The sky was grey and rumbled with the promise of downpour—like a monk reciting a mantra, the weather hung heavy and unbroken. Even the light seemed to hesitate, unsure if it should pierce the clouds or stay its hand.
"Sir, have you heard the news?"
The voice came just as I was settling into my office.
"Good morning, Sir Henry," I said, tucking a stack of sealed documents under my arm. "And what news might you be bringing so early?"
"Ah—good morning, Sir Benson," he replied, a bit winded, his hat still dripping from the drizzle outside. He had that expression civil servants wear when duty collides with curiosity. "I meant—the reports from the capital. You've seen the broadsheets?"
"Not yet," I admitted, stepping past him toward the carriage waiting beyond the threshold. The brass fixtures on its doors glinted faintly, dulled by soot and rain.
"Where are we headed, Sir?" Henry asked as he climbed in beside me.
"To the containment facility," I replied, unfolding the newspaper I had purchased earlier. The paper felt damp between my fingers, its ink bleeding faintly at the edges. "I've just received authorization to deploy a new operative."
His brow arched. "Oh? Who might that be, Sir?"
"Märchen," I said absently, eyes still fixed on the page.
Henry froze halfway through lighting his pipe. "What! They're permitting them? To Therian?"
I said nothing at first. The wheels began to turn, and the world outside blurred to smudged shades of brick and fog. I found the article I'd been looking for: Special Advisor to Therian Diplomat Reported Missing. A woman's photograph—pale white hair, eyes like blue moonstone—stared back at me from the page.
"They're requesting aid," I murmured.
"Yes! That's the one," Henry said, shaking his head as he finally struck his match. "The ambassador and his retinue left for the port this morning. The situation's a hornet's nest, Sir. No one knows whether this will lead to talks or to blood."
He took a drag from his pipe. Lavender and tobacco mingled in the air, softening the carriage's musty scent.
I turned another page. Police apprehend leader of major smuggling ring attempting to cross the border. Curious. The headline carried more weight than it should have. The smuggler's name was redacted—a black bar across history.
"The Ministry's been keeping quiet," Henry added. "Three investigations, no press release. You know what that means."
"That we're not supposed to ask," I said dryly.
The city began to thin. The chorus of vendors, the shouts of carriage boys, and the clang of factories faded to the low murmur of rain on the rooftops. Beyond the last line of gas lamps, the countryside unrolled—a palette of wet fields and fog-swathed trees. Hills loomed, solemn as sentinels.
Henry broke the silence only once. "Do you believe they'll cooperate?"
"Do you?"
He hesitated. "They say Märchen doesn't so much cooperate as… amuse themself with your definition of it."
That was fair. Märchen was not a person who obeyed. They were a phenomenon you learned to survive.
By the time the prison came into view, the rain had thickened to a cold mist. The facility rose from the valley like an iron tooth, its walls slick with algae and age. It was officially called the Westmarch Containment Bastion—a fortress built for those the Crown wished to forget but could not destroy.
After the usual exchange of permits and identifications, we were searched and escorted through the outer gates. The air smelled of oil, stone, and ozone—residual mana, tightly leashed.
"Never liked this place," Henry muttered as we passed through a hall lined with sigils that glowed faintly at our approach. "Feels like the walls are watching."
"They are," I said, and meant it.
We stopped before a reinforced door. The warden greeted us with the formality of a man used to fearing his own prisoners.
"You're here for the containment subject Märchen, yes?"
I handed him the stamped writ. "We are to transfer Märchen under Section 7, for temporary field deployment."
He read it, frowned, and gestured for us to follow. The corridor beyond was lined with pipes that hissed softly, venting mana-infused steam. Each door bore an insignia—a number, a rune, a warning.
At the end stood the chamber.
The room was vast, its walls mirrored to distort distance. Suspended in its center was a transparent cube—a cell of reinforced crystal and binding runes. Within it hung a figure, bound in a straitjacket and gag, suspended by silver chains that vanished into the ceiling.
Even in restraint, Märchen had presence. Their hair was white—not aged, but luminous, like moonlight filtered through water. The gag hid their mouth, but not the smile implied by their stillness.
Henry exhaled softly. "I've read their file, Sir, but most of it sounds like… fiction. Or heresy."
"Truth tends to sound like both," I said.
He looked to the warden. "How do we transport them?"
"Give me a moment," the warden said, stepping away to the console at the room's edge.
A low hum filled the air as mana conduits flared to life. The cube began to glow. The temperature dropped. White-grey vapor began to coil within, twisting lazily around the figure inside like smoke seeking an altar flame.
The warden returned. "They are sedated, for now. Don't open the chamber, no matter what you hear."
Henry shifted uneasily. "Hear?"
The warden only said, "You'll understand," and signed the release papers.
The containment cell was lowered along an overhead track, sliding through layers of enchantment until it met the loading platform where the airship waited. Soldiers stood in formation, their uniforms immaculate despite the drizzle.
When we boarded, the engines were already humming, low and steady like the heartbeat of something ancient.
Henry lit another pipe. "So," he said, "we're really going through with this. Even after Miss Seliregina refused?"
"It's what the higher-ups want," I answered, settling into the seat opposite him. "They believe the outcome will justify itself."
He blew out a long ribbon of smoke. "Pitch three problems against each other and hope they cancel out, eh?"
"Plausible deniability," I murmured.
Henry smirked faintly. "You always did have a way of making madness sound like policy."
"Only because, in our line of work, it often is."
Outside, the clouds pressed low and close. The airship rose, cutting through mist that clung to its hull like reluctant ghosts. The city shrank below us—a mosaic of lights swallowed by the greying horizon.
The hum of the engines became the only rhythm. Between us, the containment cube vibrated faintly, as though something inside had begun to stir.
"Do you hear that?" Henry whispered.
I did. A faint sound—neither word nor sigh—like the echo of laughter carried through glass.
"Sedation's wearing off," I said. "We'll maintain altitude until they stabilizes."
"Stabilizes," Henry repeated, watching the vapors swirl. "You make it sound as though that thing chooses when to be sane."
"Maybe it does."
For a moment, the clouds parted, and sunlight spilled through the cabin. It caught on the crystal cell, scattering into a prism of muted color. Märchen's eyes flickered open. Just for a heartbeat.
Grey as stormwater.
Then they closed again.
Henry pretended not to see. I didn't bother pretending.
We flew on in silence. The world below disappeared into fog, and with it, the last comfort of certainty.
"Whatever they think they're controlling," I said at last, "they've already lost."
Henry didn't reply. He just stared at the cloud-veiled horizon and muttered, almost reverently, "Then may God help whoever finds themselves in its path."
And somewhere in the humming dark of the ship, Märchen twitched.
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