The small, cold weight of the Blackwood crest pressed into my palm like a shard of ice. Its metallic edges bit gently into my skin, the raven emblem's beak and talons etched with such precision they seemed almost ready to draw blood. As I traced the obsidian inlay, another muffled groan echoed from behind the heavy metal door, reverberating through the dank air.
It wasn't just suspicion anymore. It was confirmation. The Blackwoods were here, in this hidden underbelly of the city, just as they were in the glittering towers above. Their shadow stretched long, inescapable.
My heartbeat quickened, each pulse throbbing painfully against my temples. The cramped passage suddenly felt smaller, the chill from the stone walls seeping through my clothing. I inhaled deeply, tasting mildew and something else—an antiseptic tang that seemed out of place in these forgotten passages.
My mind raced, desperately trying to connect the pieces. Julian. Had he dropped this? Had he found his way into these tunnels after the ritual in the penthouse? Perhaps wounded, disoriented? The groan sounded weak, pained—it could fit. Or was this place itself a Blackwood facility? A secret lab, a holding cell? That chemical smell hanging in the air behind the door supported these theories.
If so, the person inside could be anyone—an employee, a prisoner, another victim of their dark dealings. Or worse, another Blackwood lying in wait.
The groan came again, softer this time, followed by a ragged inhalation that whispered against the metal. It sounded... human. Definitely human. Male, perhaps, though distorted by pain. Not the inhuman hissing of the creature I'd encountered in the main passage—that otherworldly sound still echoed in my memory.
I pressed my ear against the door, feeling its cold surface seep warmth from my cheek. The metal carried vibrations—shallow, irregular breathing and occasionally the rustle of fabric. Someone shifting position. Someone alive. Someone suffering.
A sliver of empathy, unwelcome and dangerous, pricked at me. To leave someone suffering, potentially trapped... it grated against who I once was, before hatred became my compass. The person I had been before the Blackwoods tore my life apart would have reached for that door without hesitation. That person died the same night my family did, in flames that bore the Blackwood crest—the very symbol now cool against my palm.
Compassion was a luxury I couldn't afford, especially not here. This could easily be a trap, a lure designed to prey on foolish sentiment. How many others had they ensnared with cries for help?
My hatred urged me to turn away, to find another path, to leave whoever was behind that door to their fate. It was likely deserved, if they were involved with that cursed family.
Yet... information. Whoever was inside might *know* something. About this place. About the Blackwoods' operations. About Julian. About Eleanor and her ritual. About the creature stalking these tunnels. Information was survival. Information was the key to vengeance.
And the crest itself... could it be more than just dropped identification? The light caught the polished surface, making the raven seem momentarily alive. Could it be a key? Some Blackwood technology or magic might require it for access. Eleanor's fragmented memories whispered of such things—artifacts coded to bloodlines, objects with power beyond their appearance.
My fingers traced the intricate carving—the raven's wingspan, the obsidian shard embedded in its breast. Smooth, worn slightly at the edges. I pressed it against the cold steel door near where I thought a lock might be. Nothing happened. I slid it along the almost invisible seam, feeling for any mechanism that might recognize its shape. Still nothing.
Maybe... resonance? The word from the note again. Could this crest resonate with the door's mechanism? I closed my eyes, holding the small metal disc between my fingers, trying to focus my will, my energy, *through* it. I pictured the symbol glowing, connecting with whatever lay within the steel. I imagined the raven taking flight.
A faint headache returned, a warning throb behind my eyes. The unstable power within me stirred sluggishly, reluctantly. I felt a subtle warmth spread from the crest into my palm, a barely perceptible hum. My vision blurred slightly, darkness creeping at the edges, and for a moment I thought I saw the raven's outline etched in blue fire against my closed eyelids.
But the door remained stubbornly shut. Either the crest wasn't a key, or my control over this strange energy was still inadequate. The power retreated, leaving me feeling hollow, my headache intensifying.
Damn it.
I rested my forehead against the cool metal, letting it soothe my aching head. The silence stretched, broken only by my quiet breathing and the faint, pained sounds from within. The person inside hadn't reacted to my failed attempts. Perhaps they were too weak. Or perhaps they were listening, waiting.
What would Eleanor have done? I tried to access her memories again, pushing past the fragmented impressions. The process always felt like reaching into freezing water, never knowing what my fingers might close around.
A fleeting image surfaced: Eleanor, younger, her wild auburn hair framing a face alight with manic energy, pressing her ear against this very door, a slightly crazed smile on her lips. Her pupils were dilated, black pools drowning the green of her irises. She knew what was behind it. There was a sense of... anticipation. Of gaining access to something powerful, something forbidden. The memory carried the metallic tang of blood and the acrid scent of burnt herbs. But it dissolved before revealing what it was, or *how* she intended to open it.
I withdrew from the memory with a gasp, my skin clammy with cold sweat. Every time I dipped into Eleanor's past, it felt like I left a piece of myself behind and brought back something of her instead.
My options remained stark: risk the unknown horrors of the main passage, or gamble on the mystery behind this sealed door. The presence of the Blackwood crest tipped the scales. This felt... important. Connected. Ignoring it felt like discarding a crucial puzzle piece.
Alright. One more try. Not with power, not with guesswork. With simple communication. The risk was immense—revealing my presence could be fatal. But the potential reward...
Taking another deep breath, the antiseptic smell stronger as I inhaled, I leaned close to the metal, my lips almost touching the surface. I pitched my voice low, barely a whisper, hoping it would carry through the thick steel without echoing down the passage.
"Hello?"
The word felt tentative, fragile in the oppressive silence. My pulse thundered in my ears.
I waited, heart pounding, every nerve fiber taut.
Silence.
Then, a faint rustling sound from within, like fabric dragging across concrete, followed by a sharp intake of breath.
"Who... who's there?" The voice was raspy, weak, definitely male, laced with pain but also sharp with alarm. It wasn't Julian's voice—unless pain had altered it significantly. It sounded older. The words emerged slowly, as if each required enormous effort.
He was conscious. He was aware. And he spoke English.
What now? Reveal myself? Ask questions? Demand answers?
"I... I'm lost," I whispered back, keeping my voice neutral, betraying nothing. "I heard... are you alright?" A calculated risk, feigning concern, hoping to elicit information.
A long pause. Then, a dry, painful-sounding chuckle that devolved into a wet cough. "Alright? That's... rich." A labored breath whistled through what sounded like clenched teeth. "No, kid. Definitely not alright. Trapped. Like a rat." Another groan punctuated by a deep cough. "Who are you? How did you find this place?"
His suspicion was palpable, cutting through the weakness in his voice. He wasn't just a random victim. He knew this place wasn't easily found. There was authority in his question, despite his obvious distress.
"I was... running," I improvised, keeping details vague. "From trouble upstairs. Found a... hidden way. This passage." I hesitated, then decided to press. "I found this outside your door." I held the Blackwood crest against the metal again, tapping it lightly. "Recognize it?"
The silence that followed was heavy. I could almost feel him processing the information. The only sound was his breathing, which had quickened slightly, becoming more controlled.
Finally, he spoke again, his voice lower, colder, all trace of weakness gone, replaced by a chilling authority that sent ice down my spine.
"Where exactly did you find that, girl?" The question wasn't just curious. It was a demand. Sharp. Dangerous. Each word precisely enunciated, as if he had suddenly remembered who he was.
This wasn't just some prisoner. This voice held power, even through pain. The kind of power I recognized from board meetings and televised speeches. The kind of power wielded by men like...
Like Marcus Blackwood.
The realization hit me with the force of a physical blow. Was it *him*? Trapped behind this door? By Eleanor's ritual? The note said "J" was contained... could it have meant Julian *and* someone else?
Marcus—if it was indeed him—was the patriarch, the cold heart of the Blackwood empire. Eleanor's father. Julian's father. The man whose signature was on every document that had destroyed my family's legacy. The man whose orders had led to the fire.
Before I could formulate a reply, before I could process this terrifying possibility, the T-shaped lever I had turned earlier suddenly clicked. Not from my touch. From the other side of the wall I had entered through. The sound cut through the silence like a gunshot.
Someone else was in the alcove behind me. The lever was turning. The hidden door was about to open.