Symbols are carved into the floor. I stare at them, trying to make sense of what I’m seeing as I walk across the room, but it’s impossible. Some resemble hieroglyphs, stylized eyes, outstretched hands. Others are runes, curling patterns of leaves and vines. And beneath those, older markings form shapes and words I don’t recognize. Alphabets long dead.
Some are shallow, worn down with time.
Others are carved so deep they disappear into the stone.
In the middle of the room is a long, rectangular table made of the same bronze as the key now tucked into the back pocket of my jeans. It could be an examination table.
Or an altar.
It sits on a wide pedestal base. On its surface rests a knife, sheathed in leather embroidered with elaborate cursive script in gold thread.
Latin.
Same as the biology building.
I pick it up, my fingers brushing over the stitching as I turn it in my hands and read the inscription, translating quickly.
Bond in Blood.
I swing my flashlight, painting the room in streaks of washed-out color.
Items light up. Fade.
Light up. Fade.
The beam hits the wall in front of me, illuminating the same Latin words, only now they’re joined by several other lines of text. I translate, but some of the words are unfamiliar, forcing me to work through them more slowly.
Finally, I think I have it.
We Are The Order.
We Bond in Blood.
We Rise in Power.
We Seek Perfection.
I blink, then blink again.
What is this place? Where am I?
The knife slides easily from the sheath, sharp-edged and clean, the tip slightly curved. Whatever terrible rituals it’s been used for, there’s no trace left on the blade. I put it back exactly as I found it and turn, sweeping my light over the rest of the room until it lands on the only other object.
Against the far wall is a small brazier, a firepit with ash and burnt wood at the bottom. A long metal rod sticks out of it. I cross the room and pull it free, lifting the light to inspect the far end, the part buried in ash. It’s a flat piece of metal the shape of an X, each side the same length.
Except…that’s not right. I draw it closer, turning it as memory stirs.
Carrson.
One of the first times I saw him.
I rotate the rod again and again. Until it clicks.
It’s not an X. Not when it’s held the right way.
It’s a cross. A plus sign. +
The same one that’s on Carrson’s shoulder. The one I’ve seen many times now.
