The apartment smelled of dust and iron. I'd cleaned twice - unusual for me. Bed-sheets straight, table cleared, window locked. Everything orderly. Something to hopefully come back to.

  On the bed lay my gear: cloak, gloves, mask, sword, sidearm. Before putting them on, I went to the desk.

  Before putting any of it on, I went to the desk.

  The drawer stuck halfway, same as always, before yielding to a quiet click. I reached beneath, fingertips finding the hidden latch, and pulled the small leather book free.

  My diary.

  The edges were frayed, the spine split in three places, but it had survived more than I had. Damian was carved on the front in Empiric script - careful, practiced. But when I opened it, the inside told another story - words scrawled in English, my handwriting shaky and uneven.

  Two languages.

  One name.

  And not a memory of who gave them to me.

  Parents, maybe. Or handlers. Did I even have parents?

  At this point, it didn’t matter. The past was a locked room, and if there was a god, only he would know where the key went.

  I flipped to the first page. Only one sentence lived there, written in the kind of rush that comes from panic rather than conviction.

  The Empire must survive, or everyone will die.

  The ink had bled over time, but the words still stared back - stark, absolute. I traced them with my thumb, half amused, half worried. How many more corpses would I have to justify because of that line? I had only ever followed it as it was the only tie to my past, the only tangible purpose I had in this god forsaken world.

  Sometimes I wondered if I’d ever had a mind of my own.

  But doubt was a luxury. The life I might have had was gone long ago. I’d burned the bridge to normalcy myself, as much as I wanted to return to it.

  Outside, Morren stretched beneath the window - its blackened rooftops, the endless haze of factory smoke, lanternlight bleeding through the fog. Cathedral spires stabbed the sky like knives raised in prayer.

  I put my gear on, hiding the hilt of my sword inside my sleeve as I put the coat on, my gloves coming after. My revolver sat tucked in my side, and the mask covered my face.

  It seemed to be windy tonight, but inside here, I wouldn't feel it.

  I preferred it that way, after all.

  Keep moving forward.

  No matter what it costs.

  The thought came like a vow - and with it, the quiet question of what I would have to pay in the end.

  ---

  Hiss!

  A train roared across the elevated rails above the Inner Rim, slicing through the night with the speed of a bullet and the grace of a hymn. I sat on top of the train doused in my Inquisitor gear, the wind clawing at my coat, the smell of coal and rain thick in the air. The city blurred beneath me - streets, chimneys, rooftops, all drowned in silver mist.

  From this height, the courthouse rose like a citadel - a vast complex of marble towers wrapped in iron fences and sanctified wards that shimmered faintly against the darkness.

  I pulled out my pocket watch, the golden chain flowing violently in the wind - reading nine-forty.

  Time to move.

  I rose, my legs steady despite the violent wind and the speed of the train. The train curved toward the outer line, passing close enough to the rooftops that I could see the gutters glint. I exhaled once, steadying my breath.

  The world folded.

  Blink.

  My boots struck tile. I landed hard, rolled, came up running. Another blink - shadows snapping at my heels, rooftops flashing past like stepping stones over an ocean of light. Blinking only when I couldn't manage the distance between rooftops on my own.

  Each jump left a pulse in my head, a ringing like struck glass, but I kept going. The courthouse grew larger with every heartbeat - its white towers and stained windows looming through the fog like the bones of a dead god.

  When I finally stopped, I crouched low behind a chimney at the edge of the complex. Below, a dozen guards patrolled the iron gates, rifles slung, lanterns swaying. Their leather uniforms caught the faint shimmer of sanctified oil.

  “More than usual,” I muttered under my breath, voice muffled by the mechanical mask. “Must still be jumpy from last night.”

  Stolen novel; please report.

  I watched them for a moment longer, waiting for the rhythm of their patrol to settle.

  I looked towards the roof, where an upper terrace was patrolled periodically. Unlike the ground floor, it was much less patrolled. Most likely used as a vantage point.

  Better take the opportunity while I have it.

  I pulled the mask tighter, let the shadows climb up my arms, and breathed out.

  Time to work.

  I jumped off the roof, blinking to the roof above the terrace as quietly as I could, my knees buckling beneath me.

  The roof was quiet. A bit too quiet for a place meant to guard the heart of the city’s law.

  I crouched behind a marble pillar near the edge of the upper terrace - some kind of rooftop promenade for the city’s elite, now repurposed for guards on the night shift. The moonlight spilled across the stone, turning the floor silver. Below, faint voices and the occasional flicker of lanterns marked the patrols that circled the lower grounds.

  I waited for twenty minutes, maybe longer. Long enough to note down the rhythm of the guards.

  Six men in total. Five outside, one inside. Every fifteen minutes they rotated - one man stepping in through the door while another came out. The inner guard always locked the door from the inside once the exchange was complete. Efficient. Disciplined. Predictable.

  I could take the five out, sure. But it would be loud - messy. I probably couldn't get away with that tonight. I needed silence.

  So I waited.

  When the time came, I rose from the shadows, slow and deliberate. The guards were talking quietly, their laughter low and lazy as the rotation began. The man at the door jingled the keys, unlocking it for his replacement. They exchanged a nod, the kind of wordless ritual born from habit.

  The others turned their backs, drifting toward the far parapet.

  Now.

  The world folded - blink.

  I appeared behind the man just as the door began to close. One arm around his neck, gun pressed under his jaw, my other hand clamping down over his mouth before the air could leave his lungs as I dragged him out of view.

  He froze instantly, breath hitching under my grip.

  “Don’t move,” I whispered, the mechanical rasp of my mask barely audible. “You make a sound I don't approve of, and you’ll never speak again. Nod if you understand.”

  He nodded once - shaking.

  “Good. Now tell me where I can find Judge Arken’s office. And the record room.”

  His body trembled, but he kept his lips sealed, pride or fear or both holding him still. I felt his muscles tense as he tried to twist free. I didn’t bother tightening my grip.

  Instead, I let the shadow do it for me.

  It slid up my arm in a slow, living crawl - inky tendrils winding around my glove, curling over his collar, spreading across his chest like thick black liquid. It slowly coated his upper body, followed by the sound of tearing cloth.

  He saw it - felt it - and panic broke his resolve. His muffled scream tore into my hand as the shadow reached his skin, searing shallow lines into his flesh before I stopped it.

  “Option one,” I said quietly. “You take a nice long peaceful nap. Option two… you die very, very slowly - until you eventually choose option one anyway. The choice is yours.”

  The man whimpered, eyes wild behind his helm. “R-records room’s east wing! Third corridor past the main hall! Arken’s office is further up - north tower, past the archives!”

  “Good.”

  I shifted my grip, sliding the crook of my arm under his chin, and tightened. His hands clawed at my sleeve, then went limp. The sound of his breathing faded.

  “Temporary sleep it is.”

  I eased him down, careful not to make noise, then dragged his body into the hall. The corridor was dimly lit, the white marble walls throwing pale reflections of the sanctified lanterns overhead. The smell of oil and incense lingered in the air.

  I found an open office - a clerk’s chamber, papers scattered on the desk - and tucked the guard beneath it. Out cold, alive, and forgotten.

  I have fifteen, maybe twenty minutes if I'm lucky. Better be quick.

  I straightened, took a breath, and ran.

  Every turn was another test of patience and silence.

  Twice, I heard boots - voices. Guards crossing intersections or checking rooms. Each time I blinked, shadows curling tight around me like smoke, my body dissolving into the dark. In unlit corners, I was invisible. In light, I was a ghost’s outline - there, but not there.

  I kept moving. Faster. Quieter. Until the corridor widened and opened into a vast chamber that took my breath for a second.

  The record hall.

  Rows upon rows of marble shelves stretched into the distance, lined with scrolls, ledgers, and crystal-bound memory sigils. Each shelf glowed faintly with wardlight - soft blue runes crawling along the edges. The air smelled of dust, oil, and sanctified parchment.

  And moving among them - automatons.

  They stood shaped like men, but wrong. Too thin, too precise. Bronze and silver plating hummed with faint runic inscriptions as they moved mechanically from shelf to shelf, filing documents with inhuman rhythm. Their faces were smooth ovals of white porcelain, catching light and throwing it in shards across the room.

  I dropped low, slipping between the shadows of two pillars.

  “What am I even looking for…” I muttered.

  The Regent had given me a lead before I left - something about Arken’s faction, about tax irregularities, cases dismissed and conveniently forgiven after extremely generous payments - ones they shouldn't have been able to afford. I could tell what he was insinuating.

  I scanned the nearest plaque - Fiscal Archives, Year 1256 - 1262AR.

  Close enough.

  Creeping along the edge of the shelves, I found a terminal table - ledgers stacked high, an open logbook still humming faintly with sanctified energy. My gloved fingers brushed through the pages, scanning columns of names and sums, eyes flicking for familiar patterns.

  There. Multiple entries under different names. Dozens of them - all belonging to Arkens faction members. Investigations launched, fines imposed, cases dismissed. Every record of tax evasion followed by the same notation - Settled under direct remittance. Case Closed.

  Half the documents were redacted - thick black ink burned into the paper itself. Whatever was hidden wasn’t meant to be read by mortal eyes.

  I cursed under my breath, resisting the urge to tear the page out.

  Still, there was enough. Enough to confirm that the Regent hadn’t been lying. Arken’s faction had bought silence with blood and gold. But to have such a large sum so suddenly, it was more than suspicious.

  I closed the ledger quietly and straightened, glancing toward the far end of the hall where a spiral staircase vanished upward into the shadow of the tower.

  The Judge’s office would be there.

  I exhaled, steadying the rush of adrenaline in my chest.

  “Guess we’re doing this the hard way.”

  And with that, I slipped into the dark again - toward the north tower, toward Arken’s office, and toward whatever waited for me there.