Chapter 0: The Underground Wing—Part 2

She stops herself; she does not read aloud without reason.

Instead, she cross-references, pulling digital files, overlaying maps and transliterating. The process steadies her. Research always does. Facts remain obedient when emotions refuse to. But today, the pattern emerges reluctantly.

The script’s structure matches a regional variant—not widely used, not widely taught. It is tied to a geography scholars often dismiss as myth adjacent. Estates swallowed by time. Towns that do not appear on modern maps unless one knows what to look for.

Her fingers are hovering above the screen now, as she zooms in.

‘Blackwood.’

She steps back, folding her hands together, grounding herself before speaking again. “There’s a secondary site referenced here,” she says evenly. “Subterranean. Containment-focused.”

Miriam swallows. “Containment of what?”

Evelyn does not answer immediately.

She is highlighting the word instead.

Blackwood.

It appears once. Unexplained. Unapologetic.

Jonas is shaking his head slowly. “That’s not a recognized site.”

“It is,” Evelyn says. “Just not officially.”

The silence that follows is not skepticism—it is recalibration.

Dr. Kamau studies her carefully. “You’re familiar with it.”

“Yes.”

“Academically?”

Evelyn meets his gaze. “Originally.”

That is enough.

The name appears once, embedded within a phrase that translates loosely to "threshold" or "passage"—not a destination, but a point of crossing. The word is not emphasized. It is assumed to be understood.

Her jaw tightens.

She has not been there in years. The Town, the mansion, the people, the shadows. Just the thought of it gives her chills.

She has built her life carefully away from it—city by city, archive by archive—choosing places where history stays still and does not reach back. She does not speak of Blackwood. She does not correct people when they mispronounce it. She has made it small by refusing to name it.

The stone does not allow that courtesy.

She is sitting back now, folding her hands together, grounding herself in the weight of the table. The artifact is not calling to her. It is not whispering. It does not need to.

It is pointing.

Within the hour, she is standing in a glass-walled conference room several levels above, briefing senior curators and directors who do not interrupt her once. She presents evidence, not emotion. Linguistic behavior. Structural intent. Risk assessment.

“This is not a relic meant for display,” she concludes. “It’s a marker. And it’s incomplete without its counterpart.”

“And that counterpart is in Blackwood,” one director says.

“Yes.”

A pause.

Then: “What do you need?”

Evelyn does not hesitate. This is her job. Her life. She should not screw it up because of what happened in the past. “Funding. Full access clearance. A small team. And autonomy on site.”

The decision is not immediate—but it is inevitable.

By evening, authorization is signed.

By nightfall, transport is arranged.

Descending back into the underground wing to collect her notes, Evelyn is passing familiar faces, receiving nods of trust rather than concern. She returns the gestures easily. This is her world. These are her people; Blackwood is not.

As she seals the artifact back into its case, her reflection flickers briefly across the glass—composed, scholarly, unchanged.

Only the stone knows better.

Only the past does.

And it has just been given permission to open.

Authorization is signed before sunset.

By the time Evelyn is packing, the underground wing has returned to its usual rhythm—quiet competence, controlled curiosity. The artifact is logged, sealed, and scheduled for transport under conditions that will take days to finalize. That delay is not procedural.

It is intentional.

Evelyn is standing with Dr. Kamau near the glass wall overlooking the lower levels when the decision is voiced aloud.

“I should go ahead,” she says.

He studies her carefully. “Alone?”

“Yes. The crypt is part of my inheritance. It is lying on hundreds of acres of land just like the Blackwood mansion.”

“What do you mean Evelyn?”

“When you join me in three days, you will find out. The site isn’t active yet. Whatever this is, it hasn’t been disturbed in decades. If something is waiting, it’s waiting for recognition—not extraction.”

“And the team?”

“They follow in three days. That gives me time to assess the environment, confirm the crypt’s integrity, and prepare access protocols. If it reacts…” She pauses briefly. “It reacts to me, not to them, not to you.”

“Evelyn, you and I know what awaits you in Blackwood. I have seen you and watched you all these years. You were a mess. Now things are different; you do not have to go back.”

“I will be fine; this is only for a month. And I will not be alone; I will have my team.”

Dr. Kamau exhales slowly, not in disagreement, but in acceptance. “You’re certain.”

“I am.”

The paperwork adjusts accordingly.

By midnight, Evelyn is boarding a flight with nothing ceremonial about it—no escort, no press, no announcement. Just a secured case of notes, a personal laptop, and a single line item on the mission log marked advance researcher.

Blackwood is not listed as her destination.

The name appears only in internal routing.