As they crossed into the Iron District, the road swelled with wagons winding in from the Outlands. The press of bodies was thick—families clinging to what little they owned, faces drawn tight with exhaustion and fear. Kael’s toughs moved among them, directing the flow, guiding those willing to push deeper into the city and helping others settle near the lower tiers, despite the risk.

  The Iron District was swelling—brimming with desperation and the hope of shelter.

  Merry found them in the crowd, weaving through the chaos like she belonged in it. She didn’t speak at first, just wrapped Kael in a tight embrace. Her perfume curled around him—sweet, floral, just a little wild—and she pressed close to whisper in his ear.

  “Kael. There’s an investigator at the Tangled asking for you.”

  His eyes narrowed.

  “I told him you were gone,” she continued, “but he just nodded and said he’d wait. He comes and goes, but always returns to the same spot. Two days now.”

  Kael nodded. “What’s he look like?”

  Merry tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, sapphire eyes catching his in the crush of the crowd. Behind her, Kavari gave his hand a light squeeze before slipping away—folding back into the district, into his life.

  “Young,” Merry said. “Dark hair. Pretty in that noble’s-son sort of way. Wears a sharp black suit with silver cufflinks. Actually…” She paused. “Lots of silver, now that I think about it. Not flashy.”

  Kael’s lips quirked into something between a grimace and a grin.

  “Perfect,” he muttered. “Let’s go meet my stalker.”

  Merry tugged him forward by the hand. He didn’t resist. Last she’d heard, he’d been broken—maybe dead. Now, here he was, walking beside her like nothing could touch him. A few of his toughs caught sight of them in the crowd and began subtly clearing a path.

  They reached the Tangled faster than expected, weaving through the press of bodies. Inside, the tavern buzzed with nervous energy—strangers seeking shelter, old regulars clinging to familiar routines. Fadefall always brought both.

  A single table in the back stood conspicuously empty.

  Merry gave his hand a squeeze. Her voice dropped to a whisper. “If you need an out, give me a signal. I’ll start a scene.”

  Kael gave her a grateful nod. “Thanks, Merry.”

  He moved toward the table.

  The man waiting there wasn’t part of the usual chaos. Young, dark-haired, sharp-eyed. His suit was perfectly tailored—too clean, too polished for Brassreach. Not just noble, capital noble. The silver scales on his lapel pin gleamed faintly. Matching silver cuff links. A silver-buckled belt. He screamed, I don’t belong here—and didn’t care who knew it.

  Kael studied him as he approached. The way the man sat, the way he held his glass—too relaxed for someone unaware of the risk, too precise for someone naive.

  The man stood smoothly and extended a hand.

  “Valen Darrow,” he said. “You must be Kael—district lord of the Ironbound?”

  Kael clasped the offered hand. Firm grip. No rings. No calluses.

  Just trouble.

  The right kind of trouble.

  They sat. A waitress slid a mug of cold beer in front of Kael without a word. Valen noticed.

  “You’re a regular here,” he said casually.

  Wrong question.

  Kael didn’t even blink. “Not curious why I made you wait two days to talk to me?”

  Valen leaned back, studying him. “You were involved in the attacks. I don’t know how yet, but you were.”

  Kael took a long drink, savoring the cold bitterness. “That’s a bold claim, Investigator Darrow. What makes you think that?”

  Valen smiled—tight, sharp, too polished to be friendly. “Because the attack in the noble quarter was a sloppy diversion. No one even died. But a diversion for something else. I haven’t pinned what yet. Could’ve been the train—commandeered that same night. Or maybe whatever was on the train.”

  He leaned forward, voice low. “Then a body washes up in the Iron District harbor. Witnesses mentioned two beast kin near it. Not many talked, but migrants don’t share the same loyalties as locals.”

  Kael’s fingers tapped the side of his mug, slow and rhythmic.

  Valen continued, undeterred. “A covered wagon leaves the harbor and rolls straight for the Lunar Temple. Not subtle. And I had watchers on every major temple, thanks to the mages throwing spells like confetti across the city.”

  He spread his hands. “Someone had to be injured in all that chaos. And you just so happen to resurface—alive, walking—after being presumed dead? Bandaged, hiding out in the Sisters’ ward, and no official record of your admittance?” He paused. “You’re involved. I just don’t know how yet.”

  Kael studied him in silence.

  This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

  Valen smiled, cool and certain. “But I will.”

  “Let me save you the trouble,” Kael said, eyes steady. “You got a personal privacy charm on you?”

  Valen stiffened. Kael’s smile deepened—caught the flinch.

  The young man reached into his coat, fingers brushing a small silver disc. Mana thrummed in the air as the charm activated, a shimmer of translucent energy sealing them off from the noise and movement around them.

  “Good,” Kael said. “Now we can talk.”

  Valen tried to regain control, expression smoothing out. “Who are you really?”

  Wrong question again. Kael didn’t answer. The kid would learn.

  Instead, he tilted his head, voice calm. “What’s a Silver Hall agent doing all the way out in Brassreach? Bit far from the capital, isn’t it?”

  That one landed.

  Valen flinched—just enough. Kael leaned forward, clapping a hand on the young man’s shoulder, like old friends catching up. The grip was light. The message wasn’t.

  “How did—” Valen started.

  Kael’s smirk said it all. Confirmed. Thanks, buddy.

  He let his gaze drift—suit too tailored for this district, dark wool lined with capital silk. Silver cuff links, silver belt buckle, silver scale pin at the lapel. It screamed Silver Hall, the kind of badge someone wore when they wanted you to know exactly what they were worth.

  “Bit loud for a covert agent for the silver hall,” Kael muttered.

  Valen’s blush hit fast, blooming across his cheeks. Caught. Embarrassed. That was good. Meant the kid still had a conscience—and something to prove.

  Initiative seized.

  Kael leaned in slightly, voice low and steady. “Relax, Valen. You’re not the first to underestimate the Iron District.” His steel-blue eyes didn’t blink. “But you might be one of the few who walks out of it with your pride still intact.”

  He gave the young man a beat to absorb that before adding, almost casually, “Let me tell you a story. You can speak up if you’ve got questions—though I doubt you’ll want to.”

  Valen nodded, wordless. The kid was smart enough to keep quiet now.

  Initiative maintained.

  “A few days ago—week, maybe, I’ve stopped counting—I carried out an unsanctioned beater hit.” Kael’s tone was almost conversational. “Guy named Roman. Local thug. Beat a girl half to death for mouthing off. Sly Fox crew. So I put him down.”

  Valen frowned, lips parting.

  “They sent me a gift basket,” Kael said flatly, before Valen could speak. “Not a hit squad. A thank-you.”

  Valen blinked, processing.

  “That same night,” Kael continued, “I was being watched. Not by locals. Not by Foxes. Throne of War agents. Not Silver Hall—different scent. These ones were dressed like Foxes, down to the pins on their lapels. Problem is, those pins? They were fake. New. Too new. Made before I even touched Roman.”

  Valen’s brows lifted. “So they were already wearing them?”

  Kael nodded. “Already in play. Already planning something. And the kicker? One of them was sent by Princess Valeria Vel Orien.”

  Valen flinched like he’d been slapped. “What would she want with you?”

  Kael raised a hand, palm open in a mock magician’s flourish. “Nothing up my sleeves. Not sure. I’ve got suspicions—but no proof yet.”

  Valen leaned forward despite himself, eyes hungry for the details.

  “But that’s not even the good part,” Kael went on, almost amused. “In Roman’s office, tucked behind his desk, was a book.”

  “A book?” Valen asked, confused.

  “From the Ancient Syrillian Courts,” Kael said softly. “Fifth Age binding. Complete.”

  Valen’s face went pale. “That’s impossible.”

  “Right? Arch-Sage Talmet Duskwind would lose his godsdamned mind if he saw it,” Kael said with a small smile. “Crown of the Throne of Lore. Probably has half his library cataloged by scent.”

  Valen looked like he’d just bitten into something rotten. The names, the layers, the implications—Kael had just taken the entire board and flipped it in front of him. And he was doing it like he was reciting a bedtime story.

  Control secured.

  Kael let the moment stretch, watching Valen process.

  Kael took a long sip of his drink before continuing, as if unbothered by the storm he was slowly dragging Valen into.

  “So the next day,” he said, “I’m out training with my people, trying to stay sharp, and I get pulled into a response call—attack on a trade convoy outside in the outlands,”

  Valen frowned. “Looters?”

  “Sure,” Kael replied, tone clipped. “But these weren’t desperate villagers or backwater bandits. These looters had a godsdamned war golem. And a battle-ready mage prepping a field-wipe spell.”

  Valen stiffened. “Wait, a golem? Out here?”

  Kael nodded. “Big one. Efficient. Brutal. My crew and I barely got there before they slaughtered everyone.”

  Valen’s brows pulled together. “They didn’t try to ransom the traders?”

  Kael’s expression darkened. “No. They were cutting throats and burning wagons. Scorched earth. Like they were never meant to leave survivors.”

  Valen sat back, the gears turning behind his eyes.

  Kael leaned forward. “Their camp was almost empty. Barely any rations, no real supplies. Just a single banner—black field, silver quill writing on a skull.”

  Valen blinked. “That’s not a sigil I know.”

  “You will,” Kael said. “I’ve come to learn it belongs to a new player—the Black Ledger. Exiled arcanium mages, banned alchemists, rogue artificers. The kind of people who sell forbidden knowledge and death to the highest bidder.”

  Valen was quiet for a beat too long. “And you killed one of them?”

  Kael nodded. “He had a bag full of mage cores. Probably for more work.”

  Valen’s eyes dropped to the table.

  Kael let the silence settle before adding, “Starting to see the kind of mess we’re in?”

  Kael let his gaze drift for a moment before speaking again, voice quieter now—but no less direct.

  “Then there’s the royal train.”

  Valen’s head snapped up, alert. “You think the Black Ledger was behind that too?”

  Kael didn’t nod. He didn’t need to.

  “Here’s the real question, Valen—how’d they get it to run?” he said, tapping a finger on the table. “The track’s not finished. Every segment’s been blocked, stalled, or sabotaged. And Crown coin’s been flooding the project trying to keep it alive.”

  Valen’s brow furrowed. “So someone gave them access.”

  Kael nodded. “And not just access. Cover. That train was going to get hit no matter what. Blew on the central bridge for maximum spectacle. But I think the plan was bigger than that.”

  Valen leaned in. “Bigger how?”

  “They wanted it to look like an internal job. Frame it like the attack came from inside the city,” Kael said. “Focus the investigation inward. Make it look like it came from the gangs.”

  “The Blister Rats,” Valen murmured, connecting the dots. “They’re the primary suspects for the Royal Quarter bombing.”

  Kael’s eyes were steel. “Convenient, isn’t it?”

  Valen blinked. “But… they did hit the Royal Quarter, right? That’s what all the reports say.”

  Kael smirked, but there was no humor in it. “You ever looked at what got hit?”

  Valen hesitated.

  “Shopfronts. A few old warehouses. Empty buildings. Zero casualties. Not even a guard stubbed his toe,” Kael said. “Think about that. Bombs placed with surgical precision—enough to scare, not enough to kill.”

  Valen’s mouth opened slightly. “You’re saying… that was intentional.”

  “By design,” Kael said. Then, after a pause, “You ever hear of the Cold Chain Syndicate?”

  The name landed like a dropped blade.

  Valen went still. “They operate… under commerce licenses. Imports. Exports. Legal fronts with political muscle. But… there’ve been whispers—”

  “Whispers,” Kael interrupted, “don’t blow up trains and lock down cities.”

  Valen’s voice dropped to a whisper. “You think they’re backing the Black Ledger?”

  Kael leaned back, arms folding slowly. “I think someone’s bleeding Brassreach before Fadefall. Politically. Economically. Structurally. And they're doing it with clean hands.”

  He tilted his mug slightly toward Valen, as if in toast. “The Rats are just the smokescreen.”

  Valen swallowed, throat dry.

  Kael watched him. Quiet. Patient.

  “Still think you came to investigate a simple bombing?” he asked.

  Valen looked up at him.

  “Who are you?”