The aroma of roasted beans and freshly baked bread hung in the air, carried lazily by the wind that swept through the streets of Backlund. Patrons chatted in muffled tones, the clinking of cutlery and porcelain providing a steady background rhythm. On one of the outside tables, away from the crowd's press, Adrian sat with his usual posture—perfectly straight, composed, his hands folded loosely in his lap. The porcelain cup before him steamed faintly, untouched.
His gaze, however, was not on the coffee. It lingered instead on the figure across from him: Ronan, whose appetite continued to terrify waiters and impress no one but himself. The wolfish man had already cleared ten plates stacked at his side and was currently working on his eleventh, tearing through roasted lamb with the single-minded focus of a predator.
Adrian's eyes narrowed, not at Ronan, but at the faint gleam of silver in his own palm. He had drawn the pocket mirror again, as if by reflex. The small surface shimmered faintly in the afternoon light, the symbol Klara had conjured into being—the Fool's mark—etched cleanly upon it, impossible to erase. His face betrayed nothing, though a faint tension pulsed beneath his stoicism. His other hand drifted almost unconsciously to the hidden pocket within his coat, brushing the hilt of the concealed blade there.
The mirror reflected no face but his own. No answers but the ones he already knew.
"…What's wrong?" Ronan's voice cut into the silence mid-bite, his mouth full of mutton, crumbs scattering across the table. His golden eyes squinted at Adrian with a faint glimmer of suspicion.
Adrian closed the mirror without hesitation and slid it back into his coat. "Nothing," he said simply, his voice carrying the cool indifference that only ever irritated Ronan further.
He shifted his focus, ignoring the way the wolf man leaned forward. "What of the tasks I left you with? Your situation—your inconveniences. Have they been resolved?"
For once, Ronan paused in his eating, his thick brows climbing high. "…You're weird. You asked me that already."
Adrian blinked slowly, then inclined his head with an air of distant apology. "…It has been a long day."
Ronan snorted, chewing noisily. "It's been half a day, fancy-man. You'd think the world ended in those six hours." His tone was careless, but there was a trace of wolfish amusement curling at the edges of his grin.
Adrian ignored the barb. He exhaled softly, long fingers lifting to press against his left eye. The world tilted—then shifted entirely.
—
In an instant, his vision tore away from the quiet café, unraveling into scryed fragments of the city.
A courtyard filled his gaze first: children chasing one another through uneven cobblestone, their laughter sharp and bright against the dreary backdrop of Backlund's smog. A woman watched them from the stoop, her shawl drawn tight, eyes weary but fond. The simplicity of it all—the mundane warmth—flickered briefly in his mirror-like perception before it dissolved.
A shift—then an alleyway: shadows dripping between brick walls, two men in ragged coats exchanging vials under the cover of ash and smoke. Their words came garbled, but intent was unmistakable: smuggling, contraband, danger coiled at the edges. Adrian catalogued faces, movements, the angle of the dagger at one man's hip—before the vision blurred again.
Another shift—this time, the wide bridge crossing the Tussock River. A constable leaned against the railing, smoking with tired detachment. Beneath him, black water carried debris downstream, the faint shimmer of oil slick distorting the current. Adrian's sight lingered a moment longer, but nothing unusual followed.
Then—
Unit 17. The one parallel to hiis own building. His vision tilted, narrowed, and slipped unbidden into the window of a familiar apartment.
His breath caught. His body remained perfectly still at the café table, but his mind reeled. For there—careless, utterly unguarded—stood Klara.
Her hair tumbled loose as she shrugged off her coat, the sharp lines of her usual composure dissolving in the privacy of her chambers. Fingers worked deftly at buttons, her voice humming faintly to herself. And in the cruel clarity of his scrying, Adrian realized exactly where his gaze had landed—on a moment of transition, of disarray, of bare humanity no one else was meant to witness.
Heat shot across his face. He yanked himself back—too late.
His vision snapped to reality again, his hand falling from his eye. But his composure betrayed him this time. A flush crept unbidden across his skin, faint but undeniable.
Ronan raised a brow mid-chew, swallowing with exaggerated slowness. "Well. That's new."
Adrian inhaled, steadying himself. He reached for his coffee, bringing the porcelain cup to his lips as if drowning his nerves in bitter liquid could erase the last thirty seconds. "…I was scrying through the city."
Ronan tilted his head, wolf ears twitching faintly. Then, with a smirk far too pleased, he asked: "…Saw another woman changing, didn't you?"
"Mhm." Adrian's reply was too clipped, too casual.
That alone was damning.
Ronan's grin widened, sharp teeth flashing in delight. "You like this woman then. First time I've seen you blush."
The cup paused against Adrian's lips. His gaze flicked sharply to Ronan, the faintest edge of annoyance threading through his tone. "…I was simply caught off guard."
The wolf man leaned back in his chair, arms crossing as his grin only widened. "Caught off guard, huh? Sure. Whatever you say, Mirror-boy. But your face says otherwise. For once, that mask cracked."
Adrian set the cup down with deliberate care. The porcelain clicked faintly against the saucer. "…My mind wandered through possibilities."
"Oh, possibilities," Ronan drawled, dragging out the word with an infuriating lilt. "That what they're calling it now?"
Adrian's lips thinned, but he didn't rise to the bait. He straightened his cuffs instead, voice smooth, calm, but betraying just the faintest tremor. "…You're insufferable."
"And you," Ronan grinned, spearing another slice of lamb, "are in denial. Don't worry. The wolf always smells it first. And trust me—what I smell is not 'possibility.' It's interest."
Adrian's jaw tightened, but he said nothing. His hand lingered briefly against the coat pocket where the mirror lay hidden, the symbol burning faintly against its surface.
And in his silence, the image of Klara lingered, unwelcome and unshakable—sharp as truth itself.
Adrian exhaled slowly, a faint sigh slipping between his lips. He rose from his chair with the same unhurried grace as ever, straightening to his full height. The porcelain cup before him was lifted, tilted, and drained in one motion—the bitter coffee sliding down as if it were nothing more than water.
When he set it back down, the sound was quiet, precise. From his coat, he drew a neatly folded banknote. Not ten, not twenty, but fifty pounds. He placed it atop the stack of empty dishes, the sheer amount enough to make the waitress waiting nearby widen her eyes.
Her lips parted as though to protest, but Adrian only inclined his head faintly. "Thank you," he said simply.
The young woman flushed, clutching the note as she bent into a curtsy. "Y-Yes, sir. Please come again!"
But Adrian was already moving. He did not glance back, did not pause. His long strides carried him past the small white fence enclosing the café's tables and onto the crowded street beyond.
"Oi—wait up!" Ronan's voice chased him almost instantly, boots scuffing against the cobbles. The wolf-man jogged forward, his grin wide despite the faint crumbs still clinging to his beard. "You're no fun, you know that? Just up and leave like some ghost. At least let the girl breathe, she was staring at you like you were a—"
Adrian sighed again, low and faint, shaking his head without so much as breaking stride.
Ronan threw up his hands. "See? This is what I mean. No banter, no conversation, nothing! Do you even know how to live?"
Adrian's reply was silence. His shoes struck the cobblestone with the same measured rhythm, his posture unyielding. He offered no explanation, no destination.
Ronan groaned, falling into step beside him. "Fine, be mysterious. I'll play along."
—
Their "patrol," as Ronan liked to call it, stretched into the heart of Backlund's streets. The capital was alive with its usual chaos—smog curling above, vendors crying out their wares, children weaving through carriages as if daring death to catch them.
Adrian walked with his hands folded behind his back, gaze unassuming, but every turn he took seemed deliberate. Though he never spoke it aloud, his vision stretched far beyond these streets. His left eye, when pressed lightly earlier, had cracked open the city itself. He still let it flow now—scrying, searching, watching.
Here, a man about to trip into the path of a carriage. Adrian's stride angled subtly, his hand extending without ceremony to catch the man's sleeve and tug him back. No words. No thanks needed.
There, a beggar's tin cup overturned by careless boots. Adrian stooped mid-step, righted it, and returned the coins before continuing on. The beggar's voice cracked in gratitude, but Adrian never even turned.
Ronan, of course, was the opposite.
Every few minutes he dashed off, disappearing into the crowd. Once to help a mother wrangle her children as they darted too close to an open canal. Once to lift a toppled cart as the merchant wailed about spilled apples. And once, quite literally, to snatch a thief by the collar mid-run and dangle him upside-down until the constables arrived.
Each time he returned, he wore a new accessory of his own chaos.
By the second errand, a bundle of twigs stuck out of his shaggy hair. By the third, a soot-smudge stained his cheek from wrestling with a chimney-slicked boy. And now, dangling from his broad shoulders, was a scrawny orange cat that had apparently decided Ronan was its new perch.
Adrian didn't so much as glance. He continued, pace unbroken.
Finally, Ronan caught up, panting slightly. "You… walk too fast," he accused, pointing a finger at Adrian as the cat clawed gently at his coat. "And you didn't even wait. What if I got lost? You'd just keep on striding, huh?"
Adrian gave the faintest tilt of his head, though his eyes were elsewhere—already scanning the surroundings with quiet precision.
They had arrived before a public bulletin board, the wood plastered thick with flyers, notices, and scraps of paper pinned in a clutter of messages. Employment postings beside missing pet ads. Church sermons beside warnings about counterfeit banknotes. The smell of ink and glue mingled sharply in the air.
Adrian paused before it, his gaze flicking between each scrap as though searching for a piece in an unseen puzzle.
Ronan leaned against the frame with a grunt, brushing at his hair until the twigs fell out. The cat stretched across his shoulder, tail swaying lazily. He followed Adrian's stare with growing impatience. "…Alright. What are we looking at, exactly?"
Adrian said nothing. His eyes tracked across the layers, his mind sifting—through shapes, through names, through the hidden threads of truth embedded even in something as mundane as public postings.
Ronan huffed, reaching up to scratch the cat absently. "You're killing me here. All these papers and not a single one mentions free food, so what's the point?"
But Adrian's hand finally lifted. His gloved fingers brushed across the board, sliding past a notice of dockworker strikes, past an advertisement for imported wines, before pinching cleanly onto a small business card pinned at the bottom corner.
A simple ad. Black ink on white.
Sherlock Moriarty, Private Detective.
Discreet Investigations. Reasonable Fees.
Adrian studied it with the faintest flicker of expression. A smile—not wide, not showy, but there. Subtle as a crack in stone.
"…A lead," he murmured.
Ronan blinked, eyebrows rising. "A lead? That's it? Just some detective's ad? We're standing in front of a treasure trove of opportunities and you pick the guy charging a shilling an hour to stalk cheating husbands?"
Adrian tucked the card neatly into his coat. "Every thread begins somewhere.".
A thread tied, however faintly, to the Fool.
To Klara.