For the days that followed, Aiden constantly felt as though something was watching him.
Not the feeling of being observed—it was deeper, heavier, as if the very air of the old district had thickened, each breath requiring more effort than before. He still went to the market for bread, still organized the shelves upstairs, still helped Karl with the accounts behind the counter, but with every task he would unconsciously glance toward the window.
The spire of the Holy Light Cathedral was always there.
The eternal flame was always there too.
Aiden didn't touch the silver coin again, nor the old book. Not because he didn't want to, but because Karl had locked them in that back room, keeping the key on him at all times, not even taking it off to sleep. The old man didn't explain why, and Aiden didn't ask. They both tacitly maintained a silence, like the stillness before a storm.
On the fourth evening, that stillness was broken.
Aiden was upstairs, putting a damaged copy of Herbal Compendium back on the shelf, when he heard a knock at the door below.
It wasn't an ordinary knock. Most customers in the old district were regulars; they knocked casually, sometimes not knocking at all before pushing the door open. But these three knocks had a steady rhythm, each interval as precisely measured as if with a ruler, the force neither too light nor too heavy, carrying a tone that brooked no refusal.
Aiden's hand stopped on the book.
Downstairs, Karl rose from his chair. Aiden heard the scrape of its legs on the floor, then the old man's slow footsteps. The footsteps reached the door and stopped.
The door opened.
"Good evening, Mr. Karl." A young man's voice, flat, devoid of emotion, like reading a government notice. "Routine inspection from the Church of the Holy Light. Please cooperate."
Aiden's fingers tightened on the book's spine.
Slowly, as silently as he could, he crept to the stairwell, pressed himself against the wall, and peered down through the gaps in the banister.
Two men stood at the door.
The one in front was young, dressed in a gray robe, its collar embroidered with a more complex emblem than an ordinary priest's: a dove, a sun, and a crossed key. Aiden had seen that emblem in the cathedral—it marked an "Inquisitor." Church officials tasked specifically with inspecting "heretical objects" and "forbidden books." Behind him walked an older man in the same gray robe, carrying an iron box, a ring of keys jangling at its corner.
Inquisitors.
Aiden's heart lurched. His palms began to sweat.
Karl stood in the doorway, his body angled slightly, one hand resting on the frame. His expression was calm, even a little sleepy, as if he were merely annoyed at having his rest disturbed. But Aiden saw his other hand—the one hanging at his side—trembling faintly.
"So late," Karl said, his voice raspy, weighted with the particular slowness of the elderly. "Couldn't this wait until tomorrow?"
"Inspection schedules are set by the diocese." The young inquisitor's tone allowed no negotiation. Without waiting for an invitation, he stepped over the threshold. The other man followed, the iron box swaying in his grip, the keys clinking softly.
The shop was dim. Karl had only one oil lamp lit, sitting on the counter; the flame flickered in the draft from the door, stretching the shadows of the three men long across the walls.
The inquisitor stood before the counter, his gaze sweeping the shop. His eyes were cold, as if surveying a pile of rubbish. He examined everything—the shelves on the main floor, the oil painting on the wall, the old chair by the stairs, the drawer beneath the counter—his eyes moving methodically, like a clerk inventorying goods.
"Have you acquired any old books recently?" he asked.
"A few," Karl said. "Picked them up at the flea market. Nothing of value."
"The list."
Karl pulled a crumpled paper from under the counter and handed it over. The inquisitor glanced at it and passed it to the man behind him. The man opened the iron box, took out a thick handbook, and began cross‑referencing the entries one by one.
Aiden crouched on the stairs, pressing himself low behind the railing. He heard the sound of pages turning, the rasp of paper unnervingly loud in the quiet shop.
"Three travelogues, one cookbook, seven religious pamphlets," the man murmured. "All within permitted categories."
The inquisitor didn't respond. His gaze had fallen on the drawer beneath the counter.
That drawer. The one where Karl had locked the ancient book and the silver coin.
Aiden saw Karl's body stiffen almost imperceptibly. The change was so slight that if Aiden hadn't been watching so intently, he would have missed it. But the inquisitor noticed. His gaze shifted from the drawer to Karl's face, lingering for two seconds.
"That drawer," he said. "Open it."
"Just some old ledgers," Karl said, his voice still slow and raspy. "Decades of accounts—worthless, really, but I can't bear to throw them out."
"Open it."
Karl didn't move.
The inquisitor's eyes narrowed slightly. He didn't raise his voice or make any threatening gesture, but something seemed to drain from the air of the shop. Aiden felt a tightness in his chest, as if a weight pressed down on his lungs.
"Mr. Karl," the inquisitor said, his voice still flat but now carrying something else, "you know the rules. Refusing to cooperate with an inspection is equivalent to harboring heretical objects. You also know the penalty for harboring heretical objects."
Karl was silent for three seconds.
Then he took a key from his pocket, bent down, and opened the drawer.
Aiden's heart stopped.
The drawer slid open. Inside were a few yellowed ledgers, some loose copper coins, half a candle. Nothing else. The ancient book and the silver coin were not there.
Aiden's mind raced—then understood. Karl had moved them. At some point without Aiden's knowledge, the old man had hidden them elsewhere.
The inquisitor looked down at the contents of the drawer, not reaching in. He stared at the ledgers for a few seconds, then raised his head, his gaze passing over Karl's shoulder to the back of the shop.
"That room in the back," he said.
"Just storage for odds and ends." Karl's voice sounded the same as before, but Aiden noticed his breathing had grown heavier.
"Open it."
Karl turned and led the inquisitor toward the back room. From the stairs, Aiden watched the old man's back—the gray apron looked especially worn in the lamplight, its fabric nearly threadbare.
The door to the small room was pushed open. Inside was pitch black. The inquisitor took the iron box from his companion, opened its lid, and a faint white light spilled out. This was the Church's "True‑Seeing Light," said to illuminate any object carrying a "heretical aura."
Aiden saw the white light leak through the doorframe, turning the hallway floor stark white.
Minutes passed. Maybe hours. Aiden crouched on the stairs, his knees stiffening, but he didn't dare move. His mind raced through countless thoughts—where were the ancient book and the silver coin hidden? Could the True‑Seeing Light find them? If they were found, what would happen to Karl? What would happen to him?
The white light went out.
The inquisitor emerged from the back room, his expression exactly as it had been when he went in.
"Routine inspection concluded," he said, his voice still flat. "Thank you for your cooperation."
Karl didn't speak. He stood in the hallway, one hand braced against the wall, his face difficult to read in the lamplight.
The inquisitor walked to the door, stopped, and glanced back. His gaze swept the shop one last time, then came to rest on the stairs.
Aiden held his breath.
The young man stared at the stairs for perhaps three seconds, then turned and walked out. His companion followed, the iron box swinging, the jangle of keys fading into the distance.
The door closed.
The lamp flame steadied.
Karl stood at the door for a long time, then slowly walked back behind the counter and sat down. His hands rested on his knees, and Aiden could see them still trembling.
"Come down," Karl said, his voice even hoarser than before.
Aiden came down the stairs, his legs weak. He sat across from Karl, the dying oil lamp between them.
"Where are they?" Aiden asked.
Karl didn't answer. He bent down, pulled something from the sole of his shoe—a small key. Then he stood, went to the door, and slid the bolt. He walked to the painting of Tricolor Flag City that hung beside the bookshelves, lifted it down, and revealed the wall behind it.
One brick was loose.
Karl pulled it out and reached into the cavity, bringing out two things—the old book and the silver coin.
Aiden stared at the hole in the wall, suddenly understanding why Karl had never let anyone touch that painting.
"When did you hide them?" he asked.
"The first day you touched that book." Karl set the book and the coin on the counter, replaced the brick, and hung the painting back. "I moved them that night."
"You knew they would come?"
"Not knew. Waited." Karl settled back into his chair, the exhaustion on his face like peeling paint. "The inquisitors patrol the old district every month, but they never come to this alley. It's too remote, nothing worth checking. They came today because—"
He didn't finish.
But Aiden understood.
They came today because someone was looking for something. Because somewhere, someone had noticed something that shouldn't have been noticed.
"Because of me?" Aiden asked.
Karl looked at him without speaking. The silence itself was the answer.
Aiden looked down at his hands. The hands that had touched an old book a few days ago, and the whole world had changed. Suddenly he felt that his fingers were like a switch—once pressed, there was no going back.
"Your wife," Aiden said, his voice soft, "was it something like this that—"
"It wasn't just that she saw what she wasn't supposed to see." Karl cut him off. "She found something. Something the Church absolutely could not allow anyone to find."
"What was it?"
Karl didn't answer. He took an iron box from under the counter and opened it. Inside were a stack of yellowed letters. He didn't take them out, only looked at them, as if looking at ashes.
"She found a name," Karl said. "The name of the erased age."
The flame of the oil lamp flickered, as if someone had breathed on it.
"Where did she find it?" Aiden asked.
"Tricolor Flag City." Karl's voice was barely audible. "Right here. Beneath this city."
A chill crawled up Aiden's spine.
"Under every stone of this city, something is buried." Karl closed the lid of the iron box, his voice soft, like a secret that should not be spoken. "With your ability, you can see those things. You can see the history others can't."
He raised his head and looked at Aiden.
In the dying light of the lamp, the old man's eyes were unnaturally bright.
"That is why, sooner or later, they will come for you."
In the distance, bells rang.
Nine times.
Two seconds later than usual.