Bloodline Descents

Chapter Six.

Elias spent the day in quiet, precise preparation. He packed light — a spare oil lamp, a stoppered bottle of water, and his new iron rod. He laid out the charcoal-grey coat and clean linen shirt purchased yesterday, gave them a quick dust, and shrugged them on. The rod felt right in hand, weight balanced, solid enough to crack bone without a second strike. He tested the swing once, twice, then leaned it against the table and waited.

Elias knew better than to rush in broad daylight. Dusk offered cover, enough to mask his movements and make it harder for anyone nursing a grudge or trailing him to strike cleanly. The fortune-teller's warning still gnawed at the edges of his mind too, and if there was any truth in it, then best to move when shadows stretched and eyes struggled to tell one figure from another. Besides, dusk dulled men's courage; folk were less likely to interfere when the streets began emptying.

"I'll wait till dusk," Elias muttered to himself, pulling the coat's collar straight and setting the rod by his side. "If anyone's watching, let's see how long their patience holds."

The afternoon dragged in quiet increments. The sky faded from dull grey to a deepening blue, then took on the sluggish purple of approaching night. Lamps flickered to life in distant windows, thin coils of smoke curling into the cooling air.

Elias laid the charcoal-grey coat across the table and gave it a brisk shake, dusting off the last clinging specks. The linen shirt followed, rough-spun but clean, its weight a small improvement over the rags he'd discarded. He buttoned it without ceremony, tugged the coat over his shoulders, and checked the inner pocket seams. The iron rod came next. He slid it beneath the coat, the weight settled against his side. A small oil lamp and a box of matches went into the deep outer pocket.

His gaze snapped to the brass clock above the hearth. In five hours, the city bell would toll for curfew. That left him four hours to get in, scout what he could, and thirty minutes extra in case something delayed him. Twenty minutes to make it back to his flat — ten minutes shy of curfew's first bell. Enough margin to avoid the watch patrols tightening the streets. It wasn't generous, but it would do. Elias worked the numbers in his head again, found no better margin, and gave a faint nod.

"I only have four hours. Not a minute longer," he murmured, shouldering the coat and snuffing the lamp.

By the time he stepped into the street, the light had bled away, leaving the city a bit mute.

As he moved, the noise of the city ebbed away. The usual clamour dulled with each turn through narrow side alleys and into the less travelled quarters. The crowds thinned. Those few souls he passed cast quick, measuring glances his way. The kind of look a man gave someone walking towards a place he wouldn't dare tread himself.

When he reached Gloomrise Street, the last remnants of the city's noise had faded. The Ashward Manse stood at the far end — a broad, imposing structure built more than thirty years back. It occupied far more ground than anything else in the quarter, its outer walls lined with crumbling stone and streaked with dark stains. Ivy clung to the surface in tangled masses, and thick patches of rot spread through the mortar. The windows were tall and narrow, most of them either boarded or black with grime. What remained of its towers leaned under their own weight, and the main archway hung open, stripped of its doors.

The place looked abandoned, though the kind of silence it held suggested it was left undisturbed for a reason.

The surrounding street lay empty, and given that Ashward Manse had not been active for years, anyone with sense maintained a wide berth. Yet the facts refused to align. That pale-haired woman's appearance a few months prior had made it plain enough…

The sun had begun to slip in fully, shadows pulling longer across the street. Darkness crept into the corners and narrow gaps between the building. Elias retrieved his oil lamp, struck a match, and coaxed the flame to life. A thin, steady glow spilled out, pushing back the gloom just enough to see by.

His gaze shifted to the old sign swaying faintly on a rusted chain above the gate. The letters were faded but still legible.

'Ashward Manse.'

And then it struck him. The Hollow Chapel had been less than a street's walk from here. A year earlier, the priests and nuns had vanished overnight. The doors remained bolted, candles still burning on the altar. Nothing showed signs of a struggle, no blood was found, and no explanation ever surfaced. The department shrugged, scribbled case closed, and left it at that. The quarter emptied soon after. In hindsight, it made perfect sense. Tending a graveyard (Pale Garden) after its overseers disappeared was something no one would opt to do.

It should've occurred to him sooner.

Typical. The pieces had always been on the board — it only took clear eyes and a quiet head to see them.

Elias let out a steady breath, rolled his shoulders, and reached into his inner coat pocket. His fingers closed around the iron rod. He drew it out, testing the balance in his hand, then raised the oil lamp with the other. The flickering light pressed into the gloom, catching against crumbling stone and tangled ivy.

The main entrance was blocked by a crude barricade of warped timber beams and rusted chains. Elias approached slowly. He didn't waste time with hesitations or cautious prodding.

Elias let the lamp hang from one hand and tested the barricade with the other. He wedged the iron rod against the largest beam. A deft twist of the wrist, coupled with a measured pull, and the corroded nails gave a weary groan. Another careful lever, and the beam sagged loose. He worked swiftly, methodically, ensuring the noise remained scarcely a whisper.

Within a minute, a narrow gap yawned open. The place was cold in a manner the outside weather couldn't begin to account for.

There's a lesser chance that someone could have stayed in here. So cold... I wish I had heat pads.

He raised the lamp, and its wavering glow cast a dim, uneven light across the walls inside. Satisfied for the moment, Elias slipped through the gap, the iron rod loose in his grip, then ducked further and stepped into the hushed entry hall.

The foyer stretched out before him; its walls and floor were unnervingly white, as though dust and rot had clung only to the edges and corners. The plaster lay cracked and peeling in places, but it was the emptiness that unsettled most. Paintings were absent from the walls, and no furnishings softened the room, leaving only a brittle, lifeless space behind.

Elias raised the lamp, and its frail light skimmed across scattered remnants: torn cloth, a splintered chair leg, and scraps of broken wood littered across the floor. This wasn't the slow, careless decay of time but the aftermath of a place deliberately stripped. Someone had come through here with intent, leaving the emptiness behind.

"Real bloody subtle."

His voice echoed before the emptiness swallowed the sound. He let the rod hang loose in one hand and took a slow step forward.

Elias crossed the foyer without pause, the oil lamp's glow led the way. A hallway stretched at the far end, with no door, just a long, empty throat of gloom leading further in.

He let out a low, sardonic breath and said:

"Nothing unsettling about this at all... Eeek!"

He moved through it at a steady cadence, tightening his grip on the iron rod. At its end, the hall opened abruptly into a vast chamber, the ceiling arching far too high. Rows upon rows of towering records shelves, vault drawers and ledgers stacked to the rafters. White marble walls reflected the mild effulgence of his lamp, making the place feel eerily untouched.

It was silent all through, and actually in contrast, looking more tidier than the foyer which almost seemed to feel like if the place was truly raided, the raiders never came into this library — or rather were disturbed by something.

Elias's gaze swept across the room's corners, picking out pale shapes in the gloom. Angelic statues stood there, carved from white stone, each around seven feet tall. Their faces were smooth, with sharp, symmetrical features and blank, unseeing eyes. The figures were robed, the stone carved to mimic the heavy folds of fabric, every crease and line worked in exacting detail. Their arms rested at their sides, and each faced forward, motionless and identical. The stone surfaces were strangely clean, untouched by dust, and it all stood out well.

He would've thought twice about stepping foot in here if he were some idiot coming to loot the place for coin or trinkets. Those statues alone would've turned him right back into the street, screaming.

But he wasn't here for petty theft.

This was necessary.

He took a slow step in, scouring the periphery for paths between the shelves and routes to the far wall, noting how the statues were placed to face every angle of approach. As though watching him. He let out a quiet scoff at the melodrama of it.

Something caught at the corner of his eye — the faintest sense of movement. One of the statues, he could've sworn, seemed turned just slightly more to the left than a moment before.

Elias blinked twice, then scoffed.

"It's just my eyes playing tricks. Focus, fool."

The lamp light shifted as he moved, and the statues stood exactly as they had.

Still — the arrangement of this place suggested more. Might it be, he reasoned, that the Hollow Chapel hadn't been a separate thing after all? It would explain much. The Chapel had gone silent a year ago, its priests and nuns vanished into thin air, the investigation dropped without a word. Now here this Manse sat, not far from the ruins of that Chapel, as though untouched, and filled with records no one spoke of.

If this place had belonged to the same lot, it made sense no one raided it. No sane man would, with those statues glaring down at him.

His mouth tightened. He didn't know the true purpose of this Manse, but the sight before him made one thing clear — this was a repository for information. Records, vaults, something deliberately preserved. And if the fortune-teller's garbled warnings meant anything, Elias had no intention of backing off now.

There were evidently larger dangers tied to the bloodline hunts and whatever this cabal had planned for Descendants like him. The worst part was that he'd forgotten most of what the old man had said during the transmigration ritual — mainly because his mind and ears couldn't keep up with the sound and movement around him.

Elias moved along the nearest row of vault drawers, holding the oil lamp close. Its light caught on rusted clasps and faded inscriptions. Names, dates, and strange symbols marked some of the higher compartments. Those ones looked fresher, sealed tighter, with emblems that didn't match the rest.

He frowned. That wasn't standard practice, not even in noble estate vaults. If someone had gone to the trouble of securing records that high up, there was a fair chance they contained whatever filth these bastards preferred kept buried.

His gaze followed the staircase at the chamber's rear, a narrow, winding structure of tarnished brass and marble steps, twisting in on itself and disappearing into the gloom above. From up there, he might get a clearer view of the layout, perhaps spot whether anyone had interfered with the upper drawers.

"Worth a look," he remarked quietly, making his way towards it.

The chamber remained deathly still as he crossed.

Unbeknownst to him, a shape shifted between the shelves. Shadow-black fur rippled in the gloom, bone plates jutting from its back like serrated natural armour, and blood-dark talons flexing with soundless precision. Two red eyes locked onto Elias's form as he reached the first step.

The lamp's flame undulated as he began the climb.

He reached the fifth step and a sudden blur tore through the gloom as the beast lunged with limbs coiled for the strike, its speed was unnatural and its aim brutally precise.

The lamp flew from Elias's hand, the flame holding steady as it struck the floor and rolled to a stop. For the briefest instant, the light exposed the thing — lion-shaped but grotesquely wrong, with shadow-black fur, jagged bone plates along its back, eyes burning red in the dark, and talons stretched wide.

...A moment later, it was upon him.