Yvain chuckled but said nothing. He could tell the crowd had adored Celeste's theatrics more than his own one-sided, dreary dismantling. They loved the spectacle, efficiency be damned.
As the dust settled and the announcer prepared to call the next bout, Fenn returned. This time not alone. At his side walked a woman whose presence seemed deliberately out of place in the blood-drenched arena. She wore a noble's gown of deep blue, her corset cinched so tight it might once have been fashioned to bind slaves. In one hand she carried a lacquered umbrella, in the other a delicate handkerchief pressed to her nose, as though the very air offended her.
The woman's eyes swept over them with polite indifference, until they caught Celeste. Then, like shutters opening to the sun, she permitted herself a gracious smile.
"This is the Comtesse Justine Mercier," Fenn announced, gesturing as if unveiling treasure. "She was most impressed by your valor in the arena and wishes to inquire whether you already have a sponsor." The last part he directed to Celeste alone.
Celeste smiled back, her lips peeled slightly to show teeth still streaked in crimson. "I have none."
Justine glided forward, lowering her umbrella. "Then you must let me change that."
Celeste glanced toward Yvain. She would never voice it aloud, but often, even in her arrogance, she deferred to him. It was habit born of blood and prophecy. He was to be her emperor, her husband. One day, her victim.
Fenn caught the pause, panic flickering in his eyes at the thought of losing such an opportunity. "I assure you, there are few patrons who could offer what the Comtesse places within reach."
Justine extended her hand, perhaps to brush Celeste's cheek, but the younger woman blocked it with a casual flick of her wrist. The noblewoman's smile faltered. "My apologies," she said softly, lowering her hand. "It is only—you have such a singular face."
Yvain inclined his head once, a quiet signal. Celeste followed his lead.
Fenn's relief broke into a wide grin. "Excellent. Then we should make our way to the Comtesse's villa at once, to finalize matters."
"I have a prior appointment," Yvain interjected flatly.
"I haven't fought yet," Mars added, raising a hand as if that detail had been forgotten by all.
"I suppose only the lady is needed," Fenn said, the eagerness in his tone poorly veiled.
"Not to worry. I'll take Adeline with me," Celeste replied, flashing her cousin a look meant to reassure. She knew him too well, he wasn't worried for her, but for those foolish enough to think they could handle her.
With that, the trio departed, leaving Yvain alone with the bard.
Soon, Mars was summoned into the arena to face his trial. Yvain didn't bother to stay. He had seen enough blood for one day. Instead, he slipped into the Inverness coat he had purchased only the day before, its heavy folds concealing his frame in the way he liked, then stepped out into the streets of Necropolis.
He hailed a cab and rode in silence through the gray arteries of the city until the cabman pulled up at Vireline Street. Yvain disembarked, boots crunching on the cobblestones slick with ash and drizzle, and crossed to the small bakery with its sign faded from the weather. The bell above the door tinkled faintly as he entered.
The landlady behind the counter looked up from her ledger and greeted him with her customary smile. He answered with a curt nod before climbing the narrow staircase at the back.
The office above was as wretched as when he had first stepped into it to apply for a job.
A client was there. An elderly woman hunched in her seat, clutching a handkerchief in her fist as though it were a lifeline. She spoke in a trembling voice, recounting to Ivie and Latch the grim details of her son's disappearance.
"I just want to find him," the woman said, dabbing at her nose with the handkerchief, its lace edges already stiff with dried salt.
"We want that too," Ivie said gently, leaning forward in her chair. Her voice had the calm cadence of someone used to untangling frayed stories. "But I need you to recount the events as clearly as you can." She slid a chipped porcelain cup across the desk. "Here. Take a sip."
The woman accepted it with shaking hands and drained the water in one gulp, as though it might wash down her grief. She clutched the empty cup for a moment before continuing.
"My boy—Bret," she began again, steadying herself. "He wasn't always the best child. Used to be wild, got caught up with a bad lot. Ran jobs for the Grey Rose when he was barely fifteen. Fool things, smuggling, lifting coins where he could. I thought I'd lose him to the gallows, or worse." She swallowed hard, voice thinning. "But he got better. He swore it off. Found steadier work at the tannery these past few months, even started sending coin home. He was fixing himself up… becoming someone new."
Her eyes welled, and she twisted the handkerchief until it looked ready to tear. "Then, he just disappears. Didn't come home one night, and I haven't heard from him ever since."
Ivie's quill hovered over her notebook, her gaze steady but not unkind. "Did your son ever mention anyone who might wish him harm? Old debts? Enemies from his earlier days?"
The woman shook her head slowly. "No… not that I can think of. Bret was a reserved sort. Once he pulled himself out of trouble, he kept to himself. Worked, ate, slept. That was his rhythm." Her lip quivered. "He wasn't out spoiling for fights anymore."
"Did you have anything of his?" Ivie pressed, her tone still patient but firmer now.
The woman hesitated, fumbling with the folds of her dress until she produced a small brass pocket watch. Its casing was dented, the chain worn thin with years of use. She held it out with both hands as though offering a relic.
"This was his," she whispered. "It belonged to my late husband before him. Bret never parted with the thing. It's why I know he was taken."
Ivie accepted it carefully, feeling the weight in her palm before slipping it into a leather pouch. "We'll be in touch," she assured. Rising, she placed a steadying hand under the woman's elbow and guided her toward the door. Their hushed words carried down the narrow stairwell as she escorted her out.
When Ivie returned, the office was quiet save for the faint whir of gears. From the shadowed corner, Rook stirred, its tall frame of iron and brass unfolding from stillness with a hiss of pneumatics. The automaton crossed the room with mechanical precision and handed a folded sheet to Latch.
"What's that?" Yvain asked, his voice cutting through the soft ticking of the office clock.
Latch unfolded it, glanced briefly, then passed it across. "I had Rook sketch the missing boy."
Yvain took the paper. The lines were neat. Rook's hand had no emotion, only accuracy. A boy's face stared back at him from the parchment: sharp cheekbones, a too-thin mouth, eyes that seemed unsure whether to trust the world or hide from it.
"Quite the looker," Ivie said, looking over Yvain's arm at the sketch. She then took out the pocket watch and tossed it to Yvain. "Time to earn your pay."