mentioned strange occurrences, that only they hadn’t reported anything unusual.

It was an effective ruse, the floodgates opened. The staff spoke of strange symbols appearing on the grounds and the walls of the Tower, vultures behaving erratically, some very aggressively. He hears the name “Meher Anjuman” for the first time, a woman who appears to be conducting her own investigation. Local lore hints at a curse tied to the Tower.

The groundskeeper is the first to crack, afraid he was thought by others to be part of the strange occurrences because of rumors about being spotted all around the compound and Tower.

“It is my job! My work is spread out all over. I can’t help the timing,” the man lamented.

“Maybe you could take me along on one of your working days,” suggested Gary.

“Of course, yes, I would be most happy to. But you will have to ask the caretakers about the Tower grounds.”

“Why is that?”

“It is their area. They are sensitive about those who encroach.”

Gary added the information to his copious notes, underlining the use of “encroach” with a comment, “Not approach?”, in parenthesis.

The next breakthrough came from one of the security guards who thought he may have seen another one of the missing people, checking him into the compound, days after the disappearances were official. No one else met with or even saw the individual.

The existence of an extended staff compound, a mini town where some staffers and their families lived permanently, emerged in the interviews. Gary decided to make it his next stop the following day.

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Staff Interviews

Later that afternoon, Gary sat in one of the compound’s libraries, a room lined with old books, where he intended to unearth newer secrets.

Gary questioned the estate staff about the disappearances, one at a time, in the small library. The questions initially were a repeat of what the police asked. Gary was only interested if the answers were different this time.

He noticed the groundskeeper was particulaly nervous, security staff were evasive, and a young priest answered things so cryptically it threatened to enter an endless cycle of clarifications.

All denied knowing of any wrongdoing by anyone. Obviously, they were not in a position to interact in a significant way with any of the disappeared, business associates of their kind and generous boss. The other parallel were hints at unease regarding the Tower. It was more than superstition, Gary felt, there was real fear.

His follow-on questions on seeing or experiencing anything strange on the grounds or near the Tower drew the strongest reactions in body language. They were all lying with denials. Unsure of how to best proceed, Gary called for a break. He needed to rethink his strategy.

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Arrival

Gary Wicklow, private investigator, drove along an immaculate section of road set in the center of a remote California desert, utterly distracted. It was the road. It was flawless. The public highway that led to the private road was decrepit; cracked, pitted and speckled with the brown-ochre desert sand. The private road was smooth and spotless asphalt as if a street cleaner had freshly washed it. It was a testament to the client’s mindset and priorities.

Ordinarily he would be going over the case details in his mind one last time before meeting the client. But his mind refused to engage. This was not a routine missing persons’ case. Police reports concluded no foul play, although they noted inconsistencies in statements, a common occurrence. Talk of the supernatural pervaded statements, far outside the department’s scope, plagued the investigation. The case was considered closed, except by the client. A billionaire industrialist from India, Kumar Adani, who purchased a huge tract of land in the desert, surrounded his holdings with national land preserves through donations to various organizations. All to recreate a setting his ancestors survived in, including the Tower, the center of all the mythical, mystical talk.

Just as he thought of the structure, he caught his first glimpse of it, built on a hill in the distance. Round and wide, it appeared deceptively short and ancient, but with an undeniable presence. It was likely no older than the pristine road he was driving on and it loomed over the surrounding area.

Some found its purpose unsettling. Zoroastrian Sky Burials. The decomposition of the dead through natural forces and assisted by caretakers performing rituals. Vultures fed on the prepared corpses, the sun, wind, rain, and time eroded the remains further.

Gary was attracted to the job because the pay was unusually good. He had no interest in old superstitions or placating those who did. Pragmatic to the core he considered himself a stone-cold realist. It was probably a reason he was no longer married, but that was another matter.

The road led to the main residence. Something between a mansion and desert compound. Surrounded by a theme of natural landscaping it stood out as an oasis and blended perfectly into the desert setting. Several people awaited him in front of the mansion, his client and two staff. Gary pulled in close in the roundabout driveway and got out of the car quickly.

“Good morning. Very kind of you to meet me here, Mr. Adani,” said Gary extending a hand, unsure if this meeting was a courtesy or pressure.

“Good morning to you sir. It is a pleasure to finally meet you in person. May I escort you to your quarters? I like to walk as I talk.”

“That would be excellent, thank you.”

“May we have your keys? The valet will park your car and bring your luggage.”

It did not sound like a refusable request to Gary, so he handed over his car keys, mumbling something about the excellent service to cover his reluctance to anyone touching his belongings. Particularly his investigative paperwork.

Keys passed along, they continued walking.

“You come highly recommended. I am most pleased to work with professionals.”

Yeah, probably by my ex-wife’s lawyer and creditors, thought Gary, but said, “That’s very kind of you to say sir. Thank you.”

“I will have the staff assembled this afternoon for your interviews, if that is not too soon.”

“Not at all. I’d like to get started right away.”

“Excellent. The situation is more complicated than the police seem to believe. They were focused only on the disappearances, but I have my own suspicions that it is a much deeper problem. I hope we can discuss it at dinner after your interviews.”

Gary nodded, masking his cynicism, “That would be just great.”

Gary was presented his quarters by a member of the staff. They were more luxurious than he imagined. They matched the fees he was being paid which were several times more than he could manage on a good case. His luggage and case files arrived in short order. Nothing out of place. The valet-come-busser hovered outside his room to escort him to the interviews.

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Elad arrived at Telius Hold just after dawn. The castle walls rose through the morning mist, familiar in their geometry, unchanged by the chaos he had left behind in Aurethium. The guards at the gate recognized him immediately and stepped aside without question. His pace remained steady as he crossed the courtyard, the rhythm of the hold settling around him like a well‑fitted cloak.

Inside, the kitchens were already alive with quiet activity. Cooks moved with practiced efficiency, preparing the morning meal. Elad stepped through the doorway, nodded to the staff, and took his place at the long preparation table. His hands resumed their familiar work, chopping, sorting, arrangin, each motion precise, each task grounding.

The hold did not ask for explanations. It did not demand reports. It simply absorbed him back into its structure.

Later that morning, the council convened in the upper chamber. Elad stood at the wall, present but unassuming, as was customary for one of his station. The councilors spoke in measured tones, their discussion focused on the aftermath of the Shampton curse and the vacuum left in its wake.

“Shampton Castle is unclaimed,” Councilor Mereth said. “Its lands are fertile. Its position strategic. Telius should assume stewardship.”

Another councilor nodded. “We could rename it Telius Castle. Consolidate the region. Strengthen our influence.”

Elad’s shoulders tightened, but he remained silent until addressed.

“Investigator,” Mereth said, turning toward him. “You have seen the state of Shampton. Do you object to the proposal?”

Elad stepped forward with controlled composure. “I do. The castle is not empty. It is recovering. Its people will return. To claim it now would be opportunistic. And dangerous.”

“Dangerous?” another councilor asked.

Elad kept his tone neutral. “The curse was lifted, but its residue remains. Structures touched by necromancy do not settle quickly. Interference could invite complications.”

The councilors exchanged glances. Some thoughtful. Some dismissive.

“Your caution is noted,” Mereth said. “But the matter will proceed to vote.”

Elad inclined his head and stepped back. His objection had been recorded. Nothing more.

The meeting continued without him.

When it ended, Elad returned to the kitchens. The rhythm resumed. The tasks continued. The hold remained steady.

But as he washed his hands at the basin, he paused.

Shampton Castle.

A structure touched by necromancy.

A structure the council intended to claim.

A structure S’Gumbbu had once used as a foothold.

Elad dried his hands and returned to his work.

The danger was gone.

For now.

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Elad shook his head. “I followed procedure. Nothing more.”

Halven gave a small, weary smile. “Procedure saved us.”

And as S’Gumbbu was escorted to the constabulary under heavy guard. The officers moved with disciplined precision, maintaining formation as they crossed the noble district. The citizens of Aurethium watched from a distance, their expressions curious but controlled. The city valued order, and the sight of a restrained offender only reinforced their trust in it.

Elad remained at the estate with Steward Halven. The administrative hall was quiet, but the tension had eased. The danger was no longer hidden. It had been confronted, contained, and removed.

Halven stood with his hands clasped behind his back. “Investigator, you have done more for this house than we can express.”

Leth entered the hall, escorted by a guard. His posture was subdued, but his eyes were clearer than before.

“Investigator,” Leth said quietly. “I owe you an apology.”

“You owe the city your honesty,” Elad replied. “And your cooperation.”

Leth nodded. “You will have both.”

Halven placed a hand on his nephew’s shoulder. “The house will address his actions internally. He will not escape responsibility. But he will not face it alone.”

Elad accepted this. “The city will require a formal statement. I will assist with the documentation.”

Halven inclined his head. “We will comply.”

Pruitt entered the hall, his expression steady. “S’Gumbbu is secured. He will be held in the reinforced cells until the magistrate reviews the case.”

Elad nodded. “Good.”

Pruitt looked at him with a mixture of respect and fatigue. “You handled this well. Without weapons. Without force. Just structure and patience.”

“It was the only way,” Elad said.

Pruitt smiled faintly. “Themis would approve.”

Elad did not respond, but the acknowledgement settled quietly between them.

Halven stepped forward. “Investigator, House Valcorin will issue a public statement reaffirming our commitment to the city. We will also fund additional security measures to prevent future infiltration.”

“That is appropriate,” Elad said.

Leth looked at him. “What will happen to S’Gumbbu.”

“He will face judgment,” Elad said. “And the city will decide his fate.”

Leth lowered his gaze. “I understand.”

Elad turned toward the exit. “My work here is complete.”

Pruitt walked with him to the gate. The night air was cool, the city quiet, the order restored.

“You should rest,” Pruitt said.

“I will,” Elad replied.

He stepped onto the main avenue, his pace steady, his posture neutral, his mind already shifting to the next task. The city moved around him with its familiar rhythm, predictable and precise.

The danger had passed. The house was safe. The investigation was complete.

Elad kept walking.

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I saw it in every color a person can witness. Clear as glass when it washed over my feet in younger days, when I still believed I could walk into it and walk back out unchanged. Green when it rose up in great heaving waves, the kind that knock a man sideways just to remind him he is small (thinking of you Coronado). An incredible blue in the mid-Pacific when the sun warmed it, gentle enough to make me forget its temper. And even black, the color it wore under dark skies, so far from shore a man becomes a sliver against its vastness.

I have stood in it up to my neck, seeing my toes by the moonlight. I have been tossed by it, rolled like a stone, stripped of any illusion of mastery. I have felt it creep up the sand while I slept, brushing my toes. The sea does not love me. It does not hate me. It simply endures, and in its endurance it teaches.

A younger me might have cursed it. Might have tried to conquer it. Might have believed that enough strength, enough will, enough stubbornness could bend it to his purpose. But age has a way of sanding down such thoughts. I know better now. The sea cannot be won. It cannot be reasoned with. It cannot be held. A person may survive it, or may not, but none will never master it.

When I am gone, the sea will not mark the day. It will not remember my name or the shape of my hands or the sound of my voice. But somewhere in its depths, in the endless churn of its currents, there will be a trace of me, a grain of salt, a softened edge, a memory of someone who stood before it and did not turn away.

This is the way of things by the sea.

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The concealed passage descended in a narrow slope, the air cooling with each step. Elad moved first, his pace steady, his senses tuned to the faint shifts in sound and pressure that illusion could not mask. Pruitt followed with two officers, each holding a lantern that cast controlled circles of light along the stone walls. The Valcorin guards remained at the entrance, sealing the corridor behind them.

The passage opened into a chamber beneath the eastern wing. It was larger than the hidden study, but not by much. The walls were bare stone. The floor was marked with chalk lines forming an incomplete ritual circle. A single lantern burned on a low table, its flame steady despite the stillness of the air.

S’Gumbbu stood at the center of the room.

He appeared as a man of indeterminate age, dressed in plain robes, his posture relaxed, his hands folded behind his back. His presence was quiet, almost unremarkable, but the air around him carried a subtle distortion, as if the space itself resisted acknowledging him.

Elad stopped three paces from the circle. Pruitt and the officers held their positions behind him.

“You have come earlier than expected,” S’Gumbbu said. His voice was calm, almost conversational. “I had hoped to complete my work before you arrived.”

Elad kept his tone neutral. “Your work ends now.”

S’Gumbbu smiled faintly. “You speak with confidence. That is admirable. But you misunderstand the situation. I have already taken what I need.”

Elad did not react. “You manipulated Leth Valcorin. You used him to gain access to the house. You used him to move your cargo. You used him to hide your presence.”

S’Gumbbu tilted his head. “Manipulation is a strong word. I offered knowledge. He accepted. Ambition is not a crime.”

“Necromancy is,” Elad said.

S’Gumbbu’s smile widened. “Only in cities that fear what they do not understand.”

Pruitt stepped forward. “You will surrender yourself.”

S’Gumbbu looked at him with mild curiosity. “Constable, you are brave. But bravery is not protection.”

He raised one hand. The lantern flame flickered. The air shifted. A faint ripple passed across the room, like heat rising from stone.

Elad recognized the distortion. Illusion. A veil forming.

“Hold your ground,” Elad said quietly.

S’Gumbbu lowered his hand. “You are perceptive. That is why you have been a nuisance.”

He stepped back from the circle. The chalk lines glowed faintly, reacting to his presence.

“I do not need to fight you,” S’Gumbbu said. “I only need to leave.”

“You will not leave this estate,” Elad said.

S’Gumbbu regarded him with a calm, almost pitying expression. “Investigator, you follow order. I follow opportunity. You cannot stop what you cannot see.”

He stepped into the circle. The glow intensified.

Elad spoke quickly. “Illusion cannot change structure. It cannot silence movement. It cannot erase sound.”

S’Gumbbu paused. “True. But it can redirect attention.”

The lantern flame extinguished.

For a moment, the chamber was silent.

Then the officers’ lanterns flared, revealing the circle empty.

S’Gumbbu was gone.

Pruitt swore under his breath. “Where did he go.”

Elad stepped into the circle, examining the chalk lines. “He did not teleport. He used the illusion to mask his exit. There is another passage.”

He scanned the walls, listening for the faint vibration of air moving through stone. He found it near the far corner, behind a stack of crates.

“Here,” Elad said.

Pruitt signaled the officers. They moved the crates aside, revealing a narrow opening leading upward.

“He is heading for the surface,” Pruitt said.

Elad nodded. “We can still intercept him.”

They ascended the passage, emerging into a small storage room near the outer courtyard. The door was ajar. The air carried a faint trace of cold.

“He is close,” Elad said.

They stepped into the courtyard. The night air was still. The guards at the perimeter stood alert, but none had seen movement.

Elad scanned the shadows. The estate was too controlled for S’Gumbbu to vanish completely. He would need a moment to reorient himself.

A faint distortion shimmered near the garden wall.

“There,” Elad said.

Pruitt raised his hand. “Officers, close in.”

They moved with disciplined precision, forming a semicircle around the distortion.

S’Gumbbu materialized, his expression calm but his posture tense.

“You are persistent,” he said.

Elad stepped forward. “You are finished.”

S’Gumbbu looked at the wall behind him. “Perhaps. But not today.”

He raised his hand again. The air rippled. The distortion expanded.

Pruitt shouted, “Hold your ground.”

Elad focused on the sound. The ripple was not silent. It carried a faint whisper, wind through a narrow gap.

He stepped toward the distortion and struck the air with his open hand.

The illusion shattered.

S’Gumbbu staggered, his composure breaking for the first time.

Pruitt moved. The officers followed. They closed in, surrounding him.

S’Gumbbu looked at Elad with a mixture of irritation and respect.

“You are more troublesome than I expected.”

Elad met his gaze. “You are under arrest.”

S’Gumbbu did not resist. He simply lowered his hands.

“For now,” he said.

Pruitt signaled the officers. They secured him with reinforced restraints designed for arcane offenders.

The confrontation was over.

But the resolution had only begun.

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I entered the hospital system, not for the first time, but the first time for addicton. I was given a room. Isolation. With a PC. Are you kidding? I asked destiny. This is perfect.

I hammered out text until I heard the voice outside. Calling everyone liars. “Booze, booze, booze, all I hear,” the voice cried. I closed my eyes, surpressed the memories. I’ve been there. Done that. The humiliation persists.

I went to class with my head hung low. Then I heard the stories. Heads hung lower than mine. Unelievable stories, each with equal regret. I was sobered. Deeply.

Soon I came upon the expressions, “you can’t imagine” or “you can’t believe” in my own notes.

That is not true. You can believe, you can imagine, never let a chartalan deceive you.

The hospital course was outstanding. Study and self-help, perfection in motion.

There is no cure for addiction. You are or you’re not. I am.

It may go by personality types. Nicotine had me hooked bad. God forbid I try heroin.

Why this confession, why now, why anything?

A month later I feel free. I tried returnng to work. They wouldn’t have me. Until a doctor said so. On paper.

They don’t trust the charlatan. Maybe you shouldn’t either. I’m a liar and an addict.

Download to read later: Properties.PDF

CHAPTER 1: Final Performance

The guards wheeled Jack Ryatt from the old prison bus to the facility.

His lawyer called his condition “Mixed Dementia.” The prosecutors argued “Weaponized Incompetence,” The judge ruled Jack’s issues as “Credible” and sentenced him to observation and treatment.

White clad attendants opened the doors from within as they approached, spreading open the mouth of a stone gargoyle.

He had practiced the symptoms, but the ornate creature of rock, brick, and concrete gave him a twinge of uncertainty.

There was no going back. Jail, victims, consequences awaited. Here, Jack believed, he could control the narrative, his forte. Systems were pliable. He believed that institutions were systems, waiting to be nudged.

The moment he crossed the threshold, into the throat of the beast, the light changed. Crossing felt like stepping into a place removed from maps, a lost property of land forgotten by the world. The colors flattened into a palette of grayscale. White, cold, antiseptic walls. The floors black-and-white checkered tile. The air filtered, sterilized.

The guards’ dingy blue uniforms stood out, colorful in the drab lobby.

The intake clerk did not look up when they approached. She slid a clipboard toward Jack. He signed where she indicated when prompted.

“Wrist out,” she said.

He obeyed. The band cinched snuggly, the certainty of a handcuff, a tag on lost property. He waited for her to ask questions, to verify details, to give him an opening to steer the situation. None came. She stamped a form, initialed a box, and pressed a button that summoned an orderly without ever acknowledging him.

“Ward A,” she said. “He’s been processed.”

Processed. Not admitted. Not evaluated. Processed.

The orderly took control of the wheelchair, firmly. Jack was being delivered. The corridor ahead stretched long and narrow, swallowing him.

He reassured himself the doubts he felt were nothing. First‑time nerves, not a sign of losing properties he relied on: composure, cleverness, control.

As the orderly led him deeper, he sensed that the Building had started digestion.

CHAPTER 2: The Sedated

The orderly guided him down the corridor so slowly it felt the distance stretched out faster than they progressed. An invisible esophagus compressing him inward. The lighting flickered in long, slow pulses, just enough to unsettle, the Building’s processes indicated by the blinking.

The first patients he saw were arranged along the walls of a large room, discarded mannequins, slumped in chairs with their heads tilted at angles suggesting sedation. Their hospital gowns the same bleached white as the walls, some rumpled in patterns of spackling paste, their skin drained palettes in the dimness. Digestion siphoning the color out of them, leaving only pasty husks.

One of them lifted her head as he passed. Her eyes were unfocused and glossy, pupils wide. She tracked him with instinctive recognition. “You shouldn’t have written your true name,” she murmured.

Jack paused,“What?”

The orderly cautioned. “Don’t engage. They’re medicated.”

But the woman continued, her voice thin and papery. “Once it knows you, it keeps you.”

Jack laughed it off, the sound brittle. Another patient, a man with a shaved head and a wristband so faded it looked like a scar, whispered, “The Building doesn’t forget.”

The orderly sighed,. “Ignore them. They talk nonsense.”

But the nonsense had a pattern. A vocabulary. They were watchers. Braving slurred words of hallucination.

Jack told himself it was the medication. The isolation. The institutional echo chamber that turned metaphors into folklore.

Yet as he progressed deeper into the ward, he felt the air thicken with the humidity of living flesh. Walls refracting every utterance, every footstep, every breath.

He had convinced a judge he was incompetent, a lawyer he was fragile, and himself that he could control the consequences. But, in the dim room where the lights blinked randomly, he felt another tremor of uncertainty.

A faint, undeniable sense that the patients weren’t describing madness, but the rules of a place that already knew his name.

CHAPTER 3: Maintenance Not Cures

The orderly stopped at a junction where three corridors met, branching digestive tracts. Each passage filled with the same mechanical rhythm, vents breathing, boilers growling, fluorescent pings. A chorus of bodily functions. The building felt alive in the way an inert organism is: not conscious, but still with purposeful machinations, indifferent but for whatever passed through it.

He cleared his throat, ready to begin his influence. “Look,” he said, adopting the tone that had softened landlords and loan officers, “there’s been a misunderstanding. I’m only here for evaluation. My lawyer—”

The orderly didn’t slow. “Talk to Admin.”

“Where’s Admin?”

No answer.

He tried again. “I’m not supposed to be on Ward A.”

A shrug. “Your band says A.”

He looked down at the wristband. The letters were imprinted in black, but the white plastic beneath them seemed to have dulled since he’d entered the building, the material itself greying, losing reflectivity.

They passed a maintenance worker kneeling beside an open panel, tightening a valve with slow, reverent precision.

“Boiler pressure’s off again,” the orderly muttered.

The maintenance worker spoke without turning. “If the pressure’s wrong, everything’s wrong.”

Jack tried to catch the man’s eye, to insert himself into the moment, to create the smallest crack in the institutional façade. “Excuse me,” he said. “Could you tell me where—”

“No interruptions,” the worker said, still without looking up. “System’s balancing.”

The orderly pressed him onward. “Don’t bother. They only talk to the building.”

Jack almost laughed, but the sound died in his throat. The worker’s posture, head bowed, hands steady, looked like a kind of devotion. To a structure. To a logic larger than himself.

“Why not just repair it?” Jack asked, not expecting an answer.

“Only maintenance done back here. No cures.”

They turned another corner into a narrower hall. He felt the pressure of it, subtle, insistent.

He tried again. “I need to speak to someone in charge.”

“You are,” the orderly said. “The building runs itself.”

The words landed with the weight of truth. The staff were serving a system that had long since transcended the people inside it. He had come here believing he could manipulate people. But the bureaucracy here wasn’t a person or persons. It was a body. And he was already inside it.

CHAPTER 4: Lost Properties

They reached a service hallway where pipes ran along the walls, exposed veins. Somewhere deeper in the structure, a boiler groaned, a long, resonant sound of fuel and air arriving out of balance for the machinery, hunger for one or the other.

Two orderlies stood beside a laundry chute, feeding in bundles of soiled linens. Neither man looked up as they approached, but their conversation drifted toward him in fragments.

“Another one from Ward C,” one said, shoving a bag into the chute. “No tag.”

“Lost Property,” the other replied. “Just send it down.”

Jack asked, “Lost Property?”

Both men turned to look at him, not with curiosity but with the mild annoyance of people interrupted during a ritual. The first shrugged. “Lost or confiscated. Things that don’t belong anywhere.”

“Or to anyone,” the second added, wiping his hands on his scrubs.

The orderly driving his chair made a small, dismissive sound. “Ignore them. They’re just talking shop.”

“What happens to the Lost Property?” Jack asked.

The orderly shrugged again. “Goes where everything else goes. Back-Nine Yard.”

The orderly advised. “Don’t mind them. They make it sound worse than it is.”

He told himself it was just laundry. Just institutional slang. Bureaucratic nonsense. A place for things the system could not reconcile. A place for things that had slipped too far from their intended purpose. A place, he realized with creeping certainty, for a man who had lied his way into incompetence might be losing properties he didn’t know were measurable.

CHAPTER 5: Patients’ Mythology

General population began behind heavy doors. The orderly swiped his badge, the lock clicked, and the door swung inward, reluctant. An aroma of medicated air billowed out, thick with antiseptic. He stepped inside, the door closed behind him with a soft, thud. The sound of insulation swallowing noise.

The room was full of people, but it felt empty in the way a forest does when every creature has gone silent. Patients sat in clusters or alone, their bodies arranged in postures that suggested both waiting and resignation. Their gowns were the same bleached white as the walls, but their skin had taken on a grayish undertone, as if the building had siphoned pigment from them and left only the residue of human shape.

The orderly let him up from the chair. Jack took a step forward, and a dozen heads turned toward him.

Not sharply. Not with interest. Plants turning toward a new angle of the sun.

A woman with hair the color of old paper whispered, “New color.”

A man beside her shook his head. “Not for long.”

He tried to ignore them. He tried to focus on the practical: exits, staff presence, the schedule he could manipulate. But the patients watched him with quiet intensity, their dull coin

eyes reflecting the overhead fluorescents.

A thin man with a wristband so faded it looked like a scar leaned forward. “You’re still bright,” he said. “The Building will take that.”

He forced a smile. “I’m not here long.”

A ripple of soft laughter passed through the room, not outright mocking, not cruel, just deeply, tragically certain.

“No one is here long,” the thin man said. “But everyone stays.”

A woman rocking gently in her chair murmured, “The Yard smells him already.”

He stiffened. “The what?”

“The Yard,” she said, as if explaining weather. “Where the Building puts what it can’t use.”

Another patient added, “Where the color drains.”

He opened his mouth to argue, to assert control but the words died when he noticed the walls. The faint, uneven patches where the paint was darker, something absorbed beneath it. A stain of bruises, residue seeping outward. Jack blinked, and the patches were just shadows again.

Their medication, he told himself. Their hallucinations. Their shared delusion.

But the patients watched him with a kind of pity that made his skin crawl.

“You shouldn’t have let them write your name down,” the thin man said softly. “Names are how it tastes you.”

Jack swallowed hard. “It’s just paperwork.”

“Names are properties too. Once taken, they leave you hollow,” a woman whispered, “Once the Building decides you belong.”

Everyone in the room exhaled, a collective, weary sigh.

He felt the flicker of doubt again, sharper this time.

He had come here believing he could manipulate the system. But it was watching.

And the patients, drained of color and tethered to the building’s slow, insatiable hunger, were simply telling him the truth in the only language they had left.

CHAPTER 6: Names for the Colorless

The medication arrived in a paper cup, two pills the color of plain chalk. He hesitated, but the nurse watched him with the strained patience of someone who had seen every form of resistance and found none of it interesting. He swallowed them dry. They caught in his throat for a moment, then slid down with the faint, unpleasant sensation of something learning the shape of him.

Within minutes, the edges of the room softened. Muted. It wasn’t unpleasant, the contrasts quietened. The presence of patients around him faded into grayscale ghosts, their outlines turning from sharp, thin pencil sketches into thick graphite lines left out in the rain.

He needed anchors. Points of reference. Names.

If the building was going to drain color from everything, he would put some back.

The woman with the papery hair became Dusky, not because she had any color left, but because she seemed to remember what it felt like to have some. Her eyes followed him with a dim ember‑like warmth, the last glow of something nearly extinguished.

The thin man with the scar‑wristband became Alabaster. His skin had the translucent pallor of marble, his voice carried the brittle certainty of someone who had accepted his place in the building’s taxonomy.

A younger woman, restless even under sedation, he named Vixen. Not for any vitality, she had none, but for the way her gaze darted, quick and wary, as if she were tracking predators only she could see. Her hair, once red perhaps, had been leached to a pale, ghost-fox hue.

He told himself the nicknames were a way to stay oriented. A way to keep the world from flattening into the same monochrome the building preferred. But the truth was simpler: the medication was working, and he needed something to hold onto before the building’s logic seeped into him completely.

Dusky spoke first. “You’re naming us,” she said, her voice soft.

He blinked. “Just keeping track.”

Alabaster shook his head. “Names are new.”

Vixen leaned forward, her eyes sharpening despite the sedation. “The Building takes names first. Then color. Then the rest.”

He tried to laugh, but the sound came out thin. “It’s just medication. You’re all just—”

“Fading,” Alabaster finished. “We know.”

He looked around the room. The walls seemed closer than before, the ceiling lower, the air thicker.

He rubbed his wristband. The white plastic had dulled further, the black letters softening at the edges. It looked older than it had an hour ago. More worn. More absorbed.

He told himself it was the medication.

But as Dusky reached out and touched his hand, her fingers cool, her skin almost translucent, he felt the faintest tug. The building had noticed him noticing them.

“You’re still bright,” she whispered. “But not for long.”

CHAPTER 7: The Misplaced File

He expected suspicion, distance, the wary glances reserved for newcomers in any closed system. Instead, the patients gathered around him with a kind of gentle, gravitational pull. Welcoming. They drifted toward him in slow orbits, drawn by something he couldn’t see. For a moment, he felt almost flattered. Almost… needed.

It was the first time since entering the building that he felt like himself again, the version of himself who could walk into a room and bend its temperature. He had always been good at that.

But here, the attention felt different. Quiet. Coordinated. Hungry.

They moved through the ward, particles suspended in dusty air. Then they circled. Not close enough to touch, but close enough to feel the faint pull of their need.

He tried to anchor them with names.

The bald-headed giant with porcelain skin and the face of a startled cherub became Porcelain. He stood six‑foot‑four, polite and skittish, hands clasped as if afraid to break something. His doll’s eyes were wide, glossy, reflecting the overhead lights.

A squat, muscular man with the posture of a gorilla became Abman. His shoulders were massive, his stance defensive, but his gaze held a strange, childlike earnestness. He hovered at the edge of the group, sniffing the air as if scent could tell him what sight could not.

And the man who must once have been a beautiful shade of brown, was now a pale, powdery Ashen. His skin had the texture of something left too long in the sun, bleached and brittle. He moved with slow, deliberate steps, as if conserving the last of something precious.

They watched him with the same expression: hopeful, expectant, starved.

Dusky drifted closer. “You shine,” she whispered. “It’s been a long time since we’ve seen shine.”

He swallowed. “I’m just new.”

“No,” Ashen said, voice soft as the dust. “You’re still full.”

Porcelain nodded, his cherub face solemn. “The Building hasn’t taken from you yet.”

Abman leaned forward, nostrils flaring. “Not emptied.”

Jack felt a chill crawl up his spine. “What are you talking about?”

Vixen appeared at his elbow, her movements sharp despite sedation. “We’re not circling you,” she said. “We’re circling what’s left.”

“What’s left of what?”

“Color,” she whispered. “Warmth. Vitality. The things the Building drains.”

“You’re all seeing things,” Jack laughed, but the sound cracked.

Porcelain tilted his head. “We see what’s missing.”

“And what’s missing?” he asked.

Ashen answered, “Us.”

The group tightened its orbit, not touching him, but drawing nearer, as if proximity alone could siphon the brightness they sensed. He felt suddenly exposed. The building had peeled back a layer of him he hadn’t meant to show.

He stepped back. They stepped forward. Not aggressively, but an inevitable tide.

He turned away, heart pounding, and that was when he saw the file on the nearby desk, his file, left open, pages splayed, organs from a dissected corpse.

He reached for it. Sifted through its guts. It wasn’t him. Different birthdate. Unrelated diagnosis. Mistaken admission date. Someone else’s history. All wrong except for the black and white photo.

And stamped across the top in red ink, already fading: MISSING.

Behind him, the patients whispered in unison, soft as breath:

“You’re joining us.”

And for the first time, he understood what they meant. The staff were waiting for the building to finish.

CHAPTER 8: Back-Nine Yard

The records clerk didn’t look up when he asked about the errors in his file. She simply flipped a page, frowned at something, and said, “If it’s wrong in one place, it’s wrong everywhere.” Then she pointed vaguely down a hallway he hadn’t seen before. “Try Yard Intake. They’ll know where you belong.”

Where you belong.

The phrase landed like a verdict.

He followed the corridor. The lights dimmed with each step, flickering in a rhythm, disturbingly biological.

The corridor ended at a metal door. He pushed it open. The air on the other side was different, carrying the scent of rust, mildew. The ground underfoot shifted from tile to packed dirt. He blinked, adjusting to the dimness.

He had found the Back-Nine Yard.

It stretched behind the asylum, an anatomical afterthought: a fenced, overgrown expanse where the institution deposited everything it could not categorize. Broken wheelchairs, their wheels warped. Obsolete restraints hung from rusted hooks. Mattresses with names scratched off leaned against the fence, soft gravestones. Boxes of files sat open to the weather, their pages curling.

And among the debris, moving slowly, aimlessly, were people… remnants.

They moved with the same drifting, circling motion he’d seen in the ward, flowing without direction because there was nowhere left to go.

One of them turned toward him. A woman whose hair had once been black but was now the pigment wrung from it. She stared at him with hollow curiosity.

“New,” she said.

Another figure approached, a man, taller, thinner than Porcelain, his skin cracked with fine lines. His eyes were wide and glossy, reflecting the dim light with a doll’s eerie stillness.

“You’re early,” he said.

He stepped back. “I’m not supposed to be here.”

A soft laugh rippled through the Yard, carried by voices in the wind.

“No one is supposed to be here,” said a man whose skin had faded to a powdery gray. “We just… arrive.”

He turned to leave, but the door he’d come through had already swung shut. The metal looked older now, more corroded, as if it had been exposed to years of weather in the few minutes he’d been inside.

He reached for the handle. It didn’t move.

Behind him, the remnants drifted closer. They circled him the way the patients had, drawn to the brightness he still carried.

“You still have color,” the cracked man said. “The Building hasn’t finished with you.”

He swallowed hard. “I’m not staying.”

“You will,” said the woman with the gray hair. “We all do.”

He looked around the Yard, at the broken objects, the discarded files, the people who had been misfiled into oblivion.

And now, standing in the Yard with the door sealed behind him, he felt the slow, patient pressure of the institution’s logic closing around him. He was being sorted.

CHAPTER 9: Back-Nine Yard Notes

Jack’s memory flickered. One moment he was staring at the sealed door, the next he was moving through the debris field as if drawn by a faint, magnetic pull. The air carrying the scent of the same sweetness he’d tasted in the medication.

A rusted locker leaned crookedly against a collapsed wheelchair frame. Its door hung open, revealing a stack of papers. He reached inside and pulled out a notebook, thin, soft, the cover warped by moisture. It felt warm in his hands, as if it had been held recently, though the Yard looked untouched for years.

The first page was covered in handwriting that slanted downward, each line more frantic than the last.

Day 1: They said I was a transfer. I wasn’t. But the record says I am, so now I am.

He swallowed.

Day 3: The Building doesn’t lose people. It misplaces them. There’s a difference.

He turned the page.

Day 7: I tried to correct my file. The clerk said the file was correct and I was wrong. I think she believed it.

The handwriting grew shakier.

Day 12: The Yard watches. Not with eyes. With attention.

He felt a chill crawl up his spine. The patients had said the same things, but here, the words felt sharper, more deliberate. Less hallucination.

He flipped to the final entry. The ink was smeared, as if written with a trembling hand.

Day ??: Once it knows your name, it never loses you again. The Building remembers mistakes. It keeps them close.

A shadow fell across the page.

He looked up.

Porcelain stood a few feet away, his skin cracked in new places, fine lines spreading like fractures in old china. His eyes were wide, glossy, reflecting the dim light with a doll’s eerie stillness.

“That was his,” Porcelain said softly. “He wrote until he couldn’t.”

“Until he couldn’t what?” he asked, though he already knew.

“Continue,” Porcelain whispered.

Ashen drifted closer. “He tried to stay bright. It didn’t matter.”

Abman lumbered forward, nostrils flaring. “Brightness goes first.”

Jack clutched the notebook tighter. “This is just someone’s journal. Someone who was sick. Someone who—”

“Someone like you,” Dusky said behind him.

He turned. The patients, the remnants, had formed a loose circle around him. Not trapping him. Just… waiting.

Waiting for the building to finish what it had started.

He looked down at the notebook again. The ink on the final line shimmered faintly, still wet.

Once it knows your name…

He touched his wristband. The letters were fading. Erasing him from the outside in.

He closed the notebook with shaking hands.

It wasn’t someone else’s fate, it was the early chapters of his own.

CHAPTER 10: Reconciliation

One moment Jack was staring at the notebook’s final line, the next he was back inside the building, the door behind him sealed, the air cooler, thinner, filtered through layers of institutional lung. His wristband itched. His thoughts came in slow, syrupy pulses, as if the medication had seeped deeper while he wasn’t paying attention.

A nurse intercepted him in the hallway. This one was taller, sharper, her expression carved into a mask of professional neutrality. “There you are,” she said, “You missed group therapy.”

“I wasn’t assigned to group therapy.”

She tapped her tablet. “It says you were.”

“It’s wrong.”

She looked up, her eyes flat and unblinking. “The record isn’t wrong. You are.”

The words hit him with the same cold certainty as the stamp on his file. UNLOCATED.

He opened his mouth to argue, but she was already turning, gesturing for him to follow.

He did.

The corridor felt narrower than before. The lights flickered in a slow, rhythmic pattern, like a heartbeat buried deep in concrete. They passed a doctor who glanced at him with mild irritation. “You again? I thought you were stabilized last month.”

“I’ve only been here a day.”

The doctor frowned at his chart. “That’s not what this says.”

“It’s wrong.”

The doctor shrugged. “You must be remembering incorrectly.”

He felt something inside him twist, a kind of vertigo, the floor shifted beneath him. “I know how long I’ve been here.”

The doctor’s expression softened, “They all say that.”

The nurse guided him into a small room with a single bed, a metal chair, and a window that looked out onto nothing but a blank concrete wall. “This is your room,” she said.

“No,” he said. “My room is—”

“This is your room,” she repeated, her voice flat, final.

He stepped inside. The air was stale, heavy with the scent of old linens and something coppery. The walls were the same institutional white, but here the paint seemed thinner, as if the building’s true color, a deep, bruised gray was bleeding through.

He looked down.

His wristband letters had faded further, the black ink softening into a washed‑out charcoal. The barcode barely visible.

A voice drifted from the hallway. Dusky’s. “It’s starting.”

He turned. She stood in the doorway, her outline dimmer than before, her skin nearly translucent. Behind her, Porcelain, Abman, and Ashen.

“What’s starting?” he asked.

“Reconciliation,” Porcelain said softly. “The Building correcting a mistake.”

“I’m not a mistake.”

Abman shook his head. “Everything misplaced is a mistake.”

Ashen stepped forward, “You can’t go back.”

He backed away until his legs hit the bed. “I’m not staying here.”

“You already are,” Dusky whispered. “You’ve been here longer than you think.”

“No,” he said. “I haven’t.”

But the room felt familiar. The bed looked slept in. The air carried the stale warmth of a space that had held a body for more than a day.

He felt the Building’s settling deepen, creaking through the walls, through the floor, through him.

The nurse reappeared. “Lie down,” she said.

“I’m not—”

“Lie down.”

Her voice was not loud, but it carried the weight of the Building.

He sat. Slowly. Against his will. Against his logic.

The patients watched from the doorway, their faces pale, their eyes dim.

“You’re almost one of us,” Dusky whispered.

He looked at his wristband one last time.

The letters were nearly gone.

And for the first time, he understood:

He was fading.

CHAPTER 11: Identity Collapse

He woke to the sound of the Building breathing. The slow, rhythmic expansion of pipes and vents, low whir of machinery shifting pressure, the faint tremor of something vast adjusting itself. His tongue felt thick. His thoughts came in slow. Sluggishness seeped into his marrow.

He sat up. The room was dim, the overhead light flickering in a pattern that felt almost intentional. The letters on his wristband were gone now, the barcode a ghost of itself.

He needed proof he still existed.

He found a phone in the hallway, an old payphone mounted to the wall like a relic. He lifted the receiver. The dial tone buzzed, thin and distant.

He dialed his lawyer.

The line rang once, twice, then a secretary answered. “Who’s calling?”

He gave his name.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “We don’t have anyone by that name on file.”

He felt the floor tilt beneath him. “I was just in court. Yesterday.”

“I think you’re mistaken,” she said gently. “We haven’t had a hearing in weeks.”

He hung up before she could say more.

The hallway felt narrower. The air, thinner. The building’s settling deeper.

Behind him, a soft voice said, “It’s happening.”

He turned. Dusky stood in the doorway, her outline faint, her skin nearly translucent. Porcelain behind her, his cracks spreading like frost. Abman and Ashen drifted at the edges.

“You’re fading,” Dusky whispered.

“No,” he said. “Their wrong. The records are wrong. Someone made a mistake.”

Porcelain shook his head. “The Building doesn’t make mistakes. It corrects them.”

Abman sniffed the air. “You smell different.”

Ashen stepped closer. “You’re almost empty.”

He backed away. “I’m not… I’m not gone.”

Dusky reached out, her fingers cool against his wrist. “You’re becoming one of us.”

He looked down. The wristband was blank. No barcode, no depressions where his name had been.

He felt something inside him loosen, a connection dissolving. The outside world was slipping away. He understood without question.

CHAPTER 12: Finishing Touches

He didn’t remember lying down. He didn’t remember sleeping. He didn’t remember waking. Time had thinned into a translucent membrane, stretched so tight it no longer held shape. He sat up slowly. He was in tune. His wristband lay against his skin, a strip of blank, warm plastic. No name. No number. No barcode. No identity.

He stood and stepped into the hallway.

No one stopped him. No one looked at him. Staff moved past with the same mechanical precision as always, but their eyes slid over him as if he were part of the architecture, a shape the Building had already accounted for.

He walked.

The corridors guided him, steering him without force. He didn’t question it. He didn’t resist. The Building had a path for him, and he followed it. He reached a door he had never seen before, though it felt familiar in the way a recurring dream feels familiar. The door opened without a sound.

The Back-Nine Yard waited on the other side.

It was different now. Debris lay in soft heaps, settling into sediment. The air he now recognized as the Building’s breath.

The remnants drifted toward him, Dusky, Porcelain, Abman, Ashen, their outlines faint, their movements slow, their eyes reflecting the dim light like coins at the bottom of a well.

“You’re ready,” Dusky whispered.

He nodded.

Porcelain stepped aside, revealing a rusted metal table piled with files, hundreds, maybe thousands of pages, their ink faded. He recognized the notebook he had found earlier, lying open a mouth waiting to speak.

A space had been cleared beside it.

A blank page, a blank line where a name should go. A pen rested beside it, its tip stained with ink the color of ash.

He sat. The chair creaked beneath him, old but steady. The file lay open, waiting. He picked it up.

He wrote.

The paper absorbed the words, the paper drinking them in.

The patients watched, silent and reverent.

He closed the notebook, placed it on the pile, and stood.

The patients stepped back, giving him space. Out of respect. Because he gave them names. A new piece of memory. New property.

He walked into the Yard’s dimness, his outline softening, his color draining, his presence thinning until he was nothing more than a pale apparition. And the Building, satisfied, closed its jaws.

[ Index ]

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Elad and Steward Halven left the hidden study and returned to the administrative hall. The guards who had escorted them earlier stood straighter now, their attention sharpened by the shift in the estate’s atmosphere. The clerk at the reception desk looked up, saw Halven’s expression, and lowered her gaze immediately. The house was no longer concealing a problem. It was bracing for one.

Halven spoke quietly. “We must act before he returns.”

Elad nodded. “We need Pruitt.”

Halven did not argue. He signaled to a guard. “Escort Investigator Elad to the constabulary. Return with him. No delays.”

The guard bowed and led Elad through the estate gates. The noble district remained orderly, but the air carried a tension that had not been present the day before. Elad walked with his usual steady pace, but his mind was already aligning the next steps.

Pruitt was outside the constabulary office, speaking with two patrol officers. He saw Elad approaching with a Valcorin guard and dismissed the officers with a brief gesture.

“Investigator,” Pruitt said. “You look like a man who has found something significant.”

“I have,” Elad replied. “We need to speak inside.”

Pruitt led them into a small briefing room. The guard remained at the door. Pruitt closed it and faced Elad with a steady, expectant posture.

“Tell me.”

Elad recounted the inspection. The hidden room. The ritual diagrams. The preserved components. The incomplete necromantic circle. The Valcorin signet. Leth’s confession. The missing seal. The final component S’Gumbbu demanded.

Pruitt listened without interruption. When Elad finished, the constable exhaled slowly.

“This is worse than I expected,” Pruitt said. “But not beyond our reach.”

Elad nodded. “We need to secure the estate. S’Gumbbu will return. He believes the final component is inside.”

Pruitt considered this. “He will not expect resistance. That is our advantage.”

Elad stepped closer to the table. “We need watchers at every entrance. We need patrols inside the estate. We need to isolate the administrative wing. And we need to protect Leth. S’Gumbbu will come for him.”

Pruitt nodded. “I can deploy plainclothes officers to the perimeter. I can assign two squads to the interior. They will move quietly. No one outside the chain of command will know why.”

“Good,” Elad said. “We also need to control the flow of information. If S’Gumbbu senses the house is preparing, he may strike early.”

Pruitt tapped the table with two fingers, thinking. “I will brief only the officers involved. No written orders. No posted schedules. Everything verbal.”

Elad approved with a small nod. “We must also consider how he enters. Leth said S’Gumbbu appears in places he should not be able to reach. That suggests illusion or concealed passageways.”

Pruitt frowned. “Illusion is difficult to counter.”

“Not if you know what to look for,” Elad said. “Illusion bends perception, not structure. It cannot change the weight of footsteps. It cannot silence the movement of air. It cannot erase the sound of a door that should not open.”

Pruitt nodded. “Then we listen. And we watch for what does not fit the pattern.”

Elad continued. “We must also prepare for the possibility of undead. S’Gumbbu may use them as intermediaries. They move without hesitation. They do not speak. They do not break rhythm.”

Pruitt’s expression tightened. “I will station two officers with experience in dealing with such threats. Quietly.”

Elad looked at him. “We need to move now.”

Pruitt stood. “Agreed.”

They left the briefing room and stepped into the main hall. Pruitt issued orders with calm precision, summoning officers by name, assigning positions, and instructing them to prepare for immediate deployment. No one asked questions. No one hesitated. The constabulary moved with the same disciplined efficiency as the city itself.

Within minutes, two squads were ready. Pruitt turned to Elad.

“Lead the way.”

Elad and the Valcorin guard returned to the estate with Pruitt and the officers following at a controlled distance. The noble district remained quiet, but the tension had deepened. The guards at the gate recognized the constabulary presence and stepped aside without question.

Inside, Halven waited in the administrative hall. His posture was rigid, but his voice remained steady.

“We are prepared to cooperate fully.”

Pruitt nodded. “We will secure the estate. You will maintain normal operations. No one outside your immediate staff must know what is happening.”

Halven agreed. “Leth is in a secure room. He will not be left alone.”

“Good,” Pruitt said. “He is the most likely target.”

Elad stepped forward. “We need to inspect the estate for concealed entry points. S’Gumbbu cannot appear without a path. Illusion can hide a door, but it cannot create one.”

Halven gestured to a senior guard. “Assist them. Grant access to every room.”

The inspection began.

Elad moved through the estate with methodical precision, noting the architecture, the spacing of doors, the alignment of corridors. Pruitt followed, assigning officers to positions as they advanced. The guards of House Valcorin watched with a mixture of tension and respect.

They found nothing unusual in the main halls. Nothing in the storage rooms. Nothing in the archives. But near the eastern wing, Elad stopped.

A corridor ended in a blank wall. The spacing was wrong. The air was cooler. The acoustics shifted subtly when he stepped closer.

“Here,” Elad said.

Pruitt approached. “What do you see.”

“Not what I see,” Elad said. “What I do not hear.”

He placed his hand against the wall. The surface was solid, but the faintest vibration traveled through it, as if a space existed behind it.

“Illusion,” Elad said. “A concealed door.”

Pruitt signaled to two officers. “Prepare to breach.”

Elad stepped back. “Carefully. Illusion can hide traps.”

Pruitt nodded. “On my mark.”

The officers positioned themselves. The guards tightened their formation. Halven watched with a grim expression.

Pruitt raised his hand.

“Mark.”

The officers struck the wall with controlled force. The illusion shattered like a thin layer of glass, revealing a narrow passage descending into darkness.

Elad exhaled once, steady and controlled.

“He is already inside.”

[ Index ]

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Tip of the hat to for artistic integrity.

Tribute to “Make More Art” movement by

[ Index ]

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Steward Halven led Elad back through the administrative wing with a pace that was steady but no longer composed. The guards followed at a respectful distance, their attention sharpened by the discovery below. The clerk at the reception desk looked up as they passed, saw Halven’s expression, and lowered her gaze immediately. The estate had shifted. The order remained, but the confidence beneath it had fractured.

Halven stopped in a small meeting room near the entrance and gestured for Elad to enter. The room was simple, furnished with a long table, several chairs, and a single window overlooking the inner courtyard. Halven closed the door behind them and stood with his hands clasped behind his back.

“There is someone you must speak with,” he said. “But I need a moment to prepare you.”

Elad waited.

Halven drew a slow breath. “The room you found is not an official part of the estate. It was created without authorization. The materials inside were acquired without oversight. The notes were written by a member of the family.”

“Which member,” Elad asked.

Halven hesitated. “My nephew. Leth Valcorin.”

Elad recognized the name. It was mentioned in conversations around him at the tavern along the others of House Valcorin. Allegedly a quiet man. Precise. Disciplined. The kind of person who followed procedure without complaint. The kind of person who would be vulnerable to promises of mastery he believed he lacked.

Halven continued. “Leth is young, but he is not foolish. He has always been diligent. He has always respected the house’s responsibilities. But he has also carried the weight of our history. He believes he must live up to the accomplishments of those who came before him. That pressure can distort judgment.”

Elad nodded. “S’Gumbbu would recognize that vulnerability.”

Halven closed his eyes briefly. “Yes. And he would exploit it.”

He opened the door and signaled to a guard. “Bring Leth.”

The guard bowed and left. Halven remained standing, his posture rigid.

“Leth has been missing since last night,” Halven said quietly. “We believed he was working in the archives. We now know he was not.”

Elad absorbed this without outward reaction. “Do you know where he might have gone.”

“No,” Halven said. “But he has not left the estate. The gates have been monitored. If he attempted to leave, the guards would have reported it.”

Elad considered the implications. “Then he is hiding. Or he is being hidden.”

Halven did not argue.

Footsteps approached. The guard returned with a young man in formal attire. Leth Valcorin looked composed at first glance, but his eyes betrayed exhaustion. He stopped in the doorway, saw Halven, and lowered his head.

“Uncle,” he said quietly.

Halven stepped aside. “Leth, this is Investigator Elad. He has uncovered something you must explain.”

Leth’s gaze flicked to Elad, then to the floor. “I know why he is here.”

“Then speak,” Halven said.

Leth swallowed. “I did not intend harm. I only wanted to learn. The house has a long history of mastery in the arcane arts. I wanted to restore that legacy. I wanted to prove I was worthy of the name.”

Elad kept his voice neutral. “Who taught you the rituals.”

Leth hesitated. “A scholar. At least, that is what he claimed to be. He said he had studied the old ways. He said he could teach me what the house had forgotten.”

“S’Gumbbu,” Elad said.

Leth flinched. “He did not give a name. But he knew things no ordinary scholar would know. He knew the structure of the old Valcorin rites. He knew the symbols. He knew the history.”

“He told you he could teach you necromancy,” Elad said.

Leth nodded. “He said it was a lost art. He said it would restore the house’s greatness. He said I could be the one to bring it back.”

Halven’s voice was quiet but firm. “Leth, necromancy is forbidden. It is not a path to greatness. It is a path to ruin.”

“I know that now,” Leth said. “But he made it sound like a test. A challenge. Something only a true Valcorin could master.”

Elad stepped closer. “What did he ask in return.”

Leth’s shoulders tightened. “Small things at first. Components. Reagents. Nothing dangerous. Then he asked for access to the retired seal. He said he needed it to complete a ritual. He said it was symbolic. I believed him.”

“You gave it to him,” Elad said.

“Yes,” Leth whispered. “I thought I could control the situation. I thought I could learn from him without being used. I was wrong.”

Halven closed his eyes. “Leth, you have endangered the house. You have endangered the city.”

“I know,” Leth said. “I tried to stop. I tried to end it. But he said it was too late. He said the trade had already begun. He said I had to complete the deliveries or the house would suffer.”

Elad’s voice remained steady. “Where is he now.”

Leth shook his head. “I do not know. He comes and goes without warning. He appears in places he should not be able to reach. He said he would return when the final component arrived.”

“What component,” Elad asked.

Leth hesitated. “A living one.”

Halven’s breath caught. “Leth, what have you done.”

“I have not delivered it,” Leth said quickly. “I refused. I told him I would not harm anyone. He said refusal was not an option. He said he would take what he needed himself.”

Elad’s mind aligned the pieces. The missing deliverer. The irregular cargo. The hidden room. The manipulation. The escalation.

S’Gumbbu was not teaching Leth.

He was using him.

And the final step was already in motion.

Elad turned to Halven. “We need to secure the estate. Now.”

Halven nodded. “I will mobilize the guards.”

Leth looked at Elad with a mixture of fear and regret. “I did not mean for this to happen.”

Elad met his gaze. “Intent does not change the danger. But you can still help us stop it.”

Leth nodded slowly. “Tell me what to do.”

Elad stepped toward the door. “First, we find where he entered. Then we find where he plans to return.”

The house was no longer compromised in secret.

The truth was out.

And the threat was already inside the walls.

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Elad arrived at House Valcorin at the same hour as before. The noble district was quiet, its paths swept clean, its hedges trimmed to exacting symmetry. The guard posts at the entrance had changed personnel again, but the posture remained the same. Sharp attention. Controlled authority. No wasted movement.

The senior guard stepped forward as Elad approached. “State your purpose.”

“I am here to follow up on the matter of the retired seal,” Elad said. “I was instructed to return today.”

The guard studied him, then nodded once. “Proceed. The administrative wing will be expecting you.”

Elad followed the central path, noting the same controlled sightlines and deliberate spacing of buildings. The estate revealed nothing of its internal workings. It remained a structure that folded inward, revealing only what it chose to reveal.

Inside the administrative hall, the clerk from the previous day stood at the reception desk. Her posture was composed, but her expression carried a strain she could not fully conceal.

“Investigator,” she said. “Thank you for returning. Steward Halven will see you shortly.”

She stepped through the side door. This time, she did not return alone.

Steward Halven entered with her, his steps measured, his face composed in a way that suggested effort rather than ease. He regarded Elad with a calm, assessing gaze.

“Thank you for your patience,” Halven said. “We have reviewed the matter further.”

Elad waited.

Halven continued. “There are internal complexities that require additional time. We ask for your continued discretion.”

Elad reached into his coat and produced the certified copy from the Office of Noble Affairs. He placed it on the desk with deliberate care.

“I have been patient,” he said. “But the house has not provided the promised report. The seal in question is retired. The cargo is irregular. The deliverer is missing. The ship’s crew has confirmed the disappearance. These facts require verification of the chain of custody.”

Halven’s jaw tightened.

Elad continued. “I must inspect the rooms where retired seals are stored. I must confirm the integrity of the archive. This is a lawful requirement under the authority granted to me.”

The clerk looked down. Halven did not.

“You are requesting access to restricted areas,” Halven said.

“I am requesting access to the rooms relevant to the investigation,” Elad replied. “Nothing more.”

Halven held his gaze for a long moment. In that silence, Elad saw the truth. The house was protecting someone. And that meant the danger was already inside.

“Very well,” Halven said. “You will be escorted.”

He gestured to two guards who stepped forward with disciplined precision. Their presence was not hostile, but it was unmistakably watchful.

“Follow me,” Halven said.

They moved through the administrative wing, passing rows of offices and storage rooms. Clerks looked up as they passed, then quickly returned to their work. The corridors were clean and orderly, each door marked with a brass plate indicating its function.

Halven stopped at a reinforced door near the end of the hall. “This is the archive for retired seals.”

He unlocked it with a key he carried on a chain. Inside, shelves lined the walls, each shelf holding small wooden boxes labeled with dates and reference numbers. The room smelled faintly of wax and old paper.

Elad stepped inside and examined the boxes. The seals were arranged chronologically. The box corresponding to the retired Valcorin seal was present, but when Halven opened it, the interior was empty.

The clerk behind him inhaled sharply.

Halven closed the box slowly. “This is unexpected.”

Elad did not respond. He scanned the room again, noting the dust patterns, the placement of the boxes, the faint scuff marks on the floor near the back wall.

“Is there another storage area,” Elad asked.

“No,” Halven said. “This is the only one.”

Elad walked to the back wall. A small cabinet stood there, its lock newer than the others. The keyhole showed recent use. The cabinet did not appear on the room’s inventory plaque.

“What is in this cabinet,” Elad asked.

Halven hesitated. “It is not part of the seal archive.”

“Open it,” Elad said.

Halven looked at the guards. They looked back at him, waiting for instruction. After a moment, Halven produced another key and unlocked the cabinet.

Inside was a narrow staircase descending into a dimly lit space.

“This is not standard,” Elad said.

Halven’s voice was quiet. “I was not aware of this.”

Elad descended the stairs with the guards behind him. The air grew cooler. At the bottom was a small room, no larger than a storage closet. A single lantern hung from a hook, casting a steady light.

The room was not a laboratory. It was not a lair. It was a study.

A table stood against the far wall, covered with parchment sheets bearing ritual diagrams. A small chest held preserved components. A circle had been drawn on the floor in careful lines, incomplete but unmistakable in purpose. A Valcorin family signet ring rested beside an open book.

Elad examined the pages. Notes in a young hand. References to forbidden practices. Promises of knowledge. Instructions written in a style that did not belong to any scholar of Aurethium.

S’Gumbbu’s influence was unmistakable.

Halven reached the bottom of the stairs and stopped. His face drained of color.

“This cannot be,” he said quietly.

Elad closed the book. “It is.”

Halven steadied himself against the wall. “Whoever did this has endangered the house. And the city.”

Elad nodded. “The investigation is no longer internal. You must prepare for what comes next.”

Halven looked at him with a mixture of shame and resolve. “We will cooperate fully.”

Elad stepped back from the table. The room was small, but the implications were vast.

The danger was no longer theoretical.

It was here.

Inside the house.

Growing in the shadows.

Elad turned toward the stairs. “We need to speak with Pruitt.”

Halven followed without argument.

The inspection was complete.

The truth was no longer hidden.

And the next step would not wait.

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Elad paced the length of his room at the inn, each turn measured and identical to the last. He had gone over every possibility his mind could generate, testing each one against the facts, then testing them again. Nothing displaced the original three theorems. Everything else was farfetched, unsupported, or contradicted by the evidence. The pattern held, and the pattern was not reassuring.

He stopped at the window and looked out at the street below. The city moved with its usual order, but the order did nothing to settle him. His need for action pressed against the walls of the room like a physical force. He had done what he could for House Valcorin. Pruitt would increase patrols. Watchers would be in place. The estate would not be unprotected. Yet the sense of incompleteness remained.

There was one loose end he had not pursued. The Fortunae. The ship that had supposedly delivered the impossible cargo. The ship whose deliverer had never returned. The ship that appeared only once in the trade logs.

It was likely futile. Ships did not linger without reason, and the Fortunae had no reason to remain. But the thought of sitting idle was worse than the thought of a wasted walk.

Elad left the inn and made his way toward the docks. The transition from the ordered streets to the waterfront was immediate. The city’s pattern did not apply here. Aurethium’s order ended at the waterline. Sailors moved with irregular pace, carrying ropes, crates, and tools in unpredictable lines. Voices rose and fell without rhythm. Workers clustered in groups, then dispersed without warning. Nothing resembled the controlled geometry of the civic districts.

Elad walked carefully, aware that he stood out. His steady pace and visible hands marked him as an observer, not a laborer. There was nothing he could do to prevent it. He kept his posture neutral and continued forward.

He passed the first dock, then the second, then the third. Each held ships in various states of loading or repair. None bore the name he sought. At the fourth dock, he stopped. His heart lifted in a controlled but unmistakable jump.

The Fortunae was moored at the far end, its hull weathered but intact, its crew moving about with the tired efficiency of men who had been at sea too long.

Elad approached slowly, scanning the workers for someone who looked approachable. Most were busy with ropes or crates, their attention fixed on their tasks. An older sailor sat on a crate near the gangplank, rubbing his hands as if easing stiff joints. He looked like a man who could use a break.

Elad approached him with a respectful nod. “Good afternoon. May I ask you a question about your last delivery.”

The older man looked up, squinting slightly. “Depends on the question.”

“I am looking into a shipment recorded under your ship’s name,” Elad said. “A delivery for the House Valcorin.”

The sailor let out a slow breath. “I remember it. Hard to forget something like that.”

Elad waited.

“The man who took the cargo ashore never came back,” the sailor said. “We waited half a day. Captain sent two men to look for him. Nothing. No sign. No word. Just gone.”

“Did the captain report it?” Elad asked.

“He tried,” the sailor said. “But Kitsigol Shipping handled the paperwork. They told him to leave it alone. Said the man probably ran off. Captain did not believe it. None of us did.”

Elad absorbed this quietly.

“The captain will never work with Kitsigol Shipping again,” the sailor added. “Not after that. A man does not vanish on a routine delivery unless something is wrong.”

Elad thanked him and stepped back, letting the information settle into place. The sailor’s account aligned with the worst of his theorems. S’Gumbbu would not need completed documentation if he intended to convert the deliverer into undead. The only reason to complete the paperwork would be to return something to House Valcorin. That meant the deliverer had been used, not discarded. It meant S’Gumbbu had a purpose that required the house’s involvement.

It meant he was directly connected to someone inside.

Elad stood at the edge of the dock, the water shifting below him in uneven patterns. The city’s order did not reach this place. The docks were a reminder that not all structures could be controlled. Some currents moved beneath the surface, unseen and dangerous.

He turned away from the ship and began the walk back toward the ordered streets. The pattern would resume once he left the waterfront, but the knowledge he carried would not settle easily.

The worst case was no longer a distant possibility.

It was the most likely path.

Elad kept walking, his pace steady, his posture controlled, his mind already turning toward the next step.

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Elad walked until the noble district’s polished stone gave way to the quieter civic parks that bordered the river. The afternoon light filtered through rows of evenly spaced trees, their branches trimmed to maintain the city’s preferred symmetry. Benches lined the gravel paths at regular intervals. The park was designed for contemplation, not leisure, and its order suited him.

He selected a bench with a clear view of the water and sat with his hands resting on his knees. The city’s rhythm continued around him, steady and predictable. He let his breathing settle and allowed his thoughts to align with the same measured cadence.

The ledger.

The retired seal.

The bulk reagent order.

The impossible delivery date.

He considered the most straightforward explanation first. A member of House Valcorin, perhaps a younger son or a distant cousin, might have attempted to emulate the accomplishments of his ancestors and failed. Ambition without discipline could lead to shortcuts. Shortcuts could lead to illegal trade. A single bad actor within a respected house was not unheard of. It was the simplest theorem, and simplicity often held truth.

But the second possibility loomed the edges of his reasoning. S’Gumbbu. Master of Illusions. Master of the Undead. A creature capable of infiltrating structures far more fortified than a noble estate. If S’Gumbbu had found a way into House Valcorin, the implications were severe. Illusion could mask identity. A retired seal could be acquired, replicated, or simply stolen. The house would not know it had been breached until the damage was done.

The third possibility was the most dangerous. A convergence of the two. A compromised member of House Valcorin, already vulnerable through ambition or failure, could be manipulated by S’Gumbbu. A willing or unwitting accomplice. That combination would place the entire household at risk. It would also threaten the stability the house provided to Aurethium.

Elad closed his eyes briefly. As a follower of Themis, he was bound to uphold order and prevent harm. He could not ignore the possibility of danger to the house, even if he had promised not to spread the investigation further. He had no weapons within the city limits. He had no authority to intervene directly. But he could not remain idle.

All that stood in the way of action was himself. Was he imagining S’Gumbbu’s involvement because of his own conflict with the necromancer?

He opened his eyes after time and watched the river move in its controlled channel. The city had shaped the water to its needs, not through force, but through structure. He needed to do the same.

Pruitt. The perfect filter.

The constable had already vouched for him. He understood the city’s security. He could act quietly, without creating a public record, if he so desired. He could protect the house without exposing it publicly.

He could also object if the assumptions were too wild, too personal.

The magistrate was not an option. A magistrate would be obligated to file reports, open inquiries, and involve clerks. That would widen the circle of knowledge and risk alerting the wrong people. Pruitt was the smallest effective circle.

Elad rose from the bench and followed the path out of the park.

He found Pruitt near the constabulary office, speaking with two patrol officers. The constable noticed him immediately and excused himself from the conversation.

“Investigator,” Pruitt said. “You look like a man who has found something.”

“I have found enough to be concerned,” Elad replied, “I need to speak with you privately.”

Pruitt gestured toward a side alley that led to a quiet courtyard behind the office. They walked there without speaking. When they reached the courtyard, Pruitt folded his arms and waited.

“Tell me what you have,” he said.

Elad recounted the events at House Valcorin. The retired seal. The irregular cargo. The internal audit. The steward’s controlled response. He spoke plainly, without speculation, until he reached the point where the facts ended and the theorems began.

“There are three likely possibilities,” Elad said, “The first is a single member of the house acting outside the law. The second is infiltration by S’Gumbbu. The third is a combination of the two.”

Pruitt’s expression did not change, but his posture shifted slightly, the way a man adjusts his stance when the ground beneath him becomes uncertain.

“You believe the house is in danger,” Pruitt said.

“I believe it is at risk,” Elad replied, “And I believe they are not prepared for it.”

Pruitt considered this. “You promised not to spread the investigation.”

“I did,” Elad said, “But I also follow Themis. I cannot allow harm to come to the house if I can prevent it. I cannot act directly. I cannot carry weapons. But you can increase patrols. You can place watchers near the estate. You can do so without creating a record.”

Pruitt nodded slowly, “You want quiet protection.”

“Yes.”

The constable rubbed his chin, “House Valcorin is respected. They do much for the city.”

Elad waited.

“I can assign officers to the perimeter,” Pruitt said. “I can increase patrol frequency in the district. I can place two watchers near the administrative wing. None of it will appear unusual. The noble district always receives extra attention during trade season. I can use that as justification.”

“That will be sufficient,” Elad said.

Pruitt looked at him with a steady, measured gaze, “You are not telling me everything.”

“I am telling you everything I can,” Elad replied.

Pruitt accepted this with a small nod. “Very well. I will begin the adjustments tonight. You will not see the watchers, but they will be there.”

“Thank you,” Elad said.

Pruitt stepped closer. “If this S’Gumbbu is involved, you need to be careful. Illusion is difficult to counter. Undead are worse.”

“I know,” Elad said.

“And you have no weapons.”

“I know that as well.”

Pruitt exhaled through his nose. “Then stay predictable. Stay visible. If something moves against you, I want my people to see it.”

Elad inclined his head. “I will.”

Pruitt extended his hand. Elad took it. The gesture was brief, firm, and professional.

“Go on,” Pruitt said. “I will handle the rest.”

Elad left the courtyard and returned to the avenue. The city’s rhythm continued around him, steady and controlled. He walked with the same measured pace as before, but the weight of the day settled on him like a quiet pressure.

House Valcorin was now under protection. The investigation remained contained. The next move belonged to the city, or to whatever threatened it.

Elad kept walking.

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