Klara backed away from the fork, her boots squelching against the damp concrete that lined the sewer path. She didn't dare step closer to what was left of Zreal's corpse—she had seen enough, smelled enough, and her head still rang with the sharp emptiness of the failed ritual.
There was no spirit to question, no whispers to pull from beyond. Someone had erased Zreal thoroughly.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
The noise came faintly at first, then again, louder this time, echoing through the damp channels of the sewer.
Klara froze, body tense, eyes narrowing into the darkness ahead. She listened. Not rats—too heavy. Boots? Or something dragging?
The sound died down after a few beats, swallowed up by the maze of tunnels. But Klara had heard enough. This was no place to linger.
She turned, moving quickly but without panic, retreating down the filthy passageways with the kind of precise care that came from both experience and the fact that she had no desire to meet whatever else roamed these depths.
There was no sense in risking herself further. Not when the matter was already concluded in the only way that mattered—Zreal was dead, and his spirit devoured.
By the time she reached the ladder, her throat was tight from holding back against the stink. She ascended quickly, each rung slick beneath her gloves, until at last she pushed up and out into the blessed night air.
The manhole cover grated as she slid it back into place. The street above was deserted, nothing but mist curling under the faint glow of a gas lamp. No signs that anyone had been watching her.
Still, Klara's instincts kept her careful. She straightened, brushed the muck from her coat, and forced herself into a casual stride, slipping back into the role of an ordinary detective walking the streets far too late.
By the time she reached her modest rented flat in East Borough, stopped for a moment, then put on her gold-rimmed glasses, walked to another street, took a rented carriage, and returned to Cherwood Borough in the silence and cold of three in the morning. However, she didn't return to Minsk Street.
Then, Klara made another huge detour, and only after confirming that no one was following h, did she enter her house. Which by the time exhaustion had already clawed at her bones. She stripped out of her damp outer coat and gloves, changed swiftly, and collapsed into the bed.
She slept for only a few hours. It wasn't restful. When the sharp, insistent sound of the doorbell rattled through the flat at dawn, Klara sat up immediately, already reaching for the shirt draped over the chair. She dressed briskly—shirt, vest, the faint scuff of her boots pulling on—and hurried downstairs.
Even before she touched the door handle, her instincts thrummed. A quiet weight pressed at her chest, the sense of who waited on the other side.
She opened the door.
Standing there was Ian, the boy with the too-old eyes, his coat threadbare, his satchel worn. His face was delicate, and his eyes—a striking, weary red—met hers with quiet determination.
And of course, he wasn't alone.
Next to him stood Ronan. That wolf-grinning nuisance, as incorrigible as the night she'd first seen him. He grinned when their eyes met, giving her a cheeky wink as if they shared some joke she wasn't in on.
Klara fought back the urge to sigh.
"Good morning, Detective Moriarty," Ian greeted politely, gaze flicking past her into the flat as though expecting shadows to lunge out.
"Good morning, Detective!" Ronan bellowed, slapping his large hand onto Ian's head in a playful pat. The boy winced but didn't pull away. "Me and this lad heard from the Judge that you've got information for us this early morning."
Klara resisted the twitch of her mouth—part annoyance, part grim amusement. So last night hadn't been a coincidence after all. Adrian never left anything to chance. Of course he'd known she would find Zreal's trail. Of course he'd set this meeting before she had even returned home.
She said nothing of it. Instead, she stepped aside and gestured for them to enter.
"Quite so," she said coolly, "though isn't it a tad early for you? I saw you last night patrolling with... him."
She didn't bother to hide the disdain in that last word.
Ronan barked out a laugh, strolling inside with Ian in tow. "Ha! Sleep is a suggestion for someone like me. Because I am great, and amazing, but also we don't really like sleep. But we also do. Get it?"
Klara gave him a thin smile, though inside her mind was already whirring. His mannerisms weren't just eccentric. His energy—restless, sparking, never settling—fit with whispers she had read before. Sleepless. A Beyonder pathway known to discard rest entirely.
Her suspicion sharpened, though she tucked it away neatly behind her neutral expression.
Once they had settled inside, Ian finally found his voice. "Detective... have you determined Mr. Zreal's condition?"
Klara exhaled slowly. She let the silence stretch just long enough to feel weighted before answering.
"Yes," she said, tone clipped, serious. "I found Zreal's corpse."
The boy's pupils shrank. He repeated the word quietly, as though it was too heavy to carry: "Corpse..."
But there was no true surprise in his tone. Only resignation, as though he had already prepared himself for this truth.
"Yikes," Ronan drawled, leaning lazily against her wall. "But that was what the Judge already told him."
Klara shot him a flat look. The gall of the man, sprawled in her flat like it was his den, speaking of Adrian as if the Judge's proclamations were gospel. And manners—did no one ever attempt to drill basic etiquette into him?
Her irritation spiked before her thoughts twisted unbidden: Someone should teach him manners. In fact, someone should teach that judge some manners too. Someone like me.
Klara blinked, startled by her own thought, and quickly crushed it down. Absolutely not.
Ian spoke again, drawing her back. "Your efficiency is amazing, Detective. Can you take me to see Mr. Zreal's body?"
Klara studied him a moment. His shoulders were squared, but his voice betrayed the weight he carried. She nodded slowly.
"No problem. In fact, that's what I was planning to do." She paused, then added, "Though it doesn't need to be said... don't mention me when you go to the police. Not that I imagine you will. The Judge seems... let's say, hostile toward them."
"Hostile doesn't give it justice!" Ronan cackled, throwing his head back. "The entire city—well, apart from its beloved citizens—both hates and fears the Judge."
Klara's eyebrow arched. "And how so?" she asked, voice like a blade pressed to a throat.
"See, your dear Adrian—"
"He's not my—" Klara started sharply, but Ronan ignored her completely, grin widening.
"—hates the government with a passion," he continued, relishing every word. "I won't tell you why, otherwise he'd beat both our heads purple and blue. But I'll tell you this—he's determined to remake this entire world, to build a justice system that actually helps people."
Klara scoffed under her breath, the words slipping out before she could stop them. "Idealistic bastard." She cleared her throat, covering the slip. "But how does that translate to him being hated?"
Ronan's grin sharpened, wolfish, dangerous.
"Because he listens to no one. He goes by his own rules, his own laws. He judges criminals himself—ones the system would otherwise protect—and he tears out corruption by its roots. That's why the city fears him. That's why the powers above hate him."
His voice dropped into a near-whisper, a grin slicing across his face.
"You wouldn't want to be standing on the Judge's scale, Detective. Even a hundred of me wouldn't be able to save you."
Klara's pulse skipped. Her eyes narrowed, but she kept her expression neutral, even amused, though her mind was already dissecting his words.
If Ronan spoke true, then Adrian wasn't simply powerful. He was far along his Path—farther than she had allowed herself to guess. Sequence 8 at minimum. More likely 7. A man like that was not simply dangerous—he was a force.
And he had set his gaze on this city.
On her case.
On her.
Klara forced her lips into the faintest of smirks. Outwardly calm, inwardly lampooning her own fate. Of course. Of course this smurf of a man, this arrogant, idealistic Judge, was going to be the bane of her existence.
Klara shook her head as though the motion could knock loose the thoughts that were threatening to spiral—thoughts of Adrian, of his damned wolfish adjutant, of how the Judge seemed to lurk even when he wasn't in the room. She exhaled sharply through her nose and swept her gaze around her flat, grounding herself in the small, orderly space.
"Where is he anyway?" she asked, her voice brisk, already reaching for the pile of clothes folded neatly on a chair. She dressed with efficient motions, layering the plain, sturdy garb of a common worker over her frame, tugging the hems until they sat correctly. The deer-hunting cap followed, pulled low, shadowing her eyes, and finally she lifted a lantern from its place near the door.
Ronan's grin sharpened when she asked, as though he had been waiting for the question. "He's got a court case today. A corrupted noble—caught red-handed this time. Can you believe these idiots? Embezzling funds meant for projects on floods or whatever. I didn't really care to listen. Not like the case matters anyway."
Klara paused mid-adjustment of her cap and gave him a flat, unimpressed look. "Sounds to me like a very important matter," she muttered, the brim pulled snugly into place.
Ronan only smirked, shoulders lifting lazily. "Oh, Detective. You're new here, aren't you? You wouldn't know. Go on, boy—tell her."
Klara rolled her eyes and turned her attention to Ian, who had been listening in silence. The boy hesitated before speaking, his voice quiet but certain.
"...The court cases are just for show," he said. "Any case that Adrian takes ends with his victory. It's because he already condemns them before the accused ever takes the stand."
A chill prickled down Klara's spine, though she masked it beneath a bland expression. She adjusted the lantern wick instead of answering, the faint hiss of flame filling the silence.
The three of them boarded a public carriage bound for the East Borough. The benches creaked beneath their combined weight, and the horses clopped steadily over cobblestones slick with early morning mist.
Klara sat with her arms folded, lantern at her feet, gaze fixed out the smudged window. The city shifted outside—streets narrowing, grime thickening, faces along the walkways turning harder. People watched the carriage with blank eyes, some glinting with malice, others dulled with resignation.
When they disembarked, the air grew heavier still. They walked for nearly half an hour through twisting lanes and shadow-draped alleys until they reached the remote sewer entrance.
Ian glanced uneasily at the rusted manhole cover, then at Klara. "How did you find it?" he asked, half-surprised, half-curious.
Klara crouched, braced her gloved fingers, and pried the cover aside with a grunt of effort. She didn't look up as she answered, "Skillful training. Reasoning, investigation, tracking, interrogation... all parts of it."
Behind her, Ronan chuckled. "Don't let her fool you, boy. What she means is she's too stubborn to quit once she starts sniffing a trail."
Klara shot him a sharp glance over her shoulder. He only spread his hands innocently, grin unfading.
She shook her head and descended the ladder first, lantern swaying at her side. The smell hit her instantly—sour, rotting, the kind of stench that clung to skin and hair no matter how one scrubbed afterward. She grimaced but forced herself forward.
Ian followed next, jaw clenched, his boots scraping against the rungs. He did not flinch at the odor, though his lips thinned.
Ronan brought up the rear, humming tunelessly to himself, as though the sewers were merely another stage for his endless performance.
The tunnels stretched out in damp silence, walls slick with condensation. Klara held the lantern high, its glow casting grotesque shadows that danced across the filth-streaked bricks. Her mind was taut, senses sharp for any sound beyond their own.
Finally, they reached the fork. She slowed, narrowing her eyes at the corner ahead.
More of Zreal was gone.
Where last night a mangled torso had lain, now an arm and half his ribs were missing. The sight curdled her stomach, though she kept her expression carefully composed.
That's not rats, she thought grimly. Not ordinary ones, at least.
She did not voice the thought. No point frightening Ian more than necessary.
The boy, however, stepped closer, and the lantern's light revealed the truth to him in full. His face went pale. He dropped into a squat before he could stop himself and retched violently, the sound echoing too loudly in the confined space.
Klara winced at the noise, glancing sharply around for movement. Nothing stirred. She exhaled and knelt beside Ian, already unscrewing the vial of Quelaag's Oil she had brought this time. She held it beneath his nose.
The sharp, herbal bite of the oil cut through the stench. Ian's breathing steadied, his eyes flickering with faint relief.
"Thank you..." he whispered hoarsely after nearly twenty seconds.
Klara inclined her head, wordless, and rose again. Ian pushed himself shakily to his feet and forced himself to examine the corpse once more, though his lips trembled.
"I can confirm... that this is Detective Zreal," he murmured.
"My condolences," Klara said quietly, polite but distant. She straightened, brushing dust from her coat. "I suggest you call the judge."
"Okay." Ian nodded faintly, the word barely audible.
Together, they began the walk back toward the ladder.
When they emerged once more into the blessed light of day, Klara clapped her hands sharply, as if to dust the filth of the sewers from her very being.
"This is the end of my mission," she declared, tone brisk. "What happens afterward is in your hands."
Ian stood silent, his shoulders heavy.
Before he could respond, Ronan slung an arm around the boy's shoulders, grinning far too broadly. "Don't worry, bud. I'm sure the Judge and Miss Detective here will catch those crooks as a honeymoon plan!"
Klara bristled instantly, color rising to her cheeks. "Excuse me—!"
But, as always, Ronan ignored her protest. His wolfish grin never faltered as he reached into his coat and produced a small wooden box. He held it out with mock ceremony.
"Oh, by the way, Miss Detective. The Judge wanted you to have this."
Klara stared at him flatly. Fine, fine. I'm just going to ignore you, you boorish, stupid man. She snatched the box from his hands with sharp movements and flipped it open—
—and froze.
Inside lay a gun. Silver, intricate, its frame etched with black ornate designs that seemed to shimmer faintly in the light. It was beautiful, deadly, and when she reached out a tentative hand to lift it, the weight of it vibrated against her palm like a heartbeat.
A note was tucked within. She unfolded it, eyes scanning the words.
Be safe. – Adrian
Her throat tightened unexpectedly. Heat prickled at her cheeks, and she quickly snapped the note shut before Ronan could see her face.
"...Now I feel guilty for all the things I said about him," she muttered, pouting despite herself as she cradled the weapon with uncharacteristic care.
The artifact hummed faintly against her grip. It wasn't just a gift. It was protection. A powerful one.
Ronan, predictably, waggled his eyebrows and slapped a hand over Ian's eyes as though shielding the boy from some indecent scene.
"Will do, Madam!" he crowed with a wolf-whistle when Klara sighed and said, "...Tell him thanks."
Klara rolled her eyes but hugged the gun to her chest all the same, unable to stop herself.
The two left not long after, Ronan still snickering, Ian silent as ever.
Klara stood at her threshold for a moment, staring down at the box in her hands. Then she exhaled, tucked it carefully against her side, and set off.
Her boots carried her a few streets before hesitation tugged at her. She turned abruptly and retraced her steps, slipping into a secluded corner with lantern unlit. She crouched low, gaze fixed on the sewer entrance in the distance.
She waited.
Two minutes passed. Three. No one came.
Finally, she straightened, dusting her palms against her thighs.
...The Judge might personally look into the corpse later. Ian didn't look satisfied just by seeing it.
The thought slithered through her mind, equal parts deduction and instinct. She didn't doubt it.
She also didn't doubt that, if he did, he would uncover truths that remained hidden from her.
The realization should have stung. Instead, Klara found herself... bouncing slightly on her feet as she walked back toward her flat.
Bouncing. Like a girl with a secret she didn't want to admit even to herself.