The morning light filtered through rain-streaked windows, casting fractured rays across the Kane Estate's grand hall.
Thomas Black stood alone, coat still damp from yesterday's storm, notebook in hand, eyes tracing the ornate patterns on the marble floor. Every line, every curve was deliberate, the work of artisans who had understood centuries ago that beauty could mask intent.
He crouched briefly to inspect the floor closer. Tiny scratches, almost imperceptible, ran along the edges of the tiles—too consistent to be the work of careless foot traffic. Someone had dragged something heavy. Something small enough to avoid notice, but significant enough to leave traces.
Black tapped the marble with a gloved knuckle, listening for resonance. Different sections sounded subtly off, hollow beneath the surface. His fingers traced the cool, polished stone, following the faint vibrations of a hidden cavity.
Secret passageways, he muttered under his breath. Of course.
The Kane Estate had been designed for display, yes, but also for concealment. Wealthy, paranoid families like the Kanes always had corridors, rooms, or vaults that only the most trusted, or the most audacious, could access.
Black had to be both.
He wandered the hallways, observing the family as they moved with studied civility. Veyron Kane paced like a predator circling a cornered prey. Arcelia moved gracefully, fingertips brushing artifacts as if absorbing their magic. Dorian lingered near the edge of the hall, muttering to himself, dice in hand, the faint shimmer of luck spells hovering around him.
And Petra. She remained near the servants, quiet, her presence nearly invisible. Yet Black could feel the subtle magic that clung to her like a shadow: a defensive aura layered over curiosity, intelligence, and perhaps something else—something unspoken.
He followed her discreetly.
Petra moved toward the estate's library, a towering chamber lined with enchanted tomes. Candles floated lazily along the ceiling, shifting position as if following her. Black stepped closer, watching the faint magical aura around her hands as she touched a volume on the lower shelf. The book was ancient, bound in dark leather, sigils glowing faintly under her fingertips.
She opened it carefully, revealing notes in multiple hands: incantations, potion recipes, and a series of family records spanning decades. Her eyes scanned quickly, memorizing, comparing, calculating. Black could feel her magic brushing against his senses, subtle but deliberate—she was protecting herself while probing the knowledge within.
Interesting, he thought. She knows the house better than anyone. And she's hiding something.
A soft noise alerted him—a subtle click echoing faintly from the far corner of the library. Black pivoted, spotting a small lever disguised as part of a carved bookcase. He smiled slightly. Of course. The Kanes had secrets beneath the marble floors, behind walls lined with books, hiding things even the staff might never see.
He approached cautiously, hands hovering near the lever. When he pulled it, a section of the wall groaned and shifted, revealing a narrow staircase leading downward. The air that seeped out smelled faintly of iron and old wood—damp, but untouched for decades.
Black descended slowly, the magical wards around him flickering under his touch. He had to be careful: some spells were reactive, defensive, even lethal. This one hummed quietly, testing him, assessing whether he belonged. He whispered an incantation, a simple probe, and felt the ward relax, allowing him passage.
The stairs opened onto a long, narrow corridor. Dust coated the floor, but there were footprints—recent, careful, deliberate. Someone had been here.
Meanwhile, in the upper halls, the Kane family gathered for a formal breakfast. Tension simmered beneath polite conversation. Veyron's jaw was tight, his tone clipped, as he debated investment strategies with Arcelia. Dorian muttered complaints about unfair gambling rules, and the staff moved silently, aware of Black's presence but unsure of how much he had discovered.
Petra remained absent.
Black followed the corridor's faint traces of magic to a small, hidden chamber. Inside, he found a collection of artifacts: enchanted daggers, lockboxes, scrolls sealed with complex wards, and a large mirror framed in silver. The mirror hummed faintly, a residual aura of scrying magic. Someone had been using it to watch—either to observe the family, the estate, or perhaps him.
He crouched, scanning the floor. Faint scratches led to the mirror, suggesting someone had handled it recently. He traced the marks, following them carefully. And then he noticed it: a subtle shift in the reflection. Not his own, but another's. Petra. She was moving through another corridor, unseen, a ghost within the house.
Black exhaled quietly. The apprentice was clever—too clever to be dismissed. He would need her cooperation, or at least careful monitoring.
Returning upstairs, he caught fragments of conversation between Veyron and Arcelia. Their words hinted at disagreements long buried: disputes over magical patents, inheritance, and old family grudges. But what caught Black's attention most was a small gesture: a flick of the hand toward the windowsill. A barely perceptible motion, but enough to indicate a signal. Someone in the house was coordinating, signaling silently.
He made a mental note. Whoever had orchestrated Alabaster Kane's death had allies, or tools, inside the estate.
That evening, Black visited the estate's conservatory, a glass-domed room filled with exotic plants and faintly glowing fungi. He found Petra there, kneeling beside a luminescent fern, muttering softly under her breath. The fern's glow pulsed in response to her words, shifting through shades of violet and gold.
"You shouldn't be here," Petra said without turning, voice calm.
"Neither should you," Black replied, studying her from the doorway. "I've seen the stairway, the secret corridor, the scrying mirror. You move through this house like a shadow."
She straightened, finally meeting his gaze. "I only move where I must. You… underestimate the danger here."
"Perhaps," he said, stepping closer. "Or perhaps you underestimate me."
A flicker of something passed through her eyes—surprise, curiosity, amusement. Black didn't know which.
"I want answers," he said softly. "And I will find them, with or without your help."
She remained silent, but her hands twitched slightly, a small aura flickering as she adjusted the protective wards around herself. She was hiding something. Something deliberate. And Black had the sense it wasn't just survival—it was design.
Later, alone in his office, Black mapped the day's observations. Footprints, magical traces, family tensions, hidden passageways. Each was a thread to be pulled. He scribbled a note to himself: Petra Emmerson—apprentice, observant, possibly involved. Watch closely. Trust cautiously.
The note from yesterday lingered in his mind: "Not all who serve are loyal." Loyalty was a currency in Corvalis, often more volatile than gold or magic. The question wasn't just who could betray whom—it was who had the skill to turn loyalty into death.
Black lit his pipe again, smoke curling lazily toward the ceiling. Somewhere in the city, a monster watched, waiting for mistakes. And in the Kane Estate, someone was already manipulating events behind layers of secrecy.
He exhaled, feeling the weight of the investigation settling over him like a cloak. This was only the beginning.
The real puzzle was not the death of Alabaster Kane. The real puzzle was the family that survived him.