The quiet, within Dover Castle's hidden archive was not merely a lack of noise but a tangible existence. It was the enduring stillness of ages of vellum and iron-gall ink of mysteries reduced to dust and dust shielding mysteries yet to be revealed. Arthur Cooper's solitary lamp shaped a globe of light in the immense underground gloom dispelling the shadows that gathered among endless ranks of lead-lined ledger cabinets.
He arrived looking for examples a history of prior resource conflicts with the other groups. The Council's opposition was a monotonous force and he required leverage, factual evidence to quell their skepticism regarding the Progenitor Initiative.. Bureaucracy, even the secretive variety tended to hide its most crucial facts, in the most uninteresting locations.
His gloved hands slid along raised spines inscribed with dates and mysterious symbols pausing at a cabinet distinct, from the rest. This one was more ancient its darkened oak swollen from time secured by a brass lock fashioned as a winged lion—the original more rustic emblem of the A.G.L. The label, penned in elegant 19th-century script stated plainly: Genesis & Covenant 1837-1841.
Arthur's ring, bearing the Quadrumvirate emblem suddenly felt fresh and weightless on his skin. He drew out an ornate key from a chain hidden under his waistcoat—a master key handed down from one chairman to the next. With a click that sounded like a bone snapping in the quiet the lock released.
The air that drifted out was chilly. Bore the aroma of aged paper, cedar oil and another subtle note: the delicate tangy fragrance of human desire. The initial ledger was enormous wrapped in leather resembling dried blood. He gently placed it on a reading stand its heft significant meaningful.
He unfolded it. The initial page wasn't a record but a financial report.
Ledger A: The Grand Endeavour of Ascension
Quarterly Disbursements, Anno Domini 1837
Patrons: The Aeonian Guild
Arthur's breath hitched. The Aeonian Guild. A title forgotten in A.G.L.'s spoken records. The notes were precise penned in the refined relentless handwriting.
—To J. Blackwood, for the acquisition and discreet relocation of thirty-seven "Féy-touched" individuals from the Scottish Highlands, per the Aurora Specifications: £2,300.
—To Foundry & Son, for the construction of reinforced physiological containment suites at Warwick: £8,450.
—To M. de Rossi, for procurement of rare anatomical texts, alchemical treatises, and the signed personal diaries of one Paracelsus: £1,120.
—To the Estate of Sir E. Thorne, for the perpetual lease and secrecy covenant upon the lands of Dover Castle, for the purposes of "Celestial Observation": £15,000.
He flipped the page. A new entry chilled the blood running through his veins.
—To the Order of St. Dymphna, for the permanent committal and silencing of failed biological assets from all four Endeavours, and for the ongoing spiritual consolation of the same: £500 per quarter.
Defunct biological resources. Spiritual solace. The soft expressions were refined, dreadful. He perceived not trailblazers,. Victorian gentlemen in smoke-laden chambers distributing money for miracles and for erasing the horrific proof when those miracles faltered. This was not the quest, for stewardship he advocated. This was an enterprise. A horrific business.
Turning over pages he came upon the covenant itself. An official, legal document written on parchment endorsed by four signatures. Not Felicya, Edgar, Alexa but someone who came before him. The signatures were elaborate bold:
For the Sylvan Dominion (E.L.F.): Alistair P. Finch-Hatton.
For the Iron Legacy (O.R.C.): Lady Victoria "Vix" St. Claire.
For the Shadow Pact (D.M.N.): Dr. Erasmus G. Locke.
For the Aeonian Guild (A.G.L.): The Right Honourable Arthur James Cooper, Viscount of Harrow.
Arthur's name, from two hundred years ago gazed back at him. His forefather. The cold, in the archive penetrated his velvet jacket. He examined the covenant's introduction, his beliefs faltering beneath the burden of its old-fashioned wording.
…the Signatory Parties acknowledging the Unique Chance and the Grave Danger posed by the Grand Endeavour hereby pledge this Covenant: to follow their assigned Paths (Celestial, Sylvan, Chthonic and Martial) indefinitely; to uphold a Balance of Formidable Power among themselves to prevent any one Path from dominating and causing Worldly Revelation and Disaster; and to link their bloodlines and institutions to this Secret War ensuring the Work endures beyond mortal lifetimes…
An Equilibrium of Dreadful Force. Not peace. Not protection. A deadlock of atrocities. The Quadrumvirate was not an imperative; it was a 19th-century pact of restraint a method, for four factions of affluent fixated idealists to restrain one another's abominations while collectively assuming the role of gods.
The last record, in the ledger's section appeared as a solitary plain line the ink worn to a brown hue:
—Contingency: To secure amounts of quicklime and cover the charges of discreet bargemen, on the Thames in case the Balance fails and the Endeavour needs a Final Cleansing: £200.
Arthur gently shut the ledger. The quiet thump marked the end of his naivety. He thought he was championing a cause. Instead he was overseeing a trust. A "Terrible Power." The Progenitor Initiative wasn't a daring breakthrough; it was the newest entry in a record that had been ongoing for more, than one hundred eighty years.
He reflected on Seraph-1 resting within the Aviary's glow. Not a divine entity,. A living resource. A piece of inventory that should the equilibrium collapse might require discreet boatmen.
The comfort of his room the strength in his Council's reasoning and the shining hope of the Harmonic Sequence—all seemed like a veneer masking this decayed base timber. Edgar Walker, with his harshness was possibly the most sincere, among them. He accepted the core of the mission. Felicya immersed herself in beauty's flawlessness. Alexa prioritized practicality.. He, Arthur adorned it with a creed of illumination.
He did not shut the ledger forcefully in anger. Instead he ran a hand gently across its cover a bond, with his ill-fated driven forebear enveloping him. The Viscount of Harrow had acquired Dover Castle for this purpose. He had charted a path that Arthur was still pursuing.
The issue at hand was no longer, about convincing his Council. The issue was, aware of the base should he keep constructing upon it? Should he attempt to consecrate a structure erected over a burial ground?
He put out the lamp immersing himself in a darkness dense with spirits. The griffin-shaped lock snapped shut. He had been looking for combat provisions. He had discovered a mirror.. Within its glass Arthur Cooper perceived not a leader ushering in a fresh era but an accountant in a dark cloak managing the newest entry in a centuries-old record of cursed aspirations. The road, to paradise was lined with Victorian currency and bloodied lime. And he was now its reluctant, knowing steward.