Gillian strode down the narrow, damp corridor toward the innermost sanctum of The Velvet Syndicate’s headquarters. The pungent scent of frankincense and the aroma of unfamiliar spices pierced his nose, attempting to overcome the metallic stench of death that still clung to his wool suit. His heavy footsteps echoed against the mossy stone walls, creating a haunting rhythm in the silence of that basement. At the end of the hallway, an old wooden door carved with a single, piercing eye stood as the only barrier between him and the answers he sought.
He pushed the door open, producing a long, sickening creak. Inside a room lit only by dozens of black candles burning with blue flames, an old man in tattered robes sat cross-legged on a pile of worn rugs. He was the syndicate’s shaman, the man who knew the darkest secrets of the Eye of Death curse.
"You have arrived sooner than I expected, Executioner," the shaman said without opening his eyes. His voice sounded like the scraping of dry sandpaper.
Gillian stood in the middle of the room, feeling an unnatural chill crawl up his legs. "The board gave me seven days. I had no choice but to hurry."
"Time is indeed your enemy now, Gillian. The energy you brought back from the Estates Theatre is no longer just the remnants of souls. It is an accumulation of the curse beginning to seek its own physical form," the shaman opened his cataract-clouded eyes, staring at Gillian with a gaze that seemed to pierce through the executioner's mortal frame.
"Just tell me what I must do," Gillian answered impatiently. "What requirements does this curse demand?"
The shaman reached for a silver bowl containing a thick black liquid and placed it between them. "Your two pillars at home, Klara and Elena, were understandable mistakes of the past. Klara possessed spirituality but lacked a strong physical vessel. Elena possessed a tough physique, but her soul was too shallow. They failed because they lacked the balance needed to sustain your right eye."
"I did not come here for a lecture on the failures of my wives," Gillian growled, his hands clenching so hard his knuckles turned white.
"Patience, Executioner," the shaman chuckled softly, revealing rows of yellowed teeth. "For the third pillar, the requirements are very specific. You cannot choose just any woman from the streets or another gangster’s daughter. You need someone from the pure lineage of the death-antidote."
"The death-antidote lineage? What do you mean?" Gillian asked, his pale grey eyes now glinting with a gripping curiosity.
The shaman dipped his withered fingers into the black liquid and began to draw an intricate symbol on the wooden table before him. "The woman must descend from a lineage whose ancestors survived the Black Death without any medical assistance whatsoever. They possess 'silver blood' within their souls. Physically, she must have a crescent-shaped birthmark on the back of her neck, directly above the spinal nerve where the death energy will be channelled."
"That sounds nearly impossible to find within seven days," Gillian whispered, despair beginning to cloud his rigid face.
"Difficult, but not impossible," the shaman wiped his blackened hands on his robes. "Instructions from the board and my star readings indicate that the woman is in this city. In Prague. She is an orphan who grew up in a harsh environment, which has given her extraordinary mental resilience."
"How can I recognise her other than by that birthmark?" Gillian asked again.
"Your own curse will tell you, Gillian. When you stand close enough to her, the death threads around you will momentarily subside. She is the only human who will remain unaffected by your dark aura. If you touch her, you will not feel a burning heat, but a soothing cold," the shaman explained in a serious tone.
"And if I choose wrongly? If I bring a woman who looks similar but lacks that lineage?" Gillian stared at the shaman with a sharp gaze.
The shaman gave a small laugh, the sound of it like the moan of a tortured soul. "Then the third covenant will be an execution for you both. Your body will explode, and her soul will be sucked into the eternal darkness of the Eye of Death. Nothing will remain of Mourning Manor but black ash."
Gillian took a deep breath, trying to control the tremors in his body. "Give me her exact location. Where can I find a woman of this lineage?"
"That information does not come for free, Executioner," the shaman said, pointing toward the silver bowl. "I need a drop of blood from your left wrist. Blood already contaminated by that curse, as payment for my vision."
Without hesitation, Gillian pulled a small knife from beneath his suit and grazed the tip against his tattooed left wrist. Thick, dark red blood that was almost black dripped slowly into the bowl, creating small ripples that emitted a thin, sulphur-smelling smoke.
"Enough," the shaman grabbed the bowl and drank the contents in one large gulp, making Gillian slightly nauseous at the sight.
After a moment of silence with eyes closed, the shaman whispered the name of a street in a dilapidated district of old Prague. "Look for her there. She is usually among the crowds, trying to remain unseen. But for a man like you, she will shine like a pearl in the middle of black mud."
"Remember, Gillian," the shaman added as Gillian turned to leave. "This woman is not merely a pillar. She is the final key. Do not treat her as you treated Klara or Elena. If you wish to survive, you must ensure she accepts the covenant with full awareness, not through coercion."
"I am an executioner, not a romantic," Gillian answered coldly without looking back.
"That is why you are in danger, boy," the shaman whispered as the old wooden door slammed shut with a heavy thud.
Gillian walked back through the cold stone corridor with a racing mind. The instructions from the shaman were clear yet terrifying. The death-antidote lineage, the crescent birthmark, and voluntary consent. It all sounded like the most difficult mission he had ever undertaken. He held his still-stinging wrist, feeling the pulse of his curse as if it were reacting to the information he had just received.
Upon reaching the surface, the cold night air of Prague greeted him. He stared toward the crowds of people passing by in the distance, wondering which among them was the key to his safety. The syndicate car was waiting at the kerbside, and the driver immediately opened the door for him.
"To the old district, Mr. Vanevsky?" the driver asked inquisitively.
"Yes. And prepare a search list for a woman with a specific physical description. I want a surveillance team on every corner of that area," Gillian commanded as he entered the car.
Gillian leaned his head against the cold leather seat. He closed his eyes, but all he saw was the image of a faceless woman with a crescent birthmark on her neck. He realised that this search was not just about obeying the syndicate’s orders, but about preserving the remnants of his humanity that were being increasingly eroded by death energy. The seven-day clock starts ticking now, and the hunt for the third wife candidate has officially begun amidst the thickening Prague fog.
"I will find you," Gillian muttered in a low, determined voice. "Whoever you are, you have belonged to me since these death threads coiled around my neck."
The car sped through the darkness of the city streets, carrying the executioner toward his new destiny, full of blood and the occult. In his heart, Gillian knew that his meeting with this woman would change everything, whether it became his salvation or his most spectacular destruction at the hands of his own curse. The search had begun, and Prague would bear witness to the most dangerous covenant in the history of The Velvet Syndicate.
Aksara