CHAPTER 55: A HAND BEHIND THE VEIL

The air hung thick in the chamber, steeped with incense and edged by a sharper note that lingered like a warning at the back of the throat. Muted gold from the hearth’s fire spilled across the stone floor, shadows breaking and reforming in fractured lengths. From the chandelier above, candles burned with a stubborn brightness, their flames bending in the faint wind that slipped through as Elowyn entered.

Vincenzo sat at the head of the long table that dominated the chamber, its surface cluttered with scrolls and glass vials, some half-covered beneath a cloth. The scent of metal and ink lingered, sharp against the undercurrent of wax and smoke that thickened each breath.

Across from him, Anneliese and Adomas occupied the two chairs before the table. Anneliese’s stillness was taut, not idle; her hands folded too carefully in her lap, her chin lifted as though bracing for something unknown. Beside her, Adomas leaned back with a tensed ease that could be mistaken for composure. The slight curl of his fingers betrayed impatience, yet his gaze flicked often toward Vincenzo, measuring the room’s temperature.

By the window, a tall, broad figure stood with arms folded, his silhouette carved against the darkness of the forest beyond, unmoving and unreadable. He seemed less man than devil wrought in shadow, and though his face was turned outward, his stillness suggested vigilance directed inward, toward the chamber itself.

Elowyn let her gaze pass over each in turn, silent, observing. The air was already burdened; words would only sharpen its edges when they will finally come, she realized.

Her steps carried her forward, composed and unhurried, the soft press of her boots against marble muffled beneath the chamber’s silence. She lowered herself into a deep velvet chair set slightly apart from the others, her movements measured, her hands folding along the chair’s arm. Her posture held the patience of someone waiting not for explanation, but for revelation.

The figure at the window moved. Shoulders shifted, the set of folded arms loosening before he turned. Firelight caught the hard lines of his face, carving his expression from shadow as though the chamber itself yielded him up.

Archimedes. King of Demonland.

His presence filled the chamber without a word, heavy and consuming. Yet tonight, his usual composure carried a fracture; the sharpness of his gaze betrayed not calm dominion, but temper straining at its edges.

When Archimedes finally spoke, his voice rolled low, steady, yet laced with iron that ground against restraint.

"Ghouldbone disappeared last night. Just like Windborn and Haselburg of the Sicilian Empire. But unlike the Human Empire, my land is not vulnerable. Demonland is bound with enchantments layered through centuries. Ghouldbone was one of the oldest—fortified by wards carved into bedrock."

The words landed like a strike across the chamber, each syllable weighted, leaving no room for disbelief. The fire cracked in the hearth, the sound sharp in the silence that followed.

Elowyn’s breath stilled, though her face betrayed nothing. Anneliese sat with shock written openly across her features.

Vincenzo, however, did not flinch. His composure was carved into something immovable, though Elowyn knew it was not born of indifference. He must have already learned of the incident during the urgent Conclave meeting he had mentioned to Anneliese that morning, after breakfast.

Elowyn’s gaze briefly shifted to Adomas, reading quickly. So he had also been informed—perhaps Vincenzo had told him after returning to the castle.

When the silence had stretched thin Vincenzo spoke in even voice.

"We visited Ghouldbone with the other head members and the Conclave’s Inspection Unit. But like the other two human towns, nothing was amiss. Nothing was burnt or broken, yet not a single demon was found."

His voice stayed even, though the words carried a quiet weight. "Like Windborn and Haselburg, no blood on the cobblestones. No fire scarring the walls. No sign of a struggle. Lamps still burned low on their hooks, shutters were drawn, wells full as if waiting to be used." He paused, his gaze fixed on the table before him. "It was as though life had simply been plucked out of the place, leaving the town behind like an abandoned shell."

His eyes lifted then, sharp. "Every demon was gone. As though the earth itself had inhaled... and refused to breathe them back out."

Archimedes regarded Vincenzo as he finished, the silence pressing heavier with each passing breath—the kind of silence that forced men to reckon with their unease before either of them spoke again.

Archimedes’s gaze swept the room—slow, sharpening on each presence, lingering on Anneliese a moment longer as though measuring what could be relied upon and what could fracture beneath pressure.

At last, he spoke, his voice carrying the weight of command rather than invitation. "The danger is no longer distant. It stands at our doorstep, pressing against the very wards we thought unbreakable. And still, we are clueless."

His jaw tightened, his expression honed to a blade’s edge. "Windborn, Haselburg, and now Ghouldbone—this is not chaos without direction. It is precision. Purpose. Hands that have been working with patience, plotting for ages. Perhaps they are hollowing us from within, knowing they cannot yet strike us openly."

He paced a step toward the table, the shift of his heavy frame drawing shadows closer across the walls. "If the Dark Witches can breach Demonland’s protections—protections layered over centuries—then their power has grown beyond anything the Conclave has measured. Stronger... and far nearer than we admit."

For a heartbeat, even the crackling fire seemed to still, its silence echoing like a threat that had stolen sound.

Archimedes’s words lingered like smoke, thick and suffocating. The chamber seemed smaller for them, its walls pressing inward with the weight of what none dared voice aloud.

Vincenzo did not shift in his chair. His stillness was not Archimedes’s domineering statements—it was the deliberate stillness of a mind threading through shadow, listening for what silence concealed.

When he spoke, it was measured, each word laid with purpose.

"You say precision, Archimedes, and you are right. No scattered band of witches could orchestrate this. To breach the wards of Ghouldbone, to hollow entire towns without spilling a drop of blood—this is not the work of desperation. It is orchestration. Command." His gaze lowered briefly to the scrolls spread across the table, then rose again, locked with Anneliese’s blue ones.

By the look in Vincenzo’s eyes, Ann realized where he was pointing. Her dream—or vision, whatever it was. She thought to herself, Where Vincenzo is connecting dots and threads between reality, the Demonland king’s words, and her nightmare have solid ground. The Dark Witches are not moving on their own.

Unknowingly, her gaze lifted as if drawn to the dark onyx eyes of the King of Demonland before falling back on Vincenzo as he spoke again. "The witches are a blade," he continued, "but even a blade requires the hand that wields it. Their movements are too deliberate, too unified, to be the chaos of covens bound only by vengeance. Someone directs them—guides them. Above the Dark Witches, there is a power that does not merely hunger but strategizes."

The fire popped sharply, a crack that seemed almost to punctuate his words.

Vincenzo leaned back slightly, his gaze sweeping over everyone as though it alone could deliver the theory as fact. "And if such a hand exists, then the witches are not our greatest enemy. They are the shadow cast by something larger, waiting behind the veil. That... is what we must uncover. Otherwise, every move we make will be against pawns, while the one who commands them waits unseen."

His eyes flicked toward Anneliese again, only briefly—a glance that did not linger, yet carried weight and protection in equal measure, as if even her presence in this chamber was part of the equation he calculated in silence.