A low murmur drifted through the hall—whispers slipping from half-finished conversations, merging into a dense cloud of indistinct sound. Sikakama's pupils darted from side to side, tracking moving mouths that never seemed to stop. Their shapes warped unnaturally, stretching wider, voices swelling into a grating noise that pressed against her skull.
For a brief moment, everything froze.
The murmurs died all at once.
Every face turned toward her.
Men in tailored suits and women in elegant dresses stared without blinking, their eyes hollow, stripped of warmth, piercing straight through her. Their expressions carried something buried—contempt, suspicion, quiet judgment. The weight of their gaze tightened around her chest, suffocating—
Sikakama blinked.
Then, suddenly, laughter returned. Conversations resumed. The hall breathed again.
Just a trick of her mind.
At the far end of the tavern, a small raised wooden stage caught her attention. A single spotlight flickered on as a singer stepped forward. Her delicate features emerged from the dimness, her presence calm yet commanding.
It's her, Sikakama realized sharply.
Miss Paloma—singing here, of all places.
Her dress shimmered faintly, a fur stole resting over her shoulders, long gloves hugging her arms. Her lips, painted a deep red, gleamed under the muted light. Behind her, a modest band in tailored suits held their instruments with practiced familiarity.
As the first notes filled the tavern, conversations faltered. Some patrons leaned closer, others pretended not to listen—but every gaze drifted back to the stage. The singer inclined toward a rounded metal microphone.
Her voice flowed—soft, aching, restrained.
"Strange…
I stepped out of spring,
yet you remained inside it.
I count the nights
one by one,
waiting for March…
just to see you again."
"Our last autumn together
was so cold
I couldn't feel a thing—
but now…
everything hurts,
even the silence."
"Every night whispers the same promise,
March will return.
March will knock on my door,
that everything will be the same again,
and I'll finally have a chance
to tell you how I feel."
Annoying…
"The voices around me
grow louder,
the nights stretch longer…
Winter nights
show no mercy."
"I walk alone
through empty streets
and tell myself:
even if my fingers freeze,
even if every fireplace around me dies out…
I will wait."
"I'll wait for March—
sweet, gentle March—
when the flowers bloom
and the warm sun melts
the frost in my heart
before it reaches the earth.
When I hear your voice again,
I'll know it was worth it.
These long winter nights
will never make me forget
my beautiful March."
Sikakama's attention shifted when she caught sight of the nobleman at the back of the tavern.
He lingered only briefly before disappearing upstairs, guards trailing behind him.
The timing felt wrong.
Silently, Sikakama rose from her seat and followed.
---
The upper corridors were narrow and dim, lined with doors leading to private rooms. She pressed herself against the wall, watching the guard stationed outside one door.
A second guard appeared behind her, carrying a drink.
Sikakama reacted instantly.
She seized his arm, twisted sharply, and slammed him down without a sound. A precise strike to his neck silenced him completely.
The guard by the door stiffened at the faint thud. His hand slid into his jacket, fingers brushing the grip of his pistol. He moved cautiously down the corridor—
Too late.
Sikakama emerged from the shadows, clamping a hand over his mouth while striking a nerve point along his neck. His body convulsed once before collapsing soundlessly.
More shadows shifted.
other guards rushing in.
Sikakama moved with controlled precision—sidestepping, disarming one with a flick of her silver knife. Within moments, the corridor fell silent again, bodies groaning faintly on the floor.
Inside the room, the nobleman stood at the balcony, watching the stage below.
He never heard her enter.
A shadow with sharp blue eyes appeared behind him.
Startled, he turned—only to be dragged inside as Sikakama yanked him away from the balcony and pulled the curtains shut. He crashed onto the floor.
"Who are you?" he gasped, glancing desperately toward the door. No guards came.
Sikakama didn't give him time to recover.
"What were you doing last Saturday?"
Confusion flashed across his face—too quick, too rehearsed.
"Who do you think you are?" he barked. "I'll call the tavern management. You'll be arrested!"
He lunged for a vintage landline telephone mounted near the desk.
"You misunderstand," Sikakama said calmly.
She grabbed him from behind. The receiver slipped from his grasp, dangling uselessly as the line went dead.
Her palm struck his face.
He crashed into the table, furniture splintering as it tipped over.
"A boy named Milo was found murdered last Saturday," she continued evenly. "The investigators classified it as a killing by an unknown assailant."
Before he could lift his head, another strike sent him sprawling into a bookshelf. Volumes tumbled down around him.
"The boy had no family," she went on. "And no importance—except that he was a thief."
He staggered to his feet and swung wildly. Sikakama leaned back just enough for his fist to cut through air. He tried again—missed again.
She caught his wrist effortlessly.
"You're weak," she said.
Her knee drove into his stomach. He collapsed, gagging, saliva spilling from his mouth.
"He attended a noble gathering," she added quietly. "And someone there killed him."
Her eyes narrowed as she drew the silver knife. The engraved hilt glinted coldly.
"Where were you last Saturday?"
"I don't know what you're talking about," he rasped. "I've never attended such gatherings. I never killed anyone!"
The knife slipped from her fingers and clattered onto the wooden floor with a sharp sound.
His eyes locked onto it and he noticed the engraved crest—a black heron with its head lowered.
Recognition flickered—then panic.
"That—"
"A silver knife bearing the Ventroth crest," Sikakama said flatly. "Your family's."
She stepped closer.
He scrambled backward, still on the floor.
"Several residents from the eastern district saw you sneaking there at night," she continued. "You thought no one noticed. If you think bribing witnesses or hiding behind your status would protect you—you were mistaken. So I'll ask you one last time. What were you doing that night?"
Sweat beaded on his brow. His mouth opened, but no words came out as he stared into her glassy blue eyes—utterly devoid of emotion.
Then the door creaked open.
Both of them turned.
Paloma stood there.
---
Later, Sikakama sat on the sofa as Paloma dabbed at the nobleman's bruised face with a handkerchief.
After Paloma revealed their secret relationship, silence hung heavy.
"Why didn't you tell her?" Paloma snapped, anger trembling beneath her soft voice.
"I didn't want to ruin your reputation," he said weakly.
Sikakama's gaze sharpened.
"So that's why you kept going to the eastern district," she said. "A nobleman in a secret relationship with a singer born and raised in the eastern quarters."
Paloma stiffened.
"You volunteered information during the investigation," Sikakama added. "Information that conveniently placed you away from the scene. Do you realize that providing false testimony makes you an accomplice in the crime?"
Paloma turned to her, eyes glistening.
"I'm sorry," she said softly. "I kept this from you. But he didn't kill the boy. He was with me before the murder. I was afraid the truth would be twisted."
She hesitated.
"There was another man," she whispered. "A stranger. I won't accuse an innocent person—even if it costs me my life."
"He could be my brother," the nobleman muttered suddenly.
Paloma's face fell.
"You'd sacrifice your own brother for her?" Sikakama asked coolly.
"The dagger you have is correct—it bears the Vinterroth family crest. It was produced in my father's workshop, which specialized in silver knives. He was obsessed with them, yet he never intended to sell them, especially not to common folk struggling for bread. I have no idea how this particular dagger ended up in someone's hands; I was just a child at the time. The workshop was eventually closed, and no more were produced. Paloma had nothing to do with any of this. I loved Paloma from the moment I heard her sing, and even after my family forbade me from marrying her—and even though marrying someone like me could have harmed her—I will pay any price to protect her."
Silence followed.
Sikakama studied them both—every glance, every pause, every word left unsaid.
"I don't take bribes," she said at last.
Then, after a beat:
"But I believe you."
Relief washed over them like air after drowning.
"Thank you," they breathed together.