Adrian didn't sleep.
He spent the entire night in the hidden room, reading by candlelight. The books were old and fragile. Some were in languages he couldn't read. Others used terms and concepts that made no sense.
But his mother's journals were clear enough.
She'd been researching something called Daos. Methods of gaining power. The Vigil apparently controlled twelve sanctioned versions. Safe ones. Regulated ones.
And she'd found evidence of others. Forbidden methods that had been deliberately erased from history.
Adrian rubbed his eyes and reached for another journal. His back ached from sitting on the floor. His legs had gone numb an hour ago. But he couldn't stop reading.
Every page raises more questions. What is the Vigil? Some kind of organisation? A government body? And why do they control these Daos?
More importantly, why was Mother so desperate to research the forbidden ones?
He opened a thicker journal. The leather binding was cracked and stained. The first few pages were in his mother's handwriting. Dates. Locations. References to auctions and private sales.
She'd been tracking down fragments of information for months. Spending money they didn't have. Taking risks that should have terrified her.
Then the handwriting changed.
These pages were older. The ink was faded brown. The script was elaborate and difficult to read.
The path through shadow requires three elements. Intent. Sacrifice. Invocation.
Adrian's pulse quickened. This is it. The actual ritual instructions.
Intent must be pure. Not good or evil, but singular. The practitioner must want power above all else. Hesitation will result in failure or death.
Want power above all else. What kind of person could honestly say they wanted power more than anything?
Why was she researching this
He kept reading.
Sacrifice must be personal. Blood is traditional but not sufficient alone. The ritual demands something of value. Time. Memory. A piece of the soul itself.
A piece of the soul. I don't even know if I believe in souls. Mother raised me Christian but I've always had doubts. Now I'm reading about rituals that demand pieces of souls as payment.
Invocation must be precise. The words are ancient. Older than any living tongue. They must be spoken exactly as written or the ritual will consume the speaker.
Consume the speaker. That's comforting.
Adrian turned the page carefully. More instructions. Diagrams of the seven-pointed star. Explanations of each symbol in the three circles.
The outer circle represents binding. It contains the power until the invocation is complete.
The middle circle represents transformation. The moment of change when mortal becomes practitioner.
The inner circle represents acceptance. The Dao claims its vessel.
He looked at the chalk symbols on the floor. His mother had drawn them exactly as shown in the book. Every line. Every curve. Every strange letter and geometric pattern.
She spent months preparing this. Learning the symbols. Practising the ritual structure.
And then she stopped.
Why? Fear? Second thoughts? Or did something else happen?
Adrian kept reading.
Stand in the centre of the star. Speak the words of invocation. Offer blood freely given. The path will open.
Warning: Most who attempt this ritual die. The Dao does not accept weakness. Those who survive the binding will gain power beyond mortal comprehension. Those who fail will be consumed entirely. No body will remain.
His hands shook. Most people die. No body will remain. That's the sort of warning that should make anyone with sense close the book immediately.
But Mother didn't close the book. She kept researching. Kept preparing. Right up until three days before her death.
Was she planning to attempt it? Or was she really just gathering information for someone else?
Adrian turned another page and froze.
The incantation.
A full page of text in a language that looked like nothing he'd ever seen. Harsh consonants. Vowel combinations that seemed physically impossible to pronounce. Letters that hurt his eyes if he looked at them too long.
This is what Mother was working towards. The final piece of the puzzle.
Below the strange text was a note in his mother's handwriting.
Phonetic approximation: Kheth-nar-um thol-vex sha-dren...
She'd translated the sounds. Turned the impossible language into something readable. Something a normal person could actually attempt to speak.
Adrian stared at the words. Anyone could read and try the ritual.
Is that what she wanted? For someone to complete it?
For me to complete it?
No. That's insane. She wouldn't have left me instructions for something that would probably kill me.
Would she?
Adrian closed the journal and set it on the shelf. His head was spinning. I need to think clearly.
The smart choice is obvious. Destroy everything. Burn the books. Scrub away the symbols. Pretend I never found any of this.
Walk away and live a normal life.
But can I? Mother spent six months on this research. Father apparently died for whatever secrets they were chasing. Our entire family has been destroyed by this.
If I walk away now, it's all for nothing.
Adrian picked up the journal again. I want to understand what Mother was so desperate to learn.
He flipped back to the incantation page. The phonetic guide was clear. Easy to read.
Kheth-nar-um. Thol-vex. Sha-dren.
The syllables felt wrong. Like his tongue wasn't designed to make those sounds. But he could read them. Could figure out how they'd sound spoken aloud.
He read further down the page. More words. More impossible combinations of sounds.
Vel-keth. Mor-thran. Zha-vor-im.
It has a rhythm to it. Almost like poetry. Or a prayer.
Adrian stood. His legs protested after hours of sitting. He needed to move. Needed to see the circle from a different angle.
He stepped carefully over the chalk symbols towards the centre of the room. The journal was still in his hands. He kept reading as he walked.
The final line of the incantation was longer than the others. More complex. His eyes followed the words automatically.
Nath-vel-khorim zha-dren-thol mor-keth-var-shanum.
His foot touched the edge of the inner circle.
Adrian stopped and looked down. I'm standing right at the boundary. One more step and I'll be in the centre of the star.
I should move back. This is dangerous. Even being this close feels wrong.
But he didn't move. Instead, he kept reading.
The candlelight flickered.
Adrian turned the page. There was more on the back. Additional notes about pronunciation. Warnings about specific syllables that needed emphasis.
The third word in the second line must be spoken with force. The Dao responds to strength, not supplication.
Strength, not supplication. So even the way you speak matters. Every detail has to be perfect or you die.
He tried it. Whispering under his breath. Just to hear how it sounds.
"Kheth-nar-um thol-VEX sha-dren."
Nothing happened. Of course nothing happens. I'm just reading words from a book. Like reading a recipe or a poem. The words themselves don't do anything.
Do they?
Adrian turned another page.
He was in the circle now. Standing in the exact centre of the seven-pointed star.
The air feels heavier. Or maybe that's my imagination running wild after a sleepless night reading about forbidden rituals and soul sacrifices.
He kept reading. The next section detailed the blood requirement. How much. Where it should fall. The exact moment in the incantation when the sacrifice needed to be made.
Between the fourth and fifth lines. Three drops minimum. The blood must touch the centre symbol or the ritual will fail.
Adrian looked at the symbol beneath his feet. The seven-pointed star seemed to glow faintly in the candlelight.
No. It's not glowing. That's just the chalk reflecting the flame. Basic physics. Nothing supernatural about it.
He turned back to the journal.
The full incantation was written out one more time. All the lines together. With notations about timing and emphasis and which syllables to stress.
Mother was thorough. She made it as easy as possible for someone to complete the ritual.
Almost like she knew I'd find this room and read these books and stand exactly where I'm standing right now.
I'm paranoid. She couldn't have predicted this.
Could she?
Adrian's eyes followed the words. His lips moved silently. Just reading. Just trying to understand how the sounds fit together.
The paper was old. Brittle. The edge crumbled slightly under his thumb.
He turned the page too quickly.
The corner tore. The edge was sharp. It caught the pad of his index finger.
"Damn it."
Adrian pulled his hand back. A thin line of blood welled up on his fingertip.
He watched as a drop formed. Grew heavier.
Started to fall.
The drop is falling towards the floor. Towards the seven-pointed star beneath my feet. I should move. Should step back. Should do something to prevent what's obviously about to happen.
But he didn't move.
The blood hit the chalk symbol.
For a heartbeat, nothing happened.
Then the symbols began to glow.
Not reflected light. Real light. Blue-white. It spread from the centre outward like water following channels. Racing along the lines of the star. Filling the circles. Illuminating every symbol and letter with impossible radiance.
Adrian's breath caught. This is real. The ritual is real.
The journal was still in his hands. Still open to the incantation page.
And his mouth was still forming the words he'd been silently reading.
Except they weren't silent anymore.
The sounds were coming out. Harsh and wrong and ancient. Words that shouldn't exist in any human language.
"Kheth-nar-um thol-vex sha-dren."
I need to stop. Need to close my mouth. But the words keep coming like they have a will of their own.
"Vel-keth mor-thran zha-vor-im."
The light grew brighter. The symbols blazed. The air itself vibrated with energy that made his teeth ache, and his bones hum.
This is bad. This is very bad. I'm going to die. The book said most people die, and I'm about to become another statistic in a ritual that probably shouldn't exist.
"Nath-vel-khorim zha-dren-thol mor-keth-var-shanum."
The final word left his lips.
The world went white.