Matabar

Ardan sat in silence, staring at the fogged-up window of the car. Beyond the gray glass, massive red trucks with eight wheels had already halted in the street, and men in blue jackets were unrolling hoses and connecting them to the pumps that drew water from the tanks of the trucks. The firefighters were shouting at the onlookers, urging them to clear the sidewalks and road, but the crowd was reluctant to move, entranced by the blaze that roared defiantly.

The sharp whistles of the guards clad in red winter uniforms pierced the air as they rushed to aid their comrades from the firefighting service. Brandishing batons and revolvers at their belts, they gradually pushed the crowd back, while an officer with gleaming epaulets barked into a loudspeaker, “Move along! Let them work! For your own safety, clear the area!”

Slowly, reluctantly and awkwardly, the crowd began to part, making way for the firefighters. They carried ladders, buckets of sand, hoses, and first-aid kits with them.

It wasn’t long — no more than five minutes — before several trucks stopped near the cul-de-sac. One of them bore weathered white letters reading “Imperial Herald,” while another read “Dubravs Family News Agency.” Ardi couldn’t make out the writing on the rest of the trucks parking along the curb due to all the people and the snowfall covering them.

Even so, it would be impossible to miss the reporters spilling out into the street. Armed with notebooks, microphones connected to bulky tape recorders housed in leather cases, tripods, and briefcases containing monstrous, outrageously expensive cameras, they did their best to capture the scene.

Amid all this chaos, a simple car stopped unobtrusively at the corner where Ardi and Milar were waiting. It looked modest and cheaper than most vehicles commonly seen navigating the winter streets of the Central District. It had a long, boxy cabin with a pronounced trunk, atop which rested a spare tire covered in a snug casing.

Three people stepped out.

“Come on, Ardan, let me introduce you to the team,” Milar extinguished what must have been his third cigarette and stepped outside.

Ardan followed suit.

The first to approach them was a young woman who was perhaps twenty-five, or maybe slightly older. She was petite — probably shorter than 160 centimeters — and wore the same attire as Milar and the other two. Instead of a skirt or a dress, she’d opted for austere, masculine pants.

Removing a glove, she extended a plump, soft hand with the faint but discernible mark of a wedding ring on her ring finger. It was almost gone, but still visible.

“Corporal Alice Rovnev,” she introduced herself, her voice soft and syrupy, like molasses.

Despite her inviting tone, her gray eyes, hiding behind thick-framed glasses, held a piercing, sly gaze.

“Alice is our forensic expert,” Milar explained as Ardan shook her hand. “A former military and guard chemist.”

Next came a man of average height — he was perhaps slightly over 175 centimeters or so, with a similar broadness to his shoulders. His belt displayed several revolvers and a cowboy-style cartridge belt. His tanned, weathered face looked stern, and his head was either entirely bald or he’d had his hair cut very short.

He offered Ardan a firm handshake, his dark eyes scrutinizing him, and spoke just as firmly, “Corporal Alexander Ursky. Operative.”

He appeared to be somewhere between thirty and forty years old.

The last of the trio was another man, seemingly in his thirties, but leaning toward the lower end of that range. His youthful face could have easily allowed him to pass for eighteen.

Holding a sugar lollipop between his teeth and steadying his hat, he whistled while watching the fire. His belt held a holster with a solitary revolver, but alongside it dangled four knives in their sheaths: one long and narrow, another short and wide, one leaf-shaped, and the last resembled a pike’s tooth.

“Din,” Milar growled.

“Huh?” The Cloak perked up, flashing a broad smile as he practically flew over to Ardan, shaking his hand with great exuberance. “Oh, sir mage, this is amazing! Honestly, I’ve only ever seen mages from a distance before! You know, during large-scale operations when multiple departments-”

“Din!” The other Cloaks shouted in unison.

“You were briefed about the Witch’s Gaze,” Milar sighed, massaging his temples.

“Oh, come on,” the peculiar man waved them off, “he’s one of us — a trainee of sorts. Our trainee? A trainee comrade?”

“This beanpole chatterbox,” Alice cut him off, “is Corporal Din Ernson, our second operative. He’s a former tracker from the Ralsk Mountains.”

“Who’s the beanpole here?” Din muttered, rubbing the side Alice had just jabbed.

He stood somewhere between 185 and 190 centimeters tall. He was lean, with an aquiline nose and hawk-like eyes. His gangly limbs and short torso made him resemble the leader of a wolf pack, always ready to hunt, to pounce. And yet, his eyes were warm and kind, and his smile was almost too bright, even to Ardi.

The Ralsk Mountains… Weren’t they on the border with the Enario Theocracy? They also bordered the Dead Lands that had been created by the betrayal of the legendary Sergeant Mendera’s squad.

After remembering all of that, Ardan was now looking at Corporal Ernson in a completely different light. A man who had served as a tracker in such places must have been remarkable. Just like most of those who worked in the Second Chancery.

“Any news, Captain?” Alexander asked, pulling out — yes, of course — a pack of cigarettes.

Was smoking a requirement for being in the Cloaks?

“Only bad ones, Alexander,” Milar sighed, leaning against the car. “By the time me and the trainee arrived, it was already too late, and then...”

Captain Pnev began recounting the events in great detail, during which Alexander cursed intermittently, and Alice and Din made the sign of the Face of Light.

Ardi, however, turned away, watching the fire and thinking. Skusty and Atta’nha had always taught him that, in order to solve a riddle or a puzzle, one must avoid confronting it head-on. You needed to step aside, look behind it. Search for what was being concealed. And to do that, paradoxically, one had to first identify the commonalities, for within them lay the nuances that might lift the veil of mystery.

What linked those events on the train from last summer, the Fifth Street incident in Baliero, the Staff of Demons, and Boris’ medallion?

The answer was almost obvious. The common thread was the presence of demons and the Homeless Fae. And this was where he needed to step aside.

For example, there was the Homeless One in the palace, who’d somehow penetrated all the Palace of the Kings of the Past's shields right under the noses of the Second Chancery and the Emperor’s personal guard. That Spider was currently of little consequence since he raised more questions than answers.

“What happened?” Reporters shouted, interviewing witnesses. “Did you see how the fire started? Any comments for the paper, please?”

Ardi stared blankly at them while his thoughts raced further and further.

One thread the Spider had let slip from its web was that it had known about the events on the train. Ardi didn’t hold an overly-inflated opinion of himself, but objectively, the bandits on the train had likely made an error.

But not the kind of error he’d initially assumed they’d made. They were indeed supposed to kidnap Boris, and him as well. It seemed like they’d intended to abduct two mages that day, albeit for different purposes.

Or perhaps the same purpose...

If all the events in this string of incidents were indeed interconnected, forming the groundwork for something the Homeless Snake had referred to as the “Harvest,” it would be convenient to paint Ardan as the guilty party in this “Harvest.”

This, incidentally, explained why they had tried to abduct him in the summer rather than kill him outright — a task that would have been far simpler. So, if one sought the commonality here…

“Step back! Move away, I said!” Shouted the guards, preventing the growing crowd from approaching the burning house.

…everything dissolved once more into a haze of uncertainty. Yes, it seemed like every incident had somehow involved demons, who, in turn, were the next step down into the abyss for the Factionless Fae.

Ardi stretched his side, which was stiff from the lingering pain of his healing scars, the ones given to him by the Aean’Hane elf.

That was another piece of the puzzle. And if not for the elf’s slip of the tongue about the Dandy’s vague involvement in the bank explosion, it could have been dismissed as a mere coincidence. However, if viewed from this angle, it made sense that the elf had left the bank without taking any money. He had been searching for something in the vault.

He’d searched for it, but hadn’t found it. There were demons, artifacts, and… something else involved in this. Something Ardi couldn’t quite grasp.

“What do our undercover people say?” Milar asked.

“All the gangs have gone underground since the Imperial Bank incident,” Alexander replied. “They’ve nearly ceased operations entirely, leaving only their racketeering and Worker’s Guild scams active. Everything’s been quiet. Not a single skirmish in the past month.”

“They’re waiting, the bastards,” Milar shook his head. “And that means they’re afraid.”

“They are,” Alexander agreed.

“Now if only we knew what exactly they’re waiting for,” the captain muttered, “and what’s making them so jumpy that they’re keeping their distance from everything.”

“That’s your job, investigator,” Alexander shrugged.

“Fair point,” Milar glanced at the burning house. “Lisa worked as Peter Oglanov’s assistant, as far as I know.”

Alice, Alexander, and Dean exchanged glances.

“Peter Oglanov? The one who was dismissed as Chief Inspector for spitting in the Minister of Internal Affairs’ face?” Alice asked hesitantly.

“That’s him,” Milar replied tersely. “I’m thinking of visiting him. Maybe the old man knows something.”

“He might,” Alexander extinguished his cigarette and blew warm air onto his reddened hands. “But a man like Peter Oglanov is unlikely to tell you anything unless he chooses to.”

“I see no reason why he wouldn’t-”

“Can we get a list of the items that were stored in the bombed branch of the bank?”

The four Cloaks simultaneously turned toward Ardan.

“Why?” Milar squinted.

“The elf mentioned the Dandy,” Ardi reminded them.

The Cloaks exchanged looks.

“And you couldn’t mention that earlier, Magister?” Milar rolled his eyes. “Like, oh I don’t know, before we wore out our soles chasing any trace of what’s going on? Eternal Angels, Ard…”

Ardi didn’t bother pointing out that he hadn’t had much of a chance to share every detail earlier. Initially, they had almost thrown him into the dungeons of the Black House, and later, during his conversation with the Emperor, there simply hadn’t been an opportunity for him to do so. It wasn’t every day that one found themselves sitting in an unfinished temple, listening to revelations not meant for the average citizen of the Empire.

“Alice?”

“I don’t know, Milar,” Corporal Rovnev spread her hands. “We can, of course, file an official request, but there’s a process… as you know. There’s the matter of the inviolability of private property, confidentiality, classified information, and so on. We won’t see a list before the end of the month. Or the next one.”

“And if we go through unofficial channels?”

All three of them turned sharply to Din, who was crunching a squirrel-shaped candy.

“She’s just a teller at one of the branches,” he said, noisily snapping the candy in half. “But I’ll ask her. Maybe Plamena can manage it. By the way, you do remember-”

“That you’re getting married at the start of summer,” Alexander cut in. “You inform us of this approximately…”

“Every day,” Alice chimed in. “Several times.”

“Exactly,” Alexander nodded.

Din was about to respond when Milar cut him off.

“Alright, my dear Cloaks,” the captain pulled out a notebook, made a few notes, tore out a page, and handed it to Alice. “You guys go and submit the requests. Official and unofficial both. The trainee and I will head over to Oglanov. Maybe, if we have time on the way back, we’ll visit a certain theater enthusiast as well. His name comes up way too often.”

“Do you need backup?” Alexander asked, his expression still stern and displeased.

“Against the Dandy?” Milar snorted. “He’s too smart and cunning to lay a finger on us.”

“Even a smart animal will attack if cornered.”

“Actually, no it won’t,” Ardi and Din contradicted Alexander in unison.

“Alright, gentlemen and Alice, let’s move,” Milar cast one last glance at the now nearly-extinguished fire and turned toward the car. “I don’t want to end up like Yonatan, bouncing between field assignments for years because we let something slip like he did seven years ago.”

Without shaking hands, the Cloaks went their separate ways. Ardi, as he was settling into his seat, couldn’t resist the pull of his curiosity.

“What did Yonatan let slip?”

“Not what, but who. The Order of Dark Mages,” Milar grumbled, starting the engine and making it growl in discontent. “They were dabbling in necromancy and flooded the sewer tunnels with ravenous, aggressive, and nearly-indestructible creatures made from corpses called ghouls. Yonatan was investigating a chain of brutal murders but didn’t unravel it in time.”

Ardi recalled one of the Imperial Herald’s headlines he’d glimpsed thanks to Neviy. Taisia Shpritz, notorious as ever, had been investigating the reasons behind the horrifying deaths in the slums.

“Since then, Kornosskiy only gets called back to the capital for a couple of weeks at a time before he and his team are sent off again on the most loathsome of missions,” Milar paused, glancing at Ardi. “No offense, Magister, but your case doesn’t look much simpler.”

And with that, the captain pressed the pedals and shifted the gearstick, steering the car toward the New City. Ardi realized that, less than nine months ago, it could have been Milar Pnev standing on his doorstep instead of Yonatan Kornosskiy.

They turned onto the Crookedwater Canal, the city’s main artery, and then onto the Martyrs’ Bridge. Relatively short at only about fifty meters long, the bridge stood out with its somber yet striking balustrade. Wrought-iron bars depicted grieving women hiding their faces in their hands, while the granite supports beneath featured angels carrying away what appeared to be sleeping infants.

And yet, knowing the Empire’s history revealed a darker truth — the infants weren’t asleep. The bridge had been named in remembrance of an event that had sparked the rebellion of Gales against the oppression and enslavement inflicted upon them by Ectassus.

About five and a half centuries ago, a group of elves led by a Speaker had stopped to resupply at a human village after a long campaign. Unfortunately, the season had been harsh, and supplies had been scarce.

The elves hadn’t cared.

They’d stormed the settlement, a simple, peaceful village of artisans and farmers who hadn’t even had the chance to send word to the local ruler for aid.

The elves massacred the village down to the last soul. Even when the women and children barricaded themselves inside the Church of the Face of Light, the elves ignored their pleas and burned everything to the ground. Mothers screamed and wept as they shielded their children with their bodies, but…

Ardan stared at the steel figures eternally frozen in their lamentation.

How did the rest of the Galessians learn of this tragedy? One of the Martyrs (as they were later called by the people) managed to hide her child among the rubble and bodies. When the prince and his warband arrived, they found the child and took him in.

That child grew up to become one of the warlords leading the siege of several Ectassus cities. His name was Vasily.

Later, after Vasily died in the final battle between Gales and Ectassus, the church canonized him, naming him a saint. In the Metropolis, an entire island was named after him, and was now home to the nobility and the wealthy.

Including several descendants of the elven clan.

The irony...

“By the way,” Milar suddenly slapped his forehead. “There’s something for you in the glove compartment. Edward pulled it out of storage for you.”

Ardi shook off his morbid thoughts and opened the compartment, retrieving two small, cardboard boxes. On each of them, faint red seals shimmered with the name “Bri-&-Man.”

He untied the ribbons around the boxes and found two red, military-grade accumulators inside, nestled on velvet cushions. Faceted like crystals, each weighing only a few grams, they rested on intricate steel platforms.

Ardi chuckled inwardly.

These platforms were designed to attach to rings. That was likely the entire purpose of Gleb’s mysterious ring — it was simply a holster of sorts, not for a revolver, but for an accumulator.

“There’s a ring in there, too,” Milar, still focused on the road, gestured toward the glove compartment. “Dig a little deeper.”

Ardan reached in, brushing against the compartment door with his bracelet. Black as pitch with white stripes, the silk bracelet had been gifted to him long ago by Atta’nha. It was so light and unobtrusive that he often forgot he was wearing it.

And for some reason, no one else ever seemed to notice it either…

“Found it yet?”

This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

“What?” Ardi snapped out of his brief trance. “Oh, yes, I found it.”

He pulled out another small box, weighing it in his hand. Strangely enough, he was sure that he had just been pondering something entirely unrelated to the ring.

Thoughts for another day.

He did indeed find a ring inside the box, one that was perfectly sized for his index finger. Made of platinum (the metal best at conducting the Ley), with a recess for the accumulator, it appeared somewhat ornate, but it wasn’t like he could be picky.

Ardi spent a few moments slotting an accumulator into the ring, securing it in place, and then he mentally reached out to the stored energy. The Red Ley immediately responded, flooding his Star to the brim. It took no more than a couple of seconds for Ardi to restore all seven of his rays once more.

That was the power of a military accumulator.

The only pity was that, without an analyzer, Ardan had no idea how much energy remained in the crystal.

Outside, buildings that were seven, eight, and even nine stories tall rose around them, with skyscrapers towering beyond those. Wide boulevards, sprawling sidewalks, and countless tram tracks filled the landscape. Unlike the slumbering Old Town in the Central District, the New City was alive with automobiles, trams, and pedestrians. Among the latter, Ardi spotted tall, slender elves, short, broad-shouldered dwarves (whose women looked almost as stout as their men, save for the lack of beards and their preference for dresses that concealed their… prominent forms), and even a few orcish women in fur coats, overcoats, and hats.

Orcish women differed far less from humans than their male counterparts did. Outwardly, aside from their skin color and the small tusks peeking out from their lower lips, they resembled human women. They had similar figures, were of a comparable height, and even had facial features that leaned toward softness rather than ferocity.

History textbooks explained this oddity as the result of early orc raids on human settlements. Orcs had frequently taken human women captive because orc and human bloodlines mixed exceptionally well, and human women could bear children annually. Orcish women, on the other hand, had needed at least five years to recover between births.

Strangely, this blending of bloodlines had had no noticeable impact on male orcs, with the peculiarities being absorbed entirely by the females. Over millennia, this had resulted in orcish women becoming almost indistinguishable from humans.

And so, what had begun as practical raids had turned into something akin to ritualized hunts.

“What do you think, Milar?” Ardan asked, resting his forehead against the window and idly spinning the ring on his finger. “Can we truly live in peace?”

“Thinking about that evening in the Temple of the Face of Light?” Milar smirked.

“Perhaps I am…”

Milar didn’t respond immediately. They stopped at… what was it called again… Ah yes, a traffic light. It was almost like a lantern, except the lights alternated in sequence, dictating when vehicles could cross intersections.

In Old Town, such devices hadn’t been installed. There wasn’t an infrastructure present for the needed Ley cables. But in the perpetually under-construction New City, traffic lights were everywhere, especially in the Tend district, where they now found themselves.

The Tend and Tendari districts had gotten their names from historical figures, a brother and sister, though Ardi struggled to recall the details of their legend.

“I don’t know, Magister,” Milar finally replied as the car came to a halt at a red light. “Sometimes, I think it’s possible, and then my team gets called to some scene, and it’s a bloodbath. Elves against orcs, dwarves against humans, everyone against everyone else, or some other hellish mess. So, no, I don’t know. I don’t think it’s about the shape of your ears, your tusks, or your height. It’s that we can’t even live peacefully amongst ourselves, let alone with each other.”

His father’s letters flitted through Ardan’s mind. The Matabar hadn’t lived peacefully among their own packs, either. They’d fought each other, claiming territories and hunting grounds.

“Then what’s the point of your work, Milar?”

“You’re really getting philosophical on me, Ard,” Milar chuckled faintly, stopping at another red light. “When I enrolled, I asked myself that same question. And then…” The captain trailed off, turning onto a smaller street and exiting the broad Soldiers’ Brotherhood Avenue. “Now, my answer is this: if you strip away all the talk about the legacy of the King’s warband or duty, though that’s part of it, I just want to clean up the world. With every case I close, there’s one less scumbag on the streets. Not mere thieves, swindlers, robbers, or even killers — the guards handle them. I mean the real bastards. The ones who can ruin hundreds of lives. Orc lives. Elf lives. Dwarf lives. All lives. That’s the point: to make things a bit better for everyone in the Empire, no matter the color of their blood, the length of their ears, or the size of their tusks.”

“And what’s your personal angle?”

“My personal angle?” Milar raised an eyebrow. “Feels odd hearing that from you, Mister Allergy Potion Maker. Personally, Ard, I love my homeland. I don’t want vile creatures to run amok here. And I want my kids, when they grow up, to live in a world just a bit better than the one I was born into.”

Ardi flinched and turned away. For some reason, he’d heard his father’s voice in Milar’s words just then.

Above them loomed a building stretching toward the sky, with a square foundation and no more than one front entrance, unlike the multi-entrance houses of Old Town. Judging by its windows, it had numerous rooms on each floor.

The façade featured a zigzagging fire escape, Ley-lamps flickered in the windows, and lightning rods swayed slightly on the flat roof.

Maybe all fathers sound the same? Ardi mused to himself.

He and Milar stepped out into a street teeming with people and, cutting through the crowd, approached the building. By the main entrance, which extended halfway over the sidewalk thanks to a wide awning, hung a bright sign made from Ley bulbs.

“Mitakov Office Center.”

Ardi wasn’t surprised to find that Milar knew where Peter Oglanov resided. After all, as Chief Inspector, the man had once led all investigative operations for the capital’s guards.

Incidentally, Ardan had always wondered why the Second Chancery called its detectives “Investigators,” while the guards used the term “Inspectors.”

They entered a lobby spacious enough to house not only a row of leather chairs with bald spots in the upholstery, but also an information desk, but there wasn’t one. Only rows of mailboxes lined the walls. The floor, soaked and dirty from the snow, squelched underfoot. The peeling paint on the walls and occasional groans of pipes added to the atmosphere. Overhead, the Ley-lights flickered sporadically.

“What a dump,” Milar whistled, pulling off his hat and unbuttoning his coat. “Looks like the old man’s not doing so well if he couldn’t find himself a better spot.”

Clicking his tongue, the captain headed toward the elevators. Of the three, only one seemed operational — the other two were chained shut with “Temporarily Closed” signs, their state of disrepair suggesting “temporarily” had turned into permanence.

“Where are you going?” Milar asked as Ardan headed for a side door near the elevators.

“The stairs,” Ardi said, still twisting the unfamiliar ring on his finger. “I don’t like elevators.”

“You were jumping out of fifth-floor windows half an hour ago, and now you’re avoiding stairs… Oh, right, I forgot — you’re a Matabar.”

“Half-Matabar.”

“Can you grow back an arm if it’s cut off?”

Ardi smirked faintly.

“That’s a myth. Orcs and Matabar can’t regrow limbs. But yes, scars do eventually fade.”

“That’s boring,” Milar waved dismissively, pressing the elevator call button.

The elevator shaft groaned, cables creaked, and somewhere above, the cabin began to descend. Ardi tried the side door, but it wouldn’t budge. The handle squeaked, but the door remained locked, secured with chains and a padlock from the inside.

Defeated, Ardan returned to Milar.

“Looks like the tables have turned,” the captain remarked with evident satisfaction, reminding Ardi of his aversion to stairs.

The elevator doors opened, and both men sneezed simultaneously at the stench of rot and something reminiscent of urine that wafted out.

“What a dump,” Milar repeated, stepping inside.

In the cramped cabin, which was devoid of wooden paneling like those in the Grand, but instead rusted and dilapidated, they rattled and jerked their way up — naturally, they headed to the very top floor.

Nothing else would’ve made sense.

Ardi felt a cold sweat break out along his back, and his knees threatened to buckle as the elevator jerked and creaked with every passing floor. The tight confines seemed to press in on him, and each groan of the cables made his breath hitch. To distract himself, he tried to engage his insatiable curiosity.

“I always thought that the Second Chancery could immediately get a list like that?” He asked, his tongue feeling oddly thick in his mouth.

“The bank’s list?” Milar kept his gaze on the flickering lights marking the passing floors. The elevator seemed to be in no hurry. “That’s classified information. Just imagine how many nobles and financial bigwigs store all sorts of trinkets there. Then add all the procedures on top. The guards would’ve been turned away outright, but for us, they’ll eventually provide it. Now, if the urgency level had been higher…”

“Urgency level?” Ardi leaned on his staff, though it offered little comfort. Breathing was getting harder, and the walls seemed to be closing in.

“Exactly,” Milar tapped impatiently on the console with the floor buttons. “In the Empire’s internal affairs — and probably external ones, too — everything has an urgency level or priority. Anything below Level Two is handled by the guards. The Second Chancery deals with cases of Level Two, Level One, and Supreme urgency.”

Ardi, who was counting the few remaining lights, tried to imagine the kind of cases that warranted Level One or Supreme urgency and importance.

“So, does the Second Chancery handle external operations as well?” Ardi asked, his curiosity overpowering his mounting unease. “I thought military intelligence took care of that.”

“Military intelligence does indeed do that,” Milar nodded. “But they focus on war-related matters. If you need to quietly steal the design for a seal, gather delicate information, or recruit some useful individuals, that’s the Second Chancery’s job. More specifically, the Daggers.”

“Daggers?”

“There are the Cloaks,” Milar gestured toward himself, “meaning us — we operate within the Empire’s borders. Then there are the Daggers. They serve the Second Chancery too, but work abroad, either permanently or occasionally.”

“I’ve never heard of the Daggers.”

“And you weren’t supposed to,” the captain smirked. “But here’s a hint: you’ve already met one of them.”

“Cassara,” Ardi exhaled.

“Magister, did you hit your head while falling out of that fifth-floor window?” Milar nearly laughed. “Who would send a vampire on a foreign mission? No, it wasn’t Cassara.”

“Katerina?”

“Katerina,” Milar confirmed. As the elevator doors opened with a groan, he added with unveiled relief, “Finally! I thought we’d end up stinking of this place by the time we got out.”

The captain stepped into a long corridor, where the doors differed from those in residential buildings. Each was partly made from textured glass, like a carafe of water, and bore various inscriptions in black ink:

“Notary Darius Milov,” “Star Mage Harry D. — Any Work for Your Money,” and, unsurprisingly, there were several with “Lawyer…” followed by a name.

At the very end, near a window leading to the fire escape, stood the last door. Its inscription read:

“Private Detective Agency, Peter Oglanov and Associates.”

Without knocking, Milar grabbed the handle and stepped inside.

The cramped room held a dirty, fogged-up window behind a wide desk buried under a mound of papers. Stacks of files surrounded a typewriter. Sitting behind the desk was a young woman not much older than Ardi. Her elaborate hairstyle and lightweight dress seemed ill-suited for winter, and was far too revealing to discourage wandering eyes.

Ardi managed to control himself in time, diverting his gaze to her face instead. She had juicy, red lips, bright blue eyes, and platinum-white hair resting on her shoulders.

“Second Chancery,” Milar flashed his badge again. “Captain Milar Pnev, First-Rank Investigator.”

“Do you have an appointment?” The woman chirped, her voice as sweet as a songbird’s.

Milar blinked in disbelief. Ardi was equally surprised, though more by the room’s walls. From floor to ceiling, they were lined with steel filing cabinets, each drawer labeled with a case number. Judging by the sheer quantity of them, Oglanov had been anything but idle.

“Second. Chancery,” Milar repeated slowly.

“Are. You. Here. By. Appointment?” She parroted back with the same deliberate emphasis, fluttering her lashes innocently.

“What kind of day is this?” Milar muttered through gritted teeth. Swirling the hem of his coat like a raven’s wings, he marched toward the next door and yanked it open.

“You can’t just-”

“It’s alright, Ella,” said a familiar voice. “Please make three cups of tea for us.”

“Hot cocoa for me, if possible,” Ardi added with a polite smile.

“Certainly,” Ella replied, still as chirpy as ever. She opened an inconspicuous cabinet near her desk, retrieving cups, a thermos, and jars of powdered drinks.

Ardi hurried after Milar into the office.

The first thing Ardi noticed inside the office was a short, sagging couch that clearly doubled as a bed. Nearby, a standing coat rack held several shirts and jackets. The rest of the room featured a wide desk made of redwood, its lacquer cracked like broken ice atop a winter puddle. Stains from bottles and glasses had permanently etched themselves into its surface. In the corner stood an armory safe that was large enough to house a decent arsenal.

The window overlooked the street and the adjacent avenue. Beyond the rooftops, the night dominated, punctuated by the myriad lights of the New City, which had replaced the stars that could no longer be seen.

The room smelled of alcohol, tobacco, dampness, and debts — debts more than anything else. That explained the lack of proper heating.

Peter Oglanov sat wrapped in a blanket. He was short, with an unhealthy gut, thinning, gray hair combed to one side, and a mouth missing more than a few teeth. His skin, coarse and uneven, reminded Ardi of lemon peel.

But even so, his steel-gray eyes burned with a great clarity, and his sly smile hinted at a sharp wit.

“What an unexpected reunion, Ard,” he said in a voice that was pleasant, yet creaked like an old hinge. “Had the chance to take in some jazz yet?”

Milar gave Ardi a puzzled look, glancing back and forth between him and Oglanov. Ardi, for his part, could only gape, opening and closing his mouth like a fish.

“Metropolis is a small town, despite its millions,” Peter continued, spreading his arms out. “Isn’t that right, Ard?”

Without asking permission, Milar sat down in a chair, lit a cigarette, and began smoking. He slid a dirty ashtray full of cigar stubs closer to himself.

“You two know each other?” The captain asked, exhaling a puff of smoke.

“We’ve met,” Peter confirmed, gesturing to a chair for Ardi as well. “Right, Mister…?”

“Captain Milar Pnev, First-Rank Investigator of the Second Chancery,” Milar introduced himself, emphasizing his rank.

“Well, well,” Peter clapped his hands theatrically. “An actual Captain Investigator! To what do I owe this rare visit to my humble abode?”

And despite Milar’s rank, despite the weight the title of a Cloak carried, Peter appeared utterly unimpressed by him, and was even lightly mocking him.

“Elizabeth Aris is dead,” Milar said flatly.

Peter blinked once. Then again. His expression hardened, and he seemed to age five years in an instant. He reached under the desk, pulled out a bottle of amber liquid, and retrieved three glasses.

He poured a measure into each glass, then immediately downed his own.

“I’m on duty,” Milar pushed his glass aside.

Peter drained it as well.

Ardi eyed his glass, the aroma of whiskey rising from the amber liquid.

“I don’t drink,” he said.

“Ah, yes,” Peter murmured, pouring Ardi’s glass into his own. “Lisa mentioned that about her lanky new acquaintance.”

They fell silent for a moment.

“What do you want to know, Captain?” Peter asked finally, his voice heavy, but quivering slightly. His hands, as he returned the bottle to its makeshift bar under the desk, trembled just enough to show his unease.

“Baliero,” Milar said curtly.

“What specifically?”

“Everything.”

Peter leaned back in his creaky chair, turning his gaze to the window. The city lights flickered against the glass, but his expression remained distant, as though he were looking at something far beyond the glowing skyline.

“About four months ago, I got a rather unpleasant case,” Peter began. “A boy, eleven years old, had gone missing.”

“Why not go to the guards?”

“Because,” Peter sighed, “the guards have more important matters to deal with than chasing down a missing boy from a family of northern migrants. Those folks can have up to eight kids in their lot, sometimes even more. The guards opened a case, sure, but two weeks of searching turned up nothing.”

“And how does that connect to-”

“Don’t interrupt me, Captain,” Peter said sharply, though without malice. He lit a cigar and took a long drag before continuing, coughing slightly. “I took the job. Exes don’t exactly grow on trees, especially when I’m nearly ten exes behind on rent. At first, I thought it was the usual story. Either the kid got killed in a fight, fell somewhere he shouldn’t have, or was snatched up for some illegal operation. You know how it goes in the rougher neighborhoods.”

Milar opened his notebook and began jotting things down.

“Where exactly did the boy go missing?”

“The far outskirts of the Factory District. At the intersection of Psov Street and, I think, Lomye Avenue, though I might be mistaken. My memory’s not what it used to be,” Peter tapped his temple. “Ella can give you the file on your way out. Everything’s in there.”

“I’ll take it,” Milar’s pencil didn’t pause. “Go on.”

“I went to his school,” Peter said, exhaling smoke that curled like a serpent. “The boy was the heart of his class. He got into scuffles sometimes, but mostly didn’t. He chased after girls, worked odd jobs to bring some money home, looked after his younger siblings, helped his parents — just a regular kid.”

“A boy like that wouldn’t just run away or vanish in a fight.”

“Yes… And if he had vanished, there’d be witnesses.”

“And there were no witnesses, I presume?”

Peter spread his hands in confirmation. Ardan remained silent, his attention fully on the unfolding story.

“In the end, I interviewed everyone I could,” Peter continued. “Even pulled a few strings with my old contacts among the Dandy’s people. No one had seen or heard anything. The boy might as well have disappeared into thin air.”

“Tragic, certainly,” Milar said honestly. “But how does this connect to Lisa and Baliero?”

“You’re not listening closely enough, Captain,” Peter said, his tone now carrying an edge of ridicule. “Or maybe you’re just slow on the uptake. A First-Rank Investigator… The Second Chancery must be in dire straits after the reforms…”

“Stay on track, Oglanov.”

“I am, lad,” Peter’s grin was sharp as he rubbed his cheek in a manner that could easily have been mistaken for a rude gesture.

Milar smirked but kept silent.

“When there are no leads,” Peter’s tone signaled that he was now teaching them something, “that in itself becomes the most important lead, Captain. Someone worked so cleanly that no one had the faintest idea what had happened, how, or when. This wasn’t an accident. Not the work of some lunatic or psychopath. It was surgical. Precise.”

“A professional.”

“Exactly,” Peter snapped his fingers. “And if a professional was involved, then…”

“Then it wasn’t an isolated incident,” Milar murmured, rubbing his cheek thoughtfully.

“See? Maybe your salary that you get from my taxes isn’t entirely wasted.”

Milar scanned the dingy room and grinned.

“Your taxes? It seems to me like those could barely pay for a bit of salt.”

Peter didn’t react and continued: “I tugged on some threads. A word here, a rumor there. This old inspector still has a few acquaintances,” Peter tried to flick the ash from his cigar into the ashtray but missed, landing it on the table instead. He didn’t seem to be in the best of shape. “Over the past year, similar incidents have occurred in every district of the city. And not just once.”

“Always boys?”

“And girls too, but!” Peter raised a finger. “I wasn’t interested in all the children. Just the boys who were eleven years old. And you know what? I found about ten such cases. All, like mine, had no leads. Utter dead ends.”

“And what makes you think that they’re connected events and not simple coincidences? Every year in the Metropolis, over five thousand people disappear without a trace. At least a couple hundred of them are children. Surely the subset of eleven-year-old boys isn’t that narrow.”

“I have nothing concrete, Captain,” Peter shrugged. “Just my intuition. The instinct of an old hound. And the fact that not a single disappearance like that has happened in Baliero. You get it? Not one. So, I asked Lisa to keep a close eye on everything happening in the streets of the city if it involved Baliero. And then she came to me and said that the Orcish Jackets and the Dandy shared an interest on Fifth Street. I gave her the green light to get involved.”

“What do you know about the artifact the Jackets handed to the intermediary? And about the intermediary themselves?”

Peter’s fingers trembled as he dragged his cigar across his lips. It seemed like the news of Lisa’s death had hit him hard.

“Why don’t you ask the orcs?”

“Because-”

“Because they were in the dark too,” Peter interrupted, his tone thoughtful. “Interesting… If both the Jackets and the Dandy are dancing to someone’s tune… That’s something. And as for your intermediary… I don’t know anything. The streets are silent. No one saw him before he visited the orcs and the Dandy.”

“And they just let him in and believed him, simple as that?”

“Get back to reality, Cloak,” Peter whistled sarcastically, his contempt clear. “Even the most skeptical of minds will perk up at the jingle of exes. Especially when the job seems relatively clean. Greed, Captain. Greed…”

“Alright… What about the artifact? Any information?”

Peter leaned over, pulled a small sheet of paper from a drawer, and extended it across the desk. It depicted the exact statuette that Ardi and Lisa had retrieved from the mansion, rendered in exquisite detail.

“Here,” Peter pushed the sheet toward them. “Lisa wasn’t just good at stealing cars… She was good at drawing, too. I always told her to drop all this shady business and…”

He trailed off, giving a dismissive wave. Milar picked up the sketch, added a few more notes to his notebook, and then noisily pushed back his chair as he stood.

“Don’t leave the city,” Milar said sternly.

“Do you think I need you to tell me that, Captain?” Peter retorted with a faint sneer.

For a moment, Milar stared at the older man. Then, without another word, he turned and headed for the door. Ardi rose to follow him.

Just as they reached the door, Peter called out after them.

“Cloak.”

Milar paused and looked back.

“Was it quick?” Peter asked, his voice trembling.

Milar hesitated. “She didn’t suffer. Lisa died peacefully in her sleep. She didn’t even know what happened.”

The pause stretched as Peter considered the words. “Liar,” he said simply.

Milar didn’t reply. He walked out, letting the door close behind him.

At the reception desk, Ella offered Milar a steaming cup of tea and a smaller cup of hot chocolate to Ardi.

“The missing boy’s file, please,” Milar said.

“Of course,” Ella replied cheerfully. She rifled through the filing cabinets, extracted a thin folder, and handed it over.

“Have a good evening,” Milar said as he stepped into the corridor.

“But what about the tea? And the cocoa?” Ella called after them, her voice tinged with dismay.

Neither of them responded.

They rode the elevator back down and stepped out into the cold night. Snow continued to fall, and the wind cut sharply against their faces. Streetlamps flickered to life, their light chasing away the deepening shadows. People hurried home, unaware of the demons, disappearances, or Lisa’s death — all tied together in ways only the Cloaks might one day uncover.

Ardi couldn’t shake the feeling that something about all of this was deeply wrong. Alien, even. And it wasn’t because he was a half-blood among the Firstborn. It was something else entirely.

For the first time, he began to understand the drunken words Katerina had spoken in the train that fateful night, just before the bandits had attacked.

“Get in,” Milar said, opening the car door. “I’ll drop you off at “Bruce’s” and head home. I really need to hug my kids.”

“And the Dandy?”

“Get in the car, Magister,” Milar snapped.

Ardi slid in, carefully setting his staff aside.

They drove in silence for a while. Milar focused on the road, and Ardi gazed at the city lights. Thousands of bright points illuminated the dark backdrop of the capital, creating the illusion of warmth and life. But it was just that — an illusion. The Ley-lights burned cold, their lifeless glow devoid of any true warmth or meaning.

And yet, there was something hauntingly beautiful about them. The shadows danced between the lights, weaving their own stories amid the towering stone, steel, and glass structures. Somewhere within this dazzling facade lay hidden truths, dark and buried.

“I’ll request that the guards provide their intel,” Milar broke the silence. “You wait for my next summons. And listen carefully to Edward. Something tells me his efforts might prove useful.”

“Can you get me access to the demonology section in the Grand’s Library?” Ardi asked abruptly.

The request was so unexpected that Milar almost swerved into oncoming traffic. A passing car blared its horn, and its driver shouted a string of colorful curses at them.

Milar grumbled but kept driving. “Fine. I’ll arrange it. You’ll get the clearance by the end of the week. But know this: the House will review your choices afterwards.”

“That’s fine,” Ardi said quietly.

***

Ardi stepped out of the car, closing the door behind him as Milar drove off. The captain’s vehicle disappeared into the snow-covered streets of the New City, leaving Ardan alone by the Markov Canal.

He leaned on the parapet, setting his staff down beside him, and stared at his reflection in the thin layer of ice coating the dark water below. Cars crawled past, pedestrians shuffled through the snow, and yet Ardi stood there, motionless, his gaze fixed on the inky river. Minutes passed. Maybe an hour.

Why did he want access to books on demonology?

If he didn’t intend to study the seals from the Staff of Demons hidden beneath his floorboards, maybe he wanted to…

“Speaker.”

Ardi spun around.

All he managed to see was a figure clad in a winter coat, the hood pulled low over their face.

And then…

BAM!

The revolver pressed to his chest fired.

Ardi gasped, choking as he collapsed to the ground. He stared blankly at the crimson blood spreading across the snow, trickling down the granite, and disappearing into the black depths of the river.

The figure tossed the revolver over the parapet, climbed into a waiting car, and vanished into the traffic.

Around him, people began to shout, their voices muffled and distant.

Ardi couldn’t hear them.

All he could do was struggle to remember how to breathe.

The most important thing was to keep breathing.

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