The house was too quiet.
Adrian Blackstar stood in the doorway, rainwater dripping from his black coat onto the hardwood floor. The funeral had lasted three hours. It felt like three days.
His mother was dead.
The words still didn't feel real. He'd watched them lower her casket into the ground. Watched the dirt fall. Shook hands with neighbours who whispered condolences he couldn't hear over the ringing in his ears.
Heart attack, the physician said. Sudden. Painless. She went in her sleep.
Adrian wanted to believe it. His mother had been forty-two and healthy, but people died suddenly all the time. The physician had seemed confident. There was no reason to question it.
Except for the nagging feeling in his gut that something wasn't right.
He closed the door behind him.
The house smelled like her perfume. Lavender and something else he could never identify. It made his chest tight.
Three days ago she was here. Alive. Making tea in the kitchen and humming that song she always hummed. Now the kitchen was dark and the teapot sat cold on the stove.
Adrian walked through the parlor. Everything was exactly as she'd left it. A book open on the side table. Her reading glasses folded on top. A half-finished embroidery hoop propped against the lamp.
He picked up the glasses. His hands shook.
"Damn it."
He set them down and walked to the stairs. He couldn't stay in the parlor. Couldn't look at her things and pretend she might walk through the door at any moment.
The logical part of his mind knew what needed to happen. Her belongings needed sorting. The house needed to be cleaned and eventually sold. He was nineteen with no other family. He couldn't afford to keep it.
But not tonight. Tonight he just needed to sleep.
He climbed the stairs to the second floor. His room was at the end of the hall. Hers was right next to it.
Adrian stopped at her door.
He shouldn't go in. Not yet. It was too soon.
His hand turned the knob anyway.
The room was neat. She'd always been neat. The bed was made with crisp corners. Her vanity was organized with brushes and pins arranged by size. The wardrobe door was closed.
He stood in the doorway for a long moment. Then he stepped inside.
The floorboard creaked under his weight. The sound was too loud in the silence.
Adrian crossed to the window and looked out at the rain. The streetlamps were being lit by the lamplighter. Orange light flickered to life one by one down the cobblestone road.
He turned back to the room.
If he was going to do this, he needed to start somewhere. The wardrobe seemed as good a place as any.
He opened the doors.
Dresses hung in a neat row. Dark colours mostly. His mother had always preferred black and navy. Practical colours for a woman who ran a boarding house.
Adrian reached in and pulled out the first dress. The fabric was soft between his fingers. She'd worn this one to church last Sunday.
His throat tightened.
He folded the dress and set it on the bed. Then another. And another. Work was better than thinking. Better than feeling.
He was six dresses in when he noticed something odd.
The wardrobe wasn't as deep as it should be.
Adrian frowned. He knocked on the back panel. The sound was hollow.
His pulse quickened.
He pushed the remaining dresses aside and examined the wood. There was a seam. Barely visible unless you were looking for it. His fingers found the edge and pulled.
The panel swung open.
Behind it was a small room.
Adrian's breath caught.
The space was maybe six feet by six feet. A single candle sat on a narrow shelf, melted down to a stub. Books lined another shelf. Old books with cracked spines and no titles.
And on the floor, drawn in white chalk, was a circle.
No. Not just a circle. Symbols covered the floorboards. Strange letters in languages he didn't recognise. Geometric patterns that hurt to look at. Lines that connected and overlapped in ways that made his head spin.
In the centre of it all was a larger symbol. A seven-pointed star enclosed in three concentric circles.
Adrian stared at the markings. His mother had been religious. She went to church every Sunday. Said her prayers before bed. She'd raised him to believe in God and goodness and the natural order of things.
This wasn't any of that.
He knelt at the entrance to the hidden room. The chalk symbols were fresh. She'd drawn these recently. Within the past few days maybe.
Why would she have a hidden room? Why fill it with occult symbols and strange books?
On the shelf above the books sat other items. Dried herbs tied with string. A small knife with a black handle. Three glass vials filled with dark liquid.
Adrian's hands trembled as he reached for one of the books.
The leather cover was worn smooth. No title. No author. He opened it to the first page.
The writing inside was in his mother's hand.
The Vigil teaches that the twelve sanctioned Daos are the only paths to power. But there were others. Ancient methods that predate their controlled system. Most were destroyed. A few were hidden. Forgotten.
Adrian stared at the words. Vigil. Daos. He'd never heard his mother mention either term.
He flipped to the next page.
I've found evidence of one such method. No name remains in any text. Only fragments. Descriptions of shadow and consumption. Of power that feeds on darkness itself.
Power? What kind of power?
More pages. More notes in her careful handwriting.
The ritual structure is incomplete. I've pieced together what I can from six different sources. Each contradicts the others. But the core elements are consistent.
Ritual. She'd been researching rituals.
Adrian's stomach churned. This didn't make sense. His mother went to church. She prayed. She'd never shown any interest in the occult or forbidden knowledge or whatever this was.
Unless she'd been hiding it. Hiding this entire side of herself from him.
He closed the book and reached for another. This one was older. The pages were yellowed and brittle.
The text inside wasn't in his mother's handwriting. It was printed. Or maybe copied by hand centuries ago. The language was archaic but readable.
Those who walk the forgotten paths court dangers beyond mortal comprehension. The sanctioned methods are weak by design. Safe. Controlled. But the old ways demand sacrifice and offer power in equal measure.
Adrian set the book down. His hands wouldn't stop shaking.
There was more on the shelf. More books. More journals. He pulled down what looked like a diary and opened it.
The first entry was dated six months ago.
They're watching me. I know they are. The Vigil doesn't tolerate independent research.
His mother's handwriting. Rushed. Paranoid.
But I have to know. Marcus died for this. I won't let his death be meaningless.
Marcus. Adrian's father.
The diary slipped from his fingers and hit the floor.
His father had died when Adrian was seven. Cholera. A terrible outbreak that killed dozens in their district. The physician had been certain.
But his mother's words suggested something else entirely.
Adrian picked up the diary with shaking hands and kept reading.
Found a reference to the forgotten Dao in an auction. Bought it before they could trace it to me. The price was steep but worth it if the information is genuine.
The ritual is dangerous. Most who attempt it die. I won't try it myself. Too risky. But if I can complete the research...
The entries continued. Weeks of research. Growing paranoia. References to people and organisations Adrian didn't recognise.
He flipped ahead to the most recent entry. Three days ago. The day she died.
I've finished the circle. The words are ready. This knowledge is for Adrian. When he's ready. When he's old enough to understand what his father died trying to protect.
I'll hide it better tomorrow. Move the journals. They can't find this.
Tomorrow.
But tomorrow never came.
Adrian closed the diary and looked around the hidden room. At the ritual circle on the floor. At the books, herbs, and vials. At the evidence of months of research his mother had conducted without ever saying a word to him.
What is this?