Chapter 208: Reporting Problems

The gates of Wykes Manor stood silently under the torchlight, the family crest engraved in dark metal watching Damon like an old acquaintance who knew too much and asked too little.

He approached unhurriedly.

The bluish spear was strapped to his back, partially wrapped in leather so as not to draw immediate attention, but still impossible to ignore to trained eyes. The cold it emanated contrasted with the gentle warmth of the night.

The gate opened before he even needed to announce his presence.

The butler—a tall, thin man with impeccable posture and gray hair styled in an austere updo—waited on the other side. His eyes first landed on Damon’s face… then on the spear.

For a fraction of a second, something passed through his expression. Not surprise. Not fear.

Recognition.

He gave a slight nod.

Damon returned it with another, equally brief.

Nothing was said.

The butler simply stepped back a step, clearing the way.

Damon entered.

The gates closed behind him with a deep, definitive sound, as if the world outside had been sealed away along with its shadows and secrets.

The interior of the mansion was too quiet.

Soft lights illuminated the polished stone corridors. The distant clinking of cutlery indicated that someone was still dining in some more secluded wing. The air smelled of hot tea, waxed wood, and something floral—probably Morgana.

Damon walked down the main corridor, his footsteps echoing softly. The feeling of being watched… had diminished. Not disappeared completely, but weakened, like something that respected boundaries. Or territory.

He entered the living room.

Morgana was seated near the window, in an upholstered armchair, with a delicate porcelain cup between her fingers. She wore simpler clothes than those in the carriage—still elegant, but less formal. Her hair was partially loose, falling over her shoulders. She looked up when she heard him enter.

“You took your time,” she said, her tone too neutral to be casual.

Damon opened his mouth to reply, but didn’t have time.

Her gaze dropped.

From curious… to attentive… to clearly dissatisfied.

She slowly set the cup down on the saucer.

“Damon,” she said, now more quietly. “What happened?”

He took a deep breath and walked closer, stopping at a respectful distance.

“First of all,” he began, “no one was hurt.”

“That’s not a reassuring phrase,” Morgana replied immediately.

He inclined his head slightly, conceding the point.

“I went to the forge,” he continued. “I got what Elizabeth had ordered.”

He reached for his shoulder and released the leather strap, allowing the spear to slide partially forward. The blue metal caught the light in the room, reflecting it coldly, almost alive.

Morgana narrowed her eyes.

“A spear,” she said. “Of course it is.”

“Not just any spear,” Damon added. “It can withstand the channeling of icy Qi. At least… in theory.”

“In theory,” Morgana repeated dryly. “That explains half the problem. Not the other half.”

He hesitated for a moment.

She noticed.

“Damon,” she said, now firmly. “Look at me.”

He obeyed.

“You don’t come back with that face after a simple delivery,” she continued. “Something happened along the way.”

He held her gaze for a few seconds, assessing how much to say.

“I was being watched,” he finally said.

Morgana didn’t react immediately.

That, in itself, was alarming.

“Watched… how?” she asked slowly. “Not by curious onlookers,” he replied. “Nor by ordinary people. This started before the forge. It intensified afterward.”

She rose from the armchair, the movement graceful but tense.

“Are you sure?” she insisted.

“Absolutely.”

He recounted everything.

Not in dramatic detail, but with precision. The constant feeling. The change in the air. The test. The invisible impact. The figure. The words spoken—and, more importantly, the unspoken.

Morgana listened in absolute silence.

The more he spoke, the more rigid his posture became. When he finished, the atmosphere seemed colder than before—and not because of the spear.

“An observer who doesn’t attack…,” she murmured. “Who tests. Evaluates. Confirms.”

She brought her hand to her chin, thoughtfully.

“This isn’t an ordinary assassin,” she continued. “Nor a standard political spy.”

“That was my conclusion too,” said Damon. “Whatever it is, he wasn’t interested in killing me. Yet.”

She closed her eyes for a brief moment.

“That’s bad,” she said, opening them again. “Very bad.”

“Yes, I need to warn Elizabeth. I still don’t know why, but somehow I have a little idea of ​​what it might be,” Damon commented.

“Who do you think it is?” Morgana asked, her voice low, controlled, but with a tension that hadn’t been there before.

Damon looked away for a moment, staring at the reflection of the spear in the windowpane. The metal seemed to absorb the light instead of reflecting it.

“I can’t say much,” he finally replied, shaking his head slightly. “Not yet.”

Morgana frowned.

“Damon—”

“Trust me,” he interrupted, without raising his voice. “If I say more than I should, it could make things worse. For you. For Elizabeth. For everyone here.”

She stared at him for a long time, as if trying to pierce through that answer and extract something more. She couldn’t.

Finally, she let out a restrained sigh.

“You hate doing this,” she said. “This way of… carrying things alone.”

“I know,” he replied. “But some things aren’t mine to share. Yet.”

There was a short, heavy silence.

Damon adjusted the spear strap on his shoulder.

“I’ll talk to Elizabeth,” he said. “She needs to know.”

Morgana nodded slowly.

“Careful,” she murmured. “Whatever it is… it’s already too big to ignore.”

He gave a slight nod of farewell and left the room.

The main hallway was empty now. The lights seemed dimmer, casting elongated shadows that stretched across the stone walls like curious fingers. As he climbed the central staircase, Damon felt that same subtle pressure—weaker than before, but present. It wasn’t coming from outside.

It was coming from within.

Each step echoed under his boots until he reached the upper floor, where the silence was almost absolute. Elizabeth’s office was at the end of the hallway, a dark wooden door carved with discreet symbols, too ancient to be merely decorative.

Damon stopped before it.

He knocked twice.

“Come in,” came Elizabeth’s voice, clear and firm.

He opened the door and entered the office.

The room was lit by arcane crystal lamps, casting a warm light on shelves crammed with books, scrolls, and sealed artifacts. Elizabeth sat behind the wide oak table, examining documents, her glasses perched on the tip of her nose.

She looked up as soon as she saw him.

“You’re late,” she commented bluntly. Then her gaze dropped, fixing on the spear. “I see you succeeded.”

“I did,” Damon replied, closing the door behind him.

“Sit down,” she said, removing her glasses and placing them on the table. “And tell me why you’re making that face.”

Damon didn’t sit down immediately. He walked to the front of the table and placed one hand on the back of the opposite chair.

“I was being watched,” he said directly.

Elizabeth didn’t react immediately. She merely crossed her fingers on the table.

“Explain.”

He told her everything.

Just as he had done with Morgana, Damon was precise. He spoke of the initial sensation, the constant pressure, the change in the air. The invisible test. The presence that revealed itself just enough to be felt, never fully seen.

Elizabeth listened without interrupting.

The more he spoke, the more distant his gaze became, as if connecting old pieces of a puzzle he preferred to keep hidden away.

When Damon finished, the silence stretched for several seconds.

“That explains a lot…,” she murmured.

“You suspected it,” said Damon.

It wasn’t a question.

Elizabeth rested her elbow on the table and brought her hand to her forehead.

“I didn’t suspect when,” she replied. “Only if.”

She looked at him again.

“Tell me one thing,” she continued. “When you released the succubus… did you use energy?”

Damon frowned for a moment, recalling the moment.

“I used it,” she replied. “A little, but I used it. There was no other way.”

Elizabeth closed her eyes and sighed deeply, like someone who had just confirmed an old fear.

“So that’s it,” she said.

“What?” Damon asked.

She opened her eyes again, her gaze now serious, heavy.

“They’re after you because of what happened there,” she explained. “Not because of the succubus itself… but because of what you let slip.”

Damon remained silent, waiting.

“Energy,” she continued. “Not just any energy. Yours. The natural one.”

She stood up and walked to one of the bookshelves, running her fingers along the spines of the books.

“You can use ordinary energy, Damon. You can channel it, adapt it, disguise it…,” she said. “But that doesn’t change who you are.”

She turned to face him.

“You’re still an incubus.”

The words hung in the air.

“And incubi leave traces,” she added. “Racial traces. Subtle signatures, but unmistakable to those who know how to look.”

Damon clenched his jaw slightly.

“So they identified my race.”

“Yes,” Elizabeth replied. “And not only that. They identified that you’re not ordinary.”

She returned to the table and leaned against it.

“Most incubi have a predictable energetic signature,” she explained. “Desire. Emotional manipulation. Chaotic, but recognizable flows. What you released in that moment… wasn’t just that.”

“It was control,” Damon murmured.

“It was containment,” she corrected. “And that’s rare. Extremely rare.”

She took a deep breath.

“For certain groups… that’s reason enough for direct observation.”

“Hunters?” Damon asked.

“No,” Elizabeth replied promptly. “If they were hunters, you wouldn’t be here.”

She paused.

“Observers. Cataloguers. Some orders call them Keepers of Balance. Others… Living Archivists.”

Damon felt a shiver run down his spine.

“They don’t interfere… until they decide to interfere,” she continued. “And when they do, it’s because someone has gone too far beyond what they consider acceptable.”

“And have I gone too far?” he asked.

Elizabeth stared at him for a long moment.

“You’re starting to go too far,” she replied. “And that makes them curious.”

She stepped away from the table and crossed her arms.

“An incubus that doesn’t give in to impulses. That controls its energy. That breaks seals without collapsing structures. That carries a spear made to channel icy Qi without losing its own signature…”

She let out a short, humorless laugh.

“To them, you’re an interesting anomaly.”

“Great,” Damon commented dryly. “I always wanted to be interesting.”

Elizabeth raised an eyebrow.

“Don’t be flippant,” she said. “This is serious.”

“I know,” he replied. “That’s why I came.”

She nodded slowly.

“From now on, you need to be more careful,” she continued. “No unnecessary release of energy. No impulsive interventions.”

“This will be difficult,” Damon admitted.

“I know,” she said. “But necessary.”

She walked over to him and placed a firm hand on his shoulder.

“Damon… you’re not weak. You never were. But the world doesn’t deal well with things it can’t classify.”

He held her gaze.

“Will they come back?” he asked.

Elizabeth hesitated for a moment.

“Yes,” she replied. “Not to attack. Not yet. But to observe again.”

“And if they decide to act?”

She removed her hand from his shoulder.

“Then we’ll need to be prepared,” she said. “Because when observers decide to intervene… there’s no warning.”

Damon nodded slowly.

“Understood.”

She took a deep breath and went back behind the table.

“Go rest,” she said. “Tomorrow we’ll talk more calmly. There are things you need to learn… about yourself.”

He gave a slight nod.

“Good night, Elizabeth.”

“Good night, Damon,” she replied.

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