Alphard felt a slight discomfort, not out of annoyance, but out of a worry that he might come across as rude in the face of the young woman's awkwardness. Still, before the silence could stretch on, an older man, thick-bearded and streaked with grey, approached with an understanding smile.
"My apologies, sir. We're from Fairbridge; my daughter still hasn't fully mastered the language, since we've only been in this country a couple of months," the man explained quietly.
"No need to worry," Alphard answered with a genuine smile.
After all... I'm a foreigner myself, he thought to himself.
The girl quickly handed him a brass key with the upper floor number engraved on it. Alphard thanked her with a small bow and climbed to the second floor, where Didier and Antonie were waiting.
"It's this way," Alphard said, guiding them until he found the right door.
Turning the handle and opening it, the interior greeted them with a sober, comforting atmosphere. The room held two large beds with clean sheets and heavy wool quilts, flanked by dark wood furniture.
At the far end, a wide window looked out on the storm raging outside, rain striking the glass with force, lending the shelter a melancholic tone.
Right away, Didier guided Antonie to one of the beds and tucked him in carefully beneath the covers, making sure that, before long, exhaustion would win out and drop him into a deep sleep. Then, Didier and Alphard sat at the edge of the other bed, their eyes fixed on the wooden floor, their chests tight with worry.
"Why did Mr. Antonie end up like that?" Didier asked, letting out a sigh heavy with unease.
Alphard laid out every detail of what they'd lived through in the underground tomb — the textures, the smells, the crushing atmosphere, and of course, the vision they'd both shared.
Turning it over, he arrived at the conclusion that the phenomenon had been triggered by the recitation of some ancient ritual.
At once, a cold memory crossed his mind: an experience identical to what he himself had gone through the moment he'd recited that prayer, unaware it belonged to the ritual of the Door of the Clown.
Didier stayed completely silent, processing every word. Given how abstruse the whole event was — hard enough for even Alphard himself to fully grasp — it seemed to defy any logic at all; though, ironically, that was exactly the point. None of it was ever meant to make sense.
Alphard rose and walked to the window, watching the threads of rain lash against the glass with fury.
What an exhausting day...
Turning back to his companion, he said quietly,
"I think I'll get some rest too."
Didier nodded silently. Alphard stretched out on the bed, while Didier left the room with a tired step, his face shadowed with worry.
He went down the stairs to the warmth of the main hall, ordered a cup of coffee by the fireplace, and picked up one of the local papers. Drowsiness overtook him within minutes, though, leaving him asleep in the armchair.
The old innkeeper and his daughter watched the scene with quiet compassion.
"You should've given him a better room," the father murmured before stepping away.
The girl studied the exhausted young man for a moment. She walked quietly to a drawer, pulled out a thick wool blanket, and gently draped it over Didier's shoulders.
Without making a sound, she returned to her work.
Upstairs, Alphard kept his eyes fixed on the ceiling beams. His stillness was only a front: he was pretending to sleep so he could free his consciousness and slip away into the dimensional circus.
An icy mist enveloped him completely. In the blink of an eye, he found himself seated at the exact center of the transparent platform.
"My physical body probably does need to rest..." he murmured, feeling the weight of the day settle over him.
Isolated in the vastness of that cosmic space, he began piecing things together. His main priority remained figuring out the connection between the gems and the old woman they'd fought. Still, the ruins had only offered ancient writings and that shared vision; not a single direct clue about the gem itself.
Though, thinking it over, we've barely scratched the surface of the tomb. That underground chamber has to lead to a deeper level, he reasoned coldly. I also can't rule out that the critical information is carved directly into the stone blocks themselves.
He settled on his plan of action: not only would he transfer the inscribed steles into the dimensional circus, taking advantage of its storage capacity, but he'd also return alone to search further beyond Azrael's sarcophagus.
What if there's some guardian in the ruins? he wondered. No one stopped us from getting in, which suggests whatever protection exists depends on prayers, seals, or curses inscribed directly into the text itself. If the stones themselves are the defense mechanism, how do I extract their information without triggering a similar danger?
Alphard didn't rule out the possibility that other seekers might be inspecting the ruins as well, a threat that would only multiply once night fell. Venturing into the structure in the dark meant risking a chance encounter with intruders or highly dangerous entities.
I should check whether the facial paint I manifested on that plane carries over once I return to my physical body, he thought, weighing the value of that improvised mask.
With a leap, he dropped from the platform down to the transparent, imperceptible floor. He took in the panorama of Fercluse spread out beneath his feet, but beyond simply admiring the horizon, his eyes tracked the slow crawl of the shadows.
He needed to wait long enough for darkness to fully claim the outside world, giving him room to act without raising the slightest suspicion.
Night finally settled over the city, and Alphard returned to his earthly form. Opening his eyes, a dull throb hammered at his temples, the direct result of how long his consciousness had remained suspended in the dimensional circus.
Moving quietly, he approached the bed where Antonie still lay sunk in a deep slumber.
Once he comes back to his senses, I'll have to confront him about what happened. Maybe he witnessed something he was never meant to see.
He settled his top hat into place, smoothed the lapels of his coat, and gripped his cane with resolve. But just as his hand reached the doorknob, the door swung open to reveal Didier, rubbing his temples with a groggy, half-asleep expression.
"Where were you?" Alphard asked quietly.
"Fell asleep downstairs... and for some strange reason, someone was kind enough to cover me with a blanket," Didier answered, rubbing his eyes. "How's Mr. Antonie doing?"
"Still deeply asleep."
"Where do you think you're headed at this hour?" Didier asked, noticing his companion's neat, ready-to-go appearance.
"I'm going back to the ruins, but alone. Stay here and keep an eye on Antonie."
Without waiting for an answer or offering a goodbye, Alphard slipped down the hallway at a brisk pace, leaving Didier bewildered in the doorway.
After a few seconds of confusion, Didier shut the door and walked over to the bed to check on Antonie's condition. He studied the old man's pale face and steady breathing.
What in the hell could he have seen in that tomb? Didier wondered, letting out a faint sigh.
With nothing else to do, he sank down onto the wooden floor, leaning his back against the wall to gaze out at the starlit sky visible through the window.
Meanwhile, Alphard set off on the long trek back to the ruins. The scent of wet earth filled his nostrils, filling him with a strange calm that kept him from succumbing to the night's unease.
Crossing the temple's threshold, a thick, impenetrable darkness enveloped him; only faint beams of light, filtered from a crimson moon overhead, cut through the gloom in thin purple streaks. Feeling a slight chill crawl up the back of his neck, he didn't hesitate to activate his spiritual sight.
It's almost the same as before; I can only trace spiritual essence, he concluded, noting the scarcity of ethereal traces.
Since his mystical perception wasn't giving him back the outline of the physical world, he reached for the old wooden holder and the candle he'd prepared to venture deeper into the darkness.
Right after, he focused his will onto the very anatomy of his own eyes: channeling energy toward his optic nerves, forcing his pupils to dilate to their limit while adjusting the focus of his irises.
His sclera reacted with a faint, cold tingle, letting him absorb even the faintest reflection of the crimson light; gradually, the ruins' absolute blackness softened, revealing edges and contours in shades of grey.
The echo of every footstep bounced off the stonework in a deafening reverberation, warning him to advance with extreme caution.
He took the exact same route they'd followed before, descending to the underground level. Walking among the rubble and stones, making sure nothing strange or any creature lurked nearby.
I find it hard to believe there aren't any traps in this place.
Every step, however meticulous, carried the weight of not knowing what might be waiting for him in the dark; an even sharper chill ran down his spine.
Still, far from backing down, he reached the imposing door and, resting a single hand against the ancient wood, pushed it slowly open.
What is this...?