Lox had lost track of time.
The cell was quiet. Too quiet. Not the peace of rest—just the kind of silence that crept in when no one was coming.
He sat hunched on the stone bench, arms limp at his sides, eyes fixed on the torchlight crawling across the floor.
When the door opened, it made no sound.
No footsteps preceded it. No keys turned. Just one breath—too soft to catch—and then the shape of a man was already inside.
Perry.
He didn't look like a rescuer. Or a threat. He looked like he'd gotten lost walking from his bed to nowhere.
The same shaggy gold bangs. The same loose collar. His coat hung crookedly over one shoulder, as if it had given up trying to sit straight.
He didn't say anything at first.
Just sat on the opposite bench and exhaled through his nose like this was all inconvenient.
Lox stared. "What are you—"
Perry reached into his coat and pulled out a pendant—flat, oval, dark stone veined with faint silver. He let it hang for a second from the cord, turning it once with two fingers.
Ping.
The sound didn't echo. It simply settled.
Lox stiffened.
His right shoulder lit up beneath his shirt—cold and silent. A pale glow pulsed across his skin. Not fire. Not pain. Just frost. Faint, elegant lines spun out from the center like snow blooming on glass. One breath. Two. Then it faded.
Perry watched. He didn't speak. Didn't move.
For the first time since entering, he seemed awake.
Then, quietly, he said,
"I saw you that night. Walking through the gate. Carrying something. Wrapped in a sheet."
Lox's stomach sank. He didn't speak.
Perry blinked once. Shrugged—like it didn't matter.
He stepped forward, gaze steady.
"I'm not here to turn you in."
"…Why are you here?"
A pause.
Then, dryly:
"Just needed to see something."
He pocketed the pendant. Leaned his head back against the wall. Shut his eyes.
Lox watched him for a long moment.
"You were always asleep at the gate."
No reply.
"I used to think you were useless."
Still nothing.
"Now I'm not so sure."
Perry didn't open his eyes. But his lips moved.
"Most people aren't."
He stood without ceremony. Cracked his neck like it wasn't worth the effort.
At the door, he paused. Hand on the wood.
"If they let you out," he murmured, "don't go far."
Then he left.
No slam. No echo. Just the flickering of the torch, still burning like it hadn't noticed anything at all.
Rosario clocked in at nine sharp.
He didn't speak to the foreman. Just nodded, grabbed his gloves, and went to the furnaces.
The factory roared continuously—iron teeth grinding, metal shrieking under pressure, heat thick enough to chew. But something about it felt… quieter today.
No one laughed. No one shouted above the din. Even the loudmouths on pipe six kept their heads down.
Rosario kept working. He didn't want to think.
He didn't want to think about the cave. About Lox. About how wrong her body had looked.
He shoved another ferralyte rod into the hammer press and watched the sparks spray out like fireworks with nowhere to go. Another slam. Another breath.
Keep moving—no room for ghosts.
Elsewhere, Luck stood behind the embalming table, sleeves rolled to the elbow, expression unreadable.
A young soldier lay before him—face pale, ribs visible through skin, hair still dusted with frost. Frost. Not dirt. Not ash.
His father, Garron, muttered under his breath as he stitched a gash closed with steady hands. Another man died on the northern front—another body no one wanted to ask questions about.
"Hurry up, boy," Garron said, not looking up. "They want this one sealed and burned before sundown."
Luck nodded. He didn't ask why. He didn't need to.
His thoughts drifted back to Lox.
And Elandra.
And that cave.
The city's starting to hum again…
He hadn't forgotten what Perry said. He couldn't figure out if it was a warning, a prophecy, or the rambling of a man who slept too much.
Around noon, Rosario's lunch break came and went. He ate in silence. Didn't join the other workers by the barrels. Just leaned against a wall, chewing slowly, watching the smokestacks blur into the midday haze.
He didn't know why his hand kept drifting to the hilt of his sword.
He hadn't brought it today.
Didn't need it.
But something felt off.
The air felt heavier than usual, as if something was waiting.
At Thorne & Sons, Luck stepped out back to wash his hands. The pump squeaked. Cold water stung his fingers. As he dried them on his coat, he heard it:
"Boy!" Garron's voice. "Come here."
Luck walked back inside.
On the table beside the body now lay something new. A letter. Sealed with red wax. No crest he recognized. No name.
"Courier dropped it," Garron said. "Didn't wait for a tip."
Luck stared at the seal. It wasn't imperial. It wasn't a church. It was…
something else.
He didn't touch it. Just stared.
Detective Mirth stood in the parlor, arms crossed, staring at what used to be a man.
The corpse was shriveled—like the life had been drained through the pores. Skin dry and sagging, lips drawn back into a permanent grimace. Eyes sunken, chest collapsed, limbs bent at unnatural angles.
He'd seen this before.
Once.
A week ago. In a bathtub on silk sheets.
This time, it was a noble. House Durell. Mid-tier, but well-connected. The guards didn't meet his eyes. They were pretending to stand at attention, but he could feel it—they were spooked. One of them had thrown up earlier and tried to be quiet about it.
"Time of death?" Mirth asked without turning.
"No one heard anything until the maid found him. Early morning."
"No bruises. No blood. The room was locked from the inside."
"No signs of struggle."
Mirth exhaled through his nose.
"Then it wasn't murder," he said flatly. "It was worse."
The scribe by the door stopped writing. "Sir?"
Mirth waved him off.
He stepped closer to the body, crouched, and tapped the man's chest with two fingers. It made a sound like pressing on thick paper. Too light. Too hollow. Like a shell.
Same as Elandra Vale.
He stood and glanced toward the open balcony doors. The air felt wrong. Still. Like something had passed through and never left.
The parlor doors burst open.
"Detective!"
A breathless officer stumbled in, holding a folded sheet of paper as if it had bitten him.
"Orders—from above. Imperial seal. You're to release the Faelix boy. Immediately."
Mirth's expression didn't change.
"What?"
"Just came through. Direct dispatch. Not negotiable."
"Who signed it?"
"It's sealed. No name. Just a sigil. Office of Special Affairs."
Mirth didn't speak. He just turned, crossed the room, and walked out without a word.
By the time he reached the precinct, the sun was low—casting orange bars of light through the narrow windows. The hallway glowed in bands, like a cage turned on its side.
Mirth's boots echoed as he moved through the corridor. His coat flared slightly with every stride.
Up ahead, a door opened.
Lox Faelix stepped out of his cell, blinking against the amber light. He looked like someone who hadn't slept, hadn't eaten, hadn't stopped thinking since the moment he was locked away.
A young clerk handed him his effects with a glance that said I don't get paid enough for this.
Then Mirth stepped into view.
They both froze.
Lox stiffened. "Detective."
Mirth studied him for a long second.
Then:
"You have good friends, Faelix."
Lox didn't reply.
"You know I can't stop this, don't you?" Mirth's voice was quiet. "Whatever this is—whatever they've decided you're part of—it's moving now. I won't be the one to hold it back."
He stepped closer.
"But I'll be watching. Every step."
Lox met his gaze.
"I'd expect nothing less."
Mirth held his stare for a heartbeat longer. Then he turned and walked away.
Behind him, the sound of a door opening.
A man walking free.
And the weight of something larger pressing down on the city like a storm rolling over rooftops.
The bell above the back door chimed softly as it creaked open.
Luck glanced up from the ledger. Garron stood nearby, sleeves rolled, scraping dried wax off a coat with a look that said he'd rather be anywhere else.
The man in the doorway didn't speak.
Lox stepped inside like someone crossing into a dream. His coat hung loosely, his face pale, his eyes unfocused. He looked thinner than
Yesterday—like something had been pulled out of him and never returned.
Garron looked up. Then just grunted and pointed to the bench.
Lox sat down slowly. Luck didn't speak. He slipped into the back room, fetched a cup of water, and handed it over.
Lox drank.
No one asked.
Not yet.
Minutes passed in silence. The scratch of the ledger. The soft clink of metal from Garron's tools. The tick of the wall clock overhead.
Lox stared at the floor.
Luck watched him sidelong.
"You look like someone who saw his ghost."
Lox didn't answer.
"You want to talk about it?"
Still nothing.
The back door creaked open again. Rosario stepped in, fresh from the factory—hair damp, shirt half-buttoned, calloused hands still gray with steel dust.
He stopped when he saw Lox.
"You're out?"
Lox looked up. "Yeah."
"No one told us."
Lox gave a tired half-smile. "No one told me either."
Rosario dropped his bag and took a seat on a stool.
"What happened?"
Lox finally exhaled, long and slow.
"They grabbed me at dawn. Just… took me. No explanation. No charges. Locked me in a cell."
That got Luck's attention. He straightened.
"And now you're out?"
Lox nodded. "A few hours ago. They just… let me go."
Rosario frowned. "No hearing? No warning?"
"They didn't ask a single question. Just said I was clear to leave. Like the whole thing never happened."
Garron grunted. "That's not freedom. That's surveillance."
Lox hesitated.
"There was someone in the cell across from me. Gold bangs. Half-asleep. Said his name was Perry."
Luck froze mid-write.
Rosario sat up straighter. "Wait… Perry? Still sleeping through life?"
Lox gave a slight nod. "Yeah. That's him. Leans on a spear like it's a pillow."
"He guards the noble gate," Luck said. "I've seen him a dozen times. Looks like a valet who wandered into the wrong job."
Rosario huffed through his nose. "Lights out, Perry."
Luck blinked. "That's a nickname?"
"From school. Military academy. He was a year ahead of me—graduated early. Used to fall asleep during formations. One time, he dozed off during a live-blade demo. Still blocked every strike."
Garron muttered, "Bet he never blocked paperwork."
Rosario shook his head. "Never talked much. No friends. Just naps and high scores. Then he vanished. Next, I saw him; he was third-ring security."
Rosario leaned forward. "So he was confirming you're awakened."
Lox nodded.
"He said he only needed to see me. That he'd tell them what he needed to tell them."
"Then they know," Rosario said, voice low.
Garron snorted. "Well, if they didn't, they sure do now."
Nobody moved.
Then Luck opened the drawer and pulled out the envelope. Thick parchment. Blood-red wax. No return.
"This came at noon. It's for all three of us."
He set it on the table.
Rosario stared at it.
"Why didn't you open it?"
Luck looked at Lox. "Didn't want to do it alone."
Rosario nodded once.
Luck broke the seal. The wax cracked like bone.
To Rosario Steelheart, Lox Faelix, and Luck Thorne:
You are hereby summoned to attend an audience under the directive of the Office of Special Affairs.
Luck read the final line aloud.
No one said anything.
The wax seal stared up at them—an eye beneath a crown. Watching.
The lights of the capital never fully died, but the night muted them. From high above Gatehouse Row, the government quarter looked like a patient machine—stone and steam wrapped in iron hush.
Perry sat on a bench in the middle of a rooftop garden, legs stretched out, arms folded behind his head, gazing at nothing. Between his teeth, a stalk of dried mint twitched with each slow breath.
The building behind him loomed without ornament. No windows. No name. Only a single black door, guarded by silence and the weight of who it belonged to.
The door opened.
He didn't look.
A woman stepped out. Her coat was perfectly tailored—no rank insignia. No jewelry. Just a silver clasp shaped like a crown with an eye in the center. The mark of someone who didn't need to prove her title.
She did not sit. Only stood beside the bench, arms folded.
"You were late," she said.
Perry didn't open his eyes. "I was early. Just napping."
"Report."
He took a long, lazy breath.
"Lox Faelix is awakened. No doubt. Sigil activated under stress. No resistance. He's untrained, but the mark took."
"And the others?"
"Rosario… maybe. There's something sharp about him. Luck? Hard to say. Quiet type. Might be hiding it, or might be shadow."
"Did he see you?"
"Yeah. He knows my name. But he doesn't know who I work for."
The Prime Minister looked out over the skyline, toward the royal district. "The Emperor's body isn't cold. And already every noble with a spine is lining up to kiss a general's boots."
Perry shifted, just enough to get comfortable again. "You picking one of them?"
"I'm watching all three."
"Orion. Keshe. Tamad."
She didn't answer. Which meant he was right.
"They're not stupid," Perry said. "But they are impatient."
"Impatience makes them useful. And dangerous. We'll have to move before they do."
"Let me guess," Perry murmured. "You want them to be sharp enough to cut, but not sharp enough to think."
"No," she said. "I want them to survive long enough to choose a side."
He cracked one eye open. "You assuming they'll choose yours?"
"I'm assuming they'll be forced to."
A breeze moved through the garden. The plants didn't rustle. Everything up here was too well-bred for noise.
Perry stood slowly, stretching. He picked up his spear from where it leaned against the bench.
"I'll keep close," he said.
"Do that."
He turned, then hesitated. "That thing the Arkanans pulled from the crater…"
Her gaze didn't shift. "Still sleeping."
Perry's mouth twitched. "Must be nice."
He walked toward the stairs, vanishing into the dark.
The Prime Minister stayed a while longer, staring at the rooftops like they were pieces on a board.
Then she turned and disappeared through the black door.