Necropolis Sleuthing

Sæternadâ, the 28th of Ostaramonað in the year 267

The pale sun broke through low-hanging clouds as William, Alaric, and Marko crested the tall hill. Their lungs burned from the climb. Ancient stone pillars loomed like silent sentinels amongst the gravestones.

William stopped.

The air shifted, a prickling sensation swept across his skin, metallic and sharp. Static electricity raised the hairs on his arms.

‘Psychic residuum,’ he thought. ‘Something violent happened here.’

He scanned the cemetery. Weathered monuments lined the paths. At the far end stood a stark temple, its stones cold and lifeless.

“Do we know where we’re going?” Alaric asked, surveying the graves.

“I’ve been told, me lord, that Madeline was found behind the grounds hut,” Marko replied, pointing towards a small building nestled between larger gravestones.

William studied the structure, then glanced back at the entrance. The distance was considerable.

“Alaric, let’s establish a gateway here,” he said.

Alaric nodded. “Good idea.”

He approached one of the ancient pillars and retrieved a small box from his jacket. Inside lay five sapphire crystals, each glimmering with otherworldly light. He selected one and placed it on the pillar.

The crystal burst into brilliance. It dissolved, swirling upward in liquid form, a column of sapphire fluid that rose six feet before flattening into a shimmering rectangular doorway. A small interface flickered to life on the pillar beside it.

“What did you do, me lord?” Marko gasped, stepping back.

“I can create doorways to the Magisterium using these gateway-forming crystals,” Alaric explained. “They’re coded to our signature; only Magisterium members can activate them.”

Marko shrugged, clearly not fully grasping the explanation but fascinated nonetheless.

William turned towards the shed. “Now we can begin. Depending on what we find, we may need forensic teams. Having a gateway nearby makes that easier.”

As he walked closer, the doorway retracted smoothly into the pillar.

“I’m detecting a low-level psychic trace,” William continued. “The attack happened eight days ago, so the trace has degraded significantly. I estimate around sixteen per cent remaining.”

“Psychic trace, me lord?” Marko queried.

“Certain actions create an extrasensory energy impression,” William explained. “As it breaks down, we call what’s left a trace. The higher the signature, the more intact the impression.”

They reached the back of the shed. Marko pointed. “It’s about here, me lord, she was discovered.”

William knelt, scanning the flattened grass. “There’s an impression from some impact.”

“Could be from her lying on the grass,” Alaric said. “Our atmospheric testing shows heavy rainfall over the last several days.”

“It’s rained for three weeks now,” Marko added gloomily.

William straightened. “This was from low-to-medium impact.” He paused. The metallic smell grew stronger. Static prickled over his skin. “And I’m detecting a psychic signature here. A good place to start.”

With deliberate intent, William held out his hand, chanting softly, “Sækën ãrodşipe, revélest þaunfíen. Onriftadast il eindrok ex hwæt agangade héra ad uncer oculuses et éares.”

As the final words left his lips, a tingling rush pulsed from his hands. Wispy vapours silently rose from the ground, converging into a purplish mist that began to swirl and coalesce into a humanoid form, like liquid flowing into a mould.

“By Kanum!” Marko exclaimed, eyes wide as he stepped closer in awe. “What is that?”

“I’ve revealed the psychic energies in this area, a psychic signature,” William explained. “Effectively, what we’re seeing is a visual representation of them, like when it’s extremely cold, and you see your breath.”

Marko nodded slowly, only partially grasping the explanation but unwilling to interrupt.

Alaric’s eyes narrowed with professional interest. “Well, as the only one of us fully psychically trained,” he said, “care to explain what this means?”

With a faint smile, William replied, “I suppose I can.” He leaned in to observe the swirling mist with a mix of fascination and concern. “It’s the best we’ll be able to see from these energies. Though this is curious.”

He scanned the surrounding area slowly, thoughts racing. ‘Why is there only one humanoid shape?’ he wondered, a sinking feeling settling in his stomach. ‘If she were attacked here, then there should be two shapes. Or was she attacked some other way?’

Closing his eyes, he reached out with his psychic senses. The atmosphere felt heavy with lingering energy, but there was also a sensation of being tugged, drawn elsewhere. Suddenly, he opened his eyes, his gaze snapping to another swirl of purple mist materialising two feet behind them.

“There,” he exclaimed grimly.

Marko and Alaric turned, their eyes widening at the sight.

“What is that?” Marko gasped, his heart racing.

William focused intently on the new apparition, noting that it was human in shape and smaller than himself, with a slight but perceptible masculine outline. “That would be Madeline’s attacker,” he concluded, an edge of determination sharpening his voice. “It’s another psychic signature; together, they form a trace of what happened.”

Alaric glanced between the two purple mists as understanding dawned. “Oh my,” he murmured, a sickly twisting in his stomach. “This indicates that he threw her over here.”

“Yes,” William said, torn between contempt for the attacker and compassion for Madeline. He drew a slow breath, pushing down the ache of it. “It would explain the extent of her bruising and the impression on the ground. With the earth being waterlogged, it may have somewhat cushioned the impact. And with Madeline unconscious, she wouldn’t have tensed, preventing even more significant damage.”

Alaric nodded thoughtfully. “You mean if she’d been conscious, she’d more than likely have seized up to brace for impact,” he said. “And that would have caused more damage.”

“Exactly,” William affirmed, his gaze drifting towards the impression of Madeline’s prone form. “Uhm, generally speaking, it’s similar to when an impaired person gets in an accident with a sober person, the sober person usually gets more injured because they tense up, whereas the impaired person generally doesn’t.”

As he considered Madeline’s impression and the masculine outline, William’s thoughts sharpened. ‘I could connect them,’ he thought. ‘Through psychic direction. It could lead us to other impressions.’

He envisioned a psychic link that might guide them along the path of the attack. With a flick of his wrist, a rippling sensation pulsed over his hand, like cool water being poured across his skin. A thin stream of mist flowed from Madeline’s impression, intertwining with the masculine shape nearby. The ethereal energy then snaked its way towards the graveyard’s entrance, where it pooled into two indistinct shapes.

William, Alaric, and Marko followed, curiosity woven into the air around them.

“Interesting,” William remarked, his eyes narrowing as he concentrated on the shifting forms, his hands moving as though he were sculpting clay.

Initially, the shapes were difficult to discern, but the purplish hues slowly clarified as William extended his hand, directing the stream of energy like a conductor guiding an orchestra. The larger shape deepened to a darker plum, its edges sharp and foreboding, while the smaller shape lightened, taking on a softer hue. It became evident that the larger figure loomed over the smaller one in a menacing posture.

“For our visual betterment,” William explained, “I’ve forced the different psychic energies to create a visible distinction.”

Alaric’s brow furrowed as he scrutinised the two shapes. “What is he doing?” he wondered aloud, eyes fixed on the wavering forms.

“Unclear,” William replied, his expression contemplative. “With such degradation, I can’t refine the impression any more than this. However, according to the medical records and partially reconstructed memories from Madeline, the attack came from behind. Maybe this is demonstrating that.”

Alaric turned his gaze back to William. “Can you not get any further impressions from it?” he pressed. “Perhaps emotions tied to this encounter?”

William closed his eyes again, his face contorting with effort as he focused. The energy rippled through him like a plunge into cold water.

“There’s a weak impression,” he said at last, choosing his words carefully. “I’d say definitely fear, but also an echo of hunger. It’s very faint, so I can’t be certain. Maybe the previous section, the next one we’ll be going to, will provide further insight.”

With a purposeful gesture, he pointed further along the path, indicating the direction the purple stream extended.

As William began to follow the flowing energy, the crunch of gravel beneath his shoes filled the silence.

For a moment, he imagined the graveyard at night, feeling the oppressive weight of it pressing down. Some of the gravestones looked imposing even in daylight. At night, they must have seemed ghoulish. Was that what Madeline had seen? Had her attacker been hiding among them, waiting?

They walked past Viktor’s home, its outline shadowy against the dim sky, then continued until they reached a torch-stone marking a turn in the path. The energy around them pulsed, pooling once more. Here, the larger, masculine shape towered ominously over the smaller one, maintaining its dominance.

“This is the initial attack,” William declared, his voice steady despite the harrowing nature of what he observed. The image flickered like a candle fighting against the wind.

“How can you tell?” Alaric asked, intrigue lighting his features. “It’s not any clearer than the others.”

William smiled thoughtfully as he studied the phenomenon. “The energy doesn’t trail off,” he said, tracing the flow of the shimmering aura with his gaze. “This was the initial point that created the psychic expression.” He leaned in closer, his expression growing serious. “It appears that this man may have rushed Madeline here, forcing her to the ground.”

“Okay, but then what?” Alaric asked, his brow furrowed as he glanced between the two shadowy figures and the faint mist further along the path. “Do we think she fought him off and ran further into the graveyard?”

“Potentially,” William replied, his eyes shifting from the flickering energy to a large, weathered stone standing ominously nearby. “What is this stone?”

Marko stepped forward, his expression solemn as he examined it. “Me lord, that’s a torch-stone. Lord Kanum gave them to the people to keep the dead in the grounds at night.”

“Interesting,” William murmured, walking closer to inspect it. He placed his hand on its rough surface, furrowing his brow in concentration. “I sense no energy or magic embedded in it. What has led you to believe this?”

“Me lord, it is in the Sacred Works of Kanum,” Marko replied, casting William a sideways glance, his tone tinged with uncertainty. “Surely you’d know that as a messenger.”

William’s brow tightened as he caught the edge in Marko’s voice, the confusion, perhaps suspicion, over the apparent gap in his knowledge. “Ah, understood,” he said smoothly. “The torch-stones form a key symbol in Kanum mythology. They’re given metaphorical spiritual and cultural power as earthly markers to the great work of Kanum.”

He shifted his gaze from the stone to Alaric. “Anyway,” William continued, “why was Madeline in the graveyard? Was she visiting her husband?”

“Er… yeah, you can say that. It was his funeral,” Marko replied, looking away as the weight of the revelation settled between them.

William’s eyes flickered back to the dense purple mist, a realisation dawning upon him. “His funeral,” he murmured, “so she was attacked on his burial date.”

“Hey there,” a voice called out from nearby, cutting through the tension. A man with a weathered face and a sack in hand slowly approached them.

William turned to greet him. “Good afternoon. We’re here on official business, investigating the attack on Madeline Mikaelson.”

“Ah,” Viktor croaked, shaking his head sadly. “Poor girl. I found her behind my shed. Couldn’t believe it.” A tear welled in his eye. “I remember her when she was a little lass. Good friends with my daughter.”

William’s gaze sharpened. “You discovered her behind the grounds hut?”

“Yeah, I did,” Viktor replied with a trembling sigh. “Such a fright.”

“I understand she attended her husband’s funeral that day,” William said carefully. “Do you know if she left afterwards?”

Viktor shook his head slowly. “She never left. Too distraught, poor thing. She’d been with Pietr since she was a wee lass.” He gestured vaguely toward the rows of graves. “I even saw her when I was turning on the torch-stones, takes about two hours, we do them before dark. Priest Damyon wouldn’t be impressed if I didn’t. Can’t have the dead getting out, you know.”

“The dead?” Alaric interjected, eyeing Viktor with confusion.

“Yeah,” Viktor replied, his voice dropping. “The Great Kanum say: cast the torch-stones before dusk, and you shall not be plagued by the dead at night.”

The weight of his words hung in the air. William stood quietly, his fingers brushing against the stubble on his chin as he gazed at the torch-stone. ‘Why had Madeline stayed so late? Did her family not encourage her to go home? Was her grief so overwhelming she’d forgotten the time? Or was the attacker simply waiting for nightfall?’

He felt a mixture of sorrow for Madeline’s loss and anger over the attack.

Clearing his throat softly, William turned back to Viktor. “I’d like to know where Pietr’s grave is.”

Viktor’s face brightened slightly. “See that torch-stone down there?” He pointed. “It’s just on that row. First unmarked grave.” His tone grew heavier. “Poor souls haven’t paid for the stone yet. Don’t suppose they’ll be able to, they’re afflicted. No one will hire them.”

William’s jaw tightened, but he kept his voice level. “I see. Thank you for the information.”

Viktor nodded solemnly. “There’s a story, you know, the son of Kanum, Frédrik, once proclaimed the priests were lowly for their profiteering. Asundered them from the temple at Grondum. The priests walked sixty days in the wilderness until they’d made peace with him. It’s in the Great Works.”

William’s expression flickered with recognition. “One of my ancient grandfathers was called Frédrik. Maybe it was him.” He offered Viktor a slight smile.

Viktor’s face grew serious. “The priests say they’re nothing like the ones Frédrik banished. They’re doing their best.”

“I’m sure they are,” William replied, granting him a slight nod. “Well, thank you for your help. I must be off.”

After exchanging farewells, they continued down the gravel path, the stones crunching softly underfoot.

‘Fascinating, this religiosity,’ William thought, his mind turning over the conversation. ‘But it feels too restraining. Like a club rather than a moral framework.’ He smiled faintly to himself, thinking of his ancestor’s confrontation with corrupt priests. ‘Funny how life has these odd quirks.’

They passed several empty spaces among the rocks until they arrived at a burial mound that looked slightly different from the others.

“Pietr’s grave,” William announced quietly.

He observed the gently settled earth, noting how it had sunk slightly, drawing in on itself. Tiny sprouts of grass peeked through the surface, defiant against the stillness of death. Yet it looked bleak, a forgotten patch of earth. A wave of sadness washed over him.

“There’s nothing here,” Alaric remarked, furrowing his brow as he scanned the area for any signs of disturbance or footprints.

William’s gaze fell on a curious black spot nestled within the ground. ‘What’s that?’ he wondered, intrigued. Stretching out his hand, he focused, and a small dark object lifted into the air. It was a piece of fabric, seemingly adorned with a peculiar logotype. William examined it closely, using his abilities to clear away the dirt clinging to it psychokinetically. As he murmured an incantation, a dark liquid surged from the fabric, pooling before them and gradually morphing into a vivid image.

The image floated in the air before them.

“What is it?” Alaric asked, his voice laced with intrigue. “What do the numbers mean?”

“Good questions,” William said, his brow furrowed as he scrutinised the floating image. “It appears to be a patch of some kind, like an emblem or logotype. An odd-shaped V with a semi-circular image behind it and a crescent moon. I’m unfamiliar with this logotype.”

He handed the small fragment of fabric to Alaric, who accepted it with a firm nod.

“I’ll keep it safe,” Alaric replied, tucking it carefully into his pocket. “I’ll have the team conduct some testing on it.”

The air around them seemed to crackle with unspoken anticipation, hinting that their discoveries were only beginning.

William stared intently at the ground as the ethereal image dissipated into the air, leaving behind an unsettling silence. “What is that?” he asked, pointing to an object that had caught his eye in the top right corner of the clearing.

With a subtle flick of his wrist, he used his psychokinetic abilities to pull the small cylindrical object toward him. It glimmered like glass, reflecting the ambient light in a spectrum of colours, and bore intricate markings that seemed to pulse faintly with energy.

“These look like cuneiform of some kind,” Alaric remarked, his gaze fixed on the object hovering above William’s outstretched hand. His brow furrowed in concentration. “It’s not native here. I know we have a lot of work to do to learn about this place, but cuneiform hasn’t been discovered yet. And I think… no… uhm, I was going to say that it looks like the Volúşan cuneiform, but… but that can’t be.”

William’s hand froze mid-motion, the cylinder suspended in the air between them. A cold sensation crept up his spine, not magical, but instinctive. Something about the clearing felt wrong now, as though they’d disturbed something that had been deliberately hidden.

“Wait,” he said quietly, his eyes scanning the disturbed earth where Madeline had been attacked. The soil looked darker in patches, almost scorched. “There’s more here.”

He knelt, fingers hovering just above the ground. A faint residual energy pulsed beneath the surface, old, foreign, and deeply unsettling. With careful precision, he brushed aside loose dirt and dead leaves.

Another object emerged: a second cylinder, identical to the first, half-buried where it had rolled into a depression. William’s jaw tightened as he lifted it psychokinetically. The markings glowed faintly in response to his touch, as if recognising the presence of power.

“Two of them,” Alaric breathed, stepping closer. His face had gone pale. “William, that’s not coincidental.”

“No,” William agreed, his voice low. “It’s not.”

Marko shifted uneasily behind them. “Me lord, what does it mean? Two of those things?”

William didn’t answer immediately. He turned slowly, studying the clearing with fresh eyes, the positioning of the grave, the angle of the attack, the precise spot where Madeline had fallen. His gaze swept across the disturbed ground, and then he saw it: a third glint of reflected light, barely visible beneath a twisted root near the edge of the clearing.

His stomach dropped.

“Alaric,” he said quietly, “check the perimeter. Carefully.”

Alaric moved without question, his own psychokinetic sense extending outward like invisible fingers. Within moments, his breath caught. “There’s another one. And… By the Gods, William, there’s a fourth. They’re arranged in a pattern.”

The two men exchanged a long look. William saw his own dread reflected in Alaric’s eyes.

“This wasn’t random,” William said, his voice barely above a whisper. “This was prepared. Staged.”

He retrieved the remaining cylinders, bringing all four to hover in a tight cluster before them. The markings on each were slightly different, but unmistakably part of a sequence. The faint energy they emitted intensified when brought together, creating a low hum that vibrated through William’s bones.

Marko took an involuntary step backwards. “What are they doing?”

“Resonating,” Alaric said hoarsely. He leant closer, his scholarly instincts overriding his fear for a moment. Then his eyes widened, and all colour drained from his face. “No. No, that’s… William, these markings…”

“What?” William pressed, though the tightness in Alaric’s voice already told him this was worse than he’d thought.

Alaric’s hand trembled as he pointed to the intricate symbols carved into the cylinders’ surfaces. “This is Volúşan cuneiform. I’m certain of it. I studied it during my training. There are only three known examples in all the archives, and they’re kept under the highest security protocols.”

The words hung in the air like a death sentence.

William felt his pulse quicken. “That’s impossible. The Volúşan expanse is….”

“Hundreds of dimensions away,” Alaric finished, his voice cracking slightly. “And Varnesha has been lost to interdimensional travel for over two millennia. The Kamalæ went extinct even before that.” He looked up at William, and there was genuine fear in his eyes now. “This shouldn’t exist here. It can’t exist here. There’s no known connection, no recorded contact, no possible way….”

“Unless someone brought it,” William said quietly.

The implications crashed over them like a wave. Alaric staggered back a step, one hand pressed to his forehead as if trying to physically hold his thoughts together. “If Volúşan artefacts are here, that means… By the Gods, William, that means this isn’t just some rogue creature or local cult. This is organised. This is planned. Across dimensions.”

Marko looked between them, confusion and growing alarm warring on his face. “I don’t understand. What’s Varnesha? What’s Kamalæ?”

William forced himself to breathe steadily, to think through the rising tide of dread. “They’re worlds, Marko. Lands very, very far from here. Varnesha became lost, sealed off from all dimensional pathways. And Kamalæ no longer exists. It was destroyed, like the kingdom this principality once belonged to.”

“Oh.” Marko swallowed hard. “That’s… that’s bad, then?”

“Yes,” William said. He turned back to Alaric, who was still staring at the cylinders with the expression of a man watching his worst nightmare take solid form. “This changes everything. If someone has access to the Volúşan world, if they can move artefacts across dimensional barriers that have been sealed for millennia…”

“Then whatever we’re facing is older, wider, and infinitely more dangerous than we thought,” Alaric finished. His voice was hollow. “This isn’t an isolated incident. This must be part of something vast.”

Silence fell over the clearing. Even the distant sounds of the graveyard seemed muted, as though the world itself was holding its breath.

William carefully lowered the cylinders into a containment field he conjured with a whispered incantation. The objects settled into the shimmering barrier, their glow dimming but not extinguishing. “There’s no known connection between this dimension and the Volúşan expanse,” he said, more to himself than the others. “The grand patriarch would have records if there were. He would have…” He trailed off, shaking his head. “I need to check with the Halëdrúman central archives. See if such cuneiform has ever been detected here before.”

He reached out, letting his senses brush against the artefacts one more time. A faint sensation prickled at the edge of his awareness, something familiar yet alien, like a half-remembered dream. “I can feel something from them,” he murmured. “But it’s too faint, too fragmented. I can’t tell what it is.”

Alaric had wrapped his arms around himself, a rare display of vulnerability. “William, if they have dimensional technology… if they can breach dimensional seals… what else can they do?”

William met his gaze squarely. The weight of the question settled between them like a stone.

“I don’t know,” he admitted. “But we’re going to find out.”

Marko, who had been listening with mounting distress, finally found his voice. “What does all this mean, me lord? For Madeline? For the parish?”

William turned to him, and his expression softened slightly. “It means we’re more confused about what happened here than we were an hour ago,” he said gently. “But it also means we’re closer to the truth. And we will get to the bottom of it, Marko. I promise you that.”

He straightened, resolve hardening his features despite the cold dread coiling in his gut. “Alaric, have our forensic teams comb every centimetre of this area. I want soil samples, residual energy readings, everything. And contact our detectives, have them visit the other victims’ graves immediately. See if there are similar artefacts, similar patterns.”

Alaric nodded, though his hands were still unsteady. “Yes. At least we still have Madeline. If we’d lost her too…” He paused, his throat working. “When my team arrived at Boris Alexandrov’s home, he’d just passed. We were minutes too late.”

“What?” Marko gasped, his eyes widening in shock. “The other survivor died?”

Alaric lowered his head, grief flickering across his features. “Yes. Unfortunately, he did. His injuries were more severe than Madeline’s. We couldn’t save him.”

The news settled over them like a shroud. William’s jaw tightened, but he forced himself to focus. “Then Madeline is our only living witness. Our only direct connection to whatever did this.” He turned back toward the path leading out of the graveyard, his mind already racing ahead. “I think we should review our findings back in the Magisterium. There’s too much here to process in the field.”

He paused at the edge of the clearing, looking back at the disturbed earth, the ancient grave, the spot where Madeline had nearly died. “Could it be that these attacks are more orchestrated than we realised? That someone, or something, has been planning this across dimensions, across centuries?”

No one answered. The question hung in the air, heavy with implications neither of them wanted to voice.

As they walked back through the graveyard, the weight of their discovery pressed down on all three of them. The cylinders hummed softly in their containment field, a constant reminder that the threat they faced was far older, far more organised, and far more dangerous than any of them had imagined.

And somewhere, in the vast darkness between dimensions, something ancient was watching.

Waiting.