Date: 1963 The letter was written in shaking, deliberate strokes, as though each word carried the weight of a nation's sins. Beneath the dim glow of a single desk lamp, a man in a dark suit and tie slipped it into a plain, unmarked envelope. The Oval Office was silent, save for the ticking of the grandfather clock in the corner. He hesitated before writing the recipient's name: Margaret Cole. She wasn't born yet-not for another three decades-but she would inherit the task that none of them could complete. As he sealed the envelope, a distant sound echoed through the halls-a low, mournful cry, neither human nor animal. The man froze, his breath catching in his throat. They were here. He pressed the envelope into the false bottom of the desk drawer and whispered to himself, "God forgive us," before the door creaked open.
Chapter 1 Shadows in the Archives
letter was written in shaking, deliberate strokes, as though each word carried the weight of a nation's sins. Beneath the dim glow of a single desk lamp, a man in a dark suit and tie slipped it into a plain, unmarked envelope. The Oval Office was silent, save for the ticking of the grandfather clock in the corner.
He hesitated before writing the recipient's name: Margaret Cole. She wasn't born yet-not for another three decades-but she would inherit the task that none of them could complete.
As he sealed the envelope, a distant sound echoed through the halls-a low, mournful cry, neither human nor animal. The man froze, his breath catching in his throat. They were here.
He pressed the envelope into the false bottom of the desk drawer and whispered to himself, "God forgive us," before the door creaked open.
The Harvard Library was quiet as a tomb. Maggie Cole adjusted her glasses, squinting at the faded parchment before her. She wasn't looking for anything in particular-just chasing a hunch.
The text before her was written in cursive so elaborate it might as well have been a work of art. It was a letter from one of the founding fathers, discussing a curious topic: the necessity of sacrifice for the prosperity of a nation.
Maggie frowned. Sacrifice? The word seemed ominous, almost deliberate. She flipped the page, her curiosity outweighing the gnawing discomfort in her stomach.
The next page was blank-almost. A faint watermark, barely visible in the fluorescent light, caught her attention. She angled the paper, revealing an emblem: a crucible entwined with what appeared to be roots or veins. Beneath it was a single Latin phrase:
"Pro Patria, Pro Immortalitatem."
"For the country, for immortality," Maggie murmured aloud.
Her voice broke the silence, and she glanced around, suddenly feeling exposed.
What she didn't notice was the shadow shifting in the corner of the room, far darker than it should have been.
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