Rosenvale woke beneath a blanket of pearl-grey mist.
The storm had passed sometime in the night, but the hush it left behind felt unnatural—too still, too clean, like the whole city had stopped to listen for something that never came.
Rainwater clung stubbornly to the cobbles in shallow, silver pools that mirrored the low-hanging clouds.
Smoke from red-brick chimneys climbed slowly into the grey, barely disturbed by wind.
Shopkeepers moved behind their shutters, sweeping water from their stoops with quiet, mechanical motions.
Even the birds kept silent.
Only the occasional creak of a cart wheel or the distant bark of a dog stirred the morning.
From the second-floor balcony, the city looked calm.
Peaceful, even.
But Norman knew better.
He sat hunched in a wooden chair, a coat thrown over his shoulders like a forgotten thought.
One hand held a mug of coffee—gone lukewarm, bitter on his tongue—the other hovered near a scatter of papers that threatened to flutter off the iron table in the morning breeze.
There were casualty and interrogation reports from Vale.
A railway schematic from Reinhart.
A page of his own scrawled notes, ink smeared in places by rain or sweat or both.
He'd read through them again and again. Nothing added up. Everything led to a dead end.
He exhaled through his nose and leaned back, letting the damp air fill his lungs.
The scent of wet stone and coal smoke clung to everything.
And beneath it, fainter—like a half-remembered dream—was the sting of ozone and the metallic tang of blood.
Somewhere below, a bakery creaked open. The rattle of shutters.
A cart's wooden wheels sloshing through a puddle.
Behind the inn, a child's laugh rang out—sharp, bright, and out of place, like it had broken through from another world.
Norman closed his eyes and rested his head against the cold balcony rail.
Then came the familiar rasp of a voice behind him. "Still brooding?"
He opened one eye.
Aldrich leaned in the doorway, shirt wrinkled, tie half-askew, a mug in one hand and an unlit pipe dangling from the other.
His eyes were rimmed in sleepless red.
"You look like hell," Norman muttered.
"Thanks. That's with effort." Aldrich stepped onto the balcony, boots tapping quietly against the tile.
He set his mug down beside the reports and gave the papers a half-hearted glance. "Any of this start making sense yet?"
"Only if nonsense counts." Norman rubbed his eyes. "Too many questions. Too many gaps."
Aldrich scratched his stubble and stared out at the mist-choked rooftops. "Welcome to my world."
A silence settled between them—comfortable only in the way that both men were too tired to fight it.
Then Norman spoke, voice quieter now. "There's something I've been meaning to ask."
Aldrich didn't answer. Just took a sip from his mug and waited.
Norman's gaze dropped to the table. "Why didn't you tell Lord Reinhart about the veteran?"
Aldrich's shoulders stiffened.
He didn't speak right away.
Instead, he reached into his coat and pulled out a small object—battered brass, cleaned to a dull shine.
The crest of the 9th Battalion was still faintly visible. He turned it over in his palm, thumb tracing the edge.
"Because the Duke doesn't need more fire under his arse," he said finally. "And because it complicates things. More than you know."
Norman frowned. "How?"
"Do you know who commanded the Ninth, thirteen years ago?" Aldrich asked, not looking at him.
Norman shook his head.
Aldrich placed the badge on the table with a soft clink. "Augustus Drakenshield."
Norman blinked. "Wait—what?" His voice caught. "The Crown Prince? That Augustus Drakenshield?"
"Yes," Aldrich gave a grim nod. "The golden boy. Hero of the Eastern March. Future Emperor."
He let out a breath through his teeth—half sigh, half curse. "Reinhart's sharp, but his loyalty's welded to the throne.
If I handed him this with nothing solid behind it, and it leaks that one of the Ninth's running with the Second Glyphwork now…"
He trailed off, shaking his head.
"That fuse won't wait for a match."
Norman stared at the badge. "Yeah." His grip tightened on the mug. "The veteran could've just been in the wrong place, at the wrong time."
"Exactly." Aldrich tapped the side of his cup. "No body. No witnesses. Just one scorched insignia in a crater full of dead. That's not evidence. That's a rumor with teeth."
They fell into silence again.
The sounds of the city filtered through the fog: a broom scraping stone, a bell ringing somewhere distant, muffled by the thickening air.
The mist crept in, curling around rooftops, swallowing lampposts and alleys, softening the edges of the world until all that remained was grey.
Norman watched it, eyes distant. Then he said, voice low and almost to himself:
"You know... I never really believed in golden boy. Gods don't craft people like that."
Aldrich gave a dry chuckle. "They don't. But politics do."
Before Norman could reply, there was a knock at the door—three short raps, firm and deliberate.
He glanced at Aldrich, who gave a faint shrug and took another sip from his mug.
Norman rose, joints stiff from sitting too long, and stepped back inside.
The hallway felt dim after the balcony's pale light, the air heavy with the scent of old wood and pipe smoke.
He reached for the latch, expecting perhaps an aide from Reinhart's staff—or messenger from the capital.
But when the door opened, the words caught in his throat.
Freya stood there.
It took Norman a second to process what he was seeing.
This wasn't the girl he remembered from last night—mud-caked, mana-burned, and trembling with cold fury.
The woman before him now stood composed, radiant in a quiet, unsettling way.
She wore a high-collared black coat trimmed in silver, fitted just enough to flatter without boasting.
Her golden hair was swept back into a loose twist, wisps framing her face like sunlight strokes on porcelain.
Her eyes—sharp, blue, and calculating—seemed brighter somehow, cutting through Norman like twin blades.
There was strength in how she stood. Not defiance, not arrogance—just a presence that refused to be overlooked.
Beside her, Celine looked much the same as ever—lean, wary. She gave Norman a nod, and a flicker of something in her eyes.
But Norman barely registered it.
His gaze remained fixed on Freya, words jammed somewhere behind his teeth.
"Morning," she said, voice smooth but firm. "We need to talk."
Norman blinked, trying to reconcile the memory of the bloodied survivor with the woman now standing before him.
"You—uh. You clean up well," he managed, then immediately regretted it.
A small, amused smile ghosted across Freya's lips. "So do you. Sort of."
Behind him, Aldrich called out, "If it's bad news, tell me after breakfast."
Freya raised an eyebrow. "Depends on what you call bad."
Norman stepped aside to let them in.
As Freya passed, her coat brushed lightly against his arm—cool and smooth, like velvet cooled by midnight air.
And then he caught it—her scent.
Soft and unexpected. Something like wildflowers after rain, threaded faintly with smoke and something warmer underneath.
It slipped past his senses before he could name it, but it stayed with him all the same.
For a heartbeat, he forgot himself.
Not because of suspicion. Not because of fear.
But because the girl who had crawled out of a slaughterhouse was gone.
And in her place stood someone who moved like she belonged at the center of every room. Poised, quiet, composed.
Someone dangerous, maybe. But radiant all the same.
And Norman felt the ground shift beneath him in a way that had nothing to do with politics or conspiracy.
He cleared his throat, shut the door a beat too late, and followed them back onto the balcony where Aldrich was already dragging another chair over with the heel of his boot.
"Ladies," the older inspector greeted, raising his mug in a mock toast. "Welcome to the fog."
Freya gave him a nod, though her eyes flicked toward the scattered papers on the wooden table. "Still untangling the mess?"
"Mess is generous," Aldrich said. "This is more like a shipwreck made of lies and bad handwriting."
Freya eased into the chair nearest the railing, stretching out her legs like a cat testing the sun. "We've got a piece or two to add."
Norman tried to focus—on her words, the tone, the meaning—but his eyes kept drifting.
To her hands, still faintly marked with bruises. To the way she leaned forward, elbows on knees, like someone used to bracing for impact.
He'd seen survivors before. But she was different.
There was grace to her now. Not the polished kind nobles wore like jewelry, but the kind built from fire and pain and the choice not to break.
She caught him watching.
Just for a second.
And she didn't look away.
Something in that glance—calm, deliberate, unguarded—made Norman's chest tighten in a way that felt both new and familiar.
"Are you alright, Inspector Creed?" she asked softly, not mocking, not even smiling. Just… curious.
He blinked, heat prickling at his collar. "Yes. Yes, just—tired."
Aldrich, mercifully, broke the awkward moment by cleaning the mess on the table. "Good. Be a gentleman now and pour Lady Freya a cup of coffee."
Norman leaned in, grateful for the distraction. But Freya's presence still lingered beside him.
Like that scent.
Like that heat.
He poured the coffee with hands that weren't quite as steady as he liked.
The pot was half-cold, the pour thin and steaming faintly in the morning chill. He offered her the mug without a word.
Freya took it without ceremony, but the faint smile on her face, just brighten the morning for Norman...