Chapter 1 - The Scholar and The Hunter
THE DARK CANVAS CHRONICLES
Sapphire is a curse hunter with a secret past. Always on the alert, he takes on his secret society's toughest cases, as cursed objects and unsolved mysteries are his specialty. He has come to the town of Blackmere on a dangerous mission, carrying a modern crossbow on his back and a black motorcycle that blends into the night.
Lady Isadora Whitmore is an art historian and academician who graduated from Cambridge. She has come to the town of Blackmere to complete her doctoral thesis. Although she keeps her distance from supernatural legends due to her devotion to science and rationality, the dark secrets she encounters as she delves deeper into the town lead her to a quest beyond her academic identity.
IN THE SHADOW OF THE SILENT SEAL
CHAPTER 1 - THE SCHOLAR AND THE HUNTER
While the full moon bathed the rooftops of the historical town with a milky light, the wind was whispering a secret between the heavy and old walls. The clock was approaching midnight. The moonlight that penetrated the stained glass windows of the historical library on the corner of the street mixed with the yellow lights of the dim lamps; shadows waited like monsters taking shelter between the wooden columns and bookshelves.
A heavy, soft sound of shoes echoed. Then the rough texture of a leather coat was heard. When the entrance door creaked open, the silence inside experienced a momentary uneasiness.
The man stepped inside. He was tall. He walked silently, almost like a vampire, but there was a dark wave of confidence emanating from his body. He appeared to be in his mid-thirties. The black leather coat that passed over his broad shoulders partially covered a modern and elegant crossbow he carried on his back. His wheat skin, prominent cheekbones and grayish, wild jackal eyes... His gaze seemed to scan the entire room in an instant and absorbed the secrets within.
One of the library staff pretended to cough, another raised her head with curious eyes. But no one said anything except the old woman who was looking at him over her glasses. She took a step back, tucking a loose strand of her gray bun behind her ear. She had been in this building for many years; she remembered every face that came in here. This face was not one to be forgotten.
He turned his head slightly towards her and winked at her like a naughty child. "It's a bit too charming a place for late nights, isn't it?" he said, a wry smile on the corner of his lips.
She said nothing, she just followed him with her eyes. An old bell was lying under her hand, but she hadn't bothered to ring it yet.
He turned his head back to the bookshelves and slipped between them. The moonlight fell through the window, casting its shadow over the books. With each step, it was as if history was being rewound, something ancient that had been sleeping on the shelves was waking up. Silence reigned in the library again. But now this silence smelled different.
Blackmere was a town swallowed by time, where the fog was almost constant all year round, and whose cobbled streets were lit by wet sidewalk lamps. Its pointed houses inspired by English Gothic, its cathedral-like town hall and its centuries-old cemetery, languished in their own inner solitude.
A single woman sat at a table at the back of the library, where the shadows gently drifted, though not directly on her, though the moonlight did not fall. She wore a fine linen shirt and a long, thin woolen coat. Her hair was ash-blond and elegantly tied up; she wore a classic necklace of pearls around her neck. Her cheekbones were prominent, her skin almost as smooth as porcelain.
There was an aristocratic grace in her bearing, a cultivated coldness in her movements. Her eyes were gray and calm, like the ashes of an unlit fireplace; she took notes carefully, bent over the scribbled pages of her books, compared the drawings in her hands.
Lady Isadora Whitmore was a Cambridge-educated art historian. She was currently writing her doctorate on the painter Aurelius Blackthorne, one of the 18th-century founders of Blackmere. But his work was remembered in the town not only for its artistic value but also for the shadow of a curse.
Isadora was busy reading an account of Aurelius’ mysterious self-portrait when she noticed someone sitting in the chair next to her. She didn’t look up. She glanced at him out of the corner of her eye. She winced for a moment. It was typical for a man to come and sit right next to her when the room was empty. She avoided eye contact, expecting the man in the leather jacket, who had a striking presence even in the dark, to make flirtatious glances. She pursed her lips and returned to her work. She ignored him with a silence that meant “I’m busy.” But he didn’t seem to care. She settled into the chair.
It was in the hunter’s nature to wait, to observe, to speak when the time came. Finally, when he saw the woman put her pen down on the table, he spoke.
“You were the one who summoned me, Lady Whitmore.”
The woman turned her head to look at him, her eyes wide, but her surprise quickly gave way to controlled seriousness. “How?”
“Sapphire,” he said, his voice as cold and bright as the full moon. “That’s the name they gave me.”
Isadora’s eyes narrowed. She finally looked at his face. The crossbow was no longer to be missed. His stance, his expression, the wild calm in his eyes were all real. When she had made contact with that strange group, which she could hardly resist calling a cult, the woman had only followed her instincts. They had said they would send “someone.” But she had not expected someone so inhuman.
“I see you are looking for Aurelius’ painting,” Safir whispered.
A creaking sound was heard from the old wooden floor of the library. But neither of them looked. The moonlight was now falling directly on the woman’s notes. Aurelius’ hidden signature shone on the page.
Isadora glanced out of the corner of her eye at the man still sitting next to her. He was so relaxed, as if he had been working in this library for years. Yet his appearance was one that had no place here.
The traces of a life kneaded with action could be read right down to the hem of the black coat that fell just above his knees. He slowly reached into his side pocket and pulled out a small, velvet-covered book. But he did not open the cover.
“As far as I can tell,” the woman finally said, her voice taking on a delicate yet mocking tone, “You are a member of a cult. You claim to be a secret society that hunts monsters. Were you experts in the occult, as you put it?”
Sapphire turned his head to the woman. There was a faint smile in his eyes. “Many people call us a cult. Some call us a sect, some a hunter’s guild… But we don’t call ourselves anything. We do what is necessary, that’s all.”
Isadora raised her eyebrows slightly. “And what is your area of expertise?”
“Curses,” said Sapphire, without hesitation.
“Some of us follow vampires. Some of us follow ghosts that scratch at graves. Some of us struggle with werewolves. I solve curses. Cracked mirrors, sealed books, unspeakable paintings… The hard ones are my job.”
Isadora closed the notebook where she was taking notes with her pen. Her gaze flickered for a moment to a small scar on his chin.
“I’m a skeptic, Mr. Sapphire . I don’t believe in curses. But all sources are valuable for my thesis. I’ve read about you—your group. Rumors, letters, old court records. Interesting folklore.”
“Folklore…” Safir bowed his head slightly, without rolling his eyes.
“Then folklore would be a good explanation for what bit me on a dead body in Scotland last summer.”
Isadora’s lips quivered, but she didn’t laugh. She didn’t mean to be sarcastic, but the fact that he said everything so seriously made her hesitate.
“Look,” she said, standing up.
“I am interested in this subject on a scientific research level. The painter Aurelius Blackthorne is mentioned as one of the founders of Blackmere. His paintings are terrifying; technically extraordinary, but their subject matter is disturbing. Some of them depict houses that never existed in the town, dead children, murders that have not yet been committed. The most interesting thing is this: over time, some of the people who saw the painting began to behave exactly like the painting, and even die. There are records of the incidents. But it could all be a coincidence.”
“Of course it could,” said Sapphire . “But those coincidences usually don’t end until someone is killed. That’s why I’m here.”
Isadora noticed the old librarian staring at them. The woman looked over her glasses and almost whispered without moving her lips: “Don’t talk about that painting here.”
But Isadora paid no attention. The woman went to the back shelves and carefully pulled out a book and handed it to Safir. “There is a record here of Aurelius’ lost self-portrait. It was not easy to find this information. It is a painting framed in black marble, but no one knows where it went. But some say there is still a secret gallery under the town. A structure that collapsed on the dead.”
Sapphire picked up the book and glanced at the pages. There were cut marks on the edges of his finger. The way he held the book with her thick hands showed that he was not very familiar with this work.
“You follow the trail of books. I follow the trail of others,” he said. “But our paths have crossed now, Lady Whitmore. This curse has called you here. I am only a guide.”
“I seek only knowledge,” Isadora said clearly. “I am here for logic and scientific analysis, not curses.”
Sapphire smiled. He spoke with his typical, patient smile: “Of course. Everyone starts that way.”
“The only way to find the gallery,” Sapphire said, leaning on a shelf as he continued, “is Blackthorne’s mansion. I hear there’s an underground section that’s in ruins, but it still stands.”
Isadora frowned. “It’s no longer in use. People I’ve asked tell me it’s mostly been demolished.”
“That’s exactly why we have to go there.”
He hasn’t finished his sentence before the old librarian appeared behind them. Her voice was as fragile as the weight of a wooden floor over the years, but it was determined.
“Wait. You were talking about the cursed painting.”
The woman’s voice carried not only the words, but also the weight of the past. She slowly removed her glasses. Her trembling hands gripped her cane tighter.
“The darkness that Blackthorne painted once divided this town. When the murders, deaths, and fires that he had prophetically drawn came true, the people went wild. They found the paintings and burned them. They destroyed his mansion. They lynched the painter in the square. We forgot him. We had to forget him. Do not call upon that darkness again.”
Isadora listened to the woman without interrupting, her head bowed. Then she intervened in a gentle but confident tone.
“I understand. We are merely conducting research. We have no intention of harming the people of this town. We only want to understand the truth. We will be respectful.”
The old woman looked at her face for a moment. She seemed to see a familiar sadness in her eyes, perhaps the echo of a face from the past. But Sapphire did not understand. He straightened the collar of his jacket and rolled his eyes.
“I will leave the respectful part to Lady Whitmore,” he said.
“I will wait on my motorbike.”
Sapphire headed toward the door of the library. The heavy wooden door creaked open as if the ghosts of the old world were behind it. When he stepped outside, the moonlight filled his body again, the edges of his coat slightly ruffled by the wind.
Isadora gathered a few notebooks, books, and drawing files. On the one hand, the old woman’s warnings echoed in her ears, while on the other hand, the sound of Sapphire’s footsteps attracted her. When she stepped out the door, her eyes first scanned the empty street, then she saw him.
Sapphire was leaning on his black motorcycle parked at the edge of the town’s central park. The body of the vehicle was painted matte black, with silver embroidery on the sides. Its front headlight was round, reminiscent of old lamps, but its interior was equipped with modern technology. The seat was covered in leather, and silver runes were engraved all over the body.
This motorcycle, which could silently blend into the night, could travel between cities, and had armored compartments, was worthy of a hunter. Even its exhaust pipe was much quieter than a normal vehicle, just like its driver.
Isadora stopped, looked at him. An involuntary smile appeared at the corner of her lips.
“Typical,” she said to herself, “A hunter’s horse.”
Sapphire raised his eyes, and their eyes met. Behind the seat of the motorcycle was a thin but sturdy second passenger belt.
Sapphire pointed there with a nod.
“If you’re going to regret it after you get on, turn back now. But if you’re not going to turn back, hold on tight.”
Isadora paused for a moment. Then, with a graceful movement, she put her things in her bag and climbed onto the back of the motorcycle. She put her hands not on the man’s waist, but on the seat belt. But when her eyes turned to the full moon, there was excitement, not anxiety.
The sound of the engine echoed like a quiet but determined murmur in the Blackmere night and away they went. There was a curse that they wanted to forget, and an undrawn prophecy ahead of them.
TO BE CONTINUED:
In the next chapter of Dark Canvas Chronicles…
As Sapphire and Isadora step into the scorched ruins of Blackthorne Manor, forgotten whispers begin to stir beneath the dust. What was once a sanctuary of art now hides something far darker—a cursed painting, a buried past and a name long thought dead.
But when a ghost claims the canvas no longer belongs to him, the true question emerges:
Who—or what—does... and what if it’s been waiting to be found?
