The wind howled through the narrow alleys of Trier as Lucien descended the stone steps behind Saint Just's Cathedral. The invitation had specified midnight, and the bells had just finished tolling the hour.
He paused at the bottom, in front of a small iron door etched with a spiral-eye insignia. The same sigil as the coin given to him by the gray-coated woman weeks ago.
He slipped the coin into a groove in the door.
It clicked.
The door opened on silent hinges.
Lucien stepped inside.
The catacombs smelled of old incense and something far older—stone sweat, candle ash, time itself. Flickering lanterns marked the path ahead. His footsteps echoed against damp walls, where moss grew in patterns suspiciously geometric.
Ahead, he heard voices.
As he turned a bend, a chamber opened before him—a domed cavern supported by twisted marble pillars. At its center stood a circular table surrounded by figures in masks. Every mask was different. Some mirrored animals, others wore plain white faces etched with runes. A few wore no masks at all—but the shadows wrapped around them like cloaks.
Lucien approached slowly.
"Welcome," said a woman to his left. Her mask was half-broken porcelain, revealing one pale eye and lips painted deep blue. "The Theater Below whispers of you. The Witness walks."
"I received an invitation," Lucien said, voice calm.
"You received a summons," corrected a man in a black bird mask. "Only the ones already dancing hear it."
Another figure, seated and still, finally spoke—a deep, rasping voice like stone grinding against stone.
"What do you seek here, Lucien?"
He was not surprised they knew his name.
"I seek understanding. The truth beneath the truth. And perhaps…" He paused. "...a contract."
The word rang in the air like a bell.
Half the masked faces turned to one another. The rest turned to him.
"A contract," the bird-masked man repeated. "Dangerous, for a man still wearing skin."
"I wear a mask," Lucien replied.
"And do you know who made it?"
Lucien didn't answer.
They led him to a chamber deeper in the catacombs. There, three items rested upon an altar: a silver dagger, a black book with no title, and a vial of mercury that shimmered with a heartbeat.
"Choose one," said the blue-lipped woman.
Lucien stared at each.
The dagger pulsed with anticipation.
The book whispered.
The vial watched.
He reached out—and chose the book.
The chamber dimmed.
Ink flowed from the black leather and coiled around his wrist, spiraling upward like a serpent before sinking into his skin.
Words followed.
"The contract is signed. The act begins."
They brought him back to the circle.
This time, there was a seat waiting for him.
The bird-masked man spoke. "Then you are no longer an audience member."
Lucien sat. "Then what am I?"
The blue-lipped woman smiled.
"A performer."
That night, as Lucien returned to his apartment, the city looked different. Not physically—but contextually. Like he now understood some of the hidden lines in its stage directions.
A beggar tipped his hat at him without speaking.
A woman across the street wrote something in chalk, glanced at him, then vanished.
The gaslight flickered in time with his steps.
He entered his apartment and set the book on his desk.
It opened on its own.
Inside, a name had been written.
Klein Moretti.
Lucien stared.
Then, below it, another name appeared in red.
Algernon Wraithmoor.
And a third:
Lucien Albrecht.
Outside, thunder rolled.
The next act had begun.
To be continued...