Leorik knew he was dying. His shirt was a mess, punctured with lead from the watch women's pistol and marked with red streaks of fresh blood. It didn’t matter though, because he was oh so close to finishing her.

The skull had been perfect in all aspects. It had a pure white hue unmarred and unmarked by the ravages of time or battle. It had been the greatest canvas he had ever worked upon. He had laboured through the pain and channelled all of the focus that remained within his failing form. At points, it was like he was a passenger in his own body, watching from above as he carried out work inspired by the divine black spiral. He lost track of all time, of all sense of self. And in the end? In the end he had created a masterpiece.

It seemed like a mask made of cracked porcelain, criss crossing black lines rushing across it in hypnotising spiral patterns. A set of twin horns curved upwards into the air, made of a pale ivory that turned to pitch black at the points. The mask itself was rimmed with gold moulded into the form of charging stallions and prancing mares. And at the centre, just where it would rest upon the owner’s brow? A ruby as large as a fist, gleaming and without flaws. Leorik knew that he had bested even the greatest of the old masters. He knew that in the end it had all been worth it. The death, the loss, because this would ensure that he was never, ever forgotten.

It was unfortunate that he had so little time to appreciate the finished work, for a moment after he had completed his final stroke of polishing he fell to the side of his chair and lay quite limply. His hand rested upon his chest, cradling at what remained of his daughter.

“He’s dead.” Andros Du Vogare the Younger stood in a raiment suited as much as battle as for a ball, but a ball was what he would be attending in a few short hours. A masquerade ball which would see every notable in the Empire attending.

“Your perceptive nature never ceases to amaze me, Andros.” Beside him stood the tall, looming figure of the Thin Man. The words were dripping in a caustic sarcasm, and the Fae’s hatred of the shining knight was apparent. “Wrap the mask in silk as you pick it up, do not touch it. It is meant only for the Emperor’s heir. You will give it to him tonight as a gift.”

“And what happens after he wears it?” The knight’s hand rested upon the pommel of his weapon, a half sword of pure silver - it was a well guarded secret that the metal could cut through any magical spirit or shield - but he knew it would do nothing against the Fae he had bound himself to. His eyes flashed dangerously. “What if I don’t give it to him?”

The Thin Man’s hand flew out with peternatural speed, smacking Andros across the face and sending him sprawling out onto the floor. “You snivelling little worm. You metal clad lackwit. I thought I had you well disciplined by now, dog. If you don’t give it to him, then I will ensure that your son’s suffering is legendary. Peasants even lower than you - astounding that such creatures can exist - will tell the story of his death to their children to make them behave.”

Blood dripped from the side of Andros’s mouth, his lip had been burst open by the attack. “I’ll ensure that he wears it.”

“Good little dog.” Andros was like a shining knight out of a fairy tale, meant to save the innocent and banish the wicked. It was why the Thin Man had chosen him. The spirit enjoyed twisting him into a tool and yet it disdained the knight for the weakness that allowed it to do so. “He thought he was working on the woman you know. Not your father, even though his skull makes for a far better vessel. What have you done with her?”

“I had her taken to the crypts, she’s been locked there with the wizard.” Andros made his way to his feet, never meeting the gaze of the ethereal presence at his side.

“Acceptable. Ensure that the wizard is not harmed. I was denied him once by your servant’s ineptitude.” Phylos had perished a day ago, not long after Renard had been captured. “I will not be denied again. It rankles at me, you know. That one such as he - so much better than you could ever dream of being, Andros - languishes in the cells of his lessers.”

“I’ll see to it that he’s fed regularly, my lord.” Andros tightened his grip on his weapon, and then he thought of his son. Of the sickness that had ravaged him, and which the Thin Man had lifted. He thought of how quickly that sickness could return. “I must see to the preparations for the masquerade. Excuse me.”

“Yes, yes. Be gone.” The Thin Man watched as Andros made his way to the door with the mask, speaking just before he made it to the exit. “You know, Andros. There’s something I’ve been meaning to tell you. You remember when I told you that I could only cure your father or your son of the wasting disease? I lied. Because I wanted to make you choose.”

The Elector seethed, his face contorted into an expression of pure rage…but then it fell into one of pure despair. He had called upon the Thin Man, he had agreed to the deal which had saved his son but enthralled him to this creature’s will, and nothing he could do would ever change that.

When Vespia awoke, the first thing she took note of was the dull pain throbbing at the back of her head. The second were the shackles that held her arms above her head, and chafed against her wrists. The third was Renard, slumped against the other side of the obsidian cell with his arms tied up behind him, and his scarlet spectacles shattered upon the floor. His glass eye - a distinct blue in opposition to his natural green - never quite met her gaze.

“What in Undine’s name are you doing here?” She questioned him with a groan, making her shackles clatter as she pulled against them instinctively, but no luck they were hammered tight into the stone.

“That’s funny. I was going to ask you the same thing.” Renard tilted his head to the side as he watched her tug and pull at her manacles. “But, to answer your question, Vespia. I was here for a job interview.”

“I can’t imagine how badly you answered the ‘where do you see yourself in five years’ question if it ended up with you down here. I was drugged by a serial killer.” She glanced around the cell, taking in the stinking chamber pot and the lack of any other facilities. Renard must have been here for a few days. “Speaking of. Where are we, exactly?”

“A serial killer? Oh! The fellow stealing the faces? What’s he got to do with all of this? And you’re at Andros Du Vogare’s estate. Beneath it, in his family crypts, to be exact.” Renard offered her a shrug of his shoulders, “I was investigating something for the Scarlet Robes.”

“The Scarlet Robes?” Vespia’s eyes went wide at that revelation, “I can tell you that was a mistake. You’re many things Renard, but I’m not sure about a spy. As for this murderer? It’s a man called Leorik von Leyn. I was going to speak to you about him, funny enough. I wanted to ask if you knew anything about the ‘Black Spiral Gallery’, or someone called the Thin Man?”

Renard’s features creased in concentration. The Black Spiral was something he had heard of before, read of, he was certain. Something dangerous and illicit, so dangerous that even Svenja would not have parlayed with those powers. “It rings a bell, but I’m not sure. I’d need to know more. If you’re here then that means your killer is working with Andros Du Vogare? What does an Elector have to do with a murderer?”

“That’s a question for the ages, Renard. He killed one of my men. I fired a shot off at him before I fell unconscious - I was knocked out with paint fumes I think, it’s a long story - but I’m not sure if it hit the mark. If he’s still alive, I’m going to see him and whoever else has helped him pay. ” It was a statement of fact, not a question or a request. Vespia was going to make Leorik - and the Elector - suffer the consequences of their actions.

“Not while we’re stuck down here, you won–” Renard was cut off by the approach of clanking sabatons and a moment later the metal bars holding them in the cell were rattled by the sword of a Knight of the Tattered Banner.

“Where’s the wizard? I’ve got someone here who wants to speak to you. Watch him, my lord. Mages are a slippery lot.” The plate helmeted giant bowed his head toward a boy who must have been in his early teens, young enough that he had a bit of fuzz about his face but hadn’t yet realised it needed to be shaved away.

“I can handle a shackled mage, knight. I could handle you, too! Now move back, unless you want to hear from my father.” The voice was high pitched and demanding, a finger was pointed through the cell door, “You, the man. No, I have no interest in talking to some woman. The wizard. You’re Renard the Black, aren’t you?”

Vespia spit off to the side, biting her lip as she resisted the urge to insult the young noble. It wouldn’t help them any, and it might end with the Knight dishing out a severe beating. Renard, for his part, shuffled his way over toward the cell door on his knees, looking like the newest patient in an insane asylum with the way his arms were laced up with rope behind his back.

“I am Renard the Black, fell necromancer.” He responded in an appropriately haughty and magisterial tone. “Who are you, then?”

“Dylon Du Vogare, heir to the Barony of Montebard and future Elector, mage. Is it true that you called my grandfather back from the dead? My father should have had you killed for such an affront to our family.” Dylon wore the finest of silks, and upon his belt hung a party mask that was done up in garish yellows and greens. “Is it true you betrayed your own brother? That you saw him sent to Coldshank because you were jealous of his popularity? Because you were too much of a coward to be a true kinslayer?”

Renard inched closer to the door, his head held low in supplicance toward the noble. “You’ve seen through me, my lord. I hated him, and I wanted him dead - I was going to move on to my mother next, and then I thought I might dedicate myself to serving the Black Prince, returning his spirit to its old power. But your father bested me with ease, and now I see that I was wrong. I should dedicate my life to his service.”

Vespia watched the display, and she had been about to throw a vicious insult the teen’s way, but something about Renard’s posture stopped her, there was a smirk playing across his lips, hidden from the boy with the way his hair fell down about his face.

“Hah! See, Knight? He knows his place. Beneath my father, he’s a wretch, not a wizard. I’d heard his brother was his superior in all aspects. Socially, magically, in dealing with the women folk.” Dylon thrust his finger through the cell bars one last time to point at Renard, snorting out a high pitched laugh. “And now he hopes that by acting the penitent, my father will forgiv–AGHH!”

In that moment, Renard had leapt forward, clamping his teeth about the noble’s wrist. He shook his head like a feral dog, and he tore flesh from bone. Then the Knight hit the hilt of his sword against the cell bars with such a strength that it cast Renard back onto his rear, his head ringing.

“Agghhh! He bit me! He bit me! Knight! Do something, kill him!” Dylon held his bleeding wrist, glaring at Renard with a vicious hatred.

The Knight grabbed the young noble, dragging him back. “Your father decreed that he shouldn’t be harmed, your lordship. I’m sorry. I’m sorry…” The Knights babbling slowly decayed into nothing, as he pulled the young, self centred teenager back through the crypt.

“Bloody hell, Renard.” Vespia managed, her brow arching upward as she watched the Wizard right himself again. “I didn’t like the little bastard much either, but that was a bit over the top.”

Renard offered her a bloody grin in response, shuffling his way over toward her and the shackles that held her arms above her head. His eyes were wide, like he was on a mistreed high, and when he spat blood upwards at her manacles there was a sickening sizzling sound. Vespia tried her strength, pulled her arms apart and the manacles broke like soft putty.

“Noble blood.” Renard explained, “With a touch of the Elven about it, too. I’ve never been one for blood magic, but sometimes one must do unpleasant things for the greater good. I hope you’ve got something to pick a few locks with, like Ulbert taught you.”

“Ugh.” Vespia grimaced at the sizzling blood on her manacles, shaking the remnants of the now softened metal off her wrists. “This is why I would make a terrible mage. Too squeamish for this sort of stuff. Dealing with a skull carving maniac is one thing, tasting the blood of some little jumped up noble is another.”

“It takes a certain character. Now, if you wouldn’t mind helping to free me?” Renard turned, motioning to the bonds that kept his arms forced behind his back.

Vespia brought both her hands up toward her ponytail, grabbing the steel needles that kept it in place. “You’ll need to thank Ulbert for making me wear these. Not the most fashionable, but very useful.” She grabbed the rope, stabbing through it with one of the needles and tearing it this way and that until Renard’s arms came free.

Renard rubbed at his wrists, they were red and rope burnt. “I spent about a day struggling against these before I realised it was useless.” He said, standing up and releasing a groan of satisfaction as he stretched his arms outward. “We should do this quickly, while the guard is dealing with Dylon.” He paused in thought for a moment, “Maybe I should have bitten deeper.”

“You know I work best under pressure.” Vespia answered, quickly making her way toward the cell door and thrusting her hands through the bars so that she could start to work at the lock on the front of the cell.

While she worked on that, Renard squatted in place and removed his painfully dry glass eye, it gave him time to think. Again, something nagged at him. A black spiral. The strange man he had met in Du Vogare’s estate. Not to mention the taste of Dylon’s blood, there was something Elven about it for sure, but too powerful to be the blood of a noble at least four generations separated from his Elven ancestors. Then, finally, it came to him. “Vespia.” He muttered under his breath, his eyes going wide. “The Black Spiral Gallery.”

“Nearly got it! Huh? What’s the matter, Renard?” Vespia continued to fiddle with her steel needles in the lock before her. “What about it?”

“I’ve heard of them before but, it couldn’t be…” He trailed off, bringing his thumb upward to gnaw at his nail. “Vespia. The Black Spiral Court is a Fae court. Which means Andros Du Vogare is working with one of the Fae. I think I might have met it, up above in the estate.”

“I’ve heard nothing but horrid stories about them, how they used to steal people away into the Wyrd and act like petty tyrants. I thought the Silver Prince had banished them from the Empire, when he played the Great Trick?” She asked him, though a grin crossed her features as she heard a click from the cell door despite the grim conversation.

“The contract the Silver Prince tricked them into taking part in only made it so that the Fae needed to be called upon before they could work their foul enchantments. It did not ensure they would never corrupt the land again.” Renard shook his head in disgust, “I cannot tell you why Andros has called upon the Black Spiral Court. All I know is that it bodes ill for us all and that he’s hosting a masquerade for the Emperor’s heir tonight. If anything were to happen…”

“Then the Empire would erupt into civil war. If the heir dies, every elector would scramble to see their dynasty poised as next in line to the throne.” Vespia bit at her lower lip in distress, “It would be the age of the warring kingdoms all over again.”

With a final click, the cell door opened, and the two were let out into the dusty subterranean crypts once more. Vespia held her steel needles like daggers, creeping forth in search of any other Knights who might stop the two of them. It was probably what prompted her next question, “How do you suggest we put a stop to it?”

Renard took one last look around the cell, before glancing down at the glass eye in his hand. It brought to mind the many indignities Svenja had forced upon his person. His time spent in dungeons such as this for failing to answer her pointed questions. The time her lackeys had beaten him with such vigour that he had lost his eye. A moment later he cast the glass eye aside into the dust, moving up beside Vespia.

“First thing is first, we should find my wand.” He decided. “Then we’re going to get out of here, and tell the heir exactly what Du Vogare and his Fae master have planned. We’re going to put a stop to it.”

“You have a wand now?” Vespia shook her head, “It’s a very fine plan. But if there’s some sort of masquerade going on, aren’t there going to be guards?”

“Yes.” Renard admitted, “The one you saw earlier was a member of the Order of the Tattered Banner. Southern Knights of Montebard. But there are sure to be other warriors here too, able and willing to defend the heir.”

“And how, exactly, do you plan to get past them so that you can tell the heir about Du Vogare’s alliance with the Fae, Renard?” She questioned.

Renard frowned, in deep thought. It was true, how exactly were the two of them supposed to make their way past some of the greatest knights in the entire Empire? He was a wizard, certainly, but his magic was not the popular sort that was written about in cheap prints that cost ten bronze numas each. He could not throw fireballs and lightning this way and that or call up devastating storms. But then it came to him.

“We need to get my wand, Vespia. I can get us through them.” He answered, with all the conviction of a man who was willing to do or die.

“Do you mind telling me exactly how?” Vespia asked, with all the conviction of someone who was entirely unwilling to die.

“Vespia.” Renard offered her a rare grin, and he motioned around the halls they stood within. “I am a necromancer. Look around you. We’re in a crypt.”