"Abaddon."
"This note was buried in my piles of files… someone must have put it there intentionally."
Kafka muttered to himself, his face twisted in perplexity.
"What I don't understand is… ever since I found this note, I've been having nightmares."
He set the cigar back into the ancient wooden box, placed the note beside it, and headed downstairs to bathe.
---
Inside the luxurious hall stood a grand dining table of dark oak, its surface carved with intricate patterns. High-backed lavender chairs lined its sides. A soft, white carpet cushioned the floor, and the air was heavy with the aroma of roasted meat and aged wine.
"Mama, Mama, I'm hungry!" Sonya whined as she scrambled onto her chair, rocking back and forth impatiently.
"Sonya, patience," came an elderly voice from across the table. Wrinkled hands, long gray hair, and sunken cheeks framed the figure of Sonya's grandmother.
"Sorry, Grandmother," Sonya murmured, guilt flickering across her face.
"The food is ready," Monika announced as she entered, servants trailing behind with trays. She began to distribute the dishes.
At that moment, a man in his thirties descended the staircase. His kind gray eyes, dark hair, and high-bridged nose lent him a dignified air, though a small mole near his cheek softened his features. His skin was fair, his steps unhurried.
"Papa, come fast, I'm starving!" Sonya shouted.
"Well," Kafka smiled faintly, "if my princess hadn't called me, I would have starved to death by now."
He took his seat beside his mother as Monika and the servants laid out the spread: roasted chicken, smoked oysters, grilled rye bread, aged wine, and more delicacies yet to arrive.
"Don't forget to pray," the grandmother's weary voice reminded them.
"Yes, Grandmother," Kafka and Sonya answered together.
Monika sat next to Sonya, her lake-blue hair spilling gracefully over her shoulders, her snow-pale skin radiant under the light. Just as she lifted her knife and bowed her head for prayer—
Tak. Tak. Tak.
A sharp knock rattled the brass-bound wooden door.
"Sonya, see who it is," Grandmother said softly.
"Yes, Grandmother."
Sonya hurried to the heavy door, carved with peacock motifs and fitted with an iron bell. She pulled it open.
"Papa, it's Grandpa," she said innocently.
The words froze the room.
Every face at the table went pale. The air grew cold, time itself seemed to grind to a halt. Kafka's chest tightened, a bead of sweat sliding down his temple.
In the doorway stood an elderly man in a sharp suit. His pale, cold eyes were devoid of warmth. His gray hairline had receded, his aura carried an oppressive weight. His very presence chilled the room.
He was Augustin—the Prime Minister of the country. Sonya's grandfather. Kafka's father.