The office was spacious, nearly devoid of furniture, providing ample space to house a volleyball court if one so desired. The farthest wall from the front door was dominated by a massive, clearly ancient, antique table, slightly worn at the edges, large enough to easily seat a dozen visitors. Besides the table, the office contained only a few wooden chairs. One of them was occupied by a man in the prime of life. His suit, while not flashy, was obviously custom-tailored, which could be uncomfortable for those unaccustomed to such luxury. The high white collar wrapped tightly around his neck, adding an extra sense of severity to the dark fabric of the jacket. His long black hair, reminiscent of a raven's wing, was secured in a tight ponytail with a simple leather strap devoid of decoration. The man exuded an aura of power so potent that even the air in the room seemed to be tinged with reverence for the individual seated at the table.
His coal-black eyes were ceaselessly engaged in scrutinizing the voluminous number of documents that littered the expanse before him. Every now and then, a hand armed with a cheap ballpoint pen would perform a practiced, measured motion, and a resolution of some kind would find itself penned in the perfect handwriting of a calligrapher on the document. As soon as this occurred, the paper was set aside, making way for the next one.
Lair Gluathon[1], the eldest son of the Duke of Novilter, always had plenty to do. Only a select few trusted individuals knew that he had been the actual, rather than nominal, head of state for nearly four years now. To the world, the old duke was still in charge and ruling, but that wasn't the case. No, the ruler of Novilter wasn't ill. He was still full of vigor, and even at seventy-three, he could easily outrun a racehorse if he so desired. However, his quest for unity with his inner Beast had progressed to such an extent that he had spent several years in meditation, delegating the reins of governance to his heir.
The soft creak of the front door interrupted the room's occupant's reading.
"Did something happen, Valerian?" The heir asked, his gaze still fixated on the document in front of him.
But the response was not verbal. Instead, it was the light, almost inaudible, footsteps on the oak parquet, a sound that would be imperceptible to a typical person but easily discernible to a shapeshifter of the Patriarch rank. These steps brought with them an alien scent of candles, wax, and papyrus.
For nearly two decades, no one had dared to assault not only the heir but even the youngest member of the Wolverine family. Yet Lair did not allow himself to be caught off guard. The chair was flung to the side, and before it could shatter into a spray of splinters, the man who had occupied it just a moment ago was already at the office's center, assuming a fighting stance, having vaulted over the table as if it were the most natural action in the world.
Even a master shapeshifter doesn't need to fully transform into the Beast to access its power, but a Patriarch can achieve much more. A partial transformation - and the heir's nails elongated into broad, razor-sharp claws capable of effortlessly shredding armor steel.
However, this display of power did not unsettle the unexpected visitor. Cloaked in a dark gray mantle that obscures his form to complete indistinguishability, with a hood so deep that his eyes remain concealed, he stood calmly just five steps away from the office's occupant. A heavy iron chain, capped with a substantial bronze crucifix, draped over his shoulders. The crucifix was not ordinary - it featured a burning cross.
You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.
An Inquisitor...
The true ruler of Novilter instantly retracted his claws. This swift change was accompanied by sharp, acute pain, but there's no sign on the heir's face to suggest that he felt it.
Anyone else who entered unannounced would have been promptly expelled from this office, praying fervently to all the saints that they wouldn't be permanently crippled by the experience. But... This was clearly not a situation to let the Beast dictate actions.
In Lair's memory, the Inquisitors had visited the House on the Hill only twice, the last time being nearly thirteen years ago. And even then, it was essentially an official visit.
The future duke was unsure about what was transpiring, but this didn't prevent him from analyzing and assessing the situation. Hundreds of thoughts raced through his mind in an instant. Unable to determine the optimal course of action, he chose to respond neutrally.
With a slight nod, he spoke, "I'm listening."
The gray figure reciprocated with a polite yet formal bow, fulfilling no more and no less than what etiquette required.
"We have come," the stranger voiced, his tone colorless, empty, devoid of emotion. The heir tensed further, realizing that even in conjunction with his Beast, he couldn't discern the face shrouded by the deep shadow of the hood. "To convey to you. We are the Ordo Campeadorus, and our eyes are upon you."
With that, the figure in gray pivoted and exited the office at a slow pace, shutting the door behind him. His disregard for waiting for a response was insulting, but Lair was a seasoned politician. Calming his Beast, he refrained from showing any outward sign of agitation from the intruder's conduct. When the monk's footsteps were no longer discernible, even to his keen hearing, the heir ventured to look outside his office.
His four personal guards, the elite of the Alihark's Loyal Dogs clan, all master shapeshifters armored in cutting-edge tech gear, were peacefully asleep. They were leaning against the walls, their assault shotguns clutched close.
"Valerian?" Lair turned to his secretary, who was seated at a desk by the door.
Valerian was his find, a gem... a diamond. A Seer who hadn't fit into the Service and had placed faith in Lair as a leader. The sensum, unlike the shapeshifter guards, was not asleep; he was simply as pale as a pristine white sheet.
"I couldn't stop him, sir," the secretary confessed, swallowing a lump in his throat. "He was a dark adept!"
"Weren't they all eradicated centuries ago?" Lair questioned, not out of disbelief in the Seer, but due to the outlandishness of his claim.
"Apparently not all of them, sire."
"I don't blame you for anything," the heir reassured the secretary, nodding as he once again surveyed his guards.
"They're merely asleep, sire," Valerian explained, noticing his glance.
"As soon as they wake up, bring everyone to my office! But do not awaken them yourself."
"That's prudent, sire."
"Also, Valerian," Lair queried, "are you familiar with the specific expertise of an Inquisition branch called the Ordo Campeadorus?"
"With all due respect, my lord, I've never even heard of an Ordo by that name."
"Neither have I... neither have I..." the heir murmured, retreating to his office.
Upon closing the door, he leaned against the wall and closed his eyes. As much as he resisted, it was a necessary step.
"Apologies, Father, but I must wake you," he whispered.
[1] AN: The name of the ducal house, a loose transcription of the word 'wolverine' from French.