The Shadow Cast
The door caved inwards in a shower
of splinters, the body hitting the floor heavily. Painfully, desperately, he attempted
to recover, pushing himself further into the room, trying to put as much
distance between himself and the opening he’d been thrown through as he could.
He reached around for anything he might use to defend himself, fingers passing
over the bare wood of the warehouse floor until they felt a different shape in
the darkness, hand closing around a shard of glass. But it was too late. The
dark figure already stood in the doorway, and in a moment loomed over him, foot
pressing his hand to the ground before he could raise it in defence.
“Tell me what I want to know. No lies.”
He struggled to pull away, break free, but the glass shard was tearing into his hand and every time he moved the figure applied more pressure. He could feel his fingers getting wet as the blood pooled and soaked into the floor.
Agents rushed into the warehouse, unleashing a volley of shots from crossbows and bolt-guns. With a half-turn, the figure was no longer there, and the bolts buried themselves uselessly into the wall behind. Face masked, eyes hidden beneath a hood, the figure moved as if made of shadow. Materialising in front of an agent, punching a bolt-gun aside with enough force to shatter wood and steel, and gone again before the target hit the floor. Boot to the back of a leg, dropping an agent to his knees, and knocked out with a bone-crunching strike.
One-by-one, the agents went down. A lucky shot nearly hit its mark, but at the last moment the figure turned to face the bolt, which slowed to a stop mere inches from his face, and hung unmoving in mid-air. Ducking aside, the bolt resumed its original course, catching an agent in the shoulder as he lunged at the figure, knife drawn.
When it was over, the ominous figure stepped over the bodies, following the smeared trail of blood to where his initial target lay. The air distorted around his arm as he reached down and took the man by the throat, effortlessly lifting him off the ground.
“Now talk! Tell me everything you know about Nocturne.”
Having learned all he was going to, the figure dropped the man to the ground and evaporated into the shadows.
“Tell me what I want to know. No lies.”
He struggled to pull away, break free, but the glass shard was tearing into his hand and every time he moved the figure applied more pressure. He could feel his fingers getting wet as the blood pooled and soaked into the floor.
Agents rushed into the warehouse, unleashing a volley of shots from crossbows and bolt-guns. With a half-turn, the figure was no longer there, and the bolts buried themselves uselessly into the wall behind. Face masked, eyes hidden beneath a hood, the figure moved as if made of shadow. Materialising in front of an agent, punching a bolt-gun aside with enough force to shatter wood and steel, and gone again before the target hit the floor. Boot to the back of a leg, dropping an agent to his knees, and knocked out with a bone-crunching strike.
One-by-one, the agents went down. A lucky shot nearly hit its mark, but at the last moment the figure turned to face the bolt, which slowed to a stop mere inches from his face, and hung unmoving in mid-air. Ducking aside, the bolt resumed its original course, catching an agent in the shoulder as he lunged at the figure, knife drawn.
When it was over, the ominous figure stepped over the bodies, following the smeared trail of blood to where his initial target lay. The air distorted around his arm as he reached down and took the man by the throat, effortlessly lifting him off the ground.
“Now talk! Tell me everything you know about Nocturne.”
Having learned all he was going to, the figure dropped the man to the ground and evaporated into the shadows.
***
Omen stood on a rooftop,
overlooking the darkened streets of Covingford, a sense of resignation
descending around him. He could keep at this for an eternity, harassing
Nocturne from the edges, pulling apart operations and cutting off connections,
and he’d never make any progress on dismantling the organisation. It was always
the same: low-level agents who acted on orders from unknown operators, or men
and women in positions of power who were the Order’s unwitting puppets.
Government staff, military officers, wealthy merchants, academics, there was
no-one that Nocturne couldn’t convince or manipulate to carry out its schemes.
He’d encountered and dispatched countless pawns in Nocturne’s eternal play for
control of society, but precious few of them had valuable information, and he
was no closer to finding those who pulled the strings.
***
All he had to go on was a name.
Spoken briefly in a conjured memory. Not the most reliable of sources, but he
wasn't going to get any further information from the rubble of the facility
they'd collapsed on him, and he was out of leads. It was a starting point at
least, and more productive than his recent fruitless efforts. Countess Mannhiem
- Steklund was full of aristocracy; locating her could prove difficult, and the
worth of the effort was yet to be proven. He'd made his way to Veltzburg and
gotten to work, asking questions, applying pressure, pulling at the thread to
see where it lead. It had taken time, but he had started to make progress. She
had been in the capital recently - he’d come across a number of sources who’d
confirmed her presence in the city. But no trace of where she’d gone, of where
she was now. He sifted through all the information he could gather, tore
through half the safe houses and sanctuaries in Veltzburg, roughed up what
agents he could lay his hands on for answers, but the lead was growing cold. And
finally, a breakthrough. She was staying in a mansion by the River Brullen,
would be there for at least the next two days. He didn’t waste any time.
He had been reckless, acting
impulsively in pursuit of his goal, and it had nearly been his downfall. They
knew someone had been asking too many questions. They had been waiting,
watching their backs. Between his skills and his equipment, their Operative had
proven a formidable opponent. Omen had never seen such advanced combat gear,
the very latest technology available to Nocturne. Their battle had torn through
the riverside mansion, Omen vanishing and reappearing, the Operative throwing
deadly devices, both landing heavy blows, crunching through masonry, one just
getting the upper hand on the other before the balance shifted. Ultimately, they
reached a stalemate and retreated to recover, Omen opening a portal to put as
much distance between himself and the Operative as he could before the other
decided he was ready for round two.
Still, it confirmed that he was on the right track, getting closer to what Nocturne did not want found. And though he was no nearer to finding his target, he had discovered some valuable information – Countess Carlotta Meindel-Mannhiem, for that was her full name, was an academic and an expert of some renown in a number of fields of magic. There was one place that all magical researchers were guaranteed to have spent time - Lantia.
Still, it confirmed that he was on the right track, getting closer to what Nocturne did not want found. And though he was no nearer to finding his target, he had discovered some valuable information – Countess Carlotta Meindel-Mannhiem, for that was her full name, was an academic and an expert of some renown in a number of fields of magic. There was one place that all magical researchers were guaranteed to have spent time - Lantia.
***
It was said that the libraries of
Lantia held every book written in recorded history. One could spend a lifetime
browsing the endless shelves, books, tomes and scrolls, and not see everything
held in the College’s collections. Luckily Omen knew what he was looking for.
He found himself in the Old Library, where the College held an extensive
archive of every work written by faculty, graduates and attending researchers
since the institution’s founding. If Countess Mannhiem had ever written so much
as a research paper on a magical topic, it would be a matter of public record
and a copy of it maintained by the Scribes and Scrollmasters of the College of Lantia.
Having persuaded the Keepers to give him access to the archives, Omen was surprised at how quickly he found writings bearing her name. As it happened, Countess Mannhiem was a prolific researcher and writer, who had produced a large body of work across a wide range of magical fields. Omen began reading, hoping the answers he was looking for lay within the pages of ornate, flowing script – a name, an associate, the description of a place she was connected to, anything that might put him back on her trail. The Countess certainly possessed a masterful knowledge of a vast array of magical histories, theories and discoveries, and her work and expertise had advanced numerous magical research domains, from understanding how magical fields interacted with living and non-living objects, and mapping the parts of the mind that gave sentient beings their magical potential and allowed them to control magic, to unravelling the truths from the myths of the history of magic, its association with various religions and beliefs, and the very origin of magic itself.
As Omen read, one thing struck him as odd – the Countess’ words gave the impression of someone who possessed great knowledge of magic, but no true understanding. All logic and reason, like someone trying to describe art by analysing the mathematical properties of a painting. Omen had a basic comprehension of magic, though his own powers were quite different – drawn from Beyond, from the Moment, the Balance between Realms, he could manipulate some of the underlying forces of Reality, harness masses and energies, join dislocated points of space and time, but there were certain fundamental laws he could not break. He knew that magic was, by its nature, supernatural, and that you couldn’t treat something purely rationally when it was, at its core, irrational.
Having persuaded the Keepers to give him access to the archives, Omen was surprised at how quickly he found writings bearing her name. As it happened, Countess Mannhiem was a prolific researcher and writer, who had produced a large body of work across a wide range of magical fields. Omen began reading, hoping the answers he was looking for lay within the pages of ornate, flowing script – a name, an associate, the description of a place she was connected to, anything that might put him back on her trail. The Countess certainly possessed a masterful knowledge of a vast array of magical histories, theories and discoveries, and her work and expertise had advanced numerous magical research domains, from understanding how magical fields interacted with living and non-living objects, and mapping the parts of the mind that gave sentient beings their magical potential and allowed them to control magic, to unravelling the truths from the myths of the history of magic, its association with various religions and beliefs, and the very origin of magic itself.
As Omen read, one thing struck him as odd – the Countess’ words gave the impression of someone who possessed great knowledge of magic, but no true understanding. All logic and reason, like someone trying to describe art by analysing the mathematical properties of a painting. Omen had a basic comprehension of magic, though his own powers were quite different – drawn from Beyond, from the Moment, the Balance between Realms, he could manipulate some of the underlying forces of Reality, harness masses and energies, join dislocated points of space and time, but there were certain fundamental laws he could not break. He knew that magic was, by its nature, supernatural, and that you couldn’t treat something purely rationally when it was, at its core, irrational.
***
Omen stood on a rocky outcrop high
in the mountains of eastern Steklund, overlooking the castle wedged in the
narrow valley below. Night was falling, and it would soon be time to act. The
wind whipped his cloak around him, silhouetting him against the moon as it rose
over the ridge. His search had been long and exhaustive, visiting anywhere with
even a tenuous link to Countess Mannhiem or her work, but finally it had led
him here: the Countess’ private retreat, its existence known only to a few. He
had been careful, acted quietly, did nothing to arouse even the slightest of
suspicions. One thing was certain: tonight, he was getting answers.
Since starting this hunt, one war had ended and another begun. Nocturne’s doing, he was certain. How Countess Mannhiem was linked to the Adamant Guard’s involvement, how it all connected to Nocturne’s greater plan, whatever that was, he did not know. He had taken on the mantle of Omen to stand against corruption, a stark symbol to guide society away from the bad path. What he had found was The Order of Nocturne, controlling from the shadows, manipulating entire nations, the very corruption it should be opposing. That their origins were in any way connected, though separated by time and space, twisted and misinterpreted and lost entirely across the centuries, galled him. He would not rest until he had rooted out this parasite and put it to the flame.
Far below, two guards nodded at each other as they changed shifts. It was time to strike. Omen leapt from his vantage point, the moon casting his shadow against the cliff-side for a moment, and vanished into the night air.
Since starting this hunt, one war had ended and another begun. Nocturne’s doing, he was certain. How Countess Mannhiem was linked to the Adamant Guard’s involvement, how it all connected to Nocturne’s greater plan, whatever that was, he did not know. He had taken on the mantle of Omen to stand against corruption, a stark symbol to guide society away from the bad path. What he had found was The Order of Nocturne, controlling from the shadows, manipulating entire nations, the very corruption it should be opposing. That their origins were in any way connected, though separated by time and space, twisted and misinterpreted and lost entirely across the centuries, galled him. He would not rest until he had rooted out this parasite and put it to the flame.
Far below, two guards nodded at each other as they changed shifts. It was time to strike. Omen leapt from his vantage point, the moon casting his shadow against the cliff-side for a moment, and vanished into the night air.
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