The house was quiet when Conus and his parents stepped through the door. His shoes touched the floorboards softly, his body dragging with every step, the sling around his arm reminding him of his wounds.
He headed for the stairs, hoping to isolate himself. He wanted nothing more than the dark of his room, the safety of solitude.
"Conus."
His mother's voice halted him. Gentle, almost pleading.
He turned. She stood in the hallway with her hands clasped, worry fixed into every line of her face. His father was behind her, his shoulders square, silent but with the same heavy concern written in his eyes.
"If you need to talk," she said, her words breaking slightly, "we are here for you."
Conus held her gaze for a moment. Then he gave a quiet nod, turned back to the stairs, and climbed.
His room was dim, the curtains drawn against the evening. He locked the door and sank onto the bed. He reached into his pocket with his good arm and pulled out his phone. A breath escaped him, long and deliberate, before his thumb brushed the screen.
The search bar waited as his mind raced. He wanted to see what the news was saying on the victoria high event. He wanted to see how far the Inspectors had gone with their investigation. Yet, he found himself hesitating. He was afraid. Afraid he may relive that moment. So, instead, he typed "Kayden Aromanus death".
Headlines filled the feed instantly. The news of his grandfather's death had been out for some days now. Barkinham could only suppress it for long. Blogs, press releases, discussions and short clips, all repeating the same story with different voices.
He scrolled, the blur of words moving past his eyes until a photograph caught him.
He stopped.
The image was simple enough. Kayden Aromanus standing in front of his mansion. Beside him were Aunt Laura and another woman Conus did not know. Behind them, slightly blurred, stood a maid with a soft, warm smile.
Conus froze. He knew that face.
The ghost.
Except here, she was still alive.
He sat up, and searched again. Kayden Aromanus staff. A blog surfaced, one that had done a feature on the household years ago. It listed names, faces, fragments of interviews.
And there she was. Joan Herzilia.
Conus read on. His eyes snagged on a strange detail during her interview, Joan had hinted at feelings for her employer. His grandfather.
He narrowed his eyes and typed her name into the search bar. Dozens of results spilled out. Too many Joan Herzilias, too many false trails. He scrolled until one profile stopped him cold.
The picture was older, and seemed to be taken in a different country. Joan, younger and radiant, stood pressed against a man who held her by the waist. Both of them were smiling, carefree.
The date read August 3, 2057. It was five years ago.
But it was not their closeness that made Conus stiffen. It was the username she had tagged him with.
Fil_Crucan.
Conus frowned, his stomach knotting. That name. Crucan. It could not be a coincidence, could it?
A random person with the same name as the family that now shared a street with his grandfather's mansion? His gut whispered otherwise.
He saved the photo quickly, then set the phone down on the nightstand. The room had grown darker, shadows thickening as the last light of the day slipped away.
It was time.
Conus closed his eyes and braced himself. Tonight, he would return to Purgatory.
Conus lay stretched on his bed, his body stiff as if bracing for war. He wore his combat gear, the fabric rough against his skin, boots still laced, every strap and buckle fastened. His hand rested on the hilt of his sword, hoping to take it along with him.
Sleep claimed him slowly, not as a wave but as a creeping pull, heavy. His breathing deepened, and the world thinned.
When his eyes opened, he was no longer in his room.
A towering gate loomed before him, wrought from iron so dark it seemed to swallow the moonlight. The air was cold, and silence pressed down on everything.
Conus looked down at himself. His combat outfit remained, boots marching on concrete, but his sword had not made it through. He had half-expected that. With a sharp breath, he called his dagger to his hand, its black edge gleaming faintly in the pale glow above.
The compound stretched into darkness. A single full moon hung suspended like a pale, unblinking eye, and in its light he could see farther than he should have. For Conus, there had never been comfort in brightness since his awakening. Shadows bent to him, and the dark was a familiar ally.
The gate creaked.
It swung open slowly, the hinges groaning like something in pain. A stone path stretched out from it, slick with damp moss and bordered by brittle weeds. At the end of the path stood a mansion, blacker than the night around it.
It watched him.
Conus tightened his grip on the dagger and stepped forward. Each movement was deliberate, his ears straining for any shift, any skitter. The silence was wrong. No insects. No wind. Nothing.
The mansion grew larger as he approached. Windows sat hollow, like empty eye sockets, and the walls bore cracks that ran like veins across the stone. The air smelled faintly of mold and earth left too long undisturbed.
To his right, a fountain stood. Once grand, it was now choked with green moss, its basin dry and crumbling. Around it, the grass reached high and uneven, long forgotten by any hand.
This place was not merely abandoned. It was forsaken.
Conus slowed his steps, every sense sharpened, waiting for the inevitable lunge of some creature from the dark. His chest rose and fell evenly, but his eyes shifted without pause.
Then he saw something.
A glow. Faint at first, like a lantern seen from across a field, then brighter, closer. It bobbed as though carried.
Conus slid into a stance, dagger angled low, every muscle ready to spring. His heart did not race, but his mind measured the distance, the angle, the time it would take to close the gap if it came to him.
The figure stepped into sight. A man. Human. Conus had not expected to see a human in Purgatory. It shocked him.
The glow was a lantern, its yellow flame guttering against the night. The man's clothes were old-fashioned, frayed at the edges, and dust clung to every fold. His hair, once neat, had thinned to wisps of grey.
When his eyes landed on Conus, the lantern clattered to the ground, rolling onto the stones. He dropped to his knees, hands trembling, his head bowed so low it nearly touched the gravel.
"Messenger of the goddess," he whispered, voice hoarse with reverence. "I am Modret, the old butler of this place. The oracle informed us of your coming."
Conus's eyes narrowed. Messenger of the goddess? The words rang hollow in his ears. He knew of only one goddess, but he was sure she was not the one this man was referring to.
He knew this was nothing but the arrangement of Lord Darkness.
The old man remained on his knees, trembling as though Conus's silence alone might crush him.
Conus kept his voice even. "Where am I?"
The man lifted his head only slightly, his pale eyes glinting in the lantern light. "You will understand soon enough, my lord. But not from me. The Oracle waits inside. She alone can explain clearly. Please… come."
Conus didn't like this. His mind raced in suspicion. But remaining here was not going to help him pass whatever test this was. He weighed his options quickly. Attack, press, demand answers… or play along and learn more. His instincts told him that forcing the issue here, in this place, would only set him on the back foot.
Finally, he gave a slow nod. "Lead the way."
The man rose shakily to his feet, stooping to retrieve the lantern. He gave Conus another bow, then turned toward the yawning black mouth of the mansion's entrance.
The gates behind them shuddered, closing with a hollow clang. Conus didn't flinch, though every nerve in him tightened.
He kept his dagger ready as he followed the old butler down the stone path. Their footsteps echoed faintly, swallowed quickly by the vast silence.
The closer they came, the larger the mansion loomed. The walls rose jagged into the night, cracks crawling through the stone like veins of disease. The doors at its front were massive, iron-banded wood swollen with age, their surfaces warped by time.
The man stopped just before them, glancing once at Conus as though seeking permission to proceed.
Conus gave him a curt nod. "Go on."
The butler pushed, and the doors opened with a groan that seemed to carry through the whole house.
Darkness poured out like breath from a tomb.
"Inside, my lord," the man said softly, holding the lantern aloft. "The Oracle waits."
Conus's jaw tightened. He stepped forward, following the man into the mansion.