Aidan's Obsession

Chapter 3: Aidan's Obsession

The cold had settled into my bones by the time the sun rose above the city. I stood at the entrance of what remained of the Blood Market, watching my breath form clouds in the frigid air. Frost coated the stone archway. Ice crystals glittered in the weak morning light.

"Inspector Blackwood." A guard nodded as I passed.

I didn't respond. My mind was already cataloging details. The temperature. The pattern of the ice. The silence that hung over the scene like a shroud.

Bodies lay where they had fallen, frozen in their final moments. Nobles in expensive clothing. Merchants caught mid-flight. Guards with weapons drawn. All transformed into grotesque ice sculptures.

I moved between them slowly, careful not to disturb anything. My notebook remained closed for now. First, I needed to see. To absorb. To understand.

The market tables stood in disarray. Crystal vials lay shattered on the floor, their contents long evaporated. Chains hung empty where peasants had been secured. Some had escaped. Others had not been so fortunate.

My fingers ached with cold as I knelt beside a fallen ledger. The frostbite that marked my fingertips had never fully healed from my last encounter with a Froststorm. The pain was familiar. Almost comforting in its consistency.

I opened the leather-bound book carefully. The pages crackled with frost. Names filled each line. Dates. Amounts. Blood types. All meticulously recorded.

"Missing from Lower Ward," read one notation. "Vagrant, no relations," stated another. "Child, orphaned," said a third.

I turned page after page, letting the pattern emerge. They had been keeping records for years. A systematic harvesting of those no one would miss.

"Inspector?" A guard approached, his footsteps crunching on ice. "We found a survivor."

I closed the ledger and tucked it into my coat. "Where?"

"Supply closet. Locked himself in."

The guard led me to a small room at the back of the chamber. A man huddled in the corner, wrapped in blankets. His eyes were wide, unfocused. His hands trembled.

"Can you tell me what happened?" I asked, kneeling before him. I kept my voice gentle.

He looked through me at first, seeing something else. Something that had left him broken.

"The singing," he whispered finally. "I heard it first. Before the ice."

"Singing?" I removed my notebook, opened it slowly. My pencil hovered above the page.

"The Choir." His voice cracked. "They sing for the storm."

"Who sings? Who is the Choir?"

His eyes focused on me for the first time. "They came from the walls. From the air itself." He clutched my sleeve. "And he was here too. The thief. He took the Chord."

I made notes, my breath fogging the page. "What thief?"

"Moved like a shadow. Took the vials before the ice came."

I continued questioning him, but he lapsed into incoherence. The guard eventually took him away to be treated for shock and exposure.

I remained in the market for hours, examining every corner. Every victim. The ice had a pattern to it, radiating from multiple points. Not a natural phenomenon. Not random.

By midday, I had filled several pages with observations. Sketches of the ice formations. Notes on the positions of the bodies. Copies of entries from the ledger.

The sun had begun to set when I finally left. The city streets were quieter than usual. Word of the market's destruction had spread. People stayed behind locked doors, afraid the Froststorm might return.

I made my way to the small tent I had erected near the edge of the district. It wasn't much—canvas walls, a cot, a small desk—but it served my purpose. I needed to be close to the investigation. I couldn't afford to waste time traveling back and forth from headquarters.

I lit a lantern and spread my notes across the desk. The patterns were there, waiting to be connected. My mind worked through possibilities, discarding some, exploring others.

Hours passed. The lantern flickered. And then I felt it—the familiar tightening around my wrist.

I pushed my sleeve up slowly. The spiral tattoo that encircled my wrist had begun to glow with a dull blue light. The Shroudmark. My burden. My curse.

The sensation intensified, the mark constricting like a noose. I gritted my teeth against the pain. It had been months since the last activation. I had almost begun to hope it had faded.

The tightening continued, becoming unbearable. I knew what needed to be done. What always needed to be done.

I reached for my knife. The blade gleamed in the lantern light as I pressed it against the outermost line of the spiral. I cut carefully, precisely, following the pattern. Blood welled up, dark against my pale skin.

As the blade completed the circuit, the blood darkened further, turning black as ink. The pressure eased immediately. I could breathe again.

"I'll find you, alchemist," I whispered to the empty tent. The mark always activated when I was close—close to the one who had created it. The one I had been hunting for years.

I bandaged my wrist methodically, then returned to my notes. The survivor's words echoed in my mind. A thief. Vials of White Chord. It connected to my case, I was certain of it.

Sleep eluded me that night. I dozed fitfully, waking often, my mind refusing to rest. When dawn broke, I was already dressed, ready to return to the market.

But something had changed during the night. As I approached the scene, I noticed hooded figures moving among the ruins. They worked quickly, painting symbols on the walls. Spirals within spirals. The mark of the Eclipse.

I stayed back, watching them work. Five cultists, all told. They didn't speak as they painted. Their movements were practiced, ritualistic.

I circled the perimeter, finding a side entrance that remained unguarded. I slipped inside, staying in the shadows. The cultists continued their work, unaware of my presence.

I drew closer to one who had separated from the others. He was painting a large spiral near what had been the main auction block. His brush moved with practiced precision.

I struck quickly, one hand covering his mouth, the other driving my knife between his ribs. He struggled briefly, then went still.

I dragged him into an alcove and searched him. A map was tucked into his robe, marked with routes and locations. The Citadel was circled in red ink, with notations in a cipher I didn't recognize.

As I examined the body more closely, I noticed a strange scent. His blood smelled sweet, like burnt sugar. Another anomaly to add to my growing list.

I copied the map into my notebook, then slipped away before the other cultists discovered their missing member. They would find him eventually. I wondered if they would mourn him, or if he was as expendable to them as the peasants had been to the market.

Back in my tent, I added the new information to my notes. The Eclipse cult had been growing bolder in recent months. Their presence at the market suggested a connection I couldn't ignore.

The Shroudmark tingled on my wrist, a persistent reminder. I was getting closer. The alchemist was somewhere in this city. The market. The cult. The thief. They were all connected.

I stared at my reflection in a small mirror. A gaunt face looked back at me, eyes hollow from lack of sleep. Obsession had worn me thin, carved lines into my face that hadn't been there when this began.

But I couldn't stop. Wouldn't stop. The mark wouldn't let me, even if I wanted to.

I returned to my notes, to the map, to the puzzle that consumed me. Somewhere in this city, the pieces waited to be connected. And I would find them, no matter the cost.

Night fell again. I barely noticed. The lantern burned low as I worked, following threads, discarding dead ends, building a picture piece by slow piece.

"I'll find you," I whispered again to the darkness. "And when I do, one of us will finally rest."