The sky above the city wasn't blue that morning—it was a heavy, ashen gray, as if the clouds themselves refused to let the sun through.
In the old quarters, where forgotten stone clung to the faces of buildings and dampness gnawed at the walls of abandoned churches, there was only one street where the ground still breathed sound—Morris' Black Alley.
Luin walked between the walls like someone forcing the earth to retreat.
Behind him followed the shadow of a noble who no longer bothered to hide.
His name was Ired Neval.
Nobles rarely offered their full names, but this man did—without hesitation—as though the name itself were a weapon he was unafraid to wield.
"I've been watching you since the market," Ired said, eyes fixed on the smoke rising from a broken window.
"When you burned those old ones."
Luin didn't reply.
He moved silently, as if tracing the scar of something long past.
"No one kills an entire unit of the Lower Order," the noble continued in his smooth tone, "without becoming a story. And now, your story belongs to everyone."
⸻
At the end of the alley stood a tree.
But it was no ordinary tree.
Its trunk was veined with black lines like blood turned to stone. Its leaves were dry yet would not fall.
It grew out of the cracked tiles of an ancient, abandoned temple—its door half open, a broken cross leaning on the roof.
Luin stopped before it.
A coldness seeped from the earth and crawled up his fingertips.
"This is the Tree of Silence," said the noble behind him. "It grows wherever the first betrayal was born."
Luin didn't move.
Ired stepped closer and whispered,
"This ground was written over with betrayal long ago. Older than the church… older than your blood."
Something in Luin tensed.
He didn't know why, but the tree stirred something inside him—something like recognition.
As though a part of him had never left this place.
He reached out, and touched the bark.
⸻
Time shifted.
Just a second—but it was enough for his soul to feel like it was falling.
Like shadows were clawing at his eyelids.
He wasn't alone inside his body.
Something stirred in his chest.
Then came the voice.
Not a whisper this time—a stab.
"Did you forget? This is where your first pieces were cut away."
Luin tore his hand from the bark, heart hammering violently—but his face remained calm.
"You've lost something here, haven't you?" Ired said, still not looking at him.
Luin finally turned.
"What do you know about me?"
The noble smiled—a smile that showed teeth but no warmth.
"I know you're not you. At least, not entirely."
⸻
Two stone benches sat near the temple's entrance.
Ired took one, pulled a rolled paper from his pocket, lit it, and took a long drag.
"I'm not like the others," he said. "I don't work for the church. I don't believe in the rest of the nobles. I'm a man with my own problem… and my problem looks a lot like yours."
Luin didn't sit, but he didn't leave either.
"You're moving toward the second seal, aren't you?"
Luin stayed silent.
"The second seal only opens through betrayal… or a loss that feels like one."
He pointed toward the tree.
"That's why I brought you here—to make you remember something… or lose it."
⸻
Inside, the temple was dark.
Its stone floor glistened with traces of dried blood, and a shattered altar lay at the center.
Symbols were carved into the walls—unlike any Luin had ever seen.
They looked like seals, but not quite.
"This isn't a White Church temple," Luin muttered, glancing at the broken ceiling.
Ired chuckled.
"Of course not. It's from before them. From a time when people tried to break the seals without permission."
He paused, then looked him dead in the eye.
"I want to train you, Luin. Not because I believe in you… but because I need you."
⸻
Luin didn't answer right away.
There was something in the noble's eyes—something that wasn't quite a lie, but not the truth either.
"What do you really want from me?" he asked quietly.
"To keep you alive," Ired said. "That's all."
⸻
The night hadn't yet fallen, but shadows were already spreading fast.
The clouds above gathered thick and low, hiding something that wasn't meant to be seen.
Luin sat near the broken altar, wordless.
Before him, Ired drew a circle on the floor with black chalk, placing dark candles at its edges.
Their smoke smelled faintly of lavender and iron.
"What I'm about to do," Ired said, "has nothing to do with the church—or with the seals. This is older. From when men carved into themselves instead of waiting for something divine to open."
Luin studied him, searching for something behind his words.
Then, softly: "Do it."
⸻
When the four candles flared to life, the air grew heavy.
Light seemed to swallow itself.
Ired sat before him, placed a hand on Luin's forehead.
"What I need from you is simple," he murmured. "Don't resist."
But Luin was not the type to obey easily.
Especially when he felt that heat sink from Ired's palm into his skull.
Then came the voice within him again:
"He's knocking. At the door that must never open before its time."
And the crack appeared.
⸻
Luin was no longer fully in his body.
He stood in a place that wasn't made of walls or time.
Everything around him felt inward—like the inside of himself, his own spirit's anatomy.
Then came the knocking.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
Each strike brought a forgotten sensation—pain, screams, moments left unfinished.
At the seventh knock… he saw himself.
A boy—no older than nine—standing in a dark cellar, screaming without sound while a human hand dragged him by the hair.
And in his eyes… a mirror.
A mirror that did not reflect him—but something else.
⸻
Outside, his body convulsed.
Ired held his head, sweating, eyes half-shut in strain.
"Luin… pull yourself back," he gasped. "Don't open the door yet…"
But it was too late.
Inside, the boy opened the door.
And what stepped out wasn't entirely human.
⸻
It was made of shadow.
No face. No voice.
Only two hands—one resting on the boy's shoulder, the other on his heart.
"If you open the door," it whispered, "you'll never be the same again."
The boy replied,
"I was never the same to begin with."
And the ground split open inside him.
His third eye awoke.
⸻
Luin returned to his body screaming.
Not a human scream, not a beast's—something between everything and nothing.
He fell to the ground, gasping, his eyes still haunted by what he had seen.
Ired slumped beside him, breath ragged.
"That wasn't the second seal opening," he said. "Only… touching it."
Then, with a tone that felt too honest, he added,
"And it hates to be touched."
⸻
Luin didn't sleep that night.
He sat by the window of the old house Ired had rented for him, staring into the glass.
He didn't see his reflection.
What he saw… was the knocking.
A faint, rhythmic tapping from within.
Something inside him insisting—it wasn't over. Not closed. Not understood.
When Ired entered the next morning, Luin was still there, unchanged.
Only his eyes were different.
"Did it speak to you?" Ired asked.
"It wasn't a person," Luin replied softly. "Nor a shadow. It was… a trace. Something that existed inside me before I did."
Ired sat across from him.
"Those who touch the door never stay the same. Some go mad. Some vanish. Some become the worst version of themselves.
And you… you're still here."
⸻
That night, Ired led him back beneath the temple—to the catacombs that even the Church didn't know existed.
They were used only by exiled nobles, the ones who'd turned away from divine law.
"We need an ally," Ired said. "And the one you'll meet tonight… is not a man."
Through three locked iron doors they went, until they reached a small chamber.
At its center—a stone table.
Behind it—a black mirror of volcanic glass.
"A mirror?" Luin asked.
"Not a mirror," said Ired. "It's something that used to summon those who never forget."
He gestured. "Sit. Don't touch it. Don't speak first. Just… wait."
⸻
Luin sat.
He looked into the dark glass.
No reflection.
Instead—a figure.
An old man with a blurred face, broken wings on his back, sitting on a throne made of bone.
"You," said the old man, "are the one who was written to knock before he was even born."
Luin stayed silent.
"You carry a door inside you," the man said, "and you have no idea where it leads."
"Who are you?" Luin asked.
"I am the one who is never forgotten," he said, "because I was never born into memory."
⸻
They spoke for a time that couldn't be measured.
The man gave no clear answers—only a map.
A map drawn not in ink, but in echo.
When it ended, he said:
"When your shadow walks ahead of you… the door opens on its own."
Then he vanished.
⸻
Luin stepped out.
Ired waited.
"What did he give you?" Ired asked.
"A mark," said Luin. "Not mine alone. It belongs to all who've knocked… and weren't answered."
Then he smiled—a smile he didn't know he still possessed.
⸻
The clouds above gathered again.
And in his chest, something was no longer silent.
"When your shadow walks ahead of you," the words repeated in his head,
"the door opens on its own."
After that night, the world felt altered.
The streets stretched longer, sounds grew sharper, and people's eyes blinked slower—as if watching him through glass masks.
Even the air carried a strange familiarity he couldn't name.
⸻
The next morning, Ired told him,
"You won't open the second seal by waiting in the dark, Luin. Some things only awaken when something outside you breaks."
"Where are we going?" Luin asked as he put on his coat.
"To the Lower City," Ired replied.
"To the house of those who betrayed their vows."
⸻
The Lower City didn't exist on any map.
It wasn't a city—it was what was left of several.
Broken tunnels, half-collapsed houses, shattered columns.
It was home to the nameless: vagrants, cultists, fugitives from rituals, and children the Church had never accounted for.
And deep within it stood the mansion of Lord Sarin Avelin—once one of the Fourteen Nobles of the capital, now exiled for trying to open the fourth seal… without passing the second.
⸻
Inside, the lord sat upon a throne of black iron.
His left eye was wrapped in a bandage marked with forbidden symbols, and one corner of his mouth hung paralyzed.
"You bring me one who breaks," Sarin said to Ired, "or one who's already broken?"
Ired gestured toward Luin.
"This is the one you've heard about. The man who unlocked the first seal without a ritual.
The door… knocked from inside."
The old noble rose, stepped close, and raised his hand to Luin's forehead—then stopped, and said:
"Not yet. First… betrayal."
⸻
That night, Luin was left alone in a room with no window, no light.
In the dark came a voice.
"Do you know what it means to be betrayed by the one you trust most?"
"No."
"You will."
Then silence.
But Luin could feel it—something watching him from within.
Not an entity.
A memory… that hadn't happened yet.
⸻
Meanwhile, in the upper city, a letter was being sealed by the White Church.
Subject 71: Luin Mir
Status: Surpassed the limits of the First Seal without registration.
Recommendation: Termination.
⸻
The darkness in his room wasn't ordinary—it was made.
As if the walls themselves refused to reflect light, and every sound Luin made was swallowed whole.
He sat still, measuring time by his breathing.
Then—the turn of a key.
The slow creak of iron hinges.
A girl entered.
Black clothes. Silver hair down to her back. Eyes cold, but behind them—a glimmer of fear, or regret.
"I'm Talia," she said. "I'm here to prepare the rite."
"What rite?" Luin asked, not rising.
"The Trial. Lord Sarin doesn't open doors for anyone—only for those who survive betrayal."
"And who will betray me?"
She paused, then smiled faintly.
"That's the problem, isn't it? The betrayal has to be real."
⸻
The next day, they brought him to an ancient hall that resembled a stage.
Luin stood at its center, on a raised platform.
The noble sat hidden among the shadows, flanked by silent onlookers.
Then—a man was brought forward.
Willem.
Hands bound, face bruised, one finger broken.
"What have you done to him?!" Luin shouted.
One of the figures in the dark replied:
"Willem is accused of betraying the Church—of helping you open the seal without sanction."
"Lies!" Luin yelled.
Another voice said:
"The choice is yours, Luin. If you claim him, you'll share his fate.
If you stay silent, he dies here—and you walk free."
⸻
Silence.
Luin looked at Willem—into his eyes.
The man said nothing.
Didn't beg.
But in his gaze was the same sentence he'd spoken long ago:
"Don't let them take you from me… again."
⸻
Luin stepped forward.
"I'm his accomplice," he said.
And in that instant, something inside him cracked.
The second seal hadn't opened completely—
but it heard.
As if the second door within him whispered:
"Now… I know who you'll lose."
⸻
That night, Lord Sarin sat alone in his study, writing in a torn ledger.
Subject: Luin Mir.
Result: Displayed true loyalty.
But the betrayal… has yet to begin.
⸻
End of Chapter 24