The gas lamps flickered in the evening fog, casting a dim, wavering glow over the cobblestone streets of Cinderfire. Detective John Carter pulled his coat tighter against the chill as his boots clicked with each step, his breath rising in pale clouds. This city of his had a way of swallowing the light, drawing the world into permanent darkness, even before night fully fell.
It was a city of contrasts, where the grand, crumbling estates of the old nobility loomed over slums choked with ash and steam from the sprawling factories. Tonight, Carter found himself in one such mansion—a relic of the Lost era, now more of a tomb than a home. The call had come in just after sundown: a death in the Cinder estate. A politician, of course. It was always the rich, wasn't it? But something about the tone in the voice of the messenger made John uneasy.
He approached the towering iron gates of the estate, the rusted metal creaking as they opened to let him in. A butler in a threadbare coat awaited him, standing like a ghost, probably from professional training that only the rich could afford. But his eyes were wide, too wide, as if he'd seen something he could not explain.
"The body's upstairs," the butler muttered, leading Carter through the dimly lit hallways. The mansion's opulence clung to a past long gone, with portraits of ancestors staring down from the walls, their eyes seeming to follow every step.
As they moved further into the estate, Carter's eyes caught sight of an old man wearing a dark blue coat pacing through the corridor ahead of them. The man's hands were fidgeting with something—cards. He shuffled them continuously. With his proficiency in handling the deck, some may mistake him for a swindler, or a magician.
The old man glanced at Carter briefly, his eyes unreadable, before disappearing into another room, leaving only the soft shuffling of the cards echoing in the corridor.
Carter barely had time to consider the strangeness of the encounter before they arrived at the master bedroom. The butler stopped short at the door, refusing to enter. Carter gave him a nod, stepping inside alone.
The room was deathly silent, the air oppressive, as though something unnatural had passed through. The first thing Carter noticed was the cold, despite the fireplace that roared in the corner. His eyes moved to the figure on the bed.
Frank Denavolt, the head of one of Cinder's most powerful banking families, lay propped against the headboard. His hands clutching the sheets, until his knuckles turn white. His eyes were wide open, staring into nowhere, and his mouth was stuck open in a mute scream. No signs of a struggle, no wounds or signs of poisoning. Just terror—raw, unfiltered terror.
Carter approached the body, used to dead bodies from all his years in the wars. Something about this felt… wrong. He'd seen dead men before, more than he cared to count. But this was different. The victim looked as though he had seen something beyond death, something that tore at the very fabric of his sanity in his final moments.
"So what happened to you?" Carter muttered, crouching beside the bed. He scanned the room, looking for anything out of place, but it was all perfectly pristine—almost too pristine. The atmosphere pressed down on him, making it hard to think clearly.
His eyes caught a flicker of something unusual. On the floor, beneath the large bay window, barely visible in the flickering firelight, were markings—small, cryptic symbols etched into the wood almost like a rune drawn in a ritualistic manner. Kneeling, Carter examined them more closely. They weren't just random scribbles. They looked deliberate, precise, as if they held meaning, but not any meaning he could immediately grasp.
Before he could study them further, the temperature in the room dropped even more. The light from the fireplace grew dimmer, and the shadows became longer Prickling the hairs on the back of his neck, he felt as though someone was watching him. There was an old saying in the Cinders, 'If your hair stands only on your hand, it is probably your feeling but if it stands to your neck, then it is probably something.'
Some will say that he was paranoid but he has been in a place that no man will ever want to be. He has seen soldiers walking forward while being shot while chanting, enemies falling on the floor randomly with blood coming out of their sockets and people's guts slithering out of their stomachs. In this world, Though he didn't understand them he was no stranger to the supernatural.
Carter stood up quickly, reaching for the revolver tucked under his coat. His eyes scanned the room once more, the oppressive silence amplifying every tiny sound. At this moment, he thought he saw movement—a shadow, shifting in the corner just out of the reach of the fire's glow. He could hear the sound of something shaking and vibrating.
He heard the sound of something hitting the floor with a deafening crash! It shattered into a hundred glittering shards, each piece landing with a sharp tinkle as they skittered across the tiles.
But when he turned to look, there was nothing. No shard piece or anything in sight. Just the faint echo of footsteps outside the door. The butler? He checked the corridor and nearby rooms all were empty. No, he'd left. It felt like something else—something unseen. But it feels like he had missed something. Something very important. But what is it?
As Carter backed out of the room and closed the door behind him, his heart was thumping. The light shows his pale face. He used to not believe in ghosts, spirits, or any of the superstitious nonsense the city's lower districts peddled. But after what happened to him in the war, this wasn't so farfetched.
He made his way back downstairs, his mind racing. The symbols, the cold, the impossible fear frozen on the victim's face—it was all so unnatural. And then there was that shadow. Whatever had happened here wasn't just another murder. It was unlike anything he had ever encountered; it was darker and far more sinister.
The butler was waiting near the staircase, his eyes darting to the detective with thinly veiled apprehension. Carter stopped in front of him. "You found him like this?" he asked, motioning back toward the bedroom door.
The butler swallowed hard, wringing his hands together. "Y-yes, sir. When I went to wake him for supper, I found him… like that. I called for help immediately."
"Did you see or hear anything unusual?" Carter narrowed his eyes. "Before you found him?"
The butler's gaze shifted, his discomfort growing more apparent. "No, nothing, sir. It was just another quiet evening. Mister Donovolt had retired early, as he always does."
"You're certain?" Carter's tone hardened slightly. "Nothing strange at all? No visitors? No noises? Think carefully, because something happened in that room that wasn't natural."
The butler hesitated, a nervous twitch in his hands as he fidgeted with his cufflinks. "There was… one thing, Detective." His voice dropped to a whisper. "Earlier that evening, a man arrived. Not a regular visitor. He seemed… odd."
"Odd how?" Carter pressed.
"He was playing with cards," the butler said, his voice trembling. "Like he was performing tricks with them towards the audience. But the cards—" He stopped, looking suddenly unsure of whether he should continue.
"Go on," Carter urged, stepping closer.
"Some of the cards were playing cards, but others… they weren't. There was one, in particular, a tarot card. I remember it because… it had a figure on it that looked just like Mr. Donovolt. The man shuffled the cards like a magician. He didn't stay long, but something about him… unsettled me."
Carter's mind raced. The man he'd seen in the corridor? He had dismissed him as some eccentric, but now he was beginning to realize the cards may have held a deeper significance—perhaps even tied to Donovolt's death.
"Did he tell you who he is?" Carter asked, his voice low and firm.
The butler shook his head. "No, sir. He left as quietly as he came."
Carter took a slow, deliberate breath. The pieces weren't fitting yet, but there was something here—something that went far beyond a simple murder. The cards, the symbols, the eerie cold in the room—it all pointed to something much darker.
"One last question," Carter said, fixing the butler with a piercing stare. "Did you touch anything in the room after you found the body?"
The butler shook his head quickly. "No, sir. I couldn't bear to go near him. I've never seen anything like it."
"Good." Carter turned to leave. "Stay close, the others will question you later."
"Am I a suspect detective?"
"To me, you're not, just unfortunate" John implies.
He didn't explain further. By the time he goes outside he lights his cigarette He would need answers, and fast. It seems that this city he once knew was full of secrets This case is weird too weird he even considered pulling out of the case but his pride didn't let him.
He flicked his cigarette and watched the burning ember while thinking about the case. One thing was certain: this case is interesting. There was something far more dangerous lurking in the shadows of this city.
"Not bad for the first case" he muttered as he went back inside the house to meet his superior.
'Now where has that old man gone to?' He thought.
"If he wasn't my superior, I'd have shoved that damn card down his throat for contaminating the scene."