When Daisy scrambled out of the cramped, soot-stained tunnel and back into the main hallway of the manor, her movements suddenly seized up. She froze like a deer in headlights, her breath hitching in her throat. Seeing her go rigid, Allen didn't hesitate; he sidestepped her, shielding her smaller frame behind his own as he leveled his wand at the perceived threat.
It wasn't a monster or a lingering vampire thrall, but Clark. The ghost was floating aimlessly back and forth in front of the massive floor-to-ceiling window, her translucent form shimmering against the pale moonlight. She looked like a trapped bird beating against glass, her presence radiating a restless, frantic energy.
The moment Clark's eyes landed on Allen emerging from the secret passage, her entire aura shifted. She flew toward them with a violent whoosh of cold air, stopping just inches from Allen's face.
"Is he... is he gone for good?" she asked, her voice trembling with an expectation so heavy it felt like it might shatter her.
Allen gave a solemn, slow nod. "Reduced to nothing but ash and memories, Clark. The Duke of Night won't be haunting these halls—or anyone else—ever again."
The reaction was instantaneous. Clark didn't weep or cheer; instead, she suddenly shot upward, spinning in a dizzying, rapid blur of silver light that grew brighter and brighter until—pop—she simply vanished into thin air, leaving only a faint scent of old parchment and jasmine behind.
Daisy finally stepped out from behind Allen's shadow, rubbing her arms to ward off the ghost's chill. "Where did she go? Did she just... pass on?"
"Maybe she's finally feeling the weight of being free, or maybe the grief of what she lost is hitting her all at once," Allen mused, his tone carrying a rare note of genuine pity. He was thinking of the mental images she'd shared with him—the warmth of a family destroyed by a guest's greed. "Either way, she needs a moment to vent a lifetime of suppressed emotions. We shouldn't intrude on that."
Daisy didn't need a second invitation to leave the area. For a girl who treated her reflection with the same reverence a scholar treated a rare manuscript, the lingering sting on her face was a crisis of the highest order. She gave Allen a quick, distracted farewell, mumbling something about cold compresses and emergency skin-soothing charms before disappearing toward the guest quarters.
Left alone in the quiet, echoing hallway, Allen didn't immediately go looking for his sister or the exit. Instead, he pulled out the Duke's human-skin notebook. He settled into the cushioned seat of a nearby bay window, the moonlight providing just enough illumination to study the twisted alchemical diagrams. He knew the layout of the manor well enough by now to know that the 'collection' Clark's father left behind wouldn't be in a drawer or under a floorboard. He also knew Clark wasn't finished with him.
He was about halfway through a particularly grisly chapter on "The Conductivity of Undead Marrow" when the temperature in the room plummeted. He didn't even look up as Clark materialized before him.
Her face was now a mask of eerie, porcelain-like calm. The frantic energy was gone, replaced by a hollow, ancient stillness. "The debt is paid," she said, her voice sounding like it was coming from the bottom of a well. "I've checked the chamber below. There isn't a single spark of his essence left in this world. My father's house is clean."
She looked at Allen, her gaze lingering on the notebook in his hand. A flicker of something complex—perhaps regret, perhaps respect—crossed her translucent features. "I am a woman of my word, Wizard. I will show you the legacy my father hid away from the Duke's prying eyes. Follow."
Without waiting for a response, she drifted toward the grand staircase. Allen tucked the book away and followed her to the second floor, down a narrow, claustrophobic corridor that seemed to grow colder with every step. At the very end stood a heavy wooden door, and directly across from it hung a massive, ornate portrait.
Allen stopped to examine the painting. It was a masterpiece of magical art, preserved perfectly by the manor's lingering enchantments. It depicted a family of three in a moment of stolen happiness. On the left was Clark's father—handsome, sharp-jawed, and radiating an aura of disciplined power in his meticulous robes. To the right sat a woman who was comfortably plump with the kindest eyes Allen had ever seen in a portrait. And between them was a young, living Clark, wearing a vibrant red dress and a smile that looked like it could light up the entire Scottish Highlands.
The warmth radiating from the canvas was almost physical. Clark didn't look at the painting for long; she simply glanced back at Allen once before diving headfirst into the center of the canvas, disappearing into her own painted likeness.
Allen reached for the brass doorknob. It was cold and heavy, turning with a satisfying, well-oiled click.
The room inside was a time capsule of luxury. It was a master bedroom, laid out exactly as it had been centuries ago. A thick, fuzzy carpet muffled his footsteps. To the left, a towering four-poster bed stood like a fortress, its heavy velvet curtains drawn tight. A mahogany writing desk sat to the right, covered in untouched quills and inkpots. Directly ahead, a massive floor-to-ceiling window opened onto a wide, semi-circular balcony.
"This is it," Clark said, her voice echoing from the center of the room.
Allen looked around, his eyes scanning for the usual signs of a hidden compartment—misaligned floorboards, hollow walls, or suspicious candle-holders. But the room felt... normal. Too normal. He looked at Clark, but she remained motionless, her arms crossed, watching him with an unreadable expression.
A test, Allen thought. He wasn't about to fail a game of hide-and-seek with a ghost.
His eyes naturally gravitated toward the bed. It was the most prominent feature, and those drawn curtains were practically begging to be opened. "Mind if I take a look?" he asked, gesturing toward the bed.
Clark gave a tiny, cryptic nod. A shadow of a mischievous smile played at the corners of her mouth—a remnant of the girl in the red dress.
Allen gripped his wand tightly, his heart rate picking up a beat. He stepped forward and whipped the curtains back in one smooth motion.
He didn't find a treasure chest. Instead, he found himself staring at three neat rows of porcelain dolls and plush toys. But there was something deeply wrong with them. Every single one—from the rag dolls to the stuffed bears—had its head turned toward the curtains. Hundreds of tiny, glassy eyes were locked directly onto Allen, staring with an intensity that felt far too sentient for cotton and porcelain.
Allen, who usually prided himself on his nerves of steel, felt his heart thud painfully against his ribs. He took a sharp breath, the "uncanny valley" effect of the toys making his skin crawl.
"Very funny, Clark," he muttered, forcing his heart rate back down as he let the curtains fall shut. The girl had a twisted sense of humor, likely born from decades of isolation.
He turned away from the bed, his gaze sweeping the rest of the room until it landed on the balcony outside the floor-to-ceiling window. Something about the perspective felt off. He bypassed the bed and stepped out into the night air.
The balcony was a marvel of masonry, carved from solid white marble with jade balustrades. Allen noticed that the top rail of the railing was exceptionally wide—wide enough for a man to walk on like a tightrope. Even more interesting were the faint, rhythmic scuffs on the marble, as if someone had stood on the very edge of the precipice every single day.
Why would someone stand on the railing? The drop was terrifying; the balcony was positioned over a sheer cliff face, making the height feel far more exaggerated than a typical second floor. A fall from here wouldn't just break a leg; it would be a death sentence.
Clark floated out onto the railing, looking down at Allen from her elevated position.
"The treasure isn't in the room, is it?" Allen said, his eyes narrowing as he looked out into the empty air beyond the balcony. "It's out there."
"You really are a sharp one," Clark replied, her voice carrying a hint of genuine admiration.
Without another word, she turned and stepped off the railing into the abyss.
Allen rushed to the edge, expecting to see her falling, but her figure didn't descend. Instead, she seemed to vanish the moment she cleared the marble.
"An invisible door..." Allen whispered. He didn't hesitate. If he fell, he had the Arresto Momentum charm ready in his throat. He leaped onto the wide railing and threw himself outward into the dark.
For a terrifying split second, he felt the weightlessness of a freefall. Then, his boots hit something hard and unyielding. He didn't fall; he was standing on a solid, invisible platform suspended hundreds of feet in the air.
As he crossed the threshold, the world changed. The air around him shimmered, and suddenly, he wasn't standing in the dark anymore. He was on a wide, invisible terrace that seemed to catch and refract the moonlight in a way that made it look like he was standing on a cloud of liquid diamond.
In front of him sat six massive, iron-bound chests. They were huge—large enough to house a small army's worth of gear.
Clark was standing among the chests, her form reflecting off the polished lids. "My father was a genius of spatial charms," she said, her voice filled with pride. "He built this chamber outside the manor's physical footprint. He even enchanted the air around it to refract light during the rain, making it look like nothing more than a trick of the mist. Not even the Duke, with all his dark senses, could find what was right in front of his nose."
"It's incredible," Allen breathed, kneeling to touch the surface of the invisible floor. The magic was old, deep, and incredibly stable. To maintain a permanent structure of this size in mid-air was a feat beyond most modern Aurors.
As he approached the first chest, two lines of glowing, blood-red Runic script manifested in the air, pulsing like a heartbeat: 'Anyone who covets my legacy shall find only a grave in the sky.'
Clark stepped forward, her hands moving in a blurred, rhythmic pattern as she whispered a counter-incantation in a language Allen didn't recognize. The red letters sizzled and dissolved into nothingness.
"The wards are down," Clark said, stepping back and gesturing toward the hoard. "Everything my father gathered—his research, his gold, and the artifacts he died to protect—they belong to you now. Use them well, Wizard. Don't let his memory rot in this house."
Allen looked at the massive chests, the weight of the moment settling over him. He wasn't just looking at gold; he was looking at the accumulated power of a fallen dynasty.