Chapter 8: The Second Chant

Chapter 8: The Second Chant

Sleep was a luxury afforded to the living, and Maxwell was no longer sure he qualified. He spent the remainder of the night huddled in a chair in the common room, the child’s drawing clutched in his hand like a holy relic, his back pressed against the cold stones of the hearth. Every shadow was a lurking threat, every groan of the old inn a footstep in the hall. He was no longer just a prisoner of the blizzard; he was a prisoner of the dead.

The Mark on his chest, once a simple, terrifying cold, had become a receiver. As the storm raged outside, a second, more intimate storm began to brew within him. It started with whispers. Faint at first, like the rustle of dry leaves caught in a draft, the sounds slithered into the edges of his hearing. They were fragments of Hermann Blatzer’s dying thoughts, echoes of his rage trapped in the ether and funneled directly into Maxwell’s soul.

…Lügner… (Liars…)

The word would hiss in his ear, and he’d flinch, spinning around to find only empty, dancing shadows.

…Gift im Wein… (Poison in the wine…)

He’d press his hands to his ears, but the voice wasn’t external. It was a phantom signal resonating from the cold brand over his heart, a broadcast from beyond the grave.

Then came the visions. They were not dreams, but violent, sensory assaults that ambushed him when he least expected it. He’d glance at the heavy oak door, and for a split second, the wood would dissolve into a flash of memory: Elsbeth’s hand, younger and stronger, turning the key in the lock, her face a mask of grim determination. He’d look at an empty chair and see the ghost of Hermann sitting there, his face contorted in a silent, agonizing gasp as he clutched his chest.

The violet auras his cursed sight revealed began to flare with this new energy. When he looked at the translation documents, the spectral glow intensified, and he could almost feel the phantom weight of Hermann’s hand as he wrote, the ink seeming to bleed his terror and fury onto the page. He was experiencing the past through the dead man’s eyes, a torrent of betrayal and pain flooding his own consciousness.

He was coming undone. He started muttering to himself, answering the whispers, flinching from visions no one else could see. He recoiled from a tankard on the bar as if it were red hot, a sudden, searing image of Klaus toasting to his father’s impending death having flashed through his mind. He was a man haunted from the inside out, and his strange, erratic behavior did not go unnoticed.

He was staring at the child’s drawing, tracing the crude lines of the Scribe with a trembling finger, when their shadows fell over him. He looked up into the faces of Hermann Blatzer’s legacy: his murderers.

Klaus stood in front, the same burly, grim-faced man who had dragged him from the hall. His massive frame blocked the meager morning light filtering through the snow-caked windows. Beside him, a step back, was a slighter, younger man with clever, serpent-like eyes that seemed to miss nothing—Gunther. And behind them both, a silent, commanding presence, was Elsbeth, her hands clasped in front of her, the picture of maternal concern.

“You look unwell, Herr Thorne,” Klaus rumbled, his voice devoid of any real sympathy. It was a statement, not a question.

Maxwell scrambled to his feet, tucking the drawing into his pocket. “The storm… I didn’t sleep.” It was a weak, pathetic lie.

Gunther’s thin lips twisted into a smirk. “It is not the storm that keeps you awake. It is the company you are keeping.”

“You’ve heard him, haven’t you?” Klaus’s voice was blunt, impatient. He took a heavy step forward. “Father. He is speaking to you.”

Maxwell’s blood ran cold. He opened his mouth to deny it, but the lie died on his lips. His wide, haunted eyes were answer enough.

Elsbeth glided forward, placing a placating hand on her eldest son’s arm. Her voice was as smooth and soothing as poisoned honey. “Now, now, Klaus. Herr Thorne is simply… adjusting. The Awakening was a success. A brilliant success.” Her cold green eyes fixed on Maxwell, pinning him in place. “My father was a stubborn man. Even in death. He needed a strong vessel to communicate his will. He chose you, Herr Scribe. He marked you. It is as the tradition foretold.”

The casual, proprietary way she said “Scribe” sent a shiver down his spine. She had seen the drawing. Of course she had. It was all part of their plan.

“What do you want from me?” Maxwell’s voice was a ragged whisper.

“What our father owes us,” Klaus grunted, his fists clenching. “His inheritance.”

“He hid his true will,” Elsbeth explained calmly, as if discussing the weather. “A foolish, sentimental act of spite in his final days. He disinherited his own blood. The Awakening was not simply to honor him, but to compel his spirit to undo this final injustice. We need you to listen to him. We need you to let him guide you to where he has hidden it.”

Maxwell stared at them, at the chilling unity of their greed. He was their divining rod, their ghost-hunter. He was meant to commune with the spirit of the man they’d killed to find the prize they’d killed him for. The sheer, monstrous audacity of it left him speechless.

“And after?” he managed to choke out. “After I find this… will?”

A silence fell over the room, heavier and more menacing than the storm outside. Klaus looked to his mother. Gunther’s serpentine smile widened. It was Elsbeth who answered, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial hush.

“Why, then we give him his final peace, of course.”

She leaned in, the waxy scent of rosemary and something colder, like freshly turned earth, clinging to her. “The Awakening is only the first step, Herr Thorne. A spirit bound to this world is a tormented thing. It is not meant to linger. Once he has served his purpose—once he has led you to what is ours—we will perform the second chant.”

She paused, letting the words sink in, twisting the knife.

“The Silencing. It is a permanent ritual. It puts the spirit down for good. Severs its connection to this world… and to its Scribe.”

The unspoken threat hung in the air, thick and suffocating. His usefulness had an expiration date. Once he led them to the treasure, the ghost would be silenced, and the only loose end, the only outsider who knew their murderous secret, would be him. The only person with a direct, supernatural connection to their crime would be… silenced.

Maxwell looked from Klaus’s brutish impatience to Gunther’s cold cunning and finally to Elsbeth’s motherly, monstrous face. He was trapped. He was a pawn caught between a vengeful ghost demanding justice and a family of killers demanding a fortune, and both sides saw him as nothing more than a key to be used and then, inevitably, broken.