A few days ago.

  Wheels clunked and ground harshly over the uneven stone pathway, each heavy jolt reverberated as the large, cattle-like creatures snorted plumes of hot breath and strained against creaking leather harnesses. Laden carts groaned under bulging sacks and weathered crates, the alleyway itself lay still, shadows thickening along the narrow stone walls in the Common District's depths.

  Only the distant murmur of voices drifted in from the bustling main thoroughfares, carried on the faint, acrid tang of woodsmoke mingling with the damp chill rising from ancient flagstones slick with morning condensation.

  Two women stood in the dim, slanted light cast by the overhanging eaves, their forms half-obscured by the cool gloom that gathered thick, between the close-pressed buildings.

  “Anything. Just give me something—you have access to the castle, Lysara.”

  Lysara kept her gaze fixed on the passing carts, eyes tracing the slow, plodding rhythm of hooves striking stone. After several long, weighted moments, she turned, the motion deliberate and heavy.

  She let her eyes settle on the female knight before her—silver hair pulled back with military precision, the cold silver-blue armour gleaming faintly even in the muted shadow, the weapon at her hip resting motionless, hilt cool under her hand's occasional brush.

  “You know I can’t do that, Serith. It’s too dangerous with my little sister still caught in his grubby paws—keeping me leashed tighter than any chain can.”

  Lysara released a slow, weary sigh that seemed to carry the burden of unseen years, her shoulders slumping fractionally beneath the simple cloak that hid her. “Look, I’ve done as much as I can, and then some. I cannot jeopardise my position. Not now.”

  Serith’s fingers twitched once at her side, the movement barely perceptible, yet it betrayed the tension beneath her composed exterior.

  Her jaw tightened by the merest fraction while her fist clenched at her side, the gauntlet's metal biting into her palm until it creaked. The armour, once a second skin, now felt leaden and poorly balanced against her shoulders.

  “And you know that there is something happening here. Something far bigger than Brisden alone. Freeblades, servants and children are vanishing—bandits or simply ‘moved on’ seem to be the recurring excuse.”

  “The longer this drags on, the longer that list grows—filled with the names of the innocent,” Serith retorted, her voice remaining calm and measured, each word forged with the precision of a blade yet edged with quiet desperation.

  Lysara turned away before answering, her shoulders rising and falling with quiet resignation. “You know I cannot place Seyun in harm’s way. I’m sorry, Serith.”

  She began to walk toward the brighter spill of the main path, pausing only once at the alley’s mouth, her silhouette framed against the warmer glow.

  “Oh, and I will be leaving Brisden soon for my next duty.”

  She continued without looking back, her footsteps steady. “So while I am away, don’t do anything stupid.”

  Serith watched her vanish into the sunlit street, the armour catching one last glint before it was gone entirely, swallowed by the flow of distant figures.

  The alley fell quiet again, the distant cart wheels fading into a muffled hush that pressed against her ears like cotton.

  Of course she did not blame Lysara—how could she, when the same protective instinct tightened in her own chest for every vulnerable soul caught in this growing web?

  She exhaled, her breath visible in the chill that seeped from within, fogging the space where Lysara had stood moments before.

  “...I’m on my own then.”

  —— ? —— —— ? —— —— ? ——

  Present day.

  It was morning, and the sun’s rays danced across the rooftops of Brisden as scattered clouds drifted lazily overhead.

  The air carried the fresh scent of bakeries already at work, their chimneys sending lazy spirals of fragrant smoke curling into the pale sky.

  Serith stood before the Guild Hall within the Central District, her silver hair stirring faintly in the gentle breeze that tugged at the edges of her cloak.

  The building rose with sturdy sun-grey brick walls reinforced by dark timber beams that spoke of generations of careful craftsmanship. Its roof lay layered with wide Dawnish red tiles.

  Luminary Shards embedded at regular intervals along the exterior pulsed with gentle radiance, their warm glow ensuring the hall welcomed visitors even in the deepest hours of business.

  She lifted her gaze to the sign above the double-door entrance—a sword crossed with a quill, carved deep into aged wood. The hall catered mostly to Freeblades, both lone wanderers and tight-knit cohorts, though traders, trappers, and scavenger crews occasionally pushed through the doors seeking contracts or supplies.

  Come on, Serith. Don’t be nervous. Even if there are a lot of people… you can do this.

  Her gauntlets tightened with a soft metallic creak, the familiar pressure steadying the flutter in her chest even as her pulse betrayed her.

  Serith drew in a slow breath, squared her shoulders with military precision, and strode into the Guild Hall with the cold, calculative poise expected of a knight on duty.

  A long, vaulted hall stretched before her.

  Then the noise pressed in—boisterous laughter echoing off the timber beams and vibrating up through the floor into her boots. Heated arguments over contract terms and hazard pay clashing in sharp bursts, the scrape of chairs and thump of tankards underscoring it all.

  The floor’s embedded shards pulsed a steady, comforting heat upward through the thick planks. Heat rose in her ears and her chest tightened with each burst.

  She braced herself, every muscle locking tight to prevent the instinctive urge to turn and retreat toward the entrance.

  With measured steps she crossed the hall toward the large board mounted on the rightmost inner wall, where contracts sat beneath a shimmering protective veil of Essence designed to thwart any tampering. Freeblades clustered before it, some squinting at fine print with furrowed brows, others nodding decisively before heading to the main desk to negotiate or sign.

  She needed someone higher up. Serith walked past the board without pausing, continuing onward past the Guild’s Shard shop—her boots ringing softly along the metal plates bolted into the floor.

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  She ignored all conversation and gossip as she strolled through.

  Yet, a conversation between two female Freeblades caught her attention.

  “Hey, did you hear about Luna?”

  “No, why?”

  “I heard she joined those veteran Freeblades not too long ago. But apparently not long after she retired, and left for her home town.”

  “That’s weird, I thought she had nothing left back there. Who told you that?”

  “Those veteran guys, Mane, I think his name was? He tried to recruit me too, into their… exclusive group.”

  “Ehh~ Creepy.”

  The name did not surprise her. Mane’s group had appeared in reports more than once, always skirting the edges of influence.

  She had already built a list of unorthodox and suspicious happenings in her mind, yet Serith was patient, she was anything but a headstrong fool.

  She would wait out anyone that came across her, making her intent an unknown variable.

  When she reached the main desk, a woman sat there, head bent over stacks of papers and sealed contracts, quill scratching steadily across parchment with rhythmic focus.

  She did not notice Serith at first, leaving the knight standing awkwardly in place, hands clasped tightly before her.

  Moments continued to pass, each one lengthening, pressure building in her chest with every tick of silence.

  The din pressed in, laughter raising her pulse, breaths shortening as echoes bounced off the beams overhead. Her heartbeat muted everything else, every beat filling her head and ears until the world narrowed to the frantic rhythm.

  She inhaled, then calmly exhaled, forcing the air through her lungs with deliberate control.

  S-should I say something? But what if she is busy? What if I interrupt something vital to her duty? No—I must demand acknowledgment! Yet rudeness—

  Serith rubbed her palms together, eyes darting back and forth as heat crept up her neck in a slow, betraying flush.

  …But maybe clearing my throat would be enough—just enough to acknowledge my presence without seeming rude?

  She stiffened as though she were preparing for a duel to the death rather than a simple greeting.

  Her pulse spiked—and the Luminary surrounding her answered instinctively, light dimming by a fraction as her Vitalis bled outward without permission.

  Get a hold of yourself Serith…

  “Ahem.”

  The temperature around the desk seemed to plummet in an instant.

  A thin film of frost settled on the desk; the nearest inkwell thickened and crusted at the edges.

  The woman felt a sudden, unnatural chill despite the Bloomtide warmth outside. For an instant it felt as though Hollowveil had suddenly arrived.

  She looked up, her gaze first meeting a pair of cold blue eyes that locked onto hers, pupils narrowing as gaze swept over her features. The woman’s breath caught, lungs freezing mid-inhale as colour drained from her cheeks.

  A woman stood there—perhaps a touch too close—armour immaculate and gleaming like polished ice, silver hair framing a face set in a stare of pure, unblinking judgment, as though she were already listing every minor infraction the clerk had ever committed.

  “A-ah, I am sorry, miss. I was far too occupied with my work.” The woman hastily pushed the papers aside, offering a nervous smile that trembled at the edges. “How can I help you today?”

  “H-hello.”

  An awkward pause stretched between them.

  “Eh, yes, hel—”

  “I would like to talk to your manager, please,” Serith blurted out, the words tumbling forth in a rush that betrayed her carefully maintained calm.

  The woman gulped, sweat already beading in her palms—the universal dread of any desk worker facing an unexpected escalation.

  “My manager? May I know the reason why?”

  “Private affairs.”

  The woman studied her for a heartbeat longer, brow furrowing in careful assessment. “Miss, if it’s about a contract dispute—”

  “No,” Serith cut in, voice steady but fingers twitching faintly at her sides. “Just… the manager, please.”

  After an awkward moment thick with hesitation, the woman raised her wrist, the slim bracelet there catching the light as she tapped the embedded shard. A soft pulse gleamed outward, carrying the request through invisible channels of Essence.

  A brief pause, then a crisp voice answered from the device: “This is Sarah’s office.”

  “A lady is here asking for you, Sarah… for private affairs.”

  Serith nodded solemnly, as though she were somehow an active participant in the two-way exchange.

  The voice replied with mild curiosity, “Interesting. Send her up.”

  The clerk glanced back at her. “Sarah is in her office upstairs, on the first floor. It’s the last room at the end of the corridor.”

  Serith maintained unwavering eye contact and gave a single, crisp nod. “Thank you.”

  She straightened her posture with military precision, turned on her heel, and headed toward the main stairs, confident steps clicking softly over the Guild’s polished wooden flooring—a deliberate mask to conceal the frantic whirl of internal panic that threatened to spill over.

  That went well! Right…? I hope she didn’t find me strange. I quite liked her hair, though—that neat bun was rather cute—

  THUD.

  Serith reeled back a half-step as she collided squarely with a man and woman paused before the staircase, the impact jarring through her thoughts like a misjudged parry.

  “What the–” The man said as his tankard’s contents slightly spilled over its rim.

  Oh no… I was lost far too deep in thought. I have to be nice. I have to apologise properly.

  A silent pause filled the air, thick and expectant. Her head lowered slightly, cheeks burning beneath the cool exterior despite her best efforts to will the flush away.

  “Hey, watch where you’re walk—”

  Serith lifted her face just enough. Her cold blue eyes locked onto theirs, and an overly forced, awkward smile stretched across her features—facial muscles shaped with almost mechanical effort into an expression of friendliness so intense it bordered on uncanny, like a creature diligently studying human warmth for the very first time.

  “Oh, I apologise.” She paused, the words measured yet sincere. “Please excuse me.”

  A visible chill raced down the spines of the two Freeblades, their eyes widening in shared unease. They remained utterly silent, stepping aside with wary haste to let her pass, shoulders hunching as chill spread through the air.

  “What… was that?” one Freeblade muttered.

  Duty Accomplished! she thought, internally pumping a triumphant fist, her face still perfectly composed.

  She hoped—fervently—that she had managed to leave a good impression.

  Serith continued to Sarah’s office, stopping before the heavy door to deliver three precise knocks, each evenly spaced and authoritative. A muffled voice invited her inside, and she stepped through with measured grace.

  Sarah sat behind a broad desk in an office lined floor-to-ceiling with shelves crammed with ledgers, bound contracts, and meticulously organised records, the air heavy with the scent of aged paper and ink.

  “How may I help you…um?”

  “Serith.”

  She took several measured steps forward, boots echoing softly on the polished floor, each footfall deliberate and controlled.

  “I wanted to ask you about the rescue mission for the missing children from the orphanage.”

  “Ah. Yes, those rumours have been circulating these past few days.” Sarah leaned back slightly in her chair, the wood creaking under the shift. “But I must disappoint you—they had already been returned before we approved any contracts for their rescue.”

  Sarah shrugged, the gesture casual yet final, carrying the weight of bureaucratic inevitability.

  Serith’s expectations crumbled; she drew in a steadying breath that did nothing to ease the tightening in her chest.

  “From what I heard, a man strolled in with the children and one of the women who work there like some hero stepped from the old tales. He received healing and then simply set off again—not even asking for a reward in return.” Sarah’s lips curved into a smirk, eyes twinkling with wry amusement. “Well, who knows—maybe he did receive one in private.”

  She caught herself, realising the conversation had veered into speculative territory, and cleared her throat with a touch of embarrassment.

  “Ahem. I apologise. But sadly, we have no record—”

  “Hold on,” Serith interrupted, voice sharpening with genuine concern that cut through the room like a drawn blade. “You said he didn’t ask for a reward, yet he could have received one? Does that not violate Guild statutes? Are you aware of him breaking the foundational law binding every Freeblade?”

  Sarah blinked twice, then a third time, reassessing the woman before her.

  “Eh? No, no, no—you misunderstand entirely.” She sighed, rubbing her temple with weary patience. “I was merely joking. All we truly know is that we hold no record of this mysterious man. I cannot help you further, though I can point you toward the orphanage itself.”

  Serith paused, processing the words with careful deliberation.

  Then a brief, stiff laugh escaped her—too sharp, too sudden—before she quickly stopped herself, lips pressing thin.

  Sarah’s brow raised in a baffled response, her expression flickering between confusion and reluctant fondness.

  Then Serith reset herself, continuing with her questions.

  “Do you know of any disappearances occurring within Brisden and its surrounding areas?”

  Sarah regarded her for a long moment, then turned to gaze out the tall window where sunlight streamed across the rooftops in golden sheets, illuminating the sprawl of the city below. “It’s difficult to say with certainty. I have heard of a few people vanishing, and there are always rumours. When it comes to Freeblades, however, they are not bound to remain in one place. When one departs, we rarely keep detailed records unless it involves theft or murder tied to Shard Gear within Guild trade. And we have not seen such a situation in a very long time.”

  Serith exhaled slowly, the sound measured and controlled, carrying the quiet gravity of yet another thread slipping through her fingers. “Thank you for your time, Sarah. And there is no need to direct me to the orphanage—I already know its location.”

  With a slight, respectful bow that spoke of ingrained courtesy, she turned and left the office.

  A pause lingered in the office.

  “What a strange woman… and she didn’t even shut the door!”

  …

  Serith descended the stairs with measured steps, the weight of yet another dead end pressing against her, each tread echoing her mounting resolve mixed with deepening frustration.

  Halfway down she paused, a prickle racing across the nape of her neck like the lightest touch of darkness had reached out to her. The sensation was faint—almost nothing—yet unmistakable.

  Something had tailed her.

  She turned slowly, scanning the crowded hall below with careful sweeps of her gaze. Freeblades laughed in clusters, clerks shuffled papers with efficient rustles, nothing seemed out of place amid the constant hum of activity.

  Yet the feeling lingered, cold and patient, like something studying her from just beyond the edge of sight, silent and calculating.

  She adjusted her gauntlet with deliberate calm, the metallic click grounding her, and continued down, her hand never straying far from the hilt at her hip.

  I’m running out of time…