Chapter 2: The Eyes of the Dead
The Valtore Mausoleum was never meant for the living.
It stood behind the main estate, hidden beneath a wall of thorns and guarded by two silent knights that never moved, never breathed — and some said, never died.
Lucien stepped through the ivy-covered gate, brushing aside webs without flinching. The chill here was unnatural. Not cold. Still. Like the world had paused its breath, waiting for him.
He descended the steps alone, the only light a lantern that barely flickered in his hand. Down beneath the earth, past the stone coffins of long-dead ancestors, until he reached the black door.
The Sealed Crypt.
Only heads of the family were allowed beyond this point. Not even the high priest had a key.
Lucien, of course, had found another way in.
He reached into his coat and pulled out a small sliver of bone — smooth, polished, and carved with a symbol only he could see. A Thread-mark. Invisible to all but those who could perceive the hidden layers of truth.
He pressed it into the center of the door.
Click.
The lock groaned open with the sound of chains being uncoiled from some great distance. The door swung inward, revealing a chamber bathed in ghostly blue light.
In the center of the room stood a massive mirror — the Mirror of the Hollow Crown — said to reflect not your image, but your legacy.
Lucien stepped forward.
The glass rippled.
A figure appeared — not his own, but a man cloaked in blood-red robes, eyes hollow, lips stretched into a mocking grin. He looked like Lucien. Older. Madder. Surrounded by corpses and gold.
"So you finally came," the reflection said.
Lucien didn't blink. "I wanted to see what failure looked like."
The reflection chuckled. "That's what I said once. Before the world bent to me. Before it broke me."
Lucien tilted his head. "Then I'll bend it without breaking."
The figure leaned forward. "You will do worse. You will succeed."
The mirror darkened.
The reflection vanished.
Lucien stared at the void that remained — and saw thousands of faint golden threads floating in the darkness behind the glass. Some coiled. Some broken. Others trailing endlessly into infinity.
The Threads of Truth.
He reached out and touched one.
Instantly, visions surged into his mind. Names. Codes. Symbols of secret orders. Hidden vaults. Ancient sins.
And at the center of it all…
A man with no face, seated on a throne of shadows, whispering into the ears of kings and killers alike.
Lucien's heart didn't race.
He only smiled.
So this is where it begins.
He pulled his hand back. Turned. Walked away.
The door closed behind him.
But in the darkness of the crypt, one golden thread remained visible — twisting slowly… wrapping itself around Lucien's name.