The steam from the coffee curled lazily in the morning air, catching what little light pierced the fog.
Freya cradled the mug in both hands, her posture relaxed but composed, as if the weight of the city's secrets wasn't already whispering from every rooftop.
She took a sip—slow, deliberate.
No rush. No hesitation.
The heat didn't make her flinch. The bitterness didn't twist her expression.
She drank it like she'd tasted worse, endured worse, and was still standing without complaint.
Her eyes didn't waver from the horizon.
Not the mist-choked chimneys, nor the crumbling steeple half-swallowed by fog—her gaze passed over them all with that same quiet calculation, like she was cataloging the world and filing it away for later.
The wind brushed a strand of hair across her cheek. She didn't move to fix it.
Even in stillness, there was grace to her—like a blade resting in its sheath, no less dangerous for being calm.
Norman watched her from the corner of his eye, his own cup warming his hands even as the coffee cooled.
He wasn't sure if it was admiration, concern, or something less nameable that kept his attention locked on her.
Freya lowered the mug at last and let out a soft breath. The kind that said she was done thinking—and ready to speak.
She looked first to Aldrich, then to Norman. Her voice, when it came, was calm but cold.
"About yesterday," Freya said, fingers curled tight around the mug like it was anchoring her.
Her voice was steady—but only just. "There was a swordsman. Dual wielder. Musashi style."
Aldrich's brow rose, but the movement was slow, cautious. "Old school," he murmured. "Haven't seen that in years. Are you sure, my lady?"
Freya's face turned to stone, jaw tightening. "He was skilled," she said, and something hard flickered behind her eyes. "Too skilled.
He didn't just move like a man—he moved like death had hollowed him out and left only the blade behind."
Norman leaned in, setting his cup down with a soft clink. "Was he with the Second Glyphwork?"
Her answer came with a single, grim nod. "He didn't wear a mask. Didn't bother hiding his face. It was like… like he wanted me to see him. To remember him."
She exhaled slowly. "The second he laid eyes on me, he struck. No pause. No warning. Just steel and intent."
Aldrich's expression sobered. "Description?"
Freya's brow knit—not from uncertainty, but from recalling something burned deep. "Tall. Lean. Not muscle-bound, but everything about him was coiled tension.
He wore an eastern-style coat, loose at the sides—for speed. Efficiency.
Both swords—curved. Katana. Light on his feet. Precise.
He didn't cast, but every strike hummed, like the air itself flinched."
"Rune? Enchanted?" Norman asked under his breath.
"Or something we don't understand," Celine cut in, her voice low, dry. "He cut bullets. My bullets. Mid-air. Didn't even flinch."
That drew a sharp glance from Aldrich. "Cut bullets?"
She nodded. "Like it was instinct. Like physics didn't apply to him."
Aldrich ran a hand down his face. "And you're certain it was Musashi, my lady?"
Freya met his gaze squarely. "I am. Cross-draw stance. One long blade, one short.
He moved like a ghost with muscle memory—fluid, relentless. Every swing had purpose. Every rush was a kill attempt.
No showmanship. No flair. Just death."
The older inspector went quiet. His knuckles tapped against his mug—slow and absent.
Then, at last, Aldrich spoke—quietly, like the words carried ghosts. "Most Musashi disciples didn't survive the war.
The few who did were meant to vanish—buried in black files and locked away in places you won't find on any map."
Norman frowned. "Why keep them hidden?"
Aldrich's voice dropped to a hush, like saying it louder might invite something they couldn't see. "Because they were pure weapons of war.
Killers, honed from childhood to seek strength through battle.
Their motto—become the strongest, or die at the hands of someone stronger. With honor. No room for peace. No room for surrender."
He looked away, out at the fogged window.
"They weren't allowed to walk under the sun again. Not because they lost—but because they didn't know how to stop."
Freya didn't blink. "This one hasn't."
Silence fell.
Even the fog outside seemed to press closer, listening.
Norman finally broke it.
"Any chance we can find out where the Musashi disciples were held?"
His voice was quiet, almost reluctant, like he didn't want to disturb the weight that had settled over the room—but the question had been clawing at him since Aldrich spoke.
The older inspector didn't look at him right away. His eyes stayed on the fogged window, as if hoping the answer might drift in from the rooftops.
"Maybe," Aldrich said at last, but there was no certainty in it. "If the war logs still exist… or if the people who buried them haven't already gone to ground."
Norman leaned forward, elbows on knees. "You've seen one of them before, haven't you?"
That pulled Aldrich's gaze back. It didn't flare with surprise—just something older, heavier. Regret, maybe.
"I saw pieces of one," he said. "After the Siege of Marrowbridge. The city didn't fall—it bled. Bled and screamed.
And when we finally moved in, there was one man still breathing in the ruins."
He shook his head slowly.
"He wasn't fighting anymore. Just… kneeling. Surrounded by bodies. Ours. Theirs. Soldiers. Civilians."
Freya's grip on her mug tightened.
"What happened to him?" she asked.
"He bled to death eventually. But after he died, he was still clutching his katana. As if he wanted to bring it along with him to the afterlife.
The coroner had to pry his hands open to take his blade away."
No one spoke for a moment.
Even the creak of the inn's old beams seemed to still, as though the memory itself had stolen the air from the room.
"You think the one from yesterday came from that same unit?" Celine's voice was soft—almost sympathetic.
Aldrich nodded slowly. "It was the only unit."
Freya's voice was low. "Then how did he end up with the Second Glyphwork?"
Aldrich looked at her. "That's the million-dollar question, my lady."
Something struck Norman—a sudden clarity. "What if he's not the only one?"
He looked at Aldrich, his voice trembling. "...What if there are more of them out there?"
The old inspector let out a tired breath and stood, joints popping as he moved. "Then we're going to need a lot of body bags."
Freya's eyes narrowed. She set her empty cup aside and rose. "Are you gentlemen any good at tracking?"
"He was just here yesterday. He couldn't have gone far."
Aldrich shook his head. "One day is enough for a Musashi to disappear. We'd have better luck finding hidden war archives than finding him."
"There's a man in the capital," he said, lighting his pipe. "Used to work logistics during the war.
Paper pusher with clearance deeper than most generals. Last I heard, he disappeared after the ceasefire—voluntarily."
"Name?" Celine asked.
"Marcus Yurev," Aldrich said. "He's a ghost now. Changed identities, scrubbed his prints, walked away from everything.
But if anyone still has access to black file coordinates or containment sites... it's him."
Norman grabbed his coat from the chair. "Then we find him."
Aldrich gave a faint, humorless smile. "You don't find Marcus Yurev. You bribe the right taverns, listen to the wrong sermons, and read between the lines."
Freya stood, voice determined. "Then we move now. My car's waiting downstairs."
Norman stared at her, confused. "You're coming with us?"
Celine raised a brow. "Watch your words, rookie—you're talking to a duke's daughter."
Norman flushed. "I... I'm sorry—are you coming with us, my lady?"
Freya smiled faintly and nodded.
Aldrich's eyes flicked to the window one last time.
The fog clung to the rooftops. Heavy. Unmoving.
So did the weight pressing down on all of them.
"Be sharp," he muttered. "If Yurev's alive, someone's kept him that way for a reason."
Norman opened the door. The cold rushed in.
"Then let's find out whose side he's still breathing for."
They moved in silence.
Coats slipped on. Weapons checked. Each motion quiet, deliberate—the rhythm of seasoned hands falling into familiar ritual.
Boots and heels echoed against the inn's old wooden steps as they descended—Freya at the front, Aldrich close behind, Norman and Celine flanking without a word.
Outside, the fog had thickened. It clung low to the earth like breath never exhaled.
At the base of the steps, waiting in the pale hush of morning, sat a sleek black automobile—long, lacquered, and unmistakably high-born.
Chrome gleamed through the mist. Brass fixtures caught what little light there was. Under the hood, a mana-core engine purred like a caged beast.
The driver stood at attention beside the open door, cap drawn low, face unreadable.
Norman slowed, eyes wide. "Wow… what a ride."
Freya cast him a glance, one brow raised. Her lips tugged into the faintest curl—something between amusement and intrigued.
Aldrich made for the front passenger seat without pause, pipe still trailing smoke between his fingers.
He paused with the door half-open, glancing back over his shoulder. "You coming, boy?"
Norman flinched, then stepped aside with a stiff nod to Freya. "After you, my lady."