Merlin's pulse thrummed in the quiet antechamber. He pressed a hand against the smooth wood of the partially open door, careful not to nudge it further. Inside the salon, the voices had turned from congenial murmurs to something more guarded. He couldn't make out exact words, but Wintrell's tone had gained an urgency while Viscounti's voice was calm, yet clipped, as if they were both trying to parse a shocking discovery.
A soft click rang out—perhaps the case being fully unlocked or the palimpsest's folio unfastened. Merlin's mind conjured the image of an ancient parchment with layered scripts overlapping in odd directions, ink faded to ghostly sepia. Viscounti's posture, Merlin imagined, would be erect and poised, while Wintrell might lean closer, nose nearly touching the parchment, eyes narrowed with scholarly hunger.
One long exhalation from Wintrell drifted through the crack in the door. A pause. Then:
"This line…" Wintrell said, voice low but clear enough for Merlin to catch snippets. "…something about the Veil… The crescents aligned… subverted cycles…"
Viscounti responded, hushed but measured, "…your guess is as good as mine, Master Wintrell. It refers to phases beyond mortal ken… impossible phenomena…"
The tension in the air thickened. Merlin eased his foot back, ensuring he wouldn't cast a betraying shadow. The device in his vest pocket felt heavier, as if charged with the potential to shatter the quiet at any moment.
Another faint sound reached Merlin's ears—a subtle scrape, as if furniture or a heavy cloth had shifted against the floor. Instantly, he thought of the locked cabinet in the boarding house cellar, the old mark he'd seen. Were these subtle echoes connected? The thought flickered and vanished, leaving him to refocus on the present.
Inside, Wintrell's voice turned questioning. "But here—this symbol, layered beneath the top script. If this truly represents Eldara's lesser aspect, the one mentioned only in apocryphal codices… then the Ethereal Veil is not just metaphorical. It suggests… an actual threshold between realities?"
Merlin's stomach tightened. A threshold between realities. He had died once in another world and awakened here. If there were such places where worlds brushed against each other, might he stand at the edge of understanding his own strange fate?
Viscounti made a dismissive sound. "I told you, translation is imprecise. Without the missing fragments, we can't be certain. It could be poetic imagery—priests cloaked in moonlight, illusions cast by eldritch crystals. The old cults were fond of metaphors."
A silence followed, taut and humming. Then Wintrell spoke again, quieter, as if leaning even closer: "The text mentions artifacts that bind the Veil. You see this line of characters, slightly slanted? These were once sigils used to mark relics, tools for rituals that… reshape perception. If such objects still exist—"
He broke off suddenly. Merlin caught a sharp intake of breath. A chair creaked. Something had unsettled Wintrell. Merlin's heartbeat thudded in his ears. If Wintrell tapped three times, Merlin would trigger the device and summon assistance.
But no taps came. Instead, Wintrell's voice rose again, steadier now: "Master Viscounti, you've kept this well. I sense no forgery—this is genuine. You must have sources—other documents that complement this text?"
Viscounti answered with careful courtesy. "I do. However, they are scattered. Some in my personal vault, others I've only heard about through third parties. I guard what I can, but one must be cautious. The city's powers—that is, those who prefer a stable narrative—would not welcome these revelations. They prefer gods as distant symbols, not intricate forces that warp the fabric of understanding."
Merlin felt a chill. He pictured the Overlords and their officials, the watchers near the library, the rumored missing manuscript. All threads converging on truths too dangerous to fully articulate. He recalled the figure standing outside the boarding house, the odd incidents by the canals, and the hush around the old shrines. It all wove into a tapestry of half-glimpsed cosmic order, or disorder, swirling unseen around them.
From within the salon came a faint rustle—perhaps the palimpsest being turned to reveal another layer. Then Wintrell's measured whisper: "This lower stratum of text… it's older than the rest. I recognize the glyphs from a partial index I saw in Rimvail. They speak of… waiting things. Entities older than the gods named by common worshipers. If Eldara's symbol marks a boundary between worlds, these entities lurk beyond."
Viscounti's tone dropped an octave, somber and edged: "You are delving into depths that most scholars deny. I show you this because you convinced me of your sincerity and discretion. But tread carefully. There are factions who would silence such inquiry. Some artifacts vanished centuries ago to prevent exactly this sort of knowledge from spreading."
A sudden scraping sound, louder this time, made Merlin's muscles tense. He heard quick footsteps crossing the salon floor. Wintrell's voice sharpened: "Viscounti, do you expect visitors at this hour?"
Viscounti's reply was curt and tense: "No one should be here. Stay back—"
A muffled thump, a quiet curse. Merlin risked a peek, just a fraction more—only to see a shadow move across the faint strip of lamplight on the polished floor. Someone else was in the room. Merlin's fingers hovered over the signal device.
He caught fragments of urgent whispers: "Don't be a fool—" "—no place for meddling—" "Step away from that."
It sounded like another voice altogether—low, grating, barely above a hiss. The intruder must have slipped in, perhaps following them, or bribing a servant. Merlin's mind raced: would Wintrell tap the floor, or had the scholar forgotten the signal in the heat of the moment?
Then came three distinct taps. A pause, then three again, urgent and clear.
Without hesitation, Merlin pulled the lever on the signal device. A faint shimmer of runic light danced along its etched surface, and then a chime rang out—sharp and crystalline, echoing through the corridors. It wasn't loud, but it was an unmistakable summons. Footsteps rushed beyond the door. Servants, guards perhaps, alerted by the sound.
Inside the salon, the intruder hissed something incomprehensible. Merlin heard a scuffle—furniture scraping, a sharp intake of breath. He pushed the door open enough to see figures silhouetted against lamplight: Wintrell backing toward the table holding the palimpsest, Viscounti near the fireplace, and a cloaked figure standing between them, a glint of steel at his side. The intruder's face was partially obscured by a half-mask, embroidered with twisting lines that hinted at runes. A wide-brimmed hat pulled low. The posture was tense, predatory.
Before Merlin could step in, footsteps thundered in the corridor. The servant in the green waistcoat burst in, flanked by two estate guards in short coats and polished helmets. The intruder whirled, cursing under his breath. In that split second of distraction, Wintrell seized the folio and snapped it shut, while Viscounti reached behind him and tugged at a bell-pull on the wall.
The guards rushed forward, pikes at the ready. The intruder took two swift steps backward, then darted for the window. A crack of glass, a scramble, and the figure vanished into the night, leaving behind a faint odor of incense and something metallic.
Silence crashed down. One of the guards went to the broken window, peering out. Viscounti straightened his coat, smoothing back his hair with a trembling hand. Wintrell exhaled, shoulders dropping slightly.
Merlin entered the room fully now, face calm, hands at his sides. He avoided looking too curious, though inside he brimmed with questions. Wintrell acknowledged him with a slight nod, grateful for the timely intervention.
Viscounti cleared his throat, reclaiming a semblance of poise. "My apologies, gentlemen. Storshallow has grown restless. I never expected someone to be bold enough to intrude here. It seems our conversation drew attention."
Wintrell pressed his lips into a thin line. "It appears so. I trust the palimpsest is unharmed?"
Viscounti opened the folio again, checking its contents. "Intact. Luckily, we had not fully dismounted it from its protective mounts. Whoever that was, they aimed to seize or destroy evidence."
Merlin said nothing, but noticed the subtle look Wintrell gave him. The scholar wanted him to remain calm, to not reveal any undue familiarity with these mysteries. Merlin simply stood by, the faithful assistant, a comforting presence in the aftermath of danger.
The guards murmured assurances that they would search the grounds. The servant in green waistcoat apologized profusely, promising that such a breach was unheard of. Viscounti waved it off with forced magnanimity, though Merlin sensed the collector's pride had been wounded.
Wintrell stepped closer to Viscounti, voice quiet but firm: "We must be careful. The knowledge you hold is too important to vanish into the shadows. I have what I need for now, but we'll have to proceed with caution. I'll study the notes I've taken and see if I can decode more of the underlying script."
Viscounti nodded, closing the folio gently. "Take care, Master Wintrell. And as for you, young man"—he addressed Merlin directly—"your timely actions may have saved more than documents tonight. Discretion, indeed, is priceless."
Merlin bowed slightly, meeting the collector's gaze with calm composure. "I am pleased to have been of assistance, sir."
Soon after, the guards escorted them out, ensuring no further ambush awaited. The mechanical carriage stood ready, its driver alert. As Merlin and Wintrell climbed in, the scholar let out a slow breath.
"Strange forces stir in the city," Wintrell said softly, once the carriage rolled away. "They will not welcome our understanding of the Ethereal Veil or these relics that lurk in old texts. Tonight's attack proves how far some are willing to go to keep such knowledge hidden."
Merlin considered the broken window, the masked intruder, the tension in the palimpsest's half-deciphered words. He felt the pull of fate or curiosity pushing him deeper into this mystery. In another life, he might have walked away. But here, now, he had reasons to stay. This world's secrets might explain his own displacement, the cosmic anomaly of his existence.
He looked at Wintrell, brow slightly furrowed. "I'll be ready for whatever comes next, Master Wintrell."
The scholar nodded, relieved. Storshallow's lamplit streets passed by like scenes from a cautious dream. Merlin knew that after tonight, no one could deny the stakes. Forces—human or otherwise—guarded these old truths. And Merlin stood in the midst of it all, a quiet observer who might yet shape the unfolding story.