The letter had been lying between them for several minutes, yet none of them dared to be the first to break the silence.
Outside the windows, the winter wind howled, hurling snow against the glass.
From time to time, the logs in the fireplace crackled dryly, and the firelight slowly drifted across the dark walls of the study.
Usually, those sounds lent the room a sense of comfort, but now they only emphasized the strange, almost painful silence that had settled between the three men.
Richard stood by the writing desk, leaning on his cane with both hands, reading the final lines of the letter for what must have been the tenth time.
He had known them by heart for a long time.
And yet he kept staring at them, as though he hoped that, with each rereading, their meaning might somehow change.
Do not trust the man who is the first to tell you how Richard died.
The longer he studied the words, the less they seemed like an ordinary warning.
There was something deliberate about them, almost mockingly calculated to ensure that one day they would find their way into Richard’s hands.
Someone knew.
Someone knew not only about his death, but was counting on Richard eventually reading this letter himself.
He slowly lifted his eyes from the page.
Sebastian stood by the fireplace.
At first glance, the butler looked exactly as he always did: calm, composed, and impeccably self-controlled.
But Richard had known him for far too long not to notice the little things.
Sebastian was unusually tense tonight.
His eyes kept drifting toward the letter, as though he were trying to find something in it that the others could not see, and yet he had not once looked at Kain.
Kain, meanwhile, stood near the door with his arms folded across his chest.
He, too, was avoiding Sebastian’s gaze.
Richard felt irritation slowly rising within him.
Not a flash of anger, but a heavy, viscous feeling that grew stronger with every second of their silence.
At last, he could bear it no longer.
“Did you know?” Sebastian did not answer immediately.
Richard straightened slightly, leaning more heavily on his cane.
“I asked you a question.” “No,” Sebastian finally said.
“About the letter?” “About the letter—no.” Richard watched him intently for several seconds, trying to determine exactly where the truth ended and another omission began.
“Then what did you know about?” Sebastian did not hurry to answer.
He merely turned his gaze toward the window, where the snow almost completely obscured the garden beyond.
“That someone might know more about your death than we do.” “That is not an answer.” “It is the only answer I am certain of right now.” Richard tightened his grip on the cane.
“Why?” Sebastian turned toward him, but caution still lingered in his eyes.
“Because after everything that has happened today, I am no longer certain that I can tell the difference between the truth and what I was once led to believe.” Those words carried far more weight than the ones before them.
Richard was about to ask what exactly Sebastian meant when Kain suddenly gave a quiet laugh.
It was brief and utterly devoid of amusement.
“Finally.” Richard turned his head.
“What?” Kain pushed himself away from the wall and slowly straightened.
“Finally, you have started asking the right questions.” There was none of his usual mockery in his voice.
Only the weariness of a man who had carried someone else’s secret for far too long and no longer knew how much longer he could keep it.
Richard noticed and did not argue.
“Then explain.” Kain looked at the letter.
“What exactly?” “Why aren’t you surprised?” For several moments, Kain remained silent, as though searching for words that would not take them even deeper into a place from which it would be difficult to return.
“Because I was expecting a threat.” “But you received a letter.” “The letter is the threat.” Kain walked over to the desk and stopped opposite Richard.
“Think about it.
Someone entered a locked study and left a message behind.
The author knew that you had died.
More than that, he knew that you had returned.
And if the letter was actually written before your return, then that means this person knew what was going to happen.” Richard frowned.
“Or he was watching me.” “Yes.” “The house.” “Possibly.” Richard slowly shifted his gaze toward the closed door.
For a moment, he felt uneasy at the mere thought of how many people in this house could have entered the study without difficulty.
“Or he was inside.” This time, neither man answered.
Because they both understood that this was the most disturbing possibility of all.
Richard slowly surveyed the study.
The thick walls of the old wing, the tall windows, the heavy curtains, the bookshelves crammed with folios and ancient records.
There were two exits: one into the corridor, the other into a small inner gallery.
Suddenly, he wondered how many people had had unrestricted access to this room over the years.
How many servants.
How many guards.
How many people they had grown accustomed to trusting without ever considering the consequences.
“If someone is listening to us now,” Richard said quietly, “we have already said too much.” Kain nodded.
“That is why I was going to close the door.” He had already taken a step toward the exit when Sebastian stopped him.
“One door is not enough.” Kain looked at him and gave a barely perceptible nod.
“I know.” He took a small metal cylinder from his belt.
Richard had seen the object before, but had never paid it much attention.
Now Kain carefully placed it on the floor beside the door and turned the upper ring.
Thin silver lines appeared across the surface one after another.
They joined together, forming an intricate pattern, and the air around them trembled almost imperceptibly.
The sound vanished.
Not grew quieter—vanished.
Richard could still see the fire crackling in the fireplace, but he could no longer hear it.
The wind outside continued to bend the branches of the old trees, yet the glass now seemed to separate them from the entire outside world.
Even his own breathing sounded strangely muffled.
Sebastian took a small black stone from his inner pocket and placed it on the writing desk.
“A double barrier?” Richard asked.
“One suppressor is not enough,” Sebastian replied.
“If someone has placed a listening seal in the study, it could bypass ordinary sound suppression.” Kain studied the stone.
“A memory mirror?” “A trace check.” Sebastian touched the stone with two fingers.
Its surface clouded for a moment, as though thick smoke had risen inside frozen glass.
Then the smoke dispersed, and the stone became completely transparent again.
No glow.
No flashes.
No traces of foreign magic.
Sebastian withdrew his hand and only then allowed himself to relax slightly.
“Now we can talk.” Richard looked at them both.
For the first time that evening, he felt that they were actually going to tell him the truth.
Or at least the part of it they themselves were still capable of bringing into the open.
“All right,” he said.
“Tell me.” Sebastian approached the fireplace and stared into the flames for a while, as though gathering the courage to speak.
“Your father received the first letter almost four years ago.” Richard frowned slightly.
“Four years?” “Yes.” “Why was I never told?” “Because your father forbade it.” “What did it say?” “We do not know.” “You saw the letter?” “I did.” “Then what do you remember?” Sebastian hesitated.
“It was short.
Only a few lines.
But after receiving it, your father hardly left his study for several days.
He locked the door, allowed no one inside, and barely spoke even to those who had served him for many years.” Richard stared at him in silence.
“After some time, a second letter arrived,” Sebastian continued.
“Then a third.
At first, several months passed between them, but gradually the intervals grew shorter.” Richard slowly frowned.
“And you kept silent all this time?” “I was ordered to.” “You always obey orders?” The question came out harsher than Richard had intended.
Then again, he had no intention of taking it back.
Sebastian calmly met his gaze.
“If the order concerns the safety of the House—yes.” “Even if that order requires you to hide the truth from me?” “Especially then.” Richard was about to object, but Kain intervened before the conversation could turn into another argument.
“Your father was not afraid of the letters.” Richard turned his gaze toward him.
“Then what was he afraid of?” Kain did not answer immediately.
He stepped closer to the fireplace, stopped beside Sebastian, and only then said: “The one who sent them.” Richard felt an unpleasant chill settle inside him.
“What happened afterward?” Sebastian sighed heavily.
“The last letter arrived about two years ago.” “And what happened after that?” “Your father ordered the northern wing sealed.” Richard frowned even more deeply.
“Why?” “He said the past had returned.” The phrase seemed strangely familiar to Richard.
He had heard it before.
Perhaps from his father himself.
Perhaps in some conversation that had long since faded from his memory.
“And a few months later, he died.” “Yes.” “Of an illness?” Sebastian looked at him.
“Officially—yes.” “And in truth?” Sebastian remained silent.
Kain slowly turned away from the window.
“You have to tell him.” Sebastian closed his eyes and lowered his head for several seconds.
“I know.” “Then why are you silent?” “Because some things, once spoken aloud, can never be taken back.” Richard felt his fingers tighten around the cane of their own accord.
“Enough.
What are you hiding?” Sebastian stared at him for a long moment, as though trying to decide what price would have to be paid for the answer that followed.
At last, he said: “Your father did not die of an illness.” Richard did not immediately comprehend what he had heard.
The words seemed to hang suspended in the air between them.
“Then what did he die of?” “I do not know.” Kain said quietly: “You know enough.” Sebastian turned sharply toward him.
“Do not force me.” “He has a right to know.” “That is precisely why I remained silent.” Richard shifted his gaze between the two men.
He no longer cared which of them was right.
His patience had finally run out.
“I am done listening to your half-truths.
If you know anything at all, tell me now.” Sebastian lowered his eyes.
“There were marks on your father’s body.” Richard frowned.
“What kind?” “Burns.” “From fire?” “No.” “Magic?” Sebastian said nothing.
That silence was answer enough.
Kain spoke slowly.
“They looked as though the damage had begun inside the body.” Richard felt a chill run down the back of his neck.
At that very moment, his memory struck him with unexpected force.
Snow.
A white, blinding forest.
Blood on the snow.
A man kneeling.
And beneath his skin—a faint, otherworldly glow pulsing slowly, as though something foreign were beating inside him.
Richard drew a sharp breath.
The cane nearly slipped from his hand.
“My lord?” He closed his eyes, but it did not help.
The man appeared before him again.
And then he heard a voice.
Run.
Richard’s eyes flew open.
“I saw it.” Kain was beside him in an instant.
“What?” “A man.” “Where?” “I don’t know.” “When?” “In a memory.” Kain froze, studying his face.
Richard looked at him and suddenly saw something he had never noticed before.
Fear.
Not concern.
Not doubt.
Fear.
“You know what I saw.” “No.” “Do not lie to me.” Kain said nothing.
Richard took a step toward him, feeling all the tension that had built throughout the evening turn into anger.
“I am tired of people who know more than I do.” Kain held his gaze.
“Then start remembering.” “I am trying.” “No.” Richard frowned.
“What do you mean?” Kain spoke calmly, but there was a strange gravity in his voice now.
“You are trying to force your memory to obey you.” “And is that not how memory is supposed to work?” “No.
Memory does not obey commands.
It comes on its own, when a person is ready to see what they have been hiding from.” Richard gave a bitter laugh.
“Very convenient.” “I never said it would be easy.” Kain fell silent for a moment, then added: “Tomorrow, I will show you a place.” Sebastian’s head snapped up.
“No.” Kain turned toward him.
“Why?” “Because it is too soon.” “For him—perhaps.” Kain looked at Richard again.
“But if I am right, we may have far less time than we think.” Richard felt an unpleasant chill.
“What place?” Kain did not answer immediately.
“An old northern sanctuary.” “A sanctuary to what?” “I don’t know.” “Then why do you call it a sanctuary?” Kain looked at Sebastian.
“Because that is what your father called it.” Richard followed his gaze.
An old book lay on the writing desk.
He had not noticed it before.
The leather cover was cracked, darkened in places by age, and the metal clasps had long since lost their original sheen.
There was no title or author’s name on the spine.
Only a small symbol, barely visible in the dim firelight.
Richard stepped closer.
“What is this?” Sebastian looked at the book, and for the first time during the entire conversation, genuine fear appeared in his eyes.
“Do not touch it.” Richard stopped.
“Why?” “Just don’t.” But the warning came too late.
Richard’s fingers had already touched the cover.
The world disappeared.
He was back among the snow.
But this time, he immediately understood that it was not a memory of today.
He was younger.
Much younger.
His body was strong, his movements free, and his hair completely dark.
The cold felt almost physical, seeping beneath his clothes and burning his skin.
He stood in the middle of a snow-covered forest, staring at a man he did not know, though somewhere deep inside he already felt that he had seen him before.
An old man stood before him.
His gray hair almost completely concealed his face, and his long dark robes brushed against the snow.
In his hand, he held an old wooden staff, its surface covered in numerous deep notches.
The old man looked at Richard as though he had been waiting for him for a very long time.
“You are late, Richard.” Richard wanted to answer, but his own voice seemed not to belong to him.
His lips moved, yet no words came.
The old man turned away.
And then Richard saw what stood behind him.
A tree.
A vast, impossible tree, so enormous that its crown vanished among the low clouds.
Its thick trunk resembled the walls of an ancient fortress, while its roots plunged deep beneath the snow, intertwining and disappearing somewhere underground.
A single silver leaf hung from one of its branches.
It swayed almost imperceptibly, though there was no wind.
Suddenly, the tree shuddered.
Not from the wind.
Richard felt it throughout his entire body.
It was suffering.
The old man lifted his gaze toward the branches.
“It is dying.” Richard heard his own voice: “Then will we die too?” The old man turned toward him.
For several seconds, he simply stared at Richard.
Then he answered: “Not today.” He raised his hand.
The world around them began to darken rapidly, as though night were swallowing the forest, the sky, and the snow within seconds.
And then everything vanished.
Richard jerked his hand away.
The book fell to the floor with a dull thud.
He was breathing heavily, unable at first to understand that he was back in the study.
The fireplace, the desk, the walls, Sebastian and Kain—all of it had returned to its proper place, yet the cold from the vision still lingered inside him.
Sebastian stood nearby.
“What happened?” Richard looked at his fingers.
“I saw a place.” Kain stepped closer.
“What place?” Richard raised his eyes.
“The north.” Kain froze.
“What else?” Richard tried to reconstruct the sequence of the vision, but the memory was already beginning to crumble, like snow melting in his hands.
“A tree.” Something changed in Kain’s face.
Only slightly.
But it was enough for Richard to understand that Kain knew.
“You know this place.” “Perhaps.” “Kain.” He looked at Richard.
“I know the legend.” “What legend?” Kain shifted his gaze toward the book lying on the floor.
“Not here.” Richard frowned.
“Why?” Sebastian answered for him: “Because if it really is the place we think it is, no one has gone there for almost a hundred years.” “Why?” Sebastian remained silent for a long time, as though even now he did not want to speak the words aloud.
“Because your father forbade anyone from returning there.” Richard picked up the book.
Now the symbol on its cover was perfectly clear.
A raven.
A wolf.
And between them—a tree.
He slowly ran his fingers over the metal emblem.
This time, no memory came.
But instead, somewhere deep inside him, another feeling emerged.
Certainty.
He had seen this symbol before.
Not today.
Not yesterday.
Long ago.
Once, this sign had already been a part of his life.
His memory simply would not yet allow him to remember when.
And then the words surfaced in his mind with absolute clarity.
He could not remember the face of the person who had spoken them.
He could not remember the voice.
He could not even remember where he had been at the time.
But the words themselves were perfectly clear: When the House falls, seek the roots.
Richard slowly raised his eyes.
This time, there was no hesitation in his decision.
“Prepare the horses.” Sebastian said nothing.
Kain remained silent as well.
And only after Richard turned away did Sebastian allow himself to look at Kain.
Their eyes met.
They both understood the same thing.
Richard had not remembered the place.
He had remembered only the door.
And what lay beyond it, they did not yet know.
Outside the windows, the snow continued to fall, gradually covering the garden and paths in a white blanket.
The artifact still swallowed every sound in the study, cutting them off from the rest of the house.
Even here, behind solid walls and magical protection, all three men were suddenly troubled by the thought that somewhere beyond this room, something they had feared for so long might already have begun.
Far to the north, beyond forests and mountains where no human foot had tread for nearly a century, something ancient was already awakening.
And if the old records did not lie, the first thing to awaken was not a man.
It was a tree.