She was fine.
Crepus stood in the dark just outside the study, close enough to hear her voice through the door, and let that one fact sit with him for a second before he let himself move on to anything else.
Fine.
Talking to her next patient like nothing had happened, because as far as she knew, nothing had.
He’d genuinely thought that was going to go badly.
Not “badly” in the way it usually went badly, some poor greedy doctor curling up in a corner and never quite coming back from what he showed them.
Badly like actually losing her.
That would have been a first.
Not a good first.
He rubbed a hand over his face, out here in the dark where nobody could see him do it, and let himself feel the specific relief of a man who’d almost broken something he couldn’t have fixed.
He hadn’t meant for it to go that far.
He never did, honestly, that was the annoying part, he kept telling himself each time would be routine, he’d known she was an Arcanist going in, that part was never a secret, people like her didn’t exactly get to hide what they were, but he hadn’t expected whatever that mirror of hers actually was, and it had very nearly prematurely given the river a way into the physical world without a master instead of just pointing to him like it usually did.
The mirror was completely swallowed by the river which made it so no one could remember it except him.
But he was glad it didn’t go too badly.
He was also, and he could admit this only to himself, a little impressed.
That mirror had fought, it didn’t change anything but at least it tried.
Most things that fell into that river didn’t fight, they just went quiet and let it happen, and something in him respected the ones that didn’t, even when they were inconvenient, even when they nearly cost him a physician he actually wanted to keep around, and probably the whole city of Vienna if not all of Austria itself, but that would mean a certain mustached man wouldn’t be born anymore so maybe that’s not so bad.
Either way, he’d have to be more careful with her, or not since he’d be leaving anyway.
But that’s for later.
Right now he had somewhere else to be, and it wasn’t the sort of place you kept waiting.
He let the darkness take him the way it always did, no ceremony to it, no flourish, just a step backwards out of reality and back into it somewhere else entirely.
The ritual room didn’t look like much.
That had always struck him as a little funny, honestly, given what will actually happen in it.
Bare stone, a floor covered edge to edge in lines and shapes that would have meant nothing to anyone who hadn’t spent centuries learning to read them, no candles, no incense, none of the things meant to protect the ritualist, because that’s the point.
Just the symbols, the cold, and him.
He knelt at the center of it and let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding since the study.
“Alright”
he said, mostly to himself, because there was nobody else down here to hear it.
“Let’s see what we’ve got this time.”
Arcanist rituals weren’t a perfect fix.
He’d known that going in, this wasn’t the first time he’d done this, however many lives ago that had been, he still knew it now.
It bought time, short term time that he sacrificed for a long term existence.
That was all it’s ever done, bought him time, patched the leak instead of fixing the pipe, and every single life he’d learned to be grateful for the patch anyway, because the alternative was no time at all.
Sixty years without it, not even halfway more added to it.
Longer than most people got at least.
But shorter every single time than the added life before it.
That part he hadn’t gotten used to, not really, the way the number kept shrinking a little more with every cycle, like something in him wore down faster each time he tried to put it back together.
He didn’t love thinking about why.
But he already knew why, which was worse.
“Arcanum”
He said out loud, and made a face like the word tasted bad, because it did.
“Every single time.
You’d think I’d learn.
To be fair, I forget every time”
He wasn’t supposed to use any of it, not really, especially with his already sensitive situation.
Beyonders already struggle with madness as a default.
The fact that he hasn’t gone insane is already a miracle, well at least not fully insane but even miracles can’t maintain this state of existence.
But his bloodline, whatever it is, is like a magnet for Arcanum, and using it as an energy source just made it worse.
That sounds great in theory but not when it tries to get inside his body which it shouldn’t do in the first place, Arcanum is like the force, an idea, a power accessed by specific cells in the body to bend nature to your will.
He doesn’t have the cells necessary to control it, so he just mixes it with his spirituality.
A big mistake in hindsight, after all, with great power comes great… madness.
His ability to tolerate madness turned him into a perfect vessel for these things, parasitic powers, sticking to him the way lint sticks to a coat, building up without him noticing it.
And every single life he has to burn everything he’s worked for, else it makes it worse for him in the next one.
Madness building up and stored ready to lock onto him the moment he comes back instead of dispersing in death.
Which meant resetting.
Again.
But this time was more permanent, not just burning but completely abandoning a body that many would covet but ultimately did not suit him.
He’d stopped being bitter about the resetting a long time ago, mostly, but “mostly” left room for the occasional tired sigh, and he let himself have one now, alone, where it didn’t matter.
“Right, let’s not keep them waiting.”
He didn’t actually know who “them” were yet, not by name, not really, but he knew where the blood was going, and that was enough to feel bad about in advance.
The ritual didn’t hurt so much as it emptied.
He could feel it starting the way you feel a room get colder before you notice the window’s open, something in him thinning out, draining somewhere he couldn’t see, following lines he’d drawn a long time ago toward men he deemed “bad enough”, at least enough to suppress his guilt for their innocent descendants whom, in a roundabout way, he already ruined.
The doctors.
The ones who’d broken instead of just going quiet.
His blood, or whatever counted as his blood these days, wasn’t going to disappear so much as it was going to relocate, settling into whatever was left of them, whatever passed for a bloodline once a man had already lost his mind and would go on, quietly, to have children who had children, generation after generation carrying something in them that wasn’t quite human and wasn’t quite anything else either.
“You won’t feel it”
He said, to nobody, but also to all of them, wherever and whenever they are.
“That’s something, I suppose.”
Not minds.
Not exactly.
Whatever eventually woke up in those bloodlines, a few generations down, wasn’t going to be anyone he needed to apologize to individually, because there wasn’t going to be enough of a person left in there to apologize to.
He almost let himself feel bad about that part for longer than a second.
He didn’t have the luxury.
And what scattered off of him, the piece that was supposed to go back to his corpse to begin again will find a cleaner body, untainted yet still carrying his blood without the sweet smell that Arcanum finds so alluring.
He convinced himself that this new ritual, a ritual he’s been working on for so long he’s already forgotten the beginning, was necessary.
“With a feat like this I should be the Fool instead.
What a scam”
He tried to amuse himself, a distraction from the atrocity he’s about to begin.
He was sorry about that, truly, in the abstract way you’re sorry about a weather you can’t control.
“I do actually feel bad about this”
He convinced himself again, and meant it, in the specific tired way of a man who has said the same sentence to himself more times than he can count and still mean it every single time.
“For what it’s worth.”
It wasn’t worth much.
He knew that.
He kept saying it anyway.
The math was simple, in the end, the way it always was.
Pity won’t stop him from going insane.
Guilt didn’t allow him to go further.
Only this would, and so he let it keep happening.
“P̸̛̱͙̹̤̭̿̈͂͑̈͑̏̅̆̀̍̄͛a̶̱̦̙̖̖͔̣̳̜̟͕̠̮̲͒̋̔͜͠͝s̷̛̜̥̘̤̼̭͎̺̜̟͊̃̈́͊͒͠͠͠͝ḯ̴̧̡̡͇͇͍͍̹̂̉̓̈́͋̈͜͜s̵͕̏ ̶̛̬͙̤̞̳̔͋͑̏̕ͅļ̵͍̞̜̠̜̼̫̻̔͌͘a̷͇̻̹̝̼͙̞̬̳̘̥̻̓̐̈̔͐͝͝͝ͅ ̸̢̨̧̣̝̤͔̯͙̼̞̰̹̘̉̈̐̋̾͜t̷̨̢̛̳̝͚͖̗͍̜̊̾́̾̍́̆̽̽͘͠͝a̸̧̪̻̼͑̊̃̉͝g̸͓̥͈͈͈̫͎̼̓̃̒͘ͅo̵̧̩̳͓͓̰̤̼̮̬͖̝̞̊͊̊̊̇͊̈́͘j̸̰͔͖̳͗̽̈́̿̽̀̃̎͌͝͠ ̵̮̪̑̐̑͊̿̂̋̕d̵̮̐͗̏̈̈́͊e̸͈̫̝̠̍̐͋͋͆̑̾̿̌̀͐̈́̍̕͘ ̵̠̺̳̉̏̂͗̈̇r̸̢̨̤̬̯̯̪̤͖͎̦͙͓̮͚̀̓̒́̈́̑͌̑͆́͋̾̌̈͠ǫ̷̛̛͕̦͚͙̀͆̈́̀̄͗̌͛́̉ņ̶͍̠̰̤͆͘d̵̡͎̦̖̘̬̽̊́̇̕͝ǐ̸̬̑̌̀r̵͔̿̈͊̈́̉̈́͂̐̈́͝͝ǫ̶̼̉͆ͅj̷̧͚̮̱͕̫̝̜̰͚̦͛;̷̠̱͇͇̟̦͉̖̫͔̭̥̓̆̑̿̐̈́́̄̓̈̐̃̽̊̚͜ ̵̛̮͍̙̮̽̒m̵̧̬͈͙̯̖͔̦̫͓͇͕̱͈͆̉i̸̢̢͇̦͙͉̝͈͇̋̃̓͒͗̀͗̐̚͜͠ ̸͈͙̖̘̰͉̑̏͜͜a̴̰̗̥͛̏̎̑̉͝n̵͓̈́̐ẗ̶̡̩̦̱̥̻̝ä̵̢́͐̈̽̂͊͘͝ŭ̴̧̢͎̖̼͇̠͕̹͚͉̖̠̈́̒̄͆͗̑̋̏͐̔͘͘͝͝͝ë̴̹͈͉̣̙͕͙̈́n̴̦̪̂̽̚ͅǐ̵̛̭̮̖̹̫͙͚͉̄͗͌̃͆̊̊̒̒͛͝͝r̶̨̨̗̘̥̫̲͖̻͍̆ŏ̷̢͚̖̮͔͔̙̹͎͖̜̱̹͚̃̓͆͗̋͘s̴̬̲̈́́͐͐̋̔͐͜͠.̵̩̰͕̠̠̈́̄́̒̾̈́́͆͊̈́̇̊͝”
He spoke of words that no living can recite, as if it was the privilege of those who achieved the second best thing in life.
The mysterious symbols surged and flowed all throughout his body as pallor overtook all of his color as his blood was sucked out of every pore in his body, his mouth, nose, eyes and ears connected to a forming ball of pale blood.
Kneeling there while whatever was left of him funneled out and pooled into the vortex of his blood, and he stayed kneeling until there wasn’t enough blood left in him to keep his heart doing its job.
Then, the whirlpool that built up above him dispersed and seeped into men who had already lost their mind, husks too empty to complain.
It didn’t feel like dying, particularly.
It felt like running out.
Hans found him the way Hans always found him, without being called, without needing to be, stepping into the ritual room with the same unhurried, composed calm he brought to everything, as though finding his employer’s body cooling on the stone floor were simply the next item on a list he’d already been given.
He didn’t say anything at first.
He knelt, gathered what was left with a gentleness that didn’t match the matter-of-fact efficiency of the rest of him, and carried it down through the house to the room beneath the basement that no one else on staff was ever permitted to see.
The sarcophagi lined both walls, dozens of them by now, each one carved with the same symbols that covered the ritual room floor, each from different eras, each one glowing faintly silver where the chains wrapped around it, holding closed something that had never once tried to get out on its own, not without their master’s permission.
Hans laid the husk into the next open one, in the center, ready as if this was routine procedure, but this time it was more permanent.
He wrapped the chains around the sarcophagus, slow, careful, the same knots every time.
“Till we meet again, my dear master,” he said, quietly, to the room as much as to the thing inside it.
A door appeared at the far end of the chamber and opened on its own, the way it always did, carved from end to end with figures of the dead holding onto one another, hand to bone to hand, an unbroken chain of them circling the frame.
Something came free of Hans’ body, a humanoid silhouette that was quickly pulled into that door and gone, and what was left behind stopped being a body at all, first dust, and then, a moment later, not even that.
__________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Adrian Halvorsen had not expected the genealogy book to take up an entire evening.
He’d bought it mostly as a joke, the kind of thing you get a relative for Christmas when you’ve run out of better ideas, one of those services that mails you a leather-bound printout of everything they could dig up about your family tree, and he’d only cracked it open because the book was sitting right there on the coffee table.
Three hours later he was still on the couch.
The tree went back further than he’d expected.
Much further.
There were names on it he didn’t recognize, branches he hadn’t known existed, lines that split off and rejoined in ways that made his head hurt a little trying to follow them, generations upon generations of people who’d apparently all, somehow, eventually led to him sitting on this particular couch on this particular evening.
One name stood out to him.
A name that showed up again and again, enough times that he found himself circling back to it, tracing it forward and backward through the branches like it had been trying to get his attention the whole time.
Mori.
He didn’t know why that one stuck.
There were plenty of names in the tree he’d never heard of, that was sort of the point of the whole exercise, but something about that particular one made him sit up a little straighter, read the page around it a little more carefully, the way you do when a word in a foreign language suddenly sounds like it means something you already know.
He didn’t think anything of it, not really.
Not yet.
He just closed the book, marked the page, and told himself he’d look into it properly when he had more time.
Volume 1 is more like volume 0 since it’s mostly just a set up but also to introduce one of my most favourite characters