Noir retreated to Alder's room, the small glass bottle still clutched in his hand. He closed the door behind him, the click of the latch sounding loud in the sudden silence. He walked over to the desk, placing the bottle down beside the heavy history book.
He stared at the red liquid, shimmering faintly in the dim light. Herbal tea. A joke. To "ascend to a Seer." Thomas had meant it as a prank, a harmless bit of sibling teasing. But Noir, burdened by Alder's cryptic notes and the terrifying whispers of a hidden world, couldn't shake the unsettling resonance of those words. He was a Fool, adrift in a reality he barely comprehended, desperate for any edge, any insight.
What if it wasn't just tea? The thought, absurd as it was, niggled at him. Alder had been delving into forbidden knowledge. What if Thomas, in his innocent ignorance, had stumbled upon something more? And even if it was just herbal tea, Thomas had said it was "good for the mind," to "clear clouded thoughts." Noir's mind felt perpetually clouded, assaulted by fear and confusion. He was exhausted, both mentally and physically. If it promised any benefit, however small, he would take it. He needed all the help he could get.
With a shrug that was more resignation than resolve, Noir uncorked the bottle. A faint, earthy scent, mingled with something metallic, wafted up. He hesitated for a moment, then, without another thought, he brought the bottle to his lips and swallowed the entire contents in a few swift gulps.
The liquid was surprisingly thick, warm, and left a peculiar, almost bitter taste on his tongue, like old iron mixed with dried herbs. There was no immediate jolt, no sudden surge of power. For a moment, nothing happened. He stood there, waiting, feeling foolish.
Then, a subtle warmth began to spread through his chest, like a slowly melting ember. It wasn't unpleasant, but it wasn't quite natural either. It seeped into his limbs, settling behind his eyes, a strange, calming pressure. His headache, which had been a dull throbbing all day, seemed to recede, replaced by a peculiar clarity, as if a thin veil had been lifted from his senses. He felt suddenly, profoundly, awake, yet simultaneously, a deep, inescapable weariness began to pull at him. It was a contradiction, a simultaneous sharpening of awareness and an overwhelming urge to succumb to sleep.
He stumbled towards Alder's bed, the unusual sensations swirling within him. He pulled back the covers and collapsed onto the mattress. His mind, though strangely clear, was too overwhelmed to resist the sudden, heavy pull towards slumber. He sank into the darkness, the red liquid's strange warmth still tingling beneath his skin, wondering what, if anything, he had just done.
As Noir drifted into the embrace of sleep, the quiet of the room began to warp around him. It wasn't the darkness of unconsciousness he was used to; instead, his mind plunged into a vivid, disorienting landscape. He found himself standing on a precipice, not of rock or earth, but of swirling grey mist. The air hummed with an almost imperceptible vibration, a low, resonant thrum that seemed to penetrate his very bones.
Before him, the mist parted, not by wind, but by some unseen will, revealing fleeting, fractured images. He saw Elias, not in his horrifying end, but alive, frantic, whispering words he couldn't quite grasp—something about "the eye" and "the cycles." Then, the image shifted to Alder's own frantic hand, scribbling furiously in a diary, diagrams of celestial alignments pulsing with an eerie light. He heard whispers, indistinct and multitudinous, like a chorus of distant voices, some seemingly benevolent, others utterly malicious, all speaking in a language just beyond his understanding. They spoke of "hidden pathways" and the "Fourth Epoch," terms that resonated with the fragments he'd already glimpsed in Alder's notes.
The mist swirled again, and he felt a profound sense of observation, as if he were being watched from beyond a vast, unseen curtain. He wasn't seeing with his eyes, but with something deeper, something newly awakened within him. He felt a faint, almost imperceptible pull towards understanding, a burgeoning clarity about the interconnectedness of things, how the past might subtly influence the future, and how certain truths were deliberately obscured. It was like glimpsing a vast, intricate machinery hidden beneath the world's surface, a machinery that governed more than just simple physics.
But this nascent understanding came with a heavy price. With each flicker of insight, a wave of profound fatigue washed over him, threatening to drag him down into an even deeper, more suffocating darkness. The faces of Inspector Volkova and Thomas Wilson flashed before his inner eye, their presence a stark reminder of the very real, immediate dangers he faced. He was the Fool, teetering on the edge of a precipice, gaining terrifying knowledge that seemed to only increase his peril.
He awoke with a gasp, the lingering scent of old books and dust filling his nostrils. The room was bathed in the pale light of dawn. The dream, or vision, clung to him, vivid and unsettling. The profound fatigue remained, a dull ache behind his eyes, but beneath it, a strange, new sensation pulsed. It was a subtle, persistent awareness, like a faint echo of the humming mist, a sense of things unseen, connections unmade. The "herbal tea" was no joke. It had changed something within him.
Noir pushed himself up from the bed, his limbs heavy, yet his mind strangely alert. He walked to the window, drawn by an inexplicable pull. The sky outside was not the soft gray of normal dawn. Instead, a colossal, crimson moon hung low in the sky, casting an ethereal, blood-red glow over everything. The familiar houses, the trees, the cobblestone street—all were bathed in this aesthetic, unsettling red aura, making the ordinary world seem alien and charged.
And then he saw them. Directly in front of the house, bathed in the sinister crimson light, were two figures in dark coats. Police. They were standing by a dark carriage, their forms stark against the red-tinged morning. They weren't knocking, just observing, their presence a silent, ominous confirmation of his worst fears. They hadn't come for the "expert" yet, but their early morning vigil felt like a tightening noose.
A jolt of pure adrenaline shot through Noir, momentarily overriding his fatigue. They were here. Now. Before his three days were up. Or perhaps this was a different visit? He couldn't risk them knocking, couldn't risk Thomas or Grace answering the door, oblivious to the danger. He had to act.
He moved with a sudden, desperate urgency. He glanced at the closed doors of Grace and Thomas's rooms, then back at the police outside. He had to intercept them. Without a sound, he slipped out of Alder's room, his bare feet padding softly on the carpeted hallway. He descended the grand staircase with painstaking care, each step measured, each creak of the old wood avoided. The house was utterly silent, asleep. He reached the foyer, his heart hammering against his ribs, the crimson moonlight filtering through the stained glass of the front door, painting the floor in fractured red patterns. He was the only one awake, the only one aware of the encroaching threat. He reached for the lock, his hand trembling slightly.