The fog in the port city of Avrin didn’t just hide the streets—it deadened sounds, devoured the light of the gas lamps, and left a bitter taste of salt and iron on the lips.
Inside the Main Magical Archive of the Inquisition, it was quiet. And absolutely safe. At least, that was what Councilor Vael believed. The heavy oak door was bolted from the inside with a massive deadbolt. The windows were sealed shut with latches. Sleepy paper dust hung in the air, and all around, they softly pulsated—the threads.
The Councilor saw them clearly: golden, azure, and crimson strings of energy tightly entwining the ancient tomes and slumbering artifacts on the shelves. He himself was woven from the same threads—thick, strong, brimming with life and power. Magic sang within him, granting the pleasant illusion of his own invulnerability.
But in Avrin, illusions are short-lived.
He heard no footsteps. There was no creak of old floorboards, no shatter of broken glass. Just at some point, one of the magical threads in the far dark corner of the room twitched. Then another. As if someone unseen was plucking them like the strings of an out-of-tune harpsichord, shattering the harmony.
Cold slithered down his spine like a clammy snake. Vael slowly turned around.
There were no monsters in the deep shadows between the tall bookshelves. Only silence, which had suddenly become thick and suffocating.
"Who is there?" his voice sounded pathetic and dissolved almost instantly into the gloom.
No one answered. Only a slight, barely perceptible movement of air.
And then came the pain.
It wasn't a knife in the back or a noose around the neck. It was something much deeper, unnatural, and terrifying. Vael's eyes flew open, staring in horror at his own chest. The internal threads—the foundation of his life, the vessels of his magic—suddenly pulled taut to their limit, ringing from the tension.
The one standing in the shadows didn't approach, didn't utter incantations, didn't touch him physically. He was simply watching.
Snap.
The sound was silent, but in the Councilor's head, it echoed with a deafening crack. The first thread inside his body snapped, curling up like a singed hair. Then the second. The third.
Vael tried to scream, but his lungs failed him. His body was paralyzed by shock. The unknown figure was methodically, cold-bloodedly, and terrifyingly cleanly carving out his essence from the inside, severing the connections one by one.
The last thing the Councilor saw before collapsing dead onto the oak parquet was the calm, indifferent gloom between the bookshelves. There wasn't a drop of rage or hatred in it. Only icy inevitability.
