Adventure of Tancred du Forietan

The dust drops in sheets from the rafters. Near the altar, the ghost of a former Knight flickers into view, his rusted armor translucent as grave glass. He fixes on the broken blade in Tancred du Forietan’s hand, and the church gives a low, hungry thrum.

The Woman staggers back from the altar, staring from the ghost to Tancred du Forietan as if she has just heard a bell from another life. The blue candles gutter, then flare weakly against the dark that presses at the walls.

The ghost’s face tightens with old urgency. He points again, not at the altar now, but at the broken edge nested in Tancred du Forietan’s chest, as though the weapon and the wound are one and the same. The walls throb harder, like a pulse finding its rhythm.

The church answers with a deeper beat, and the darkness at the corners gathers inward. The Woman grips the altar for balance, while the apparition flickers, braced against something in the room only he seems to know is waking.

Tancred du Forietan studies the ghost’s ruined helm, the torn shape of the armor, the way the apparition recoils from the blade like a man from a branding iron. The answer settles with a chill certainty. This is no servant of Natasha Batory, but a former knight of her line, bound here by the same house and the same seal.

The ghost’s outline jerks as if tugged by invisible chains. The blackened cut on Tancred’s palm stings, and the broken blade in his hand seems to answer the church’s pulse with a dull, inward throb.

The apparition turns its hollow stare from Tancred to the altar cloth, panic breaking through its dread. Dust rains harder from above, and the corners of the church draw in close as though listening.