"The Key of Oblivion"

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In a safe apartment on the other side of town, curtained off from prying eyes, Alice placed the artifact on a table beneath a bright lamp. The green crystal seemed to absorb the light, and the ornate silver circlet cast eerie shadows. Digital copies of the manuscript, fresco, and bas-relief unfolded on nearby screens.

Her fingers flew across the keyboard, matching symbols. The manuscript, written in medieval Greek, was a key. It not only described the "Key of Oblivion" but also linked it to a secret hidden in the castle's foundations. It also contained excerpts from a ballad that historians considered a simple allegory:

"Behold where the stone lion holds a shield...
Where the serpent bites its own tail...
Not he who asks will the secret yield,
But he who sees the sun within the veil..."

But the main clue was on the fresco. Alice enlarged the image of the star chart next to the artifact. She compared it with astronomical programs, adjusting for millennia of precession. The computer returned the result: the indicated star pattern recurred only once a year - on the night of November 1st.

"Kurbisnacht..." she whispered. "Pumpkin Night." A local holiday that combined the ancient heritage of the Celtic Samhain with the modern Halloween carnival. For the town, it was a joyful masquerade. But for those in the know, it was a night when the boundary between worlds was at its thinnest. And it seemed this was the only time the artifact could be activated. She had less than three weeks.

In his bunker-like office, Longreath clutched a glass of whiskey so tightly the glass cracked. Marlowe stood before him - the same subordinate who had rescued him from Edelweiss.

"So, besides Alan's pack, there was someone else there?" His voice was quiet and dangerous.

"Yes, boss. Someone... a ghost, and we didn't even see them."

Longreath tossed the printout with the photograph of the bas-relief onto the table.

"And what am I supposed to do with this? Look for a needle in a haystack?"

Marlowe swallowed nervously and stammered:

"I... I saw this stone. In the castle. In the Knights' Gallery. And... I remember the guide quoting some old ballad. About the sun in the womb... 'Not he who asks will the secret yield, but he who sees the sun within the veil...'"

Longreath froze. His gaze, blazing with rage, suddenly focused. He was no scholar, but he was a master at finding weaknesses. The bas-relief, the ballad, the castle... Everything was connected. And if this Alice had taken the artifact, then she knew what to do with it. And if she knew, he would find a way to find out. His men were already scouring the dark corners of the city, searching for information about the mysterious huntress.

Their refuge - a spacious, slightly cluttered apartment above an antique store - welcomed them with the scent of wax, old wood, and the mulled wine Olga had placed on the stove. Alan, having thrown off his jacket, furiously rained blows on the heavy punching bag in the corner of the room. Each blow seemed aimed at Longreath.

Jake, settled on the couch, tried to sketch the artifact from memory on a graphics tablet.

"It was... cold. It seemed to absorb the light," he muttered, erasing and redrawing the outline of the hoop.

"It doesn't matter what it is," Alan grumbled between blows. "What matters is that bitch took it. And we don't even know who she is."

"She's not the enemy," Olga said calmly, pouring mulled wine into mugs. "She interfered with Longreath. And she clearly knows more about him than we do." Maybe we should find her instead of fighting her.

"Find her?" Alan snorted, hitting the punching bag hard. "She's like smoke. And Longrith... Longrith is tangible. He left a trace. And we'll find him."

The argument could have dragged on, but everyone understood they were involved in something more than simple revenge. All they had was a vague picture on their hands and the bitter aftertaste of knowing they'd been manipulated.

High on the castle wall, above the sleeping city, stood a lone figure in a monk's robe. A deep hood hid his face, but not his gaze, fixed on the lights below. The wind ruffled the coarse fabric of his robe.

The figure watched as events unfolded in various parts of the city: a huntress analyzing, a criminal fuming, a group of unwitting assistants conferring. All of them, unknowingly, were preparing for the same moment. For the night, when the stars would align perfectly.

Fingers in the folds of his robe closed around a small, time-tarnished medallion. Soon. Very soon, Kurbisnacht would test everyone. The true guardians... and those who imagined themselves to be masters of the key to doors best left forever locked.