The trio headed upstairs. There, they found Garron standing with his arms crossed and a fresh black eye blooming on his face.
"So… what happened last night?" he asked, voice flat as a cutting board, eyes locked on Lox.
Lox, groggy and sore from sleeping in a cold basement, let out a defeated sigh. "Alright… I'll tell you everything."
And he did—every fumbling step, from the garden to the blackout, the corpse to the cave, all of it poured out like water from a cracked jug.
Garron sucked in his cheeks, moving his tongue like he was tasting something sour. "Hmm. So you had a vision of some cave... and Rosario had that same vision?"
He turned to Rosario. "Alright, hotshot. You've got powers? Let's see 'em."
Rosario tilted his head. "Do you have a longsword… and something I can slice?"
Garron grunted and wandered off. "We've still got the one my wife used back in her sword-swinging days. Should be somewhere back here—ahh, here it is."
He returned holding a longsword—slightly nicked, but well-maintained, with a faint engraving running down the fuller.
"She nearly cut a man in half with this thing once," Garron added. "I just held the legs."
He handed the weapon over. "Don't chip it."
Rosario took the sword and gave it a few clean test swings. His posture shifted. Shoulders squared. Breathing steady. His focus locked in—not mystical, just sharp, like muscle memory meeting instinct.
"What about a target?"
Garron pointed to a thick stack of embalming linens folded on a bench. "That'll do. Dense enough."
The others watched closely—Lox leaned forward, Luck stayed motionless, and even Garron stepped aside with a curious squint.
Rosario stepped up to the stack, blade held low.
And then—he moved.
The sword carved downward in one seamless arc—no wasted motion. No grunt. Just a whisper of steel.
A thick stack of embalming linens split cleanly in half—along with the wooden bench beneath them.
But what caught everyone off guard was the angle—Rosario hadn't stepped close enough to reach the bench, not with a regular blade.
Lox blinked. "Wait. You weren't close enough to hit that."
Garron stepped forward, narrowing his eyes. "Do that again."
Rosario lifted the sword, shifted his stance, and gave it another smooth swing—this time aimed just past a hanging cloth roll on the wall.
The cloth split in two.
The sword itself hadn't changed—no glow, no shimmer, no extra length.
Luck exhaled through his nose. "So your power is… what? An invisible blade extension?"
Rosario nodded, lowering the weapon. "Feels like it stretches. Maybe three feet past the actual tip. I can… feel the edge out there."
Lox scratched his head. "That's it?"
Luck crossed his arms. "I mean, sure—it's cool. But once someone sees the pattern, they'll dodge. Doesn't feel… I don't know, magical."
Rosario chuckled. "Didn't say it was. Just said it works."
Lox tilted his head. "So we've got mystery powers, and yours is slightly more sword."
Luck added, "Makes you wonder if mine'll be slightly more bow or mildly better hiding."
Rosario rolled his eyes.
But Garron didn't laugh. He tapped the blade with a knuckle, thoughtful.
"In a real fight, even a few inches can make the difference. You give a man three feet he didn't account for? That's a slit throat before his brain finishes blinking."
He gave Rosario a look. "Doesn't need to be flashy. Just needs to kill."
Lox stepped forward. "Let me try."
Garron handed him the sword.
Lox mimicked Rosario's stance, exhaled, and swung.
Nothing. Just air and a faint wobble of the blade.
Luck gave him a slow clap. "Well done. Very intimidating."
"Maybe it only works with weapons Rosario's familiar with," Lox muttered, handing it back.
"Could be," Rosario said. "I've trained with longswords since I was thirteen."
Garron nodded. "Then it's time to test that theory."
Rosario tightened his grip.
"We head to the dojo."
The dojo was nearly empty—on Sundays, most citizens gathered at the Sanctum of Thalor, offering prayers to the Warden of Order.
Still, the faint sound of grunts echoed through the quiet hall.
Inside stood Instructor Sharp, alone, sweat dripping down his brow as he moved with fluid precision. His blade sliced the air in practiced arcs, each swing more focused than the last.
Garron stepped into the dojo, boots echoing faintly against the polished floor.
"Instructor Sharp," he greeted with a curt nod.
The man in question paused mid-swing—tall, lean, and carved from stone. Sweat glistened on his brow, but his gaze remained calm and unreadable.
Sharp returned the nod. That was all. Then he resumed his drills, blade slicing through the air in sharp, economical cuts. Focused. Controlled. Stoic as always.
Garron didn't press him.
He motioned for the boys to follow and led them toward a side hallway lined with racks of practice weapons. At the far end, they entered a private sparring chamber—stone-walled and quiet, lit only by slatted windows above.
Garron approached a rack, scanned it, then pulled down a narrow, silver-edged rapier. He turned and looked at Lox.
"Let's see what you've got."
Without warning, he tossed the rapier through the air.
Lox snatched it mid-flight, barely managing to hold the slender blade steady. He stared at the point for a moment, heart thumping, a dozen thoughts running wild through his head.
"So... what exactly did you do, Rosario?"
Rosario crossed his arms. "Just close your eyes. Focus on where you felt the pain—in the vision."
Lox hesitated, then shut his eyes. He drew a slow breath and reached inward, to that moment—heat, pressure, something primal and unbearable. Then... cold. Still. Silent.
A sudden glow lit the room.
The others blinked in surprise.
From beneath Lox's shirt, at the base of his right shoulder, a faint blue light pulsed outward—soft, ethereal. As it brightened, the shape of a sigil began to form beneath the fabric—a snowflake, intricate and symmetrical, glowing like moonlight on frost.
"Uh… Lox?" Rosario said. "Take off your shirt."
Lox opened one eye. "If this awakens anything in you, I'm walking home."
"Off," Garron grunted, already walking over.
Grumbling, Lox peeled off his shirt. There, etched across his right shoulder like a brand made of starlight, was the sigil—icy blue, slowly rotating in place, and cool to the touch.
Luck stepped closer, eyes narrowed. "That's where you felt the burn in your dream?"
Lox nodded. "Right there."
As they watched, frost began to creep down the length of the rapier again—faster this time, more deliberate. He stepped forward and slashed at the wooden post.
The impact was clean—but what followed was immediate: the entire post froze over, thick with frost that crackled outward in jagged veins. Within seconds, the wood was covered in a shell of pale, brittle ice, groaning.
Everyone stared.
"...Huh," Garron said. "Well, that's new."
Lox stood dumbfounded, still holding the weapon, breath visible in the sudden chill.
Luck crossed his arms.
"So Lox gets cryo-magic and Rosario gets... discount reach. Nice."
Rosario cracked his neck.
"Want to see how far it reaches up your ass?"
Luck blinked.
"Wow. That sword's not the only thing that's overcompensating."
Garron exhaled, pacing slowly toward the frozen post. He tapped it with his knuckle. A sharp crack echoed as a chunk of frost broke off.
"Kid, you could freeze someone's arm clean off with that," he muttered, eyes narrowing. "Hell, maybe worse if you hit the right spot."
He turned toward Lox. "Alright. Time to clean this up."
Lox straightened, alert.
Garron exhaled through his nose and rubbed his nose.
"Alright. So the butler let you in. You talked in her office. Took a walk in the gardens. You fainted. Woke up in her room. Then what?"
"I left," Lox said quietly. "Middle of the night. Slipped out."
Garron gave a dry laugh. "So you were let in the house, walked through it, were seen in the garden, passed out, probably carried by staff into her room, then vanished without a word. And now she's missing."
Silence followed.
"There's no pretending you weren't there," Garron muttered. "They're gonna remember everything. Your face. The timing. Hell, the butler welcomed you. That puts you on record. Probably expected."
Luck grimaced. "That's about as subtle as a warhorn."
"Which means," Garron continued, "once someone reports her missing—or worse—they're coming for you first. And when they do, your alibi needs to be clean, simple, and boring."
He looked Lox dead in the eyes. "If anyone asks, you went to visit her yesterday. You chatted, walked, then felt sick. She or the staff had you lie down. You rested, and when you woke up, she was nowhere to be found. So you left. No panic, no drama."
Lox swallowed. "And if they ask why I didn't tell anyone?"
"Because you're a dumb lovesick boy who thought she was ignoring you. You didn't want to bother anyone. You went home. Simple."
Garron stepped in, voice even but heavy with urgency.
"And when they ask where you spent the night?"
"At my place," Lox replied, swallowing hard. "I wasn't feeling well. Figured she was busy. Didn't want to be a burden."
Garron gave a single nod. "Exactly. Sick. Quiet. Alone. No one saw you leave. You were never even there."
Lox looked down, fingers twitching slightly.
"And if they press harder?"
"Stick to it," Garron said. "You're a soft little noble with a cold and a crush. You didn't report her missing because you didn't think it was a serious matter. That's all."
He turned to Rosario and Luck.
"You two, go home. Stay low. Keep quiet."
Rosario nodded. Luck shrugged. "Not like I had a parade planned."
Garron ignored the jab. "If I catch wind that either of you breathed a word about last night, even to a dog, I'll dig your graves myself."
With that, Garron turned his back and walked toward the rack of practice swords.
Lox stood there a moment longer, then quietly slipped away.
Later, he returned to his family home.
The house was still. Silent.
A note sat on the kitchen table in his mother's delicate handwriting:
Dinner's in the fridge. Heat it if you're hungry. Love you.
He stared at it without touching it.
The air in the house felt colder than the frost still clinging to his skin.
Upstairs, he stepped into the shower and let the hot water run.
The tears didn't come at first.
But when they did—
They didn't stop.
Lox stepped out, dressed sharp, as always when heading to see her: a pressed jacket, neat cuffs, and clean boots. To anyone watching, it looked like just another visit.
But it wasn't.
He hadn't eaten. Couldn't. The ache in his chest hollowed him too deep for hunger to reach.
By the time he reached the great gate to the Third Ring, dusk had already begun bleeding into the sky, tinting the clouds a bruised gray.
A different guard was on duty—older, broad-shouldered, with a scar down one cheek and a bored look behind his helm. Perry must've had the day off.
Lox handed over his paper without a word.
The guard scanned it, grunted, and motioned toward the side.
The personnel door creaked open. Lox stepped inside.
Beyond it stretched a short corridor flanked by soldier quarters—a checkpoint to monitor movement between the rings. He passed two soldiers chatting near a weapon rack. One gave a polite nod. The other didn't look up.
At the far end, a final guard opened the last door.
"Safe trip, sir," he said automatically, holding it just long enough for Lox to step through.
And then he was in.
The air was cleaner here. Still. But colder somehow.
He took the familiar path toward Elandra's estate. The polished streets, the marble fountains, the pristine facades—all blurred past him like scenery in a dream. The opulence felt distant now. Hollow.
Above, the clouds gathered like a funeral shroud.
And at the end of the road stood her house.
But she wouldn't be there.
At the end of the manicured walkway, Lox approached the front door of Elandra's estate. He hesitated only a moment before raising a hand to knock.
Before his knuckles made contact, the door creaked open.
The butler stood there, just as prim and composed as always—black coat pressed, silver pin glinting at the collar—but something in his eyes had shifted. The usual warm indifference was gone. In its place: suspicion.
"Master Lox," the butler said, bowing ever so slightly. "We were expecting you."
Lox gave a faint nod and stepped inside.
The interior of the estate hadn't changed—the same marble-tiled floor, the same perfume of lavender and lemon polish in the air—but the energy was different. Quieter. Tense.
In the sitting room just off the main hall, a man rose from an armchair as soon as Lox entered.
He wore a long gray coat with a high collar, slightly wrinkled as if he'd been wearing it too long, and a pinched-brim hat sat on the side table beside him. His hair was copper-blond and slicked back, and his smile came quickly and broadly.
"Well, well. You must be Lox Faelix," he said, striding forward with a kind of theatrical confidence, hand already extended. "Detective Mirth. Caldus Mirth. I've been very curious to meet you."
His tone was chipper, but his eyes were sharp—amber like warm whiskey, and just as hard to read.
He didn't wait for Lox to shake his hand before turning, gesturing toward the nearest sofa.
"Come in, come in. No need to look so grim. We're just chatting." He paused, then flashed a grin. "Unless, of course, you've got something to be grim about."
The butler remained in the doorway, silent.
Lox didn't answer. He stepped inside, the door shutting quietly behind him.
The warmth he once knew had curdled. The lavender perfume clung to the walls like a lie, and the fireplace crackled too politely—every cushion is in place. Every surface is spotless.
A man rose slowly from a high-backed chair near the hearth.
He was tall, lanky in the way of a man who never rushed. His coat, a storm-gray wool, was tailored too sharply for comfort—silver collar pin. Polished boots. His hair was copper-blond, slicked back like polished brass. His skin pale, his eyes sharp—amber, bright, and just too still.
His smile unfurled slowly, deliberately.
"Master Faelix," he said. "Detective Caldus Mirth."
His voice was warm velvet—soft, unthreatening, but heavy with implication, like a noose made of ribbon.
Lox gave a quiet nod. "Detective."
"Come," Mirth said, gesturing to the opposite chair. "Sit. Let's talk."
Lox stepped in. The butler stood by the door, his expression unreadable—but his presence alone made the room feel smaller.
Mirth eased back into his seat, folding one leg over the other. He laced his fingers and tilted his head.
"You came here last night."
"Yes."
"Through the front. The butler greeted you."
"Yes."
"You walked to Miss Elandra's office and waited while she finished her paperwork."
Lox nodded. "We talked. Then walked in the garden together."
"Romantic," Mirth murmured. "And after that?"
"I fainted. Lost consciousness."
Mirth didn't blink. "And woke up in her bed."
"I assume she had me moved. I wasn't well."
"She did," Mirth said, matter-of-fact. "The staff confirmed it. They carried you under her instructions. Said you looked pale. She told them not to disturb you."
Lox's shoulders eased slightly, but only slightly.
Mirth continued, voice calm as ever. "So. Let's review: you arrived. You were let in. Spoke privately. Walked together. Then fainted. She had you moved. You slept. And in the middle of the night—quietly—you left."
"Yes," Lox said.
"She hasn't been seen since."
Lox's eyes widened. "I—I didn't know. Are you sure?"
"She never left the house," Mirth replied. "Her room is untouched. Slippers by the bed. Tea is still warm. The dog is still napping. But her?"
He gave a tiny shrug. "Gone."
Lox struggled for words.
Mirth's gaze didn't soften. "Funny thing. People don't just vanish. Not noblewomen. Not in locked estates. Not without someone seeing."
"I swear, I don't know anything else," Lox said. "I was confused when I left. I didn't mean to sneak out—I just panicked."
"And yet here you are," Mirth said, his voice almost sympathetic. "Back again. Fresh collar. Boots polished. Hair combed. Checking in. Checking… what, exactly?"
Lox's mouth opened. Closed again.
Mirth leaned forward, fingers steepled. "Did Miss Elandra mention any visitors recently? Gifts? Anything strange in the household?"
Lox hesitated. "She said someone gave her dog a new collar. A gift. From Marchioness Ismeria."
A pause.
Mirth blinked—slowly. "Ah. The Marchioness."
A sliver of a smile returned, but it didn't reach his eyes this time. "Always generous."
He stood and smoothed the front of his coat with precise fingers. Two guards entered the room, quiet and professional.
"We'll continue this at the tower," Mirth said. "Just routine."
"I didn't do anything."
"Then you'll be out by morning."
That night, Lox sat alone in the tower cell.
A narrow box of stone, barely wide enough to stretch his arms. The ceiling hung low, the air stale and damp.
Rust streaked the iron bars like dried blood. In the corner, a chipped bucket reeked of old use. There was no window. No sky. Only the steady drip of water and the suffocating quiet.
The torchlight flickered like breath on the edge of a dying fire, casting shadows that twitched and reached across the stone.
The bench beneath him was cold, but it wasn't the chill that made him shiver.
He sat upright—too tired to sleep, too afraid to close his eyes.
What haunted him wasn't that she was gone.
It was how she had vanished.
Without struggle. Without a trace.
Like something had chosen her.
And worst of all—
He had been right there.
And never saw it coming.