The morning light broke through the city's gray mist, painting the wet cobblestones in a dull silver. Cliffdon walked beside Reinhead, his mind still replaying the fight from the night before. The faces under those hoods, the clash of blades, the smell of smoke—it all refused to leave him.
They didn't speak much on the way. Reinhead's usual calm felt heavier today, as if he was already thinking three steps ahead.
By the time they reached the slums, the sun was just a pale disc above the rooftops. The streets here were narrow, the buildings leaning in like they wanted to hide the road from the sky. Children darted between shadows, and the air smelled faintly of damp paper and old stone.
At the back, there was a small door. Reinhead opened it, and they stepped into a tiny room. The door closed, and the floor began to move down like an elevator. The sound of chains and gears filled the quiet.
When the floor stopped, the door opened into a big room. A receptionist sat at a desk, waiting for them.
"Mr. Williams, Mr. Reinhead," she said politely. Then she stood and walked to a large metal door. With a heavy pull, she opened it, and the sound of locks clicking echoed through the room.
They stepped inside the base. Cliffdon walked calmly beside Reinhead—he had been here before and knew the way.
After a short walk through the wide halls, they stopped at a wooden door with a brass plate that read Inspector.
Reinhead knocked twice.
"Come in," Hangson's voice called from inside.
They entered the office. Hangson sat at his desk, setting aside a stack of papers.
"Mr. Williams. Reinhead," Hangson said in a formal tone. "please sit down."
They sat across from Hangson. His sharp eyes moved from Reinhead to Cliffdon.
"I read your report about last night," Hangson said. "The church."
Reinhead gave a small nod. "The guild members were ready for us, but we cleared them out."
Hangson turned to Cliffdon. "And you, Mr. Williams? How did you handle it?"
Cliffdon's tone was flat. "I didn't have a choice. I just had to fight."
"You did well," Hangson said. "But there's more ahead."
He opened a folder on his desk. "Our next target is a noble named Ramstein. He has been illegally helping a guild from inside the kingdom. We don't yet know which guild it is."
Cliffdon stared at him, then at Reinhead. "And when were you planning to tell me about this?"
Reinhead raised an eyebrow. "Just now."
Cliffdon's voice rose. "So I was dragged into last night's fight without warning, and now you want me to go after a noble? Do I get any say in this?"
Hangson's tone stayed calm. "Mr. Williams, Ramstein's actions are dangerous to all of us. If he is helping a guild, he could lead them straight to you. We cannot ignore that."
"That's not the point," Cliffdon said sharply. "You keep deciding for me."
Reinhead leaned forward, his voice firm but low. "If you want to survive, you'll have to get used to this. The guilds will not wait for you to feel ready."
Cliffdon clenched his jaw but said nothing.
Hangson closed the folder. "You leave tonight. The longer Ramstein works for them, the more damage he can do."
The morning air was cold as Cliffdon, Reinhead, and a small group of specially trained officers stepped through the narrow streets of the slums toward the waiting carriage.
Inspector Hangson had given the order himself — today they were to investigate Lord Ramstein's mansion. Ramstein was no ordinary noble; whispers claimed he had dealings with a dangerous guild, though no one knew which one.
Cliffdon hadn't wanted to take this job. The thought of sneaking into a nobleman's home made his blood boil. But Reinhead had reminded him — he still had a little sister to protect. And in this world, refusing the Secret Police was not an option.
The carriage rolled out of the city center and toward the wealthier districts. Soon, the cracked stone buildings gave way to elegant homes and manicured gardens. At the far end of a long lane stood Ramstein's mansion, tall and shadowed under the pale light.
The officers split into pairs, slipping around the sides and back of the house, while Cliffdon and Reinhead took the front. Reinhead picked the lock quickly — too quickly — and the heavy door swung open with a faint groan.
Inside, the air smelled faintly of dust and something sharper, like oil.
"Stay sharp," Reinhead murmured. "We don't know what he keeps in here."
The search began methodically.
The mansion's grand entrance was eerily silent. Chandeliers hung like frozen waterfalls, catching what little light seeped through the heavy curtains.
In the study, Cliffdon's eyes caught the first sign that something was wrong. The corner of a carpet was crumpled, as if it had been hastily shoved back into place. He pulled it aside and found deep scratches in the wooden floor, like furniture had been dragged.
In the dining room, one of the officers found a shattered wine glass under the table — shards scattered in a way that suggested it had been broken in a hurry, not an accident.
The library upstairs had its own strange scene: several books had been pulled halfway from the shelves, but not in a messy way — more like someone had been searching for something in a hurry and knew exactly where to look.
Reinhead knelt by the desk in that room. "Mr. Williams. Come here."
In the desk's top drawer lay a small, leather-bound diary. The cover was worn smooth, the corners scuffed. A quick flip through revealed a neat, careful handwriting — but the entries were short, sometimes only a sentence or two, as though each one was a note to remind the writer of something they didn't want to forget.
Most entries seemed harmless at first:
'Dinner with the minister delayed. Change meeting place.'
'Black powder shipment due next week. Keep in cellar.'
But then there were stranger ones:
'Do not open the cellar on nights when the wind turns east.'
'The man with no shadow must never enter the library.'
Cliffdon frowned. "What is this supposed to mean?"
Reinhead shook his head. "These aren't normal business notes. These are codes, or warnings… meant for someone who already knows what they mean."
As they turned another page, Cliffdon noticed something odd. The ink on one entry was thicker, as if the pen had pressed harder. He tilted the diary toward the window light — and saw faint indentations of letters from a previous page.
"Hold on," he muttered.
They moved to the desk and spread a sheet of paper over the page. Reinhead handed him a stick of charcoal from a drawer. Slowly, Cliffdon rubbed it over the surface, and the faint letters began to emerge:
> "If they come, burn the circle and close the mirror."
Both men stared at the words.
Reinhead's jaw tightened. "That's not noble business. That's ritual language."
Before Cliffdon could ask what he meant, one of the officers called from the hall.
In the bedroom at the far end of the hall, the search team had found something strange — a tall mirror with its surface cracked in a spiderweb pattern, but not shattered. Around its frame, the wood was scorched black, as if fire had licked at it without ever touching the glass.
The sight made the room feel colder.
Reinhead glanced at Cliffdon. "Use your power. Search for anything hidden."
Cliffdon hesitated. "Here? Now?"
"Now," Reinhead said firmly.
Cliffdon closed his eyes, drawing on the strange energy that had always been buried inside him — the one he had never dared to use until today. It rose through him like cold smoke, curling into the edges of the room. His senses stretched, brushing against the walls, the floor…
At first, there was nothing. Just the empty chill.
Then he felt it — faint, deep under the floor, like a heartbeat muffled by stone. It was gone in a moment, but it had been there.
When he opened his eyes, his breathing was uneven. "There's something… but I can't reach it. It's too far down."
Reinhead's face was unreadable. "Then we're not finished here."
They searched the cellar next — a long, narrow space lined with barrels and crates. But it was too clean. Too organized. And no sign of whatever Cliffdon had felt.
Finally, Reinhead gave the order to pull back. "We've got enough for now. We leave before we're discovered."
As they stepped out into the daylight, Cliffdon glanced back at the mansion. Behind those tall windows, the cracked mirror seemed to watch them leave.
And in his pocket, the diary felt heavier than it should — as if it didn't want to be taken away.