Prologue

Silence had always been his companion. Not that comforting, deep silence that embraces the soul in a forest or on the top of a sleeping mountain. No. It was a different kind of silence-dense, sticky, like a spider's web, woven of unspoken words and forgotten promises. It seeped through the thick walls of the old house, crawled into the cracks of the window frames, hung heavy and pressing in the air. He had long ago learned to breathe it, this silence, this dust of oblivion that settled on every object, on every memory.

Ten years. Ten years separated by the gulf between what he was and what he had become. Between Elias Burton, the genius whose brushstrokes whispered to the world about the invisible, and Elias, the recluse whose hands could only shakily take a cup of coffee to his lips. His studio, once flooded with light and filled with the smell of paint, was now a crypt. An easel stood in the center, covered by a faded canvas like a mute accusation. Beneath it were hundreds of other, equally mute, sealed canvases, each holding not a painting but a fragment of a soul frozen in time.

He remembered the day his world came crashing down. The flashes of cameras, the noise of admiring voices, the promise of fame. And her eyes. Anna's eyes, in which he had seen only love and faith. Eyes that carried something else in them - a harbinger of imminent disaster. And then her words, scathing like the blow of a whip, had turned his talent, his future, his very existence into ashes. She sold him. Sold him for money, for power, for the place that should have been his.

He's been dead to the world ever since. And the world died to him.

But even in this dense, all-consuming silence, a whisper was sometimes heard. A whisper brought by the wind, seeping through the cracks under the door in the form of a white envelope with a single word. Words that were absurd, meaningless, but which, like drops of poison, were slowly eating away at his apathy. "DUSK." "SHADOW." "LABYRINTH."

And then one day, through the dust and oblivion, Elias saw something in the eyes of the painted Anna in the old portrait that stood in his studio. A barely perceptible glare. A tiny, distorted reflection. A reflection that carried far more than just light. It carried a hint. A hint of the presence of a third. A hint of a lie that was deeper than he could imagine.

Silence. She was still his companion. But now she wasn't dead. It was tense. Filled with anticipation. Because Elias Burton, the man who had buried himself alive, felt something forgotten in him awaken. Something stronger than apathy, stronger than fear.

Thirst for truth.

And he knew that when the real dawn came, it wouldn't just be a new day. It would be the end of a long night. And the beginning of his personal battle for justice.