What the fire didn't reach

Fire crackled in the fireplace, filling the room with comforting warmth that didn’t quite reach the corners. Its light flickered, casting long shadows that danced on the walls to music that couldn’t be heard. Lord Aldric’s pen glided across the parchment in precise strokes, the ink dark as the starless night. He had many documents to finish, and he was running out of time.

A knock.

The door opened before Aldric could speak. His butler stood rigid in the doorframe, lips pressed tight. His leather gloves creaked as he clasped his trembling hands. "A guest, my lord."

Aldric didn’t look up. "I wasn’t expecting anyone. I’m not receiving visitors right now."

"He said you’d refuse." The butler’s voice was low and wavering, shaky even. "He also said to tell you: It’s about Vienna."

A beat of silence. The fire hissed, as if it too understood the weight of that sentence.

Aldric set down his pen, slow, stalling for time. He sat frozen for a few seconds. Turning up unannounced and wanting to talk about 'Vienna'. This couldn’t be a good sign, and he knew that.

"Where is he?"

"In the gallery, my lord. The one with the—"

"I know which one." Aldric rose, his shadow elongating, merging with the dancing dark on the wall.

*****************************

The butler led the way, Aldric close behind him. Their steps were muffled by the crimson carpet, which covered the floor of the dimly lit hallway.

At the gallery’s door, the butler reached for the handle, but Aldric’s hand snapped up. "Wait here." His voice was nothing more than a whisper. "And if you value those ears of yours, keep them shut. Understood?”"

The butler’s fingers twitched—a barely contained flinch before his chin dipped in submission. "I’ll hear nothing," he said, keeping his eyes on the floor.

The door opened, and Aldric stepped through, eyebrows slightly furrowed. The door shut behind him with a thud that seemed much louder than it should have in the silence.

*****************************

"Whisky?" Aldric asked, a bottle of yellow-tinted alcohol in his hands. He was already pouring himself a full cup. He had a hunch he would need it.

The man sitting on the couch raised his hand. "No, not this time."

"So to what do I owe the pleasure of your visit, Venetton?”"

Venetton’s lips curled into something that might’ve been a smile, though it lacked warmth. "You know why I’m here, Aldric."

The flickering candlelight illuminated Venetton’s face. Pale, wrinkly. He looked older than he did in Aldric’s memories. Or maybe just more tired. "They have found it," he added with a serious face. "They have found what we left behind in Vienna."

Aldric took a long sip of whisky, letting the burn steady his hand. "If this is about solution, you’ve come to the wrong place."

Venetton tilted his head. His eyes flicked to the portraits lining the gallery walls—ancestors with oil-painted stares, watching in frozen disapproval. "It’s not about solution," he said. "It’s about consequence: it’s only a matter of time before our identities and actions are plastered in the newspapers."

Aldric's silence stretched for 5 seconds too long before replying. "The fact they’ve found it changes nothing," he spat. "They could have found rubble, but not records. Ruins don't testify. They won’t be able to figure out it was our doing. Hell, we never even stepped into the country, much less the city. Also, all evidence was destroyed, wasn’t it? The factory?" A wild gesture towards the fireplace. "Gone. The employees? Unpaid and unalived. As for the patients, they—"

Venetton slammed his fists on the coffee table. It was one of those rare moments when there was actually an easily recognisable emotion on his face—rage. After a sigh, he slumped back onto the couch, massaging his nose bridge. "Just as you said, we were careful. But we didn’t account for the possibility that one of those rats would somehow stay alive."

"Impossible," Aldric snapped, though his knuckles had gone bone-white around his glass. "But even if—if—some wretched soul crawled out of that pit, what does it prove? We’re half a world away, and Vienna is full of monsters far hungrier than us. Let them blame the Russians, the Americans, or some rogue doctor with a God complex—"

He was pacing now, the ice in his drink clinking like a ticking clock. "A single survivor changes nothing. Corpses can’t testify, and lunatics aren’t credible witnesses. Unless that bastard kept receipts with our names—"

"Aldric, are you structurally incapable of thought?"

Aldric’s fingers froze around his glass. The audacity burned worse than the whisky. His voice dropped to a whisper, blade-sharp. "You forget yourself, Venetton. These walls have eaten men for lesser slights."

Venetton actually chuckled, as though Aldric had just told a particularly dull joke rather than threatened his life. "Remember the madman who vowed to hunt us down? The one whose threats we toasted to with brandy and laughter? He is the survivor. He won’t need people to believe him. If it comes to that, he will come himself. But he won’t rest until we are rotting in a prison for the rest of our lives."

"Let him try. Even if he crawled from hell itself, what trail could he possibly follow? No photographs exist. No names were spoken. Just thirty seconds of blurred faces on a grainy monitor—that's not enough to hunt a man across continents."

"Will you take the blame if he does succeed?" Venetton was having enough of this conversation. This man wasn’t going to be of help. Maybe the best action is to use him as a scapegoat. This blustering lord would make an excellent sacrifice when the time came. All it would take is one carefully leaked document, one whispered confession to the right ears…

"Of course not—"

"Then try silence. Your voice is exhausting me."

"...So how problematic is our situation?" Aldric raised his glass to his lips—only to find it empty. Without a word, he reached for the bottle, amber liquid glinting in the firelight. He didn’t bother with the glass this time. He cradled the bottle like a man savouring his last meal. Would they even let him have a drink in prison? The thought slithered through his mind. He was doubtful. The state wasn’t known for its hospitality to men like him.

"I would say burn-everything-and-run problematic, but we already used up that card once. We’d be even more suspicious if we did it again."

"This is no occasion for humor, Venetton."

Venetton's expression didn't change. "There was none in my voice."

"Of course there wasn't," Aldric sneered, swirling his whisky with deliberate nonchalance. His voice dripped with the same false courtesy one might use to humiliate a dull child. "How forgetful of me—your solution to every little inconvenience has always been arson, hasn't it? One might think you've a pyromaniac's soul trapped in that banker's body."

Venetton’s fingers twitched at the insult, just once, against his knee. He, in his mind’s eye, saw it clearly: Aldric trapped behind burning doors, his prized portraits blackening as the flames licked his flesh. Venetton’s glove tightened around an imaginary matchbook as he imagined it—the way Aldric’s fine coat would curl, engulfed in flames. The headlines would be delicious—Disgraced Noble Perishes in Mysteriously Timed Blaze. A fitting end for his type.

But no. The risk outweighed the pleasure. Their legal business ties were public, and fire drew far too many eyes. Eyes that might pry, might connect.

Aldric broke the silence. "So how long do we have?"

Venetton stood up, putting his hat on. "That depends."

"On what?"

Venetton paused at the threshold, his gloved hand resting on the doorframe.

"On how much that wretch remembers."

Silence. Then Aldric spoke, quiet and bitter. "We should’ve burned the whole city down."

"Yes, we should have."

Before Aldric could get another word out, Venetton was already halfway out the door, not bothering to glance back. The door clicked shut behind him, leaving Aldric alone with the whisky, the fire, and the crushing weight of those words.