Chapter 4: The Crimson Cask

Chapter 4: The Crimson Cask

The ride back to Remembrancer Antiques was a silent, high-speed blur. Kai’s mind was a maelstrom, replaying the grotesque disintegration of the Grave Moth and the raw, undiluted vision of the killer’s insignia. The adrenaline had faded, leaving behind a bone-deep tremor and the cold, metallic taste of fear. He was no longer just a witness; the vision had made him a participant, a link in a chain he desperately wanted no part of.

Catharine drove with the same focused intensity she applied to everything. To her, the brutal confrontation in the tunnel seemed to be nothing more than a messy but successful field operation.

She bypassed the shop's public entrance, guiding the sedan into a narrow, cobbled alley behind the building. A section of the brick wall shimmered and slid away, revealing a dark, subterranean parking space. The illusion folded back into place behind them, plunging them into a quiet, climate-controlled silence.

“Welcome to the Sanctum,” she said, leading him through a heavy steel door that opened with the hiss of a pneumatic seal.

If the antique shop was Simon’s public face, this was his heart. The space was a stunning fusion of the ancient and the hyper-modern. One wall was a traditional armory, holding racks of weapons that ranged from medieval polearms gleaming with enchantments to the sleek, magically-etched firearm Catharine carried. Another wall was a bank of humming servers and monitors displaying complex arcane energy readings from across the city. In the center of the room, a massive oak table was covered in scrolls, artifacts, and a half-disassembled thaumaturgical sensor array. This was Simon Zhou’s real workshop, a place where thousand-year-old rituals met cutting-edge technology.

“Describe the insignia again,” Catharine commanded, striding over to a large touchscreen interface built into the wall. “Every detail.”

Kai, still trying to process the sheer scope of the operation hidden beneath a dusty antique shop, forced himself to focus. “A barrel. Like for wine or whiskey. It was on its side. And there was a single drop, thick, like blood, leaking from the tap.”

Catharine’s fingers flew across the screen, pulling up files and cross-referencing symbols from a vast database of arcane sigils, cult markings, and off-world iconography. After a moment, she stopped. An image filled the screen, identical to the one seared into Kai’s memory. Beneath it was a name that sounded like a violation.

The Crimson Cask Cartel.

“There,” she said, her voice tight with a cold fury. “We suspected, but we had no proof. Now we do.”

“Who are they?” Kai asked, stepping closer to the screen. The accompanying file was heavily redacted, but what was visible was horrifying. Crime scene photos showing bodies drained of life, their skin grey and brittle. Reports on stolen artifacts. A list of missing persons with known paranormal sensitivities.

“They are butchers,” Catharine said, the word dripping with professional contempt. “Most factions in this world seek knowledge or power. The Cartel seeks only profit. They are poachers who hunt supernatural beings, drain them of their essence, and distill it into a potent, highly addictive, and utterly destructive substance they sell on the black market. They turn magic into a drug. To them, the Smoldering Hag isn’t a primal force of nature; it’s an untapped oil field.”

The casual cruelty of it made Kai feel sick. He thought of the terror in the Grave Moth’s final moments. To the Cartel, that was just a raw ingredient.

“They’re the ones who killed Simon,” he stated, the pieces clicking into place. “They wanted his research on the Hag. They stole the seal so they could… what? Harvest it?”

“Precisely,” Catharine confirmed. “And in doing so, they put the entire city at risk. They don't care about the balance. They care about their bottom line.” She turned from the screen to face him, her expression grim. “When the Grave Moth was destroyed, it released a significant amount of psychic energy—Simon’s memories, the echo of his murder. Your own power, flaring up to read that echo, was not a subtle event. It was the equivalent of setting off a magical flare in the dark.”

A new, chilling realization dawned on Kai. “They felt it? They know about me?”

“They know a new Seer is in play. They don't know who or where you are, but they know you exist. And the Cartel has a very aggressive policy for dealing with loose ends and unexpected competition.”

As if on cue, a shrill, piercing alarm blared through the Sanctum. Red lights flashed across the monitors, and a synthesized voice announced, “Warning. Ward breach detected. Sector 4G. BCU Library, Special Collections Archive.”

Catharine cursed, a sharp, violent sound. She was already moving, grabbing a fresh magazine for her weapon and a heavy-duty flashlight from the armory wall. “Simon was paranoid. He never kept all his research in one place. He used academic archives and university servers as dead drops, protected by warning wards.”

Kai’s blood ran cold. The special collections. His sanctuary. The quiet, dust-filled rooms where he spent more time than his own apartment. The place where Simon had first found him, poring over centuries-old accounts of the Hag.

“They’re not just looking for Simon’s research,” Kai said, his voice trembling as he followed her back towards the car. “They know that’s my territory.”

“Yes,” Catharine said, her face a mask of stone as she gunned the sedan out of the hidden garage. “They’re sending a message.”

The drive to the university was a five-minute eternity. They arrived to the sight of flashing police lights and a crowd of bewildered students huddled under umbrellas. The east wing of the library, home of the archives, was dark, its windows shattered.

Catharine flashed a badge at the police line that looked official enough to get them through without a second glance. The inside of the library was a scene of calculated devastation. It wasn't simple vandalism; it was a targeted desecration. Centuries-old books were ripped from their bindings, their pages scattered like dead leaves. Glass display cases were shattered, their contents stolen or destroyed. Shelves were overturned, creating a maze of broken wood and ruined paper.

But as Kai’s Echo Sight flared, he saw the real damage. A thick, oily residue of corrupt magic coated everything, pulsing with a malevolent, crimson light. It felt slick and cancerous, the polar opposite of the clean, ancient power that permeated Simon’s Sanctum. This was magic twisted by greed and cruelty.

They reached the entrance to the special collections reading room. The heavy oak doors had been blasted off their hinges. And on the far wall, directly above the charred remains of the head librarian’s desk, was the message.

The symbol of the Crimson Cask was scrawled across the plaster, ten feet high. It wasn't paint. It was a shimmering, bleeding sigil of raw magical energy, seemingly drawn from the very life of the ruined books and artifacts around it. It pulsed in time with Kai's frantic heartbeat, a declaration of war.

He saw the wreckage of the carrel where he’d spent hundreds of hours, his notes and half-finished thesis papers torn and scattered. He saw the specific folio he’d been studying just last week—a first-hand account of the Hag from 1888—now just a pile of shredded parchment.

The attack wasn't just on Simon's legacy. It wasn't just a hunt for research. It was a direct, brutal, and deeply personal message. Catharine saw a tactical strike on a Curator dead-drop. Kai saw the smoldering ruins of his own life.

They had come to his home.

And they were hunting for him.