Niklas cast one last glance at the closed gate. He hadn't seen anything, hadn't heard anything beyond the car engine vanishing behind the concrete walls. He cursed silently, convinced that the key to everything was hidden inside.
The buzz of his phone tore him from his thoughts. It was Hans.
"Niklas, where did you disappear to? We're waiting for you to have dinner."
The detective sighed and, with one last look at the gate, replied:
"I'm on my way."
When he arrived at the cabin, the smell of home-cooked food greeted him like a warm embrace. Inside, Hans and Susanne were already seated at the table, and Michael, looking timid, waved from his seat. Between bowls of steaming stew and glasses of wine, the conversation began to flow.
Soon the seriousness of the case dissolved into laughter and stories from the old days. Hans, always the one to exaggerate, was the first to recall:
"Do you remember that drunk in Hamburg? The one who swore his neighbor was spying on him with an invisible drone?"
Susanne burst out laughing.
"Invisible, he said. And in the end, it was just the satellite dish from the building next door."
Even Michael couldn't help but laugh, picturing the man's face when he found out.
Niklas, who had remained distant at first, ended up sharing one himself:
"Once I had to tail a guy in Munich, a supposed con artist. I saw him enter a building and thought he was using the rooftop to get away. I spent twenty minutes climbing the fire escape… only to find him in the café, eating a strudel."
The cabin echoed with laughter. For a brief moment, the weight of the missing people and the pressure from Mr. Schneider were pushed aside.
After dinner, fatigue began to draw them to their rooms. Michael was the first to retreat, thankful for the stories that had made him feel part of the team. Hans and Susanne soon followed.
Niklas reached his room, locked the door with the latch, and sank into the chair at his improvised desk. The silence of the night surrounded him, but the echoes of the case refused to quiet. He hesitated. Since that day with Florian, the he hallucinations were growing more frequent, and he feared losing his grip between reality and delusion.
But he also knew he was running out of options.
With a heavy sigh, he closed his eyes and let himself sink into the trance. Darkness enveloped him, and within it, the shimmering door emerged, followed by a voice.
"I see fear in you," the voice whispered in his mind.
"It's all I have left. I need to know how to move forward in this case. Where should I look?"
Tormented, Niklas began the invocation:
"Through the shadow that never sleeps, Gusion, show me what once was."
"The truth is a punishment, Niklas."
The images unfolded before him: a desk lit by lamps, a letter sealed with wax, a name written in firm calligraphy… and the signature of the noble Von Hohenwald. The letter was a recommendation: a new guard would be accepted into that closed compound, the very place Niklas had seen the suspect enter. Gusion showed him it would happen in two days.
Niklas gasped as he opened his eyes, surprised that his nose wasn't bleeding this time. The room was the same, yet his pulse raced wildly. The vision wasn't entirely clear, but it was enough: he had to find that letter. Somehow, he needed to get his hands on it to infiltrate that place.
"Von Hohenwald… damn it. I knew he was up to something."
Niklas leaned his elbows on the table, deep in thought. Time was running out, and the game was getting more dangerous with each move.
Shifting back to the days leading up to January 4th, 2019, life had turned into an intense routine for Lars. From dawn until late afternoon, he trained under the supervision of Dominion's instructors. First came martial arts: sharp strikes against wooden dummies, sparring with more experienced opponents, endless falls onto tatami mats. Then came firearms training, learning to handle different weapons. He wasn't perfect, but he was beginning to feel more confident in his movements.
What troubled him weren't fists or bullets, but the power bestowed upon him in the pact: the dark flames.
Each night, in solitude, he locked himself inside the palace library. Surrounded by ancient tomes written in Latin and archaic German, he searched for references, symbols, formulas that could give him a clue on how to awaken that energy.
He remembered his failed attempts vividly:
The first time, he focused all his willpower on a burning candle, trying to make the flame change color or expand. Nothing happened.
Later, in the training yard, he tried channeling his rage into a punching bag, imagining the shadows wrapping around it. The only result was exhaustion and bloodied knuckles.
A third attempt, desperate, involved reciting passages from a grimorio that spoke of infernal fire. All he got was a puff of dark smoke that vanished as if mocking him.
The only ability that had emerged naturally was his super strength. His blows now knocked down heavier men, and he had accidentally broken a doorframe just by leaning on it. Useful, yes—but not enough.
After a few days, Sigmund summoned him to his office.
The leader, imposing even without his top hat, regarded him in silence before speaking:
"I've found your first mission."
Lars felt a knot in his stomach. He wasn't ready—not without mastering the flames. He hesitated for a moment, but the flicker of distrust in Sigmund's eyes was enough to push him to reply:
"I'll do it."
The night of January 4th was set for the meeting with the person requesting Dominion's services. Lars was preparing to leave the palace when Klein intercepted him in the corridor.
"You won't be going dressed like that," Klein said, with that mocking grin he rarely lost.
Lars jumped, startled—he hadn't seen Klein. "Oh, it was you. How did it go with the job?"
Klein sighed. "Five tough days, but we pulled it off." He lifted his thumb and grinned.
Then he led Lars to a room he had never seen before. Inside, garments of every kind hung on racks: cloaks, jackets, masks carved into animal shapes or grotesque figures. The air smelled of leather and old wood.
"Anonymity is everything here," Klein explained. "The client must never know who you are. They must believe they'll always deal with a different face, a shadow with no name."
Lars wandered the room, uncertain. Klein, however, picked without hesitation: a dark cloak with a hood, and a clown mask. One eye was marked with a diamond, the other with a clover.
"Wear this," he said, handing it over. "It'll give you an unpredictable air."
Lars nodded silently. That very night, cloaked in anonymity, he would meet the one who awaited him.
He glanced at Klein and asked, "Then why, when you came to see me in Ingolstadt, weren't you wearing masks, if anonymity is so important?"
"With clients we keep our anonymity. With you, it wasn't necessary—because I knew you wouldn't talk to the police. Remember, I can read your mind at all times, even days before we actually met."
Lars was puzzled, but said nothing more. He donned the dark cloak, mask in hand, and followed Klein outside, where a car with tinted windows was waiting. Hermann was behind the wheel.
"Hermann, how are you? I haven't seen you since the day I arrived here" Lars greeted.
Hermann cut the engine. "Hey. All good. I'm not allowed inside the palace, only members of the organization can enter. I just work for Klein."
Then Klein slid into the passenger seat and greeted him too."Hello, Hermann. I need you to take us to this address." He handed him a slip of paper with an address. Hermann typed it into the GPS.
"Lars, get in already. We're leaving," Klein ordered.