Chapter 2: Silver Keep Undercurrents

Morning mist lingered as Matthias carried the heavy Baroque frame across the wet cobblestones of Temple Street. The old man’s words from last night still rang in his ears: “They think erasing the traces means erasing the truth.” They pricked at his calm like fine needles. Wrapped in moisture-proof cloth, the frame felt cold, sealed with a restless presence. He did not return to the old house. Instead, he headed straight for a hidden workshop deep in the Marais. It bore no sign, only a green wooden door with peeling paint. Beyond it hung the damp, moldy scent peculiar to old Paris. The city was still yawning awake; white smoke curled from café chimneys, mingling the aroma of roasted coffee beans and old paper.

Two men in black had waited for some time in the shadows at the street corner. Their suits were impeccably tailored, silver cufflinks gleaming coldly. One murmured, “Target entered the workshop at 9:03. No communication devices.”

The other adjusted his glasses. “Log it. He is rarely inside longer than four hours. Remember: observe only. Do not alert him. Mr. Marcus wants to know what he is doing, not have him killed.”

The camera remained trained on the green door. Rain dripped onto the bluestone pavement, scattering droplets. Matthias noticed none of the surveillance. His attention belonged entirely to the canvas’s microscopic world. The storm outside and the watchers mattered less than a single broken fiber beneath the paint. The men in black were invisible thorns, heralding an immense, cold force of capital closing in—the arrogant will of an old Berlin family. Yet an artist’s world obeyed the laws of time, material, and memory. Money was not its universal language. One of the men shifted, tapping his cigarette case, his gaze fixed on the lit second-floor window, where a golden gleam pulsed with every breath.

The workshop door opened again. The two black-clad men stood in the doorway, rainwater dripping from their shoulders. One spoke through a voice modulator, his tone distorted and cold. “Mr. Matthias, Mr. Marcus has a message. If you intend to dig into things beneath that canvas which ought not be dug into, he will be very disappointed. A banker’s patience is limited.”

Matthias did not rise. A faint curve touched his lips, and his voice was frighteningly calm. “Tell him this: contracts outlast promises. He paid a five-thousand-euro deposit, so I will provide five hundred hours of professional service. What lies beneath the canvas is not a banking matter. It is a matter of history.”

The man froze, apparently unprepared for the answer. He exchanged a glance with his companion and pressed the record button. “We will convey your words. But remember: violent damage to cultural property is a serious crime. Under EU jurisdiction, there is no room for negotiation.”

They turned and left, their footsteps fading over the wet stones.

Sofia parted the blinds, letting sunlight fall across the frame’s gilded edge. She urged him firmly, “I know it is difficult, but Marcus only cares about results. He says restorers from humble origins often carry unnecessary arrogance, believing craftsmanship stands above contracts. He wants to see whether you can complete this task in the spirit of the contract.”

Matthias gave a cold laugh, polishing the broken sword. “Arrogance? Perhaps. But I believe some things cannot be bound by contract. Truth, for instance.”

Sofia fell silent for a moment, then pushed a cup of hot coffee toward him. “I do not understand these things. I only know that if I fail, the curatorial project collapses. I may even lose access to certain restricted areas of the museum. Help me, Matthias. For art—and for ourselves.”

Matthias lifted the coffee. Its bitterness spread through him, sharpening his mind. “I will do my best. But understand this: once we uncover what lies beneath the canvas, there is no turning back.”

The workshop bell rang, breaking the stillness. Sofia entered—the Louvre’s chief curator—her dark gray trench coat soaked by rain, her eyes clear with idealism and anxiety. She walked straight to the worktable. Her gaze caught on the map within the canvas, then darted away as though afraid of disturbing a secret.

“This is the painting they gave you to restore?” she asked. “Marcus says it is priceless.”

Matthias set down his brush. “Priceless is too frivolous a word for it. This is a memory held captive.”

Sofia took out a document and slid it before him. “The contract. The initial payment of five thousand euros has been transferred to your account. You have two weeks. Marcus says that if the painting does not return intact to the Paris bank, all authorization will be revoked.”

Matthias glimpsed Marcus’s elegant, severe signature. “Two weeks?” he asked. “Do you think restoration is a car wash?”

Matthias rose and looked out the window, watching the black-clad figures vanish. He knew the game had only begun. Marcus was not merely monitoring him; he was probing his limits. The “Midnight Society” hung over their conversation like a secret symbol, hinting at the heavy blood debt behind the painting’s family history.

He returned to the worktable and picked up the broken sword. Golden light flared again, illuminating the map of Silver Castle. The treasure site marked at its center aligned, astonishingly, with the location of the Marcus family estate in Berlin.

Matthias narrowed his eyes. His finger traced the golden lines, and a chill rose in his chest. This was no longer merely a restoration job. It was an incursion into forbidden territory, a glimpse behind a sealed door. He had to finish this silent war before Marcus’s patience ran out.

Outside, Parisian bells rang on time—deep, solemn, reminding everyone that time was the final master.

Sofia disappeared into the curtain of rain. Matthias sat alone on his tall stool, his coffee untouched and cold. The broken sword lay in a glass dish, its tip pointing south, its golden glow casting his grim profile into relief.

He remembered Marcus’s sneer: “Someone of common birth has no right to touch art.”

The words stuck in his throat like a fishbone, absurd beyond measure. In a society where value was calculated in euros, art had been stripped of its soul and reduced to numbers on a balance sheet. Financial elites were accustomed to dismantling history, memory, and dignity through the language of capital. They believed enough money could buy time reversed and perfection preserved. But they had forgotten that true restoration meant respect for what was broken, compromise with time—not an obsessive demand for perfection.

Matthias stirred his coffee and watched the hurried pedestrians outside. None noticed the faintly glowing broken sword in his hand.

To ordinary eyes, it was merely the natural aging of centuries. But under Matthias’s gaze, ultraviolet fluorescence outlined a clear path—one that did not belong to the original brushwork. A hidden line had been forcibly embedded deep within the canvas fibers, like some secret seal, or a key leading downward.

He recalled Marcus’s scornful “unworthy,” and the curve of his mouth grew colder. Bankers always believed money could measure every kind of value. They forgot that before a true expert, ignorance was the greatest arrogance.

Matthias placed the frame at the center of the worktable, his fingertips brushing the gilded edge. Behind him, the broken sword trembled slightly and gave off a low hum, as though answering some sleeping vibration within the frame.

He lit a kerosene lamp. Its dim yellow halo illuminated the restoration tools—tweezers, scalpels, and more—lined up like soldiers on parade. He drew in the scent of turpentine, and the tension in his nerves eased a little.

He knew today was crucial. The secret in the frame might solve the mystery of “L.M.” and yield evidence strong enough to shake the foundations of the Berlin bank.

Unhurriedly, Matthias held out his phone screen, enlarged brushstroke details displayed upon it. “Mr. Marcus, you paid for restoration, not authentication. But as an additional service, let me warn you: the logic of light and shadow in the folds of fabric at the lower right of *The Saint’s Lament* is wrong. The thickness of the pigment layers indicates that an extremely thin layer of titanium white was painted over it later. Beneath that covering is not the original shadow, but a crack. The shape of that crack corresponds almost perfectly to a sword mark.”

Marcus nodded stiffly and turned away. The moment the front door shut, Matthias looked out at the darkened sky. He picked up the broken sword again. Golden light flickered along its blade, and this time countless blurred shadows appeared within it—as though someone stood on the other side of the canvas, staring at him through a thousand years of time.

Their mouths silently repeated a single phrase. It seeped into his bones with the sound of rain:

“Blood debts remain unpaid. There will be no rest.”

“I do not care what it is,” Matthias said mildly. “I care only whether it has compromised the structural integrity of the canvas. If it is not treated promptly, the paint layer will begin to detach within three months. Under the contract, any subsequent damage caused by undisclosed defects is the responsibility of Party B. But since this is the ‘history’ you concealed, I recommend that you pay an additional thirty percent risk premium beyond the initial payment, and sign a liability waiver.”

The next morning, Marcus came in person. He wore no expensive suit, only a gray trench coat heavy with rain. His eyes were sharp as a hawk’s. Skipping all pleasantries, he stared directly at the ultraviolet lamp in Matthias’s hand.

“What did you find?” he demanded. “If you try to make those ‘secrets’ public, I will make sure you cannot keep so much as a single brick in Paris.”

Silence stretched through the room for ten seconds. At last, Marcus pulled a check from his inner pocket. The pen tip carved his signature so hard it nearly tore the paper.

He looked up. Not a trace of mockery remained in his eyes—only deep exhaustion and fear.

“I will pay,” he said. “But I warn you: I am not the only one who knows about the Midnight Society. If you touch what lies at the heart of that painting, death will not be late.”

Matthias did not let the chill linger. He swiftly returned the broken sword to the magnetic stand at the corner of the table, cutting off the feedback loop of golden light. His movements were as crisp as if he were handling an ordinary tool rather than a cursed object.

He put on his white gloves again and raised the ultraviolet lamp beneath the macro lens. The beam swept across a seemingly worn fold at the lower left of the canvas.

It was an exquisite psychological battle. Marcus knew that if he used violence now, the painting’s vital clue—the map—would be blurred beyond recovery by the disturbance, perhaps even destroyed along with the foundation of the power on which he depended. He needed the painting. But he feared even more that its secrets would be torn fully open.

Matthias put away the check, his face returning to professional indifference. “An art restorer’s work is to restore the past, not end the future. Please leave, Mr. Marcus. And remember: after midnight, do not call my work number. Those are my resting hours.”

Marcus’s face went white at once. Trembling, he brought his hand close to the canvas, as if listening to whispers from hell. That crack was the blood-oath mark left by his family’s ancestors—the unspoken taboo shared by every member of the Midnight Society.

“Do you know what this is?” Marcus asked, his voice dry, stripped of its usual composure.

Matthias drew a deep breath and tucked the sword into his coat. Outside, the rain intensified, while distant thunder rolled across the horizon.

He knew it.

The real restoration was about to begin.