The room seemed frozen, as if even time itself held its breath. The demon's figure had not moved since entering, standing there as unshakable as a forgotten statue. The flickering candle flames cast wavering shadows on the walls, forming shapes that seemed to stir to life.
Silas studied his visitor, letting the silence stretch until it became heavy. The demon's voice still echoed in his mind, a chilling resonance that was hard to dispel.
"A service…" Silas murmured, his fingers drumming absently on the edge of his desk.
"Yes."
The demon hadn't shifted an inch, his posture blending into the room, as if the darkness around him recognized and accepted his presence.
"Demons don't ask mortals for help," Silas said, straightening slowly and crossing his arms over his chest. "They take what they want – by force or deception. So why knock on my door?"
A faint glimmer crossed the invisible eyes behind the black mask.
"Because your name was recommended."
A cold shiver crawled down Silas's spine. He already knew the answer, but he asked anyway, as if hoping to hear something else.
"Recommended… by whom?"
The demon stepped forward, his movement so light it barely stirred the old wooden floor. As his gloved hand rested on the edge of the desk, Silas noticed the fine details – ancient engravings woven into the gloves, markings he hadn't seen in a long time.
"The Black Duke."
Silas's brows furrowed instantly. The air in the room seemed to grow heavier.
"The Black Duke?" His voice hardened, each word dropping like an anvil. "I haven't dealt with him in years."
The demon gave a slight nod.
"He hasn't forgotten your services."
A tense silence followed, broken only by the faint crackle of the candles. Silas couldn't ignore the weight of that name. The Black Duke was no ordinary demonic noble. He was a living legend in occult circles, an entity that had ruled from the shadows of Mortelune for centuries – a patient and ruthless manipulator.
"I see…" Silas murmured, fixing his gaze on the demon. "So, what does the Black Duke consider important enough to send you to my cabinet?"
The demon's gloved fingers traced invisible shapes along the surface of the desk.
"A mirror."
Silas raised an eyebrow slightly but said nothing at first.
"A mirror?" he repeated after a few moments. "Mortelune isn't short on mirrors."
The demon lifted his head, the black mask glinting faintly in the candlelight.
"Not this one."
Silas leaned back into his chair, the worn leather creaking beneath him.
"I assume this mirror is… unique."
"It is as black as ink," the demon said in a hushed tone, almost a whisper, as if the very walls might overhear. "And it reflects nothing but the truth."
Silas felt his pulse slow.
"An ink mirror…" he repeated softly.
He had heard of such objects in ancient tales, legends pulled from the depths of occult archives. Mirrors capable of piercing through illusions, showing what even human eyes could not perceive. But those artifacts weren't supposed to exist in Mortelune.
"I stopped being a hunter," Silas said, placing his hands flat on the desk, his gaze darkening. "I'm not interested in that kind of work anymore."
The demon said nothing, merely observing.
"Why me?" Silas asked after a long pause. "Mortelune is full of collectors and relic hunters. Why come to me when I'm just a simple cabinet keeper?"
The demon tilted his mask slightly, revealing a glimpse of skin – pale and far too smooth to belong to any mortal.
"Because you know the ruins and secrets of this city better than anyone. And because the Black Duke assured me you're the only one who can complete this quest without drawing unwanted attention."
Silas let out a deep sigh, leaning his head back against the chair's leather. He closed his eyes for a moment, thinking.
"If this mirror is so valuable, why not retrieve it yourself? Mortelune's ruins aren't sealed against creatures like you."
"I cannot approach it."
Silas slowly opened his eyes, fixing them on the demon's silhouette.
"Wards."
"Exactly."
The forgotten temples of Mortelune still housed ancient relics, protected by enchantments crafted long before demonic cults seized the city. These defenses, though weakened, lingered enough to prevent beings like this demon from entering certain sanctuaries.
"And you want me to bypass these barriers for you."
The demon didn't reply. He didn't need to.
"Where is this mirror?"
"In the catacombs beneath the old Temple of the Obsidian Blade."
Silas's eyes narrowed.
"I see you don't like making things easy for me."
"If you succeed," the demon added, "the Black Duke will ensure you are handsomely rewarded."
Silas tilted his head slightly, observing the black mask staring back at him.
"And if I refuse?"
A thick silence filled the room. The shadows seemed to deepen, as if the very air responded to that simple suggestion.
"This isn't a request."
A faint smile curved Silas's lips.
"I thought as much."
He rose slowly, circling his desk until he stood beside the demon.
"Tell me, demon – this mirror… it reflects the truth, doesn't it?"
The demon's mask tilted ever so slightly.
"Even the truth we would rather forget."
Silas walked to an old chest in the corner of the room. He unlocked it with a rusted key and retrieved a lantern made of obsidian, its flame flickering like a caged spirit behind dark glass.
"In that case…" he murmured, "let's find this mirror."
***
Silas watched as the demon's figure faded into the night, leaving behind a heavy tension that clung to the walls of the cabinet. Once alone, he snapped his fingers. The door closed slowly with a deep, resonant thud, as if guided by an unseen force.
For a moment, he stood still, his gaze fixed on the closed door with quiet suspicion. Then, in a whisper barely audible, he spoke a word in an ancient tongue, a dialect long forgotten by mortal ears.
A dark mark appeared at the center of the door, spreading into intricate patterns until it covered the entire surface. The seal glowed faintly before vanishing, as though it had melted into the wood.
"Better safe than sorry…" Silas muttered.
He returned to his desk, opening a drawer to pull out a worn ashtray and a crumpled pack of cigarettes. Placing one between his lips, he snapped his fingers again, lighting it effortlessly.
Smoke curled into the air as he took a deep drag, his eyes drifting toward another drawer—lower, heavier. He opened it carefully.
Resting in the shadows was a thick book, its surface shrouded in blackened leather. Thick chains wrapped around the cover, engraved with ancient runes dulled by time. The book lay still, silent, like a sleeping beast awaiting its master's call.
Silas let his hand hover over the cold chains before pressing his palm flat against the cover.
Instantly, a chill coursed up his arm. A deep, resonant voice echoed through the air, though no lips had spoken.
"It has been a long time… master."
Silas remained still, eyes locked on the book as though expecting it to open on its own.
"I'm not your master anymore," he whispered, his hand unmoving.
"And yet, you awaken me…"
The leather beneath his hand seemed to shudder slightly, alive with a faint pulse. The chains rattled gently, like shackles adjusting to the wrists they bound.
Silas took another drag from his cigarette, exhaling the smoke slowly before answering.
"I'm back in the game. I need you."
The book trembled again, as though straining to open despite the chains that bound it.
"You swore never to use me again…" the voice replied, carrying a hint of suspicion. "Why now?"
Silas crushed the cigarette into the ashtray, letting the question linger for a moment.
"The Black Duke sent me on a job. I have to find an ink mirror hidden in the ruins of the Obsidian Blade temple."
The silence deepened. The chains glowed with a faint reddish hue, pulsing like a heartbeat. Slowly, a symbol began to take shape on the cover—a curved blade encircling a pupil-less eye.
Silas narrowed his eyes.
"This is a bad idea, master," the voice said, lower and slower than before. "The ruins of the Obsidian Blade are no longer temples. They are graves. Zones of death."
The symbol continued to glow softly, a silent warning etched into the book's surface.
"I know," Silas replied, unfazed. "That's exactly why I'll need you."
A long pause followed, broken only by the faint crackling of candle flames.
"Then… I will follow you," the book whispered, resigned.
The chains loosened slightly, their vibrations ceasing, but the symbol of the blade and eye remained seared into the cover.
Silas traced the outline with his finger, following the mark's contours in silence.
"It's going to be a long night…" he murmured, closing the drawer gently.