Chapter 2: The Stone Warden

Chapter 2: The Stone Warden

Valerius's townhouse stood in the Serpentile District, a neighborhood where old money and older magic slept behind wrought-iron fences. The building was a narrow, three-story beast of dark brick, its windows like vacant eyes. A wide, official-looking tape bearing the twin-towered crest of the Aethelgard Concordat was stretched across the heavy oak doors. ‘SEALED PENDING INVESTIGATION,’ it read in crisp, authoritative letters. A joke, considering Valerius had told me they’d already dropped it.

The ghost had been right about the brick. It was beside the back gate, loose in a way that felt deliberate. Prying it free, my gloved fingers found the cold metal of a small lockbox. I hesitated for only a second before pulling the glove off. Rent was due. Bracing for a potential psychic backlash, I touched the box.

The impressions were faint, filtered through Valerius’s own fading essence. I felt a surge of his familiar arrogance, a tremor of paranoia, and a flash of… something else. Greed. A dark, grasping avarice that was hungry and sharp. It was unsettlingly similar to the predatory feeling from the ritual. Shaking it off, I popped the lid. Inside, nestled on velvet lining, were two stacks of crisp crown notes, bound in paper. Two hundred, just as promised. I pocketed the cash, the migraine from my encounter with Valerius’s ghost a dull, persistent throb behind my eye. I slipped the glove back on, the worn leather a comforting barrier against the world’s noise.

Getting inside was easier than I expected. The Concordat might be good with magical wards, but their physical security was laughable. A second-story window latch, rusted from the perpetual damp, gave way with a bit of persuasion from a pry bar. I slipped into the oppressive silence of the house.

Dust motes danced in the slivers of grey light slanting through the windows. The air was thick with the scent of beeswax, old leather, and the cloying sweetness of decaying flowers. It was a mausoleum disguised as a home. I headed straight for the study.

The room was exactly as Valerius had described it: floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, a heavy mahogany desk, and a fireplace large enough to roast an ox. The Concordat had been here. The faint scent of their sterile warding spells hung in the air, a chemical tang beneath the dust. They’d done a surface sweep and found nothing. They didn't have my advantages.

My eyes scanned the room, looking for a focal point, an object that would have been important to Valerius in his final moments. My gaze landed on an ornate letter opener lying innocently beside a stack of sealed correspondence on the desk. It was silver, shaped like a dragon, with tiny ruby chips for eyes. An object of power and status. An object he would have held daily.

Taking a deep, centering breath, I removed my glove again. The familiar hum of the room’s history rose to meet me. My bare fingers closed around the cold, detailed silver.

The vision hit me, but it was different this time. Milder. A residual echo, not a direct feed. I saw through Valerius’s eyes, his hand—my hand—gripping the letter opener. He wasn't scared. He was agitated, pacing the length of the Persian rug. Another man was in the room, his face a frustrating blur, his voice a low, insistent rumble.

"...too dangerous, Valerius! You don't know what you're meddling with."

Valerius's own voice, full-bodied and alive, sneered back. "I am meddling with power, my friend. True power. The kind men like you only dream of while you grovel before the Concordat."

The blurry figure gestured towards a heavy, leather-bound book on the desk. "That is not a grimoire, it's a cage! You read the warnings. The binding ritual is irreversible."

"Everything is reversible with enough will," Valerius had retorted, his own memory dripping with contemptuous pride. The vision swirled, and I saw his hand reaching for the book. I felt the thrum of immense, contained power radiating from it, the same violet-black energy from my first vision. This wasn't a murder. It was an argument. A prelude to a self-inflicted disaster.

The vision fractured, and I stumbled back, gasping. The migraine flared, sharp and vicious. My client wasn’t just a victim; he was an active, willing participant. He’d lied to me. The thought had barely formed when a new sound cut through the silence.

The solid, deliberate scrape of stone on wood.

I spun around. Standing in the doorway, blocking out most of the light, was a figure so immense he seemed carved from the very foundations of the city. He was tall and broad, encased in the dark, gothic-plated uniform of a Concordat Warden. His skin was the color and texture of granite, traced with faint, moss-like patterns. His eyes… his eyes glowed with a soft, internal golden light, and they were fixed on me.

"This is a sealed scene, McPherson," his voice rumbled, deep and resonant, like rocks grinding together. It was a voice that didn't bother with inflection because it was used to absolute obedience.

I instinctively shoved my bare hand into my trench coat pocket, my heart hammering against my ribs. A Gargoyle. Not just any Warden, but a Gargoyle. They were the Concordat’s elite: ancient, implacable, and fiercely dedicated to the letter of the law.

"Funny," I managed, forcing a cynical smirk I didn't feel. "I don't see any other investigators. Looks more like a forgotten scene to me."

He took a step into the room, his heavy boots making no sound. He moved with an unnatural grace for something so massive. His golden eyes swept over the desk, noting the disturbed letter opener, then flicked to me. It was an unnervingly perceptive gaze.

"Lord Valerius vanished. There was no sign of foul play, magical or mundane. The case is closed," he stated. It wasn't an explanation; it was a decree.

"And you just happened to be in the neighborhood? Decided to check if the dust bunnies were behaving themselves?" I retorted, my defensiveness rising.

"I am Senior Warden Kaelen," he said, ignoring my sarcasm. "And I am aware of your... unique methods. The Concordat does not sanction psychometric intrusion on a closed case. You are trespassing."

"The dead man's ghost hired me. I'd say that gives me permission," I shot back.

A flicker of something—annoyance? surprise?—crossed his stony features. "You've spoken with him?"

"We had a lovely chat. He thinks someone murdered him. I'm beginning to think he was just an idiot."

Kaelen’s gaze hardened. "Whatever happened here, it is Concordat business. You will cease your investigation immediately. Turn over any findings and leave."

This was the obstacle. The unmovable object the universe throws at you when you’re just trying to make rent. But his presence here, so long after the case was closed, felt wrong. He was too important to be making random patrols.

"Or what?" I challenged, my chin jutting out. "You'll throw me in the Clink? The cells are probably warmer than my apartment."

"Do not mistake my professional courtesy for patience," Kaelen rumbled, his voice dropping an octave. "There are forces at play in this city you are not equipped to handle. You see a simple case, a fee to be collected. I see a thread that, if pulled, could unravel a peace that has been maintained for centuries."

He took another step closer. I could feel a palpable aura of pressure radiating from him, of ancient stone and unyielding authority. It was like standing next to a mountain.

"Consider this your only warning, McPherson," he said, his golden eyes burning into mine. "Drop it."

Without waiting for a reply, he turned and walked out of the study, his footsteps once again silent. I stood there for a long moment, my pulse a frantic drum in my ears. The man was infuriating, terrifying, and hiding something. His warning wasn't just a threat; it was a confirmation. The Concordat wasn't ignoring this case because it was cold. They were burying it.

My gaze fell back to the desk, not to the letter opener, but to the heavy, leather-bound book the men in the vision had argued over. Kaelen hadn't noticed I’d disturbed it. It lay there, radiating a faint, almost imperceptible cold. Valerius and his ghost friend had mentioned a ritual. This had to be the source.

Kaelen wanted me to drop it. Valerius was lying to me. Whatever was going on, it was far more sinister than a simple haunting. And my curiosity, now thoroughly piqued, was a far more powerful motivator than fear. I had the ghost's money in my pocket, and a brand new clue. The crimson quill from my first vision still haunted me, a symbol without context. Maybe this book held the key. I had to know more.