The night was as dark as pitch, a blackness that swallowed light and left only shadows to play tricks on the eyes. The Black Forest of Bavaria stretched out before Henry Ward like an endless abyss. Its towering pines swayed in a wind that carried a low, mournful hum. He sat cross-legged by the flickering campfire with a battered tin mug of tea cooling in his hands. His gaze fixed on the brittle sheepskin map spread across his knees. The parchment was old, centuries old if the faded ink and cracked edges were any judge. It was etched with Latin script and crude sketches of a labyrinthine tomb. His fingers traced the words Cor Obsidianum, the Obsidian Heart, and a thrill ran through him, sharp as the October chill.

"Henry, are you sure this is the place?" Marie Schmidt's voice cut through the stillness, rough-edged but steady. She sat across the fire with her lean frame hunched forward. A hunting knife glinted as she shaved curls of wood from a stick. Her short brown hair clung damply to her forehead. Her hazel eyes flicked toward the forest with the wariness of a woman who'd grown up on its doorstep.