The blizzard had turned the world outside into a white tempest. The wind howled through Solace City's narrow alleys, stripping tiles from rooftops and driving shutters inward with force enough to splinter wood. The people of the city had retreated into their dens long ago, curling around hearths, whispering prayers to ancient gods, and muttering about omens in the snow. But tucked deep within the spiralling merchant quarter stood a lone beacon of warmth, its amber windows blurred behind a thin veil of frost: the tea house called Forgetful Haven.
Inside, the scent of roasted oolong drifted lazily on the rising heat of charcoal braziers. The floor was smooth, dark wood polished by time and foot traffic, and low tables stood neatly between reed mats. A shelf behind the counter held dozens of ceramic jars, each labelled in delicate calligraphy, promising bittersweet stories with every cup poured.
A lone man sat at a far table, shrouded in shadow.
Lysander did not belong.
Not in this district, not in this storm, and certainly not in this time. And yet, he moved with the precision of someone who had been here many times before. He wore a dark coat, heavy with travel, with fine crimson embroidery at the cuffs—worn but once noble. His gloves had been removed and laid aside with careful symmetry. Before him rested a stack of papers, half-unfurled scrolls, and a modest cup of steaming tea.
The parchment atop the stack bore the title: "Demonfolk Disappearance Case #24."
He didn't read it so much as stare through it.
Outside, the blizzard raged like a beast in mourning. Inside, time moved slower.
"You're going to scare away all my customers like that," came a voice.
It was soft, but firm. Familiar.
Seraphine approached without ceremony, a tray balanced on one hand, a fresh pot of tea and an extra cup in the other. She was dressed as always: pale-blue robes tied with a simple sash, her long braid trailing behind her like a brushstroke of ink. She wasn't tall, nor physically imposing—but when she walked into a room, even the wind outside paused to listen.
"I'm not here to intimidate," Lysander replied, though his voice lacked conviction. "Just… thinking."
Seraphine set the pot down and filled his cup. "That's what worries me."
He offered her a tired smile. "You always did say my thoughts were dangerous."
"I said your thoughts were loud," she corrected. "And you wear them on your face like battle scars."
Lysander didn't answer. His gaze drifted back to the parchment. "There was another one. South Pier district. A merchant family this time. No signs of forced entry, no theft, no ransom. Just… vanished."
"Same pattern?"
He nodded slowly. "Every one of them is linked to old bloodlines. Demon-blooded, though watered down. Someone's hunting them, not randomly. Systematically."
Seraphine's face didn't change, but she set down the tray more carefully than before. "This tea house serves many kinds of people, counsellor. If you stir the wrong shadows, you might bring them here."
"I think they're already here."
Before she could answer, the tea house door slammed open.
A blast of cold and snow poured inside like a scream. The brazier's flames bent backwards from the sheer force of the gust, and for a second the world was all white and shrieking wind.
Three figures entered. Black coats. Black masks. No insignia.
The first one moved without hesitation. In a single motion, he raised his arm—something compact and metallic glinted under his sleeve.
Thwap.
A wet sound. Kael, the drunk who sat at the corner table night after night, slumped forward, a dart protruding from his throat. His body spasmed once. Blood spilt from his lips.
Screams erupted. Patrons overturned tables in panic. Someone knocked over a brazier, sending hot coals skittering across the floor.
Lysander moved.
He vaulted over his table, grabbed the edge of a serving tray mid-run, and hurled it into the nearest masked attacker. It hit with a clang of metal. Not bone. Armor.
"Seraphine, behind me!"
The second assassin loosed a glass vial from his belt. It hit the floor and shattered—releasing a thick green fog that hissed on contact with the air. Smoke poured across the floor.
Lysander's eyes stung. His body screamed to run. But something deep within him coiled instead—something old and half-remembered.
He stepped forward, through the smoke.
The first assassin raised his dart launcher again.
Lysander lifted his arm—and ice exploded outward. Not snow. Not frost. Real, crackling ice.
It burst from his palm in a rush, forming a jagged wall that caught the dart midair and froze the chemical fog in place.
The assassin froze too, mid-step, stunned. That was his mistake.
Lysander surged forward, his feet slipping only once on the slick surface, and punched the man straight in the gut. The impact knocked the wind out of him. As the attacker doubled over, Lysander grabbed the side of his mask and slammed his head against the wall.
The third one vanished before Lysander could even spot him.
Silence returned.
The customers had fled. The tea house was half-ruined. The brazier had burned a black line into the floor, and Kael… Kael was dead.
Lysander crouched beside the man's body, lips tight. There was something unnatural about the way the blood had pooled. Not in volume, but in shape.
A single eye. Formed in red.
The Eye of Law.
He hadn't seen that symbol in years.
He heard Seraphine approach behind him. He didn't look up. "This wasn't random."
She knelt beside him. "No. It wasn't."
Something metallic slid from Kael's sleeve as they shifted his body. A small silver disc. Inscribed on the back: Black Mask Society – Division Three.
Seraphine inhaled sharply. "I thought they were a myth."
"They were," Lysander muttered. "So was I."
A high-pitched scream echoed from the rear of the building.
Lysander and Seraphine were on their feet in an instant. Neither needed to speak. They ran.