It was the coldest hour of a December morning. In the industrial heart of Ashenport, the mist entwined with plumes of soot, veiling the city not in white, but in a heavy, grime-stained shroud of grey. The biting wind cut through to the bone, leaving crystalline frost clinging to the iron fences like jagged leaden flowers.
Around nine o'clock, a silhouette emerged before a dark, imposing manor. A long black overcoat billowed behind him with every stride, his leather boots striking the asphalt in a steady, rhythmic thrum. Strands of silver hair shimmered through the fog, a few rogue locks framing a face of striking intensity. The young man's deep, dark eyes possessed a magnetic pull—an aura so piercing it felt as though he could effortlessly draw out the buried secrets of anyone who met his gaze.
At the manor gates stood Harlan, an elderly sentry. Trembling as he gripped his weathered rifle, he demanded in a gravelly voice:
"Who... who are you looking for? State your name first."
The young man tilted his head slightly, fixing the old man with a calm, steady look. In that instant, Harlan's heart hammered against his ribs; he felt as if those eyes were peering directly into the depths of his soul.
"I am here to see Mr. Bernard. It is not a matter of great urgency, but time should not be squandered."
The voice was crystal clear, yet chillingly cold. It bypassed the ears and vibrated directly within the chest. Finding himself unable to utter a word of refusal, Harlan instinctively stepped aside and swung the gates open.
Inside the manor hall, the orange glow of the fireplace cast long, flickering shadows across the floor. Mr. Bernard sat huddled in a leather armchair, his face etched with the weariness of a man who hadn't slept in days. Dark circles hung beneath his sunken cheeks, and his fingers Trembled uncontrollably against his knees.
"Sit. State your business," Bernard said curtly, though a tremor of fear laced his voice. "And what is your name?"
"My name is Kaelen Voss," the youth replied.
As Kaelen Voss settled gracefully into a chair, his eyes dissected the room's details in a matter of seconds. The oak table by the hearth, the microscopic dust on the floorboards, the portrait upon the wall, the way the rug's tassels swayed in a faint draft—he read it all in a single heartbeat.
"Good morning, Mr. Bernard. You seem rather agitated this morning. You threw your bowl of porridge, didn't you? The sight of the undercooked chicken—the way the blood still clung to the bone—it sparked quite the temper, I imagine."
Bernard's eyes bulged, his fingers twitching violently. "How... how could you possibly know that? No one was in this room. I was alone!"
A cryptic curve touched the corner of Kaelen's lips. It wasn't a taunt, yet it held no warmth.
"There," Kaelen pointed. "Behind the leg of that oak chair, a splash of porridge and a morsel of chicken remain. Because it was raw, the faint stain of blood is still visible on the bone. Your maid cleaned up in a state of terror, and she missed that one shadowed spot. Furthermore, the slight twitch in your right eyebrow betrays a gastric ailment. Men with such conditions are naturally prone to fury at the sight of undercooked meat."
Bernard peered under the chair. Indeed, a stray piece of chicken and a smudge of porridge lay there. A cold sweat broke out across his back. Who was this man? How could he perceive such minute details?
"Fine... tell me your name again," Bernard stammered.
"Kaelen Voss."
"Voss..." Bernard searched his memory, but found nothing. The name was entirely foreign to him. "Very well. Why have you come?"
"I wish to rent this house."
Bernard frowned. "Impossible. I live here. This is government property, reserved exclusively for the tax official. I cannot lease it to a stranger."
Kaelen rose slowly. Under the firelight, his stature cast a gargantuan shadow against the wall, a silhouette that seemed to exert a physical pressure over the entire hall.
"You will be vacating this house within three days. The current tax official, Mr. Luke, will be forced into sudden retirement due to his health. You are to be his successor. I suggest you begin packing your crates now for your move to the new government estate."
Bernard let out a booming laugh, though it rang hollow with anxiety. "Mr. Luke is only forty! He is a man of health and vigor. A sudden stroke is impossible. Are you a fortune teller... or simply a fool?"
Without a word, Kaelen turned and walked away with icy composure. Upon reaching the courtyard gate, he paused by Harlan and pointed toward a rosebush.
"Do not touch that rosebush. There is a green hatchling viper hidden within. Do not let its size deceive you. Remember: a government official, a spark of fire, and a snake—though small, they are all life-threatening. Your master, Mr. Bernard, is about to encounter the first of the three."
Skeptical, Harlan approached the bush. Only by squinting through the thick mist did he spot it—a tiny green snake, its scales perfectly camouflaged among the thorns. A chill raced down his spine. From that distance, through this fog... how could he see something so small?
Two days later. Afternoon.
When the postman arrived at the manor gates, he delivered an envelope sealed with a stamp as red as blood. It bore the official government crest. As Bernard read the contents, the color drained from his face until he was as pale as a ghost.
It was a formal notice: Mr. Luke had suffered a sudden stroke the previous night and was retiring effective immediately. Bernard was officially appointed as his successor.
Bernard stood alone in the hall, the letter trembling in his hand. The firelight cast shivering shadows across his features. Everything Kaelen Voss had predicted had come to pass, down to the last detail.
A single question echoed relentlessly in his mind:
Who is this Kaelen Voss? How did he know? How could he calculate the future with such terrifying precision?
Outside, the mist thickened, swallowing the manor in a deeper gloom. Beneath the rosebushes, the tiny green snake moved silently among the thorns.
On a December morning, the mist breathed as if it were a living, sentient creature. A chill that seeped into the very marrow of one's bones shortened every breath, scattering every spoken word into the vast, white void of the fog. Before the grand manor on the outskirts of Ashenport, a carriage stood waiting. Two horses huffed incessantly, their rhythmic snorts casting thick plumes of steam into the frozen air.
Mr. Bernard scrambled to load his battered leather trunks, struggling in vain to keep his fingers from trembling. His eyes were a turbulent mix of terror and awe, his heart hammering against his ribs with deafening force. Every prophecy Kaelen Voss had uttered had come to pass with the cold precision of clockwork. The tax official's position was finally within his grasp, and with it, he began to feel the creeping darkness that such power entailed.
Suddenly, the shroud of mist seemed to part of its own accord. Kaelen Voss emerged, the hem of his long black overcoat sweeping over the frost with a soft, sibilant hiss. Between his long, slender fingers, he held a cigarette that exhaled embers of silver ash. The cerulean smoke swirled upward, mingling with the winter mist, dancing in the air like the ghost of a fresh-departed soul. The vapor coiled around him, lending him an even more imposing, otherworldly stature.
"So, the hour of your departure has finally arrived..."
Voss took a long, deep drag, exhaling the smoke with icy composure. The cloud billowed before Bernard's face, momentarily choking his airway. Voss's blue eyes gleamed, seemingly savoring the man's visible agitation.
"How... how could you possibly know all this? By what means...?" Bernard stammered, his voice fracturing as he fought for words. His throat felt constricted, making even the act of breathing an arduous task.
Voss took a deliberate step forward. He carried the scent of ancient dust from forgotten books, the bitter tang of tobacco, and a strange, unidentifiable aroma that chilled Bernard to the bone. Voss leaned in close to Bernard's ear and whispered:
"I did not merely foresee it... I orchestrated it."
Those words pierced Bernard's heart like a blade.
"In Chapter 4, Page 20 of the 'Primal Grimoire'—the very book you have been clandestinely seeking—it is written: 'He who hungers for power shall go where power resides, yet that power shall become his sepulcher.' When you reach the tax department, Mr. Bernard, do not forget to look closely at what lurks in the dark. Especially at night. For it is then that the shadows speak the truth."
The blood drained from Bernard's face, his breath hitching in his throat.
Voss flicked the cigarette to the ground and stepped back. His smile was soft, yet it hummed with underlying peril.
"Safe travels, Mr. Bernard. We shall cross paths again soon. When we do, you might find yourself thanking me... or perhaps, loathing me. Regardless, the choice remains yours."
Unable to utter another word, Bernard climbed into the carriage. The wheels groaned loudly against the frost as it vanished into the fog. The mist immediately reclaimed the tracks left behind; not even a shadow remained.
Standing at the manor's threshold, Voss tucked his hands into his pockets and calmly stepped back inside. The owner of the estate, Lawrence, stood by the door with a bowed head, his hands shaking and his face a mask of palpable fear.
"Mr. Lawrence..." Voss said, seating himself gracefully in the large leather chair by the hearth. "As for my stay in this house, I have but one singular request for you."
Lawrence cleared his throat, his voice wavering as he replied, "At your command, Mr. Voss. What... what must I do?"
Voss stared into the flames, lapsing into a brief silence. The fire cast flickering hues of crimson and orange across his face, deepening its contours. Suddenly, a strange light flashed in his eyes—not a reflection of the fire, but a glow emanating from within.
"Find me a storyteller."