No! Don't go in! It's a trap!
Catherine's silent scream broke against the walls of her library, a useless prayer sent to a god who wasn't listening.
Leagues away, trapped in her velvet tower, she could only watch through the tenuous and dangerous link of her vision as Mathieu's hand rose and knocked three sharp times against the dark oak door.
Each knock echoed in her own mind like a heartbeat before an execution. She had sent her most loyal lamb into the wolf's den, and she was only now realizing the wolf was not alone.
The door opened with a plaintive creak, revealing a darkness barely pierced by the light of a lantern placed inside. A figure took shape, that of a stooped and frail old man, with a parchment-like face and shifty eyes that darted in every direction. It was him. Jun-Ho Park.
Thirty years of fear and secrets had turned him into a creature of darkness, a trembling recluse in his own fortress. The threads emanating from him were a tangle of gray (paranoia) and black (terror), so faint they seemed on the verge of snapping.
But next to him, another figure stood in the shadows, massive and still. A man with a square face and a shaved head, dressed in a simple leather tunic. He did not move, he did not speak, but his presence was a mountain.
Catherine immediately sensed his threads: an aura of steel blue, the color of discipline and loyalty, but underpinned by a brute strength, a granite-like resilience. A Guardian of the Pathway of Pride, without a doubt. He was the jailer, the protector of the secret.
Mathieu, his heart hammering, began his performance. His voice trembled, but he stuck to the script Catherine had provided.
"Mister Jun-Ho Park? My name is Mathieu, I am a senior clerk at the Scriptorium, cadastral office. I apologize for bothering you at this hour, but a routine check of property deeds in the district has revealed a minor administrative anomaly on your bill of sale, dating back thirty years."
He pulled from his satchel documents he had forged himself, covered in seals and signatures that looked authentic.
"Procedure requires a simple verification of the signature on your original copy of the deed to close the file. It will only take a moment."
The old man, Park, squinted, his mistrust wrestling with decades of habit in obeying bureaucratic authority. The jargon, the forms, it was all designed to lull the mind and compel cooperation. He seemed on the verge of yielding, of inviting Mathieu inside to get this intrusion over with.
But the guard, whom we shall call Milo, took a step forward, his massive body partially blocking the doorway. His small, cold eyes settled on Mathieu. He did not speak, but his gaze was an interrogation.
Catherine, from her library, tried to project a sense of calm toward Mathieu, to help him "read" the situation. Stay calm. You are a bureaucrat. Boredom is your weapon. Be boredom incarnate.
Mathieu swallowed and continued, addressing Park but aware of the henchman. "It is a mere formality, sir. The sooner it is done, the sooner I can leave you to your peace. The city has new regulations, you understand…"
It was then that Milo intervened. His voice was gravelly, like the sound of grinding stones. "Which office ordered this audit?"
The question was simple, direct. Mathieu hadn't planned for this. He began to cite an obscure subsection of the Scriptorium.
"The office for the Verification and Compliance of Ancient Deeds…"
"Never heard of it," Milo cut in. His gaze hardened. He may not have had Catherine's vision, but thirty years of guarding a secret had given him an animal's instinct for lies. He sensed something was wrong. "Show me your clerk's insignia."
The trap was closing. Mathieu had one, of course, but a close examination by a man like this would reveal he wasn't authorized for this kind of external audit. Sweat beaded on Mathieu's forehead. The thread of his fear became a thick, black cable.
Catherine saw Milo's hand begin to rise, slowly, to grab Mathieu by the collar. The game was over. He had to flee.
NOW! she projected with all the force of her will.
Mathieu, reacting to the pure pulse of panic that exploded in his mind, did the only thing a terrified non-fighter could do. He screamed and threw his heavy leather satchel full of documents at Milo's face.
The guard, surprised by the suddenness of the assault, took a step back. That moment was enough. Mathieu turned on his heel and bolted down the alley like a startled rat.
"Get him!" shrieked old Park, his voice high with panic.
Milo wasted no time. With a speed surprising for his bulk, he launched himself in pursuit of Mathieu. The hunt began in the sordid labyrinth of the Rook's Nest.
Mathieu ran blindly, his only thought to put as much distance as possible between himself and the monster at his heels. He knocked over crates, shoved a drunkard aside, his heart an anvil in his chest. Behind him, he heard Milo's heavy, relentless footsteps, closing in.
He turned a corner into an alley, slipping on wet garbage. His foot hit a loose stone and he went down hard, his head slamming against the brick wall. Pain exploded in his skull.
He tried to get up, but Milo was already on him. The guard's boot came down on his hand, crushing his fingers with a sickening crunch. Mathieu screamed in pain.
Milo hauled him up by the collar of his tunic like a rag doll. "You're going to tell me who sent you, little rat," he growled.
As he raised his other fist to strike, a shrill cry echoed from the end of the alley. A drunken argument had just escalated into a knife fight. Two staggering figures rolled on the ground, a blade glinting under the moon. The perfect distraction.
The luck of the Pathway of the Die, perhaps. Milo's attention was diverted for a split second, a mere glance toward the new threat.
Mathieu used that split second. With his good hand, he grabbed a broken bottle lying in the trash and slammed it into Milo's knee with all his might.
The guard grunted, more from surprise than pain, but his grip loosened. It was all Mathieu needed. He squirmed free and scrambled away, then ran, limping and crying, deeper into the darkness. He did not look back.
He ran until his lungs burned, until the pain in his hand and his ribs where he'd been hit overwhelmed him. He finally collapsed in a dead-end alley filled with refuse, shaking uncontrollably. He had survived. He didn't know how, but he had survived.
As the adrenaline receded, the pain washed over him. He looked at his crushed hand. It was swollen and bloody. But he noticed something else. Around the wound, where Milo's boot had struck him, his skin was taking on a strange hue, a sickly gray.
Black veins seemed to be sketching themselves beneath the epidermis, spreading slowly up his wrist like a spiderweb of corruption. It wasn't a bruise. It was cold, a tomb-like cold, and it felt… alive.
He hadn't just been wounded. He had been marked. The strength of the adept of Pride was not just physical; it left an imprint, a corruption. The curse had begun.