The entrance of Kingsmere Central parted with a hiss, releasing a wave of warm air thick with steam, perfume, and the faint scent of ozone from mana engines.
They stepped into the capital's beating heart—brass and glass, vaulted steel arches, stained crystal skylights filtering sunlight into shafts of gold.
Beneath their feet, the polished floor thrummed faintly with arcane power drawn from deep mana channels.
The station was alive—loud, fast, and utterly indifferent.
Norman slowed his pace just a little as they entered, eyes roaming the vast atrium.
His gaze passed over the familiar sights: porters in navy uniforms shouting platform numbers, children weaving between skirts and coattails, wide-eyed with travel fever.
Guards in black and silver armor kept steady watch, one hand always resting on polished sidearms as they ushered the crowds along with curt nods.
Above them, a tramline hissed and roared—an arcane tram streaking past on suspended rails, its undercarriage glowing with blue-white glyphs. Sparks trailed behind it like falling stars.
Everything looked exactly the same.
And yet…
Aldrich came to a slow halt beside him.
He glanced around the station with a heavy eye and let out a long, quiet breath through his nose.
The scent of ash still clung to his coat, mingling with pipe smoke and faint gunpowder.
"Same chaos. Same damned crowd," he murmured. "One blown-up train and no one bats an eye."
Norman nodded, sorrow in his eyes. "Let's make sure there won't be a second one."
Then they moved forward—and the rhythm of Kingsmere resumed, swallowing them whole.
But heads began to turn—not at the two inspectors, but at the figure who walked between them.
Freya.
She didn't announce herself—she didn't need to.
She moved with quiet command, every step measured, her long coat brushing the back of her heels with a whisper-soft rhythm.
Her high collar framed her face like a crown, and her silver-trimmed gloves glinted faintly with embroidery.
People turned as if pulled by gravity.
A merchant dropped his pen.
A noblewoman froze mid-sentence and gripped her husband's arm.
A teenage boy selling newspapers caught one look and stumbled off a bench entirely.
Two station guards straightened on reflex.
Freya didn't spare them a glance.
Behind her, Celine smirked. "If the Second Glyphwork's still looking for you, my lady," she murmured, "they'd know where to go now."
"Good," Freya replied without breaking stride. "I can't wait."
They reached the front desk—a half-circle of burnished brass inlaid with glowing runes.
The glass counter shimmered softly, pulsing with faint golden glyphs.
Behind it, a young receptionist scribbled hastily into a ledger with a quill.
She didn't look up until a badge clinked softly against the countertop.
"Inspector Hitchcock," Aldrich said, voice level. "We're here to see the stationmaster."
The receptionist lifted her head.
Her eyes flicked to Aldrich—then to Norman—and then finally to Freya.
Her jaw tightened, and she straightened like someone trying not to salute a thunderstorm.
"I—ah—you mean Mister Calder?" she managed, blinking hard. "You're here to see him?"
"Yes, Mister Calder," Aldrich replied, tone dry. "Can you take us to him, young lady?"
She shook her head quickly. "I'm sorry, sir. Mister… Mister Calder hasn't come in today."
Norman frowned. "Not at all?"
"No, Inspector. No message. No courier. Just… nothing." She paused, lowering her voice like she was afraid the walls might be listening.
"That's never happened before. Not even once in the five years I've worked here. Mister Calder is… punctual."
The silence that followed cut sharper than any shout.
The bustle of the station continued all around them—voices echoing beneath the high ceiling, suitcases rolling across polished stone, the distant sound of a violin being tuned somewhere near the coffee stand.
But something cold had begun to settle in.
Freya's face didn't change, but her posture stiffened slightly.
"Where does he live?" she asked.
The receptionist blinked. "His… residence?"
Freya didn't raise her voice. She didn't have to. The chill in her tone was enough to still the air.
"Yes. Now, if you please."
Aldrich stepped in gently, his tone softer but no less firm. "We're not here to cause trouble. But missing stationmasters—especially after a terrorist attack—aren't something we ignore."
The receptionist hesitated only a second longer before reaching beneath the desk and pulling out a stamped personnel ledger.
Her finger traced down a list before she scribbled an address on a slip of paper.
"Number twelve, Hartmoor Lane. Western district. Just beside a deli—can't be missed."
Norman accepted the note. "Thank you. If anyone sees him—or hears anything strange—please send word to the bureau."
The receptionist nodded, "I'll do that, sir."
Norman returned a warm smile and a wink to the receptionist before turning on his heel.
He took a glance at the address before slipping the paper into his coat pocket. "Hartmoor Lane it is then."
They stepped back into the noise and gold-filtered light of Kingsmere Central.
And then, out to the street—where the city's pulse slowed just slightly.
The automobile was still waiting, engine humming softly.
They slid into the back without a word, and the bustle of the station faded behind them...
Hartmoor Lane wasn't far, but the ride was long in silence.
City blocks gave way to quieter rows of buildings: tea parlors and apartments, wrought iron balconies half-covered in ivy, the scent of rain still lingering in the cracks of the cobblestone streets.
Twelve Hartmoor Lane turned out to be a modest red-brick townhouse, just beside the deli as the receptionist mentioned.
The windows were curtained. The mana-lamp beside the door was unlit.
"This is it?" Aldrich asked as they stepped out. "Quite subtle, I'd say—for a stationmaster."
Celine stepped forward, her eyes scanning the façade: windows drawn, dust on the sill, fresh tracks on the steps.
"Multiple footprints," she said. "Adults' and children's. The house isn't empty."
Norman stepped to the door and knocked once, firm. Then again—louder this time.
"Stationmaster Calder," he called. "This is Inspector Creed. Please answer the door."
Silence.
Then a soft sound, distant, from within. Not footsteps. Not breathing.
A slow, mechanical creak.
Norman's hand hovered at his belt. "That wasn't the wind."
Celine stepped past him and pressed her palm to the door. Her glove flared faintly—the shimmer of a mana-sensing rune.
"Locked," she said. "Not warded. Old lock, too."
Aldrich used his pipe and knocked on the door again. "Calder, you know the door won't stop us. Come out now. We just want to talk."
Freya was clearly impatient. "Celine."
Celine nodded. She drew a long pin from the lining of her sleeve, knelt down, inserted it, and gave it a sharp twist.
Click.
The door eased open with a dry groan.
Norman's eyes widened; Aldrich's mouth twitched.
But neither said a word—they both pretended they hadn't just witnessed a breaking and entering in progress.
They entered slowly.
The house smelled of paper and dried tea, with something metallic beneath—faint, but there.
The foyer was neat. Coats hung on the rack—men's, children's, but no women's.
They moved on cautiously, each footfall softened by a runner rug faded with age. The house was quiet—but not empty.
A sound drifted down from above. A soft thump. Then the squeak of a floorboard.
Norman raised his hand in a silent gesture, and the group paused.
"Upstairs," Celine murmured.
No voices. No footsteps now. Just the creak of wood settling under weight.
Norman gave a quick nod.
They moved, quiet but deliberate, boots brushing over the carpeted stairs, the old wood groaning under their ascent.
At the landing, the hallway stretched in both directions. Three closed doors, one slightly ajar.
The sound had come from there.
Norman approached first, hand resting near his belt. He pushed the door open slowly.
Celine followed close behind, already scanning for signs of enchantment or traps.
Freya and Aldrich remained, watching the stairwell and flank.
Inside was a small bedroom—neatly kept, but unmistakably lived in.
A child's room.
A stack of picture books lay on a window seat. Stuffed toys and mana-powered trinkets lined a shelf.
And at the far end of the room, clutching a blanket, was a girl.
She couldn't have been more than ten.
Wide green eyes locked onto Norman's.
Her chest rose and fell in shallow, rapid breaths.
Her hair was tousled, nightdress wrinkled. Like she hadn't changed out of it in days.
Norman immediately raised both hands. "Hey there," he said gently. "It's okay. We're not here to hurt you."
The girl didn't respond.
Celine stepped forward slowly, crouching to the child's level. "What's your name, child?"
A pause. Then, the girl murmured. "E...Enya."
Norman looked around the room again. No signs of struggle. No sign of the stationmaster.
"Where's your father?" Celine asked softly.
Enya's lip trembled.
"H—He's in the basement," she whispered. "He told me to stay here.
He said he had something important to attend to. And he locked himself downstairs."
Norman exchanged a glance with Celine, then stepped fully into the room. "Did he say what he was doing in the basement?"
Enya shook her head. "He just said… if anyone came looking, and they weren't wearing silver, I shouldn't open the door."
"Silver?" Aldrich echoed from the hall.
Norman's eyes narrowed. "Did he mean inspectors?"
"I don't know," Enya said, voice small. "He kissed me goodbye and said if anything happened, I should go to Mrs. Brunswick. But I didn't. I was too scared."
"Mrs Brunswick?" Celine's raised a brow.
Enya nodded slightly. "She's our neighbour. She bakes very delicious pastries."
Freya's voice, calm but cold, cut through the tension. "We need to search the house. Thoroughly."
Celine dipped her head in a quiet nod, offering the girl a small, warm smile that softened the edge of the room's tension.
"You're safe now, Enya," she said gently, her voice like a lullaby trying to reach through a storm. "We're going to find your father."
Enya didn't speak.
She only hugged the blanket tighter, half her face buried like a frightened animal still unsure it had escaped the jaws.
Her knuckles were white. Her eyes—wide, glassy, unblinking—searched the room as if danger might bloom from the shadows at any moment.
Safe.
She wanted to believe it.
But the air still felt too cold.
And the silence… far too loud.