The sterile chill of the medical annex was replaced by the utilitarian bustle of the arena's back corridors.
SherLink Holmes, notebook clutched like a sacred text, led his bewildered entourage – Aile, Eamond, Vale, and a reluctantly appointed "Watson" (Jake, still looking confused) – towards the competitors' equipment storage.
The official investigation, represented by grim-faced guards and grey-robed mages, was already swarming the area, cordoning off sections and questioning staff.
"Observe, Watson!" Link hissed, stopping Jake with an outstretched arm just before a checkpoint manned by two Imperial Guards.
"The official machinery grinds ponderously. They seek broad strokes, obvious culprits. We," he tapped his temple, "seek the singular, telling anomaly. The detail was lost in their noise."
He approached the senior guard, a sergeant whose expression suggested he'd had enough of the day already.
