The silence in the crypt after Silas's passing was a different kind of oppressive. It wasn't the heavy, ancient quiet Elias had grown accustomed to, but a vast, echoing emptiness that amplified his grief and the daunting weight of his new responsibilities.
He spent the next few days in a haze, performing the quiet rituals Silas had taught him for honoring the dead. He laid his grandfather's body to rest in a small, unmarked grave beneath the gnarled roots outside the crypt, a place where the earth itself seemed to mourn.
The raw power of the Embermark within him, now untethered by Silas's guiding hand, felt both immense and terrifying. His grief fueled it, making it surge erratically, causing the spirits of the Restless to stir more violently than before.
He had to learn to manage it, not just for his own sanity, but for the sake of the few souls still tethered to this morbid sanctuary.
After the initial shock subsided, a grim determination took root. Silas had given him the tools, the knowledge, and the purpose. Now, Elias had to forge his own path. He continued his training alone, pushing himself even harder.
He spent hours meditating, trying to refine the delicate art of reversion, that fleeting connection to mana's essence. Each attempt was still a jarring, painful experience, but the glimpses of that counter-force grew slightly clearer, slightly longer.
He also spent time with the Restless, not just trying to soothe them, but to understand them. He learned to project his empathy, to offer a moment of false completion to their lingering desires.
He began to understand that commanding the Embermark wasn't about raw force, but about a profound understanding of essence—the essence of life, death, memory, and even the twisted essence of the Blackwood curse.
One morning, weeks after Silas's death, Elias decided it was time to leave the crypt. He had learned all he could there for now. His next step had to be to gather more information about the Blackwood family, their history, and the reach of their power.
And for that, he had to return to the city.
The mana-lit metropolis felt jarring after the crypt's dim, timeless gloom. The sheer vibrancy of life, the constant hum of mana in the air, was almost overwhelming. Elias instinctively recoiled from it, his Embermark flaring in protest. He could feel the city's pulse, a kaleidoscope of emotions and energies that was both exhilarating and disorienting.
He found a small, discreet inn on the outskirts of the Merchant's Quarter, a place where he could blend in. The contrast between the hidden depths of his power and the mundane reality of city life was stark.
Here, people bustled with their daily routines, oblivious to the ancient currents of life and death that coursed beneath their feet, oblivious to the shadow that the Blackwood family cast.
His first priority was to find a way to research the Blackwoods without drawing attention to himself. He remembered Silas speaking of ancient texts, hidden archives, and the strict control the Blackwoods held over historical records. This would be a challenge.
As he walked the crowded streets, his senses, now attuned to the subtle energies of the world, picked up on things he had never noticed before. He could feel the mana-signatures of the city's inhabitants – vibrant, distinct, like shimmering auras. But more importantly, he could feel the faint, almost imperceptible imprints of death that lingered everywhere.
A surge of sorrow from an alleyway where someone had recently passed, the faint echo of a violent argument clinging to an old market stall, the profound stillness of forgotten graves beneath bustling streets.
He also felt the distinct, cold wrongness of the Blackwood curse, not just on people, but on places. He felt it clinging to the imposing facade of the Blackwood Guild Hall, a suffocating blanket of anti-mana that made him shiver. He felt it in the subtle way certain mana-attuned individuals flinched away from him, an unconscious aversion to the "wrongness" his Embermark radiated.
One afternoon, seeking refuge from the overwhelming energy of the city, Elias found himself in a quiet, neglected district known as the "Whispering Aisles." It was a maze of narrow streets and crumbling buildings, largely forgotten by the mana-attuned elite. Here, the mana currents were weaker, and the presence of lingering spirits was more pronounced.
He passed by an old, derelict library, its windows boarded up, its sign faded. A faint, persistent echo of despair emanated from within. Driven by a morbid curiosity, Elias used his Embermark to subtly influence the rusty lock, and slipped inside.
The air was thick with dust and the smell of decaying paper. Shelves sagged under the weight of countless forgotten tomes. As Elias moved deeper into the library, the echoes intensified. This wasn't just a building; it was a repository of silent voices, a graveyard of forgotten thoughts.
He could feel the frustration of a scholar who couldn't find a vital answer, the desperation of a student facing failure, the quiet joy of someone discovering a profound truth.
Suddenly, a stronger, more distinct presence materialized. It wasn't a fully formed spirit, but a fragmented impression of a life, clinging to a specific section of shelves. It was a lingering sense of frustration, of hidden knowledge, and a profound fear of something being lost forever.
Elias extended his consciousness, using the subtle influence of his Embermark to try and connect, to perceive. He felt a flash of a woman's face—old, weary, but with eyes that held a spark of defiant intelligence. He saw fragmented images: hushed conversations, scrolls being quickly hidden, and the chilling symbol of the Blackwood family appearing in the periphery.
This spirit, or what was left of its essence, wasn't Restless in the traditional sense. It wasn't actively suffering. It was more like a lingering echo of a desperate act, a final attempt to protect something important.
Following the strongest pull of the fragmented essence, Elias's gaze landed on a section of shelves filled with innocuous-looking historical records. His eyes narrowed. He ran his hand along the spines, feeling the subtle shifts in the lingering energy. F
inally, his fingers brushed against a thick, unassuming ledger, bound in plain leather. The fear and the hidden knowledge were strongest here, almost vibrating under his touch.
He pulled the ledger free. It felt heavier than it looked, imbued with a strange, cold energy. As he opened it, dust motes danced in the faint light filtering through the grimy windows.
The pages were filled with neat, cramped handwriting, but it wasn't the official script of the city. It was a personal record, filled with cryptic notes, names, and dates that seemed to intertwine with the official history, yet subtly contradict it.
And scattered throughout were faint, almost erased mentions of… the Vance family. And the chilling symbol of the Blackwood curse.
This wasn't just a ledger; it was a hidden history.
A secret account. And the lingering essence of the woman who had hidden it seemed to breathe a silent sigh of relief. Elias felt a surge of grim satisfaction. His path was becoming clearer.
The Embermark had guided him to a secret that the Blackwoods had desperately tried to bury. The game had truly begun.