Dorothy’s Forbidden Grimoire Novel - Chapter 465

Chapter 465**Prith, Tivian.**

In Tivian’s Southern District, where Blackwater Street crossed the central thoroughfare, an unusually spirited charity event was underway. The destitute from every corner of the Blackwater Street District gathered in masses, clamoring and shouting with hopeful fervor as they waited their turn for distributed goods. But within that bustling crowd, a single emotion ran counter to the general mood — unease.

*What the… how did the Boyle family’s steward show up here out of nowhere? Where were the sentries? Or… is that even the real Boyle butler? If it isn’t, then the likeness is unbelievable… maybe they’re kin?*

At the very end of the line stood a man, wrapped in a concealing cloak and masked, his eyes fixed on the elderly man presiding over the supply cart. His thoughts spun with confusion. That aging servant was supposed to be securely held at their temporary base. Who — or what — was this lookalike?

*Speculation gets me nowhere. I need to report this immediately. This is too strange. Ardav needs to know, now.*

He began edging his way out of the crush with practiced subtlety. It wasn’t long before he had cleared the crowd, slipping into the adjacent alleys with measured urgency.

Across the square, Adèle, likewise disguised, had already extracted herself from the throng. She darted into a narrow side passage, glanced around to ensure she wasn’t followed, and retrieved a stiff, lifeless raven from her bag. Placing it on her palm, she watched as it spasmed suddenly, then twitched to life, wings fluttering feebly before it took to the overcast sky.

This was one of Dorothy’s active raven puppets. Unlike typical corpse puppets, this one had been made from a live raven, stunned and marked with puppet runes. Through the Rosicrucians’ Contact Channel, Dorothy could extend her spiritual threads, using intermediaries like Adèle or Gregory to channel control — rendering distance irrelevant.

Guided by that distant influence, the puppet bird banked over Blackwater Street’s low rooftops, scanning with alert precision. It quickly locked onto the man who had slipped away from the line.

Now freed from the crowd, the cloaked figure moved swiftly through the labyrinthine alleys, his head swiveling at intervals to check for followers. After several sharp turns and quick detours, he arrived at a lonely fringe of the district.

He turned into an overgrown alley, its cobbles nearly overtaken by weeds, and made his way to a rust-flecked iron door at the far end. He unbolted it and vanished down the stairwell beyond. Perched on a wire above, the puppet raven cocked its head, watching.

Inside, the man descended into gloom. He reached a second door dimly lit by the jaundiced flicker of a gas lamp. He knocked in a precise rhythm against the metal.

The door creaked open to reveal a bald, dark-skinned man.

“Hadi? Weren’t you supposed to be on lookout? What’s going on?”

“Something happened above. Let me in. I need to speak to Respected Ardav.”

……

The cramped basement chamber was suffused with stale air and dim yellow lamplight. On the dust-caked floor, a complex ritual circle had been etched in pale bone powder. At its center, a monstrous closed eye pulsed ominously. Nuonot — the Boyle family’s long-serving steward — lay unconscious atop the symbol, his clothes shredded and blood drying on his battered form.

Seated just outside the circle was a man in ceremonial robes, a turban wrapped neatly around his head, his thick beard framing a shadowed face. Respected Ardav sat cross-legged, exhaling slow breaths, sweat streaking his forehead as he concentrated.

“How goes the subject, Respected Ardav?” one of the men flanking him asked, his cap stained from wear.

Ardav’s voice came low and steady. “Progress is steady. The soul-seal is weakening. A few more iterations — minor refinements — and it should break. It’s a formidable ward, not typical… it was set by someone skilled in anti-looting enchantments, quite different from standard types. But I see its weave now.”

At this, a wave of relief spread through the small assembly. Ardav gestured to the bloodied man in the circle.

“At last, real headway. Excellent! Once we extract his soul, we can locate that damned staff!”

“Respected Ardav,” another asked, voice tinged with worry, “how long will the cleansing take? Even after extraction, there’s still the retrieval. If we go over our time window…”

“Not a concern,” Ardav interrupted with clinical calm. “By my estimate — seven, maybe eight more tests. We’ll have it by tomorrow. Then, return to the estate for the staff. Altogether, we’ll be done in three days. The Prince gave us five. We’re within bounds.”

He did the math silently, then addressed them again. His assurance helped soften the tension visibly hanging in the room.

“In that case, maybe we can stop fearing the hourglass,” one man mumbled, only for another to counter with a grim thought.

“Don’t count your ease too early… even with the soul extracted, all we’ll get is the location of the chamber. Who knows what lies beyond? That tomb was designed by a master looter. It might be rigged with more traps.”

Their brief moment of optimism cracked, giving way to dread. Faces darkened again.

“We’ll only know once we step inside,” another offered pragmatically. “That relic of the spectral prince is our lifeline. We press on, no matter what.”

A bitter chuckle cut through the room. “Ah, yes. When the tracking curse marks you, the road only runs forward. Who’d have thought a routine tomb raid would lead to an immortal horror?”

That lament cracked the room’s restraint. Discontent murmured among them. Ardav’s gaze snapped into a glare.

“Enough! We are finally making progress — this is no time for defeatist whining! If you want to be useful, focus on what’s left to do!”

“T-tasks? Respected Ardav, aren’t we only waiting on the chamber location? What else needs doing…?”

“Our escape, fool! Once the staff is ours, we vanish from Tivian without a trace! Find locals, drain a few, learn the routes that bypass Customs and port patrols!” Ardav barked.

The chatter halted immediately.

After another stern reprimand, Ardav waved them away. As he stood, preparing for another confrontation with the seal, a figure hurried into the room.

“Respected Ardav! Word from Hadi — a massive charity caravan has appeared on the street!”

Ardav frowned. “And this concerns us how?”

The messenger caught his breath, then shot a meaningful look toward the barely-conscious Nuonot.

“Sir… Hadi swears — the man leading the caravan looked exactly like the old steward!”

“…What?” Ardav’s eyes narrowed, lips parting in disbelief.

……

By mid-afternoon, Blackwater Street’s central crossing buzzed with unprecedented activity. The square — once barren — now overflowed with vitality. Some left happily with arms full, others stood in shock, having arrived too late to receive anything.

“Already gone? That fast?” Hadi muttered under his hood, staring at the emptied plaza. The wagon and the elderly steward who had manned it had vanished completely.

Listening to the local tongues — which he had learned from dissected souls — Hadi picked up that the caravan was mobile. It had already moved on.

“I swear to you,” Hadi said fervently to the hooded figure beside him, “that man was the steward! A perfect match. He disappeared, yes, but I did not imagine it.”

His companion remained quiet, gaze fixed ahead. Together, the two returned to their headquarters to report. Ardav listened, lips drawn tight.

*Two identical men? Unless they’re actual twins — and that’s wildly improbable — this smacks of mimicry. Someone’s watching.*

With that suspicion rooted, Ardav took out an oval sliver of bone and released a stream of faint spirits into the dimness. They spread, slipping through walls and cracks in search of hidden dangers. When they returned with nothing to report, Ardav allowed himself a flicker of relief — but not enough to relax entirely.

“We relocate tonight,” he said coldly.

Far above, nearly eight hundred meters in the evening sky, an invisible kite made slow, silent circles.

……

Relocating wasn’t difficult. Contingency shelters had already been prepared in the same area. Their new hideout was an abandoned warehouse near the district’s edge, where Blackwater Street met industrial ruin. Bleak and forgotten, the spot offered concealment. With few belongings, they made the move quickly. The ritual circle was redrawn on the raw cement, and Nuonot was returned to its place atop the ominous eye. Ghost sentinels circled silently around the premises, invisible but poised to alert “Silence” practitioners if any trespassers came near.

That night, Hadi was reassigned to watch duty — overseeing the ghost perimeter, as was his turn. His responsibility: monitor the world outside.

Night fell deeper. Inside the warehouse, the ritual continued. Outside, Hadi walked his path alone under the moon, surrounded only by the invisible sentinels. Tiredness weighed on him as he repeated the same circuit. Then — a faint clink from a nearby copse.

*What was that?*

He squinted into the shadows. He should’ve ordered a ghost to investigate — safer, easier. But some irrational impulse overruled logic. Curiosity flared, reckless and strong. Ignoring protocol, he stepped beyond the safe boundary.

Leaves crunched underfoot. He stopped beneath a bare-limbed tree. There — a broken bottle.

*Just glass, that’s all…*

But the relief was short-lived. Suddenly, strong arms seized him, one hand clamping over his mouth.

“Mmmph—!”

He fought wildly. Then — unbearable pain. Electricity surged through him like a spear of fire, robbing his limbs of control.

His body jerked once — then went limp.

As he crumpled, Gregory — dressed in stolen black garb, face shifting unnaturally — gently lowered him to the ground. Fingers checked the pulse. Satisfied, he spoke, a quiet nod to a powerful technique.

“So this is the Detective’s method? To neutralize a Black Earth-level foe so quickly, using my form… such precision without killing. Truly terrifying…”

A smooth voice answered from the darkness, amused.

“Indeed. Mysterious skills, a razor mind… that one is anything but ordinary. There’s something magnetic about the Detective, wouldn’t you say?”

Adèle stepped out of the shadows, dressed in clean, severe lines. A broad hat shadowed her masked face as she idly fanned herself. Gregory gave her a curious glance.

“Magnetic? Do you perhaps know the Detective’s nature, Lady Adèle?”

“Maybe… a sliver,” she replied, the fan briefly covering her lower face. *I’m fairly sure ‘sir’ may no longer apply.*

“No more chatter, Shadow-Face,” she said briskly. “Time’s running. Get into position.”

With a crisp flick, she shut the fan.

Gregory nodded gravely. He turned to the unconscious Hadi. His appearance began to shift — flesh folding, features changing — until a perfect copy of Hadi stood in his place.

Kneeling, he opened the real Hadi’s hand. From his cloak, he retrieved a carved ivory seal and pressed it to the skin of Hadi’s wrist. The brand it left was a pristine inverted pentacle, faintly pulsing with power.

Hadi stirred. His eyes opened slowly. He rose to stand beside his doppelgänger.

The two Hadi figures stood in silence, twins framing the dusty expanse of the warehouse floor.