Charles and Joseph arrived at their destination, the carriage stopping in front of a crumbling ruin. The structure was all that remained of St. Margaret's, once a haven for the poor but now reduced to a harsh reminder of darker days.
The old clinic stood on the outskirts of the Old Town, silent and desolate. Large sections of its walls had collapsed during a massive earthquake, while fire had consumed what still stood. Only a scorched skeleton of its former self remained. The outer walls had peeled away to reveal the underlying brick, cracks running through them like anger etched into the earth.
Just gazing at it, one could almost smell lingering ash in the air, despite the years gone by. Pieces of wood that were once beams or window frames lay scattered on the ground, half-buried by dirt and stone. Window frames twisted out of shape under intense heat, broken glass shards reflecting the anguish of those who had been there.
Vines and tall grass covered some portions of the wreckage, nature reclaiming the abandoned place. A half-burned iron door still hung from its twisted hinges, squeaking faintly in the wind as though whispering lost stories from long ago.
"So…this is St. Margaret's," Charles murmured, standing amidst the rubble and surveying the area.
"Yes," Joseph replied softly, eyes riveted on the ruin before them. It was as though he was trying to pull blurred memories from the recesses of his mind.
"This used to be a charitable clinic," Joseph explained. "Founded to help the poor in the Old Town district, for those who couldn't afford decent medical care."
Charles nodded as he listened, eyes roving across the battered structure. The silence here carried a deep sense of sorrow.
"It was the last refuge for many in this neighborhood," Joseph went on. "Doctors and staff volunteered their time, not expecting any compensation. They devoted themselves to treating patients but…" He trailed off, gaze shifting to a warped metal window frame. "When the quake hit, followed by that fire, the whole place collapsed in no time."
"How many people died?" Charles asked quietly, peering into the cracked remains, as though trying to see echoes of the past lurking in every crevice.
"Quite a few," Joseph said, voice grim. "Patients and staff were trapped in the building the day it happened. Some chalk it up to a terrible accident, others suspect sabotage. An earthquake and a massive blaze on the same day… too catastrophic to be mere coincidence."
Charles frowned. "Was there ever an official cause for the fire?"
Joseph nodded and answered, "From what the records say, they did arrest a man they believed to be the arsonist."
"People claimed they spotted him starting a fire in the clinic courtyard on the day of the disaster."
"So did he admit to it?" Charles asked, watching Joseph carefully for any hidden connections.
"That's the strange part," Joseph sighed. "He said he never meant to set the place ablaze at all, only that he was lighting a fire to stay warm."
Charles raised a brow. "Stay warm?"
"Exactly," Joseph replied. "It was the dead of winter, freezing cold. He claimed he was only building a small fire for heat, but no one believed him."
Charles mulled that over. "Why not?"
"Because the blaze was so huge, people needed someone to blame." Joseph's tone was resigned.
Charles gave a slight nod, his eyes carrying a hint of doubt. "What happened to that man? Is he still alive?"
"No idea…" Joseph said, sounding unsure. "Once they jailed him, everyone's interest waned. The story died down quickly."
He gave a small shrug. "That's how big events usually go… People care a lot at the start, when it's all chaos and excitement. But after a few days, they move on to the next thing. Even if the case remains unsolved, it's forgotten, overshadowed by new headlines."
Charles nodded slowly. "Yes… tragedies or scandals often monopolize people's attention for a short time. Then, as soon as there's no fresh angle, everyone moves on. Unanswered questions get left behind."
Joseph let his gaze drift over the charred walls and rubble. "Sometimes old news does get resurrected… but how many truly remember it? How many learn from it, instead of just glancing at it briefly and forgetting? The details fade, the significance fades with them."
He sighed. "St. Margaret's ended up being like that. People died, it was tragic—but it was soon buried under new concerns. Now, only ashes remain, and only a handful of people even recall what really happened."
For a moment, both men stood in a hush broken only by the wind sweeping past the blackened ruins, as if the place still clutched its secrets in the shadows.
"You could've remembered this fire the moment we were in Humphrey's house, you know," Charles teased lightly.
"I forgot," Joseph shot back curtly.
"All right, let's go," Charles suggested, striding forward.
They moved deeper into the skeleton of St. Margaret's, where the rubble told the story of a day lost in time. This was once a place brimming with life and hope, now drowned in ruin.
Stepping over broken bricks and fallen beams, they found caved-in floors, while vines coiled around whatever was left. Some parts of the walls bore black scorch marks, the silent scars of the flames that once raged.
They came upon a narrow hallway that had once connected patient wards—now cluttered with collapsed timbers and warped window frames melted by the inferno. Their footsteps echoed, as if rousing the dormant ghosts of past residents.
Eventually, Charles and Joseph arrived at a patient ward—desolate, unwelcoming, the chill in the air intensifying. This space was where many had likely drawn their last breaths. Dust coated everything; shattered bed frames lay scattered, the old straw mattresses torn. Piles of straw spilled on the floor, as though time had frozen at the moment of catastrophe. A few side-tables had been charred black, and glass medical containers lay smashed to bits. The cold stone floor was cracked as if it had once borne a great weight of suffering.
"Probably no one here had a chance to escape," Joseph murmured, stopping at a bed frame with a faded, handwritten name tag. The scrawled ink was so faint it was almost invisible, a testament to the final despair of the patients.
Charles glanced about, stopping at a small wooden window half encased in a twisted iron frame. Fragments of glass clung in the corners. Beyond lay a sky tangling with vines and creeping plants, as though nature had overtaken the space humanity left behind.
He noticed a framed picture on the wall—its paint hidden under thick dust and dead leaves. As Charles brushed away the dust and debris covering the oil painting, he began to make out a group portrait of people arranged in formal poses. Once, it must have looked stately, but the fire had discolored large swaths of it. The edges were warped, lines of color smudged with black scorch marks.
In the center stood a man dressed differently from the rest—while others wore long coats like doctors or nuns, he wore fine clothing with elaborate embroidery and a linen shirt of high quality, exuding the aura of someone well-born. He stood confidently, presumably in a position of authority.
At his sides, two men stood, one on each side, nearest to him. They appeared close confidants or trusted subordinates.
Charles focused on the face of one, partially spared by the fire's damage—an older adult with pale skin and sharp eyes, a reserved posture. Though the painting was old and marred, Charles felt a flicker of recognition.
"Humphrey…" he whispered.
Joseph turned. "Where?"
"There." Charles pointed. "He's younger than what we saw this morning, but it's him."
Then Charles's attention shifted to another figure—this one on the right side of the central man. The plump build, pale complexion, and light brown hair made him freeze.
"That's Roland Bradford…" he murmured, voice tinged with surprise.
Joseph peered closer. "The one who disappeared before Michael, right?"
Charles nodded. "Yes. He looks slightly different from the guild's record, but the stocky frame, pale skin, light brown hair… definitely Roland."
However, the painting's center was badly scorched. Two figures at the margins remained unrecognizable—one might be Michael Berg, or the founder, or another person of similar rank. For now, Charles had no way of knowing.
They stood in silence a moment, staring at the half-burned painting that still concealed so much. The secrets of St. Margaret's had not perished in the fire. They lurked in the shadows, and Charles and Joseph had only just begun to tug at the thread that might unravel the truth.
"We have to figure out how these people were connected," Charles said determinedly. "And why Humphrey never mentioned his position here."
A chill wind whistled through the shattered window, whispering an ancient tale to no one. Charles rolled up his sleeves slightly and stepped out of the room, leaving behind half-answered questions. They followed a cold stone corridor, presumably toward what used to be the head administrator's office. The hush was broken only by the crunch of debris underfoot—remnants of a cataclysmic event.
The corridor was strewn with dust and rubble fallen from the ceiling. The walls bore deep cracks, evidence of the quake, along with stubborn streaks of char from the inferno.
They arrived at a large oak door, once the head administrator's main entrance. Its surface had been partly scorched, and the iron hinges, once shiny, were now rusted and warped.
"Give me a hand," Charles said, grasping the handle as Joseph joined him. They pushed together. The door groaned loudly and then swung ajar, revealing what remained of an office that still held a faint air of authority.
The head administrator's office of St. Margaret's was larger than the other rooms they had passed. At its center stood an ornately carved oak desk. Though partially burned, it hinted at the wealth of its former occupant. The tabletop was strewn with charred paper scraps, old documents, and an overturned inkwell now spilled on the floor.
Behind the desk was a tall bookshelf, stuffed with texts and records mostly destroyed by the fire. Some volumes bore foreign scripts and ancient dialects on their covers; many had rotted from damp over the years.
Charles went to a small window, its glass shattered into shards. Through it lay a rear courtyard, overgrown with vines and broken rubble, as though nature had reclaimed what humans had abandoned. "Maybe someone escaped through here," he mused to himself.
Meanwhile, Joseph began rummaging through the papers piled atop the desk, mostly routine medical reports. He paused when a faint draft of chill air brushed him, seeming to slip through a narrow gap in one part of the room.
"Did you hear that?" Joseph asked softly, tilting his head to listen. That faint wind seemed to come from somewhere inside the wall near the desk.
Charles turned away from the window, seeing Joseph pressing an ear to a thick wall of elm near the desk.
"Something's behind this wall," Joseph murmured, as he ran his hand along the weathered wood surface.
Charles joined him, tapping lightly. The reply came back hollow, as though there was empty space behind it.
"A false wall…" Charles whispered, a small smile curling his lips. He sensed they were close to uncovering something deliberately hidden.
They searched the wall for a mechanism or hidden latch. Charles ran his hand carefully along the wooden edges while Joseph examined the base, until Charles felt something.
"Here. Look." He pointed to a tiny metal lever tucked at the corner of the paneled trim, nearly invisible.
"Try pressing it," Charles said, excitement creeping into his voice.
Joseph nodded. Charles pushed the lever, and the ancient mechanism made a dull clack.
Nothing moved.
They exchanged a disappointed look.
"Maybe it's too old," Joseph muttered. "Or the quake and fire destroyed the mechanism."
Charles sighed. "If the lever's broken, we'll do it ourselves." He moved to a corner of the wall, testing the loosened boards with gentle pressure. They felt weak, likely needing brute force.
"Help me pry it open," Charles instructed, pulling out a handkerchief he'd kept for tools. He gave it a firm shake—revealing a sturdy metal pry-bar hidden within—then wedged the tip into a gap in the boards.
"Count of three," he said, glancing at Joseph, who gripped the bar alongside him.
"One…two…three!" They heaved together.
Wooden elm, rotted by age and flame, splintered with a sharp crack. The panel slowly tore away from its frame, revealing a concealed metal door behind it, rusted from disuse. It bore scorch marks from the fire but still stood. Time and tragedy had not fully destroyed it.
Charles carefully tested the old metal knob, twisting it gingerly. It was stiff and made a protesting creak, but eventually it yielded.
A stale, musty odor wafted up the moment it opened, unveiling a narrow stone stair descending into darkness.
"This is…" Joseph breathed. "A secret passage…"