K.R. Yigit
K.R Yigit
Blackwood - Legacy of Erebur
A Tale of Blood, Power and Heresy
In a world bound by shadows, where demons lurk and gods acquiesce, Inquisitor Lazarus Blackwood walks a razors edge between deliverance and damnation. When a long-buried secret is unearthed, he finds himself ensnared in a perilous web of political intrigue, personal betrayal, and the occult. Forced to navigate supernatural dangers whilst sinister forces close in, a pressing question is brought to bear. “Can the ends ever justify the means?”
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“Blackwood – Legacy of Erebur” delivers a tale of intrigue and horror with a grimdark edge.
A young woman in a white nightdress answered, drawing the door open as she peered out from a darkened hallway. She was a pretty one, though her ashen countenance betrayed her despair. Lazar could sense something troubled her. She clutched a warding bead in her trembling hand. Behind her, a candle burned in the hallway, casting flickering shadows from an alcove.
She whispered a solemn greeting as Lazar stepped inside, then led him upstairs. Her ascent was slow and deliberate, punctuated by the ominous creaks of worn floorboards and shifting joists. On the upper story, a door loomed, cast in shadows at the end of a narrow garret.
It was cold. Two young men in official suits stood by the door, shivering. They appeared relieved when they saw Lazar, their grim expressions softening.
“They have him in the attic,” the girl said.
Lazar moved forward, treading with caution, noting the plummeting temperature as he approached. Paying the two men no heed, he paused, deep in thought, his face almost touching the unfinished timber door.
“Through here, sir,” one of the men uttered, breaking the deathly silence.
Lazar flashed him a severe look. “No one enters… or leaves without me,” he growled. As he reached for the door, a hand clutched his coat. He turned. It was the girl, her eyes pleading.
“Please, Father, save him,” she whispered.
Lazar was impassive. “I’m no priest, girl,” he said, gently pulling his arm from her grasp.
His shadowed countenance marked by disquiet, Lazar gripped the doorknob and twisted.
Then… void.