Duke Karmis left the hospital, his coat collar turned up against the damp, his boots striking the wet cobblestones with a rhythm that had become familiar over the past days. The capital was waking slowly, reluctantly, as if it too felt the weight of the bombing pressing down on its shoulders. Shopkeepers were opening their shutters, servants were sweeping the steps of townhouses, and everywhere—everywhere—there were guards.
They stood at street corners, outside government buildings, at the entrances to bridges and squares. They watched the crowds with cold, assessing eyes, and the crowds watched them back with fear.
The King is tightening his grip, the Duke thought. And the people are choking.
He walked toward the merchant district, where the bombing had not reached but where the fear had settled like a fog. The shops here were quieter than they used to be, the customers fewer, the vendors more subdued. A baker stood in the doorway of his shop, his arms crossed, his face pale.
"Good morning," the Duke said.
The baker's eyes flickered with recognition. "Your Grace. I didn't expect to see you here."
"I'm looking for information. About the day of the bombing."
The baker's face tightened. He glanced over his shoulder, as if checking for listeners, then stepped closer, lowering his voice.
"I don't know anything, Your Grace. I wasn't there. I was here, in my shop, baking bread like I do every day."
"But you must have heard something. Rumors. Whispers."
The baker shook his head. "The only whispers I hear are from the guards. They come by every day, asking questions, taking names. People are afraid to talk."
"Afraid of what?"
"Afraid of disappearing." The baker's voice was barely a whisper now. "There's a man—a tall man, with grey hair and cold eyes—who comes around with a ledger. He writes down names. And the next day, those people are gone. No one knows where. No one asks."
The Duke felt a chill run down his spine. "What does this man look like?"
"I told you. Tall. Grey hair. Cold eyes. He wears a dark coat and carries a silver pen." The baker stepped back. "I've said too much. Please, Your Grace. Don't come back here."
He disappeared into his shop, closing the door behind him.
The Duke stood on the street, the baker's words echoing in his mind.
A tall man with grey hair and cold eyes. A silver pen.
He had heard descriptions like that before. From the Audit Office. From the Palace. From the whispers that traveled through the capital's underground.
The King's Inquisitor.
The man who makes problems disappear.
He walked on, his thoughts churning.
The next shop was a bookbinder's, a narrow building wedged between a tailor and a tobacconist. The window display was dusty, the books inside faded, their spines cracked with age. The door was unlocked, and the Duke pushed it open, stepping into the dim interior.
The air smelled of leather and glue and old paper. A bell chimed overhead, and a woman emerged from the back—thin, grey-haired, her hands stained with ink.
"Your Grace," she said, curtsying. "I wasn't expecting you."
"I'm looking for information about the bombing."
The woman's face flickered—fear, perhaps, or surprise—but she quickly composed herself.
"I don't know anything about the bombing, Your Grace. I was here, in my shop, binding books. I didn't see anything. I didn't hear anything."
"But you must have heard rumors. The customers, the neighbors—someone must have talked."
The woman was silent for a long moment.
"There are always rumors," she said finally. "People talk. They say there was a young man in the slums—a ghost, they called him. The Cold Man. The Walking Shadow. He was there for months, hiding, watching, waiting."
"What did they say about him?"
"That he was pale. Thin. Dark hair, dark eyes. That he moved like a shadow and left cold wherever he went. That he could disappear into the fog and no one would see him go."
The Duke felt his heart tighten. "Did anyone ever see his face?"
"Some said they did. But when they tried to remember it, the memory slipped away. Like water through fingers." She paused. "They say he was the one who planted the bombs. The one who killed all those people."
"Did you believe them?"
The woman was quiet for a long moment.
"I believe that people are afraid," she said. "I believe that they need someone to blame. Whether he's guilty or not..." She shrugged. "It doesn't matter. The Crown has decided. And the Crown's word is law."
The Duke left the bookbinder's shop with a new weight on his shoulders.
The Cold Man. The Walking Shadow.
Leximus.
He was in the slums for months. Hiding. Watching. Waiting.
He walked faster, his thoughts racing.
Why was he there?
What was he waiting for?
And what happened to him after the bombing?
He didn't have answers. Not yet. But he was getting closer.
The rain began to fall again—a light drizzle, barely more than a mist—but the Duke barely noticed. He was lost in his memories, in the questions that had been gnawing at him for days.
Sarah kept him a secret.
She never told me about him.
Why?
Was she protecting him?
Or was she protecting me?
He didn't know. But he intended to find out.
He stopped at the small café near the river, ordered a cup of tea, and sat at a table by the window. The rain streaked the glass, blurring the view of the street, but he wasn't looking at the street. He was looking at his reflection—the grey hair, the tired eyes, the lines that had deepened over the past months.
I'm old, he thought. I'm tired. And I'm running out of time.
But I can't stop. Not yet.
Not until I find the truth.
The café door opened, and a man walked in—tall, grey-haired, wearing a dark coat. His eyes were cold, his face sharp, and he carried a silver pen in his breast pocket.
The Duke's breath caught.
The King's Inquisitor.
The man scanned the room, his eyes passing over the Duke without recognition. Then he walked to the counter, ordered a coffee, and sat at a table in the corner.
The Duke watched him.
What is he doing here?
Is he following me?
Or is he just getting coffee?
He didn't know. But he wasn't going to take any chances.
He finished his tea, left a few coins on the table, and walked out of the café without looking back.
He returned to the hospital as the sun was setting.
The sky was orange and red, the clouds tinged with gold, the rain finally gone. He climbed the stairs to Sheila's room, his legs heavy, his heart heavier.
She was sitting up in bed, a book open in her lap, her bandaged arm resting on the blanket. She looked better than she had the day before—her cheeks less pale, her eyes less hollow—but there was still a shadow behind her gaze, a weight that hadn't lifted.
"Grandfather," she said.
"I've been asking questions."
"Did you find any answers?"
He sat in the chair by the window, suddenly exhausted.
"Some," he said. "Not enough."
He told her about the baker, about the bookbinder, about the rumors of the Cold Man. He told her about the King's Inquisitor, about the fear that had settled over the capital.
She listened without interrupting, her face pale, her eyes wide.
"The Cold Man," she said when he finished. "That's what they called him?"
"Yes."
"It doesn't sound like Leximus. The Leximus I knew was warm. Kind. He used to laugh at my jokes, even when they weren't funny."
"People change."
"Not him. Not Leximus." She looked down at her hands. "Something must have happened to him. Something terrible."
The Duke was silent for a long moment.
"Your mother asked questions," he said finally. "She asked them, and she found answers, and she ran away because she couldn't live with what she learned."
"What did she learn?"
"I don't know. But I intend to find out."