The hallways of the house are long and silent. The wood creaks beneath steady footsteps as a figure moves forward without haste. The light is dim, barely enough to cast elongated shadows across walls covered in old portraits.
The man stops in front of the camera — before the audience — and smiles with an unsettling serenity.
"Human nature," he says, "is a strange garden… where ambition grows faster than morality."
He continues walking as his voice fills the silence.
"Power does not corrupt. It only reveals. It reveals who we are when no one can stop us."
He reaches a dark oak table. Resting upon it is a thick book with a worn cover and yellowed edges. He takes it carefully, almost reverently. He pours himself a glass of red wine, deep as the blood beneath the skin, and sits down.
"Today," he murmurs as he swirls the glass between his fingers, "you will witness one of the most incredible stories ever recorded by humanity."
He slowly opens the book. The pages whisper as they separate, as if awakening from a long slumber.
"A story about ambition… sacrifice… and the price of defying the limits of what is possible."
He slightly tilts the glass.
A drop of wine falls.
It stains the page.
The red spreads like a wound.
The man watches the stain, and his smile widens ever so slightly.
"Ah… it seems it has already begun."
And then, the world changes.
United Kingdom, 1841 — London
The fog descended like a shroud over the slanted rooftops of Hollowmere Street.
The gas lamps burned with an irregular fsss… fsss…, struggling against the thick dampness that soaked into everything. The wheels of a carriage echoed in the distance —clop… clop… clop…— until they were lost in the distant murmur of the Thames.
On the third floor of a brick building blackened by industrial soot, a man stood by the window.
Of firm build, his face marked by deep dark circles that seemed to have settled there for months. His brown hair fell slightly disheveled across his forehead, and his green eyes —clear but exhausted— watched the street with silent tension. He dressed simply for a gentleman of the era: well-fitted dark trousers, polished boots… but only a slightly rolled-up white shirt. No waistcoat. No coat.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
The sound was dry, deliberate.
The man did not move at first.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
More firmly this time.
His jaw tightened.
"At this hour…" he muttered.
The wall clock read six twenty in the evening.
He descended the wooden stairs, which creaked beneath his weight —crrkk… crrkk…— as if the building protested.
When he opened the door, a gust of damp air slipped into the vestibule.
A man in a dark postal uniform, fitted cap, and carefully trimmed mustache held a worn leather bag.
"Good afternoon, sir. Henry Evans?"
The man observed him cautiously.
"That depends on who's asking."
The postman offered a professional smile.
"I have registered correspondence. Henry Evans?"
"That's me."
The postman reached into his bag.Frrp…
He withdrew a thick envelope, slightly dampened by the fog.
Henry felt his breathing stop.
He recognized that handwriting.
"Where does it come from?" he asked, trying to keep his voice from trembling.
"From the rural district of Blackthorn Vale, sir. It arrived this morning at the distribution center."
Blackthorn Vale.
The village Jane had traveled to.
Henry took the envelope with tense fingers.
"It took long enough…" he murmured.
The postman regarded him with discreet curiosity.
"Rural mail is sometimes delayed by the weather, sir."
Henry barely nodded.
"Thank you."
The postman inclined his head.
"Good evening, Mr. Evans."
"Good evening."
The door closed with a dry click.
Henry remained motionless for a few seconds.
The vestibule felt colder.
He slowly climbed the stairs.
Crrrk… crrrk…
He entered his sitting room and placed the envelope on the table.
Before opening it, he turned it over.
On the back, beneath the wax seal, an address was written in the same elegant handwriting:
Blackthorn EstateGrey Hill RoadBlackthorn Vale, County of Essex
The ink was slightly smeared, as if it had been written in haste… or with trembling hands.
His green eyes traced every stroke of Jane's name.
It was her handwriting.
Without doubt.
With tense fingers he broke the seal.
Rrrip.
The paper inside gave off a faint metallic smell, almost imperceptible.
The first line was written in the elegant script he knew so well:
"Henry… if this letter has managed to reach your hands, it means they have not found me yet."
The flame of the outside gas lamp flickered.
Fsss…
The ink grew more irregular as the lines progressed. Some words seemed retraced, as if the pen had trembled.
I know too much time has passed.I know I promised to write every week.
I have not been able to.
A pause in the stroke.
Before you continue, I need you to read this calmly.And I need you to trust me, even if what I am about to write seems impossible to you.
I know I told you I was going to the village for the assignment entrusted to me as a sanitary inspector. That it was a simple commission: to review conditions after several unexplained illnesses.
A small pause between lines.
But… I do not work as a sanitary inspector.
The stroke is precise.
I never did.That was the story I had to tell you.
The next line remains steady.
In truth, I belong to an ancient organization called The Alchemists.It is not a philosophical society nor an academic circle. It is… something deeper.
I have been part of it since before we were married.
The pressure of the ink increases slightly.
My departure to Blackthorn Vale was because I was entrusted with a mission.
A pause.
I had to confirm the existence of an artifact.
The handwriting begins to tilt slightly.
We were informed that a fragment had been located in this valley.
The wind strikes the window.
Tap… tap…
Henry continues reading, pulse racing.
My task was to identify it, secure its nature, and report before other hands could claim it.
I thought it would be a discreet investigation.
The ink begins to spread slightly.
The words lose uniformity.
Since I arrived, the symbols have begun to appear more clearly.They are not drawings. They are incomplete equations.
Poorly closed transmutation circles.
The stroke barely trembles.
A slight stain darkens a word.
I have seen markings beneath the floor of the abandoned church.The same pattern I studied in the archives of the Order.
The writing begins to compress.
Henry, what I am about to write now should not be said in a letter.
I came here to ensure no one touched the artifact but it is already too late…
The next line tilts sharply.
I should not have done this alone.
Below, in smaller handwriting:
If someone intercepts this, they will understand too much.
The calligraphy loses clarity.
Henry… I had no choice.They told me it was necessary. That if we did not do it, others would.
The stroke becomes irregular.
The hill… the ground… the nights…It is not only the artifact. It is as if the entire valley were part of a greater circle.
A crossed-out line cuts through half a sentence.
I will tell you everything when I return.I do not have much time.
The ink drags.
I came because I had to find the Philosopher's Sto—
The word is violently cut off.
A diagonal line crosses the paper.
Lower down, hurried:
If something happens, protect Alice.Do not let anyone from Blackthorn come near her, she is at her grandparents' house.
If you decide to come, do not mention the Order. Do not mention the Stone.
And if the house seems empty… it means they are already inside.
The signature barely visible, as if the ink had run out:
— Jane
Upstairs.
Crrrk.
Slower.
Heavier.
Henry held the letter with trembling hands.
Jane was not who he believed.
And yet, deep down… something inside him had always suspected that his wife did not entirely belong to the ordinary world. There had been too many absences, too many elegant answers when he asked simple questions.
But a secret organization.
The Alchemists.
The Philosopher's Sto—
He closed his eyes tightly.
"Damn it…" he whispered.
His heart pounded violently against his chest. It was not only fear. It was betrayal. It was anger. It was the piercing sensation of having been kept on the margins of the life of the woman he loved.
And then there was Alice.
His daughter.
Innocent in all of this.
Henry placed both hands on the table, leaning forward. He tried to breathe calmly.
Inhale.
Exhale.
But the air seemed not to fill his lungs.
Suddenly, the room became suffocating.
He took the letter, folded it with almost obsessive care, and set it on the table. Then he walked toward the small hallway bathroom.
The floor creaked beneath his steps —crrk… crrrk…— louder now, as if the house sensed his agitation.
He entered.
Closed the door.
The mirror was slightly fogged by the building's constant dampness. He turned on the tap.
Water fell with a hollow, metallic sound.
He leaned forward and splashed cold water on his face.
Once.
Twice.
The cold forced him to react.
He lifted his gaze.
His green eyes stared back from the mirror, darker now, hardened.
There was something different in his expression.
Older.
More determined.
"What the hell did you do now, Jane…?" he muttered hoarsely.
He did not sound entirely angry.
He sounded hurt.
He dried his face with a rough towel and remained there for a few seconds, observing himself. Analyzing every thought.
Blackthorn Vale.
A chill ran down his spine.
He was not an impulsive man. He never had been. He worked as an accountant for a mercantile firm in the City; his life had been made of numbers, records, and order.
Order.
This had no order.
He left the bathroom.
The hallway seemed longer than usual.
He walked toward the shelf beside the desk, where he kept documents and objects he did not show visitors. There was a small lower drawer.
His hand paused before opening it.
On top of the shelf rested a photograph.
One of the first taken after Alice's birth.
Jane was seated, holding the baby wrapped in light blankets. He stood behind, one hand resting on the back of the chair. Jane smiled sideways, with that expression of hers that always seemed to hide a secret thought.
Henry took the photograph.
He stared at it for a long time.
"You never let me into your world…" he whispered.
His fingers brushed Alice's tiny face.
Protect Alice.
His jaw tightened.
He set the photograph back in its place.
This time he opened the drawer.
Inside, wrapped in dark cloth, rested a Colt Paterson Model 1836 revolver, of blackened steel. It was not unusual for a man to own one in those times; London was not always kind to gentlemen returning home late.
He took it.
The metal was cold.
Familiar.
He checked it with steady, almost automatic hands. Opened the cylinder. Checked the load. Closed it.
Click.
The sound was dry and definitive.
He was not a hero.
He was not an adventurer.
He was a common man whose peace had been torn away.
But there was one thing he was with absolute certainty:
He was a husband.
He was a father.
And if Blackthorn Vale intended to devour his family, it would have to face him first.
He placed the weapon inside the inner shelf compartment and took a thick dark wool jacket. He put it on with decisive movements. Adjusted the collar. Took his hat.
Before leaving, he looked at the room one last time.
The clock read six thirty-seven.
Night was already claiming the city.
He extinguished the lamp.
The house was left in semi-darkness.
He opened the front door.
The damp air received him like an omen.
He locked it.
Click.
His steps began to move away down the cobblestone street.
Tac.
Tac.
Tac.
They were not hurried steps.
They were firm.
Each one led him farther from the safety of his former life and closer to something he did not fully understand.
The fog slowly enveloped him as he walked toward the carriage station that would take him out of London.
Toward Blackthorn Vale.
Toward Jane.
Toward the Alchemists.
And toward a truth that, probably, would have been better never to discover.
But it was already too late to turn back.