A knight clad in black and red armor, bearing the symbol of Nifltyr, stood outside the interrogation room door.
"Careful," the young knight said. "This one's eccentric."
"Aren't they all?" the older officer beside him replied with a tired grunt. "I'll be finished before nightfall. Say hi to that lass you've been seeing."
The young knight saluted and stepped aside as the officer entered.
The officer sat down across from the convicted felon. Disgust bubbled under his skin—an involuntary response to men like this.
"State your name," the officer asked calmly.
"Ard Dubois."
Ard gave him a condescending look and tapped slow, deliberate fingers against the blackwood table. His eyes wandered over the bleak, grey room—just like the moldy walls of Valtoria.
"Answer honestly, and you might get a light sentence."
The officer's tone didn't match the promise. His eyes were bloodshot. One twitched. He looked like he hadn't slept in days.
Ard said nothing.
"You've stirred up enough trouble to warrant a noose—forgery, robbery, treason," the officer growled. "I don't know why you're still alive."
Ard didn't blink. He just stared, slow and measured—as though observing the officer for material.
Then, he spoke.
"Did you know your left eye twitches when you're angry? Been doing it since I walked in."
Ard leaned back in his chair. The chains bit softly into his wrists, but he didn't flinch.
"I'm but a humble novelist," he said, smooth as oil. "I merely wrote down what I saw."
The smirk lingered too long.
The officer snorted. "A novelist? That life's reserved for the comfortable." He looked Ard over with disdain. "And you don't seem the type who enjoys comfort."
Silence stretched long and cold in the dimly lit room.
The officer broke it with a cough.
"Ahem. I don't recall ever stating my name. I am Art Levi. Head officer of this town."
No response. It was like speaking to a brick wall. Ard tilted his head slightly, like a curator inspecting a cracked statue.
"Well?! Won't you say something? Your head will hang if you don't talk!"
Art slammed his palm on the table. His hand trembled. He didn't care if this man died—he just needed information.
"Well, I'll tell you," Ard smiled. "But you have to do me a favor."
"You smug, piss-eyed bastard," Art snapped, jabbing a finger at Ard. "You've no right to demand anything."
"It seems you're agitated, Mister... what was your name again?" Ard said, watching him like a rat under glass.
"You—!"
Art caught himself, breath hitching. He clenched his fists, then exhaled sharply. "I'm sorry. I don't know what came over me."
Ard grinned. He stopped tapping the table.
"I'd be a fool not to ask for something in return," Ard said, leaning in with an eerie gleam in his eye. "Now... will you grant me this boon?"
Art's left eye twitched again. He swallowed hard.
"Fine. Depending on how much you tell, you'll be free from your confines. Now spill, cretin."
"Very well. Since I have time to spare... I may as well tell you what happened."
Ard closed his eyes, and the dim room dissolved into smoke and gunfire.
---
The streets of Valtoria stank of steam and blood.
Ard remembered the sky being grey that day. Could've been the weather, could've been smoke—it didn't matter. The city coughed either way.
---
"Hold on. Why are you speaking like that?"
Art interrupted, clearly weirded out.
"Why not? I'm a novelist, aren't I?" Ard shrugged. Then he continued.
---
He stumbled upon it—or perhaps, it happened for him. A robbery.
A freight train—or rather, a long string of heavily guarded carriages—was under siege by men in soot-covered black coats. They fired on city guards pouring in from every direction. The guards, desperate, called in mages, who hurled streaks of flame across the chaos.
The men in black fell back, scrambling for better cover. One man barked a command—his voice nearly drowned by gunfire—but Ard thought he heard, "Cover the whole area!"
They rallied and pushed back. One by one, the guards fell. Eventually, the gunfire stopped.
Some of the men laughed like drunkards. Others crouched beside the fallen, lighting cigarettes with shaking hands. One man wept beside a corpse whose face looked just like his—though Ard doubted he noticed.
Ard crept closer, quiet as soot. Not that they would've noticed him—not unless he wanted them to.
Then—
"There's still one left!" someone shouted.
A short man with a scar under his right eye pointed straight at Ard, glaring.
"Stop!" another voice boomed. A man two, maybe three times his size. He had a soot-streaked white beard and a presence that demanded stillness. Calm, measured. The opposite of the gnome beside him.
Ard liked him.
The moment Ard reached into his satchel, every gun turned his way. But he only pulled out a journal.
"I'm a novelist," he said brightly. "Might I add—the pacing, the precision, the loss! It was all beautifully executed. Almost like someone wrote it ahead of time."
"You talk when we say you talk. You're a hostage now," the short man spat.
The bearded leader, Gard, Ard thought—sighed.
"Look at him," Gard said. "He doesn't even have a weapon. He's harmless."
Gard stepped closer.
"You're a novelist, huh? Why are you here at this time of day? Coincidence?"
Ard smirked, like he'd been waiting for the question.
"Why, of course! I was merely looking for material. I want to write a book, you see."
---
"Stop."
Art cut in again.
"The report said they robbed a freight train. You said carriages. And the scar—you said it was on the right eye, but the official record says left."
Ard smiled. "Did I?" He tilted his head, mock confusion on his face. "Strange. I could've sworn it was the left. Or perhaps... it's always whichever eye is watching you."
Art narrowed his eyes. "Are you making this up?"
"All stories are made up. Some just haven't happened yet."
Art's jaw clenched. He didn't respond.
"Now," Ard continued, "where was I?"
---
"If I may, the part where the mages killed three of your men could've been avoided. If you—"
"Shut it!" barked the angry gnome. His scar twitched every time he raised his voice. "You don't get to talk about our dead!"
Ah yes, Ard thought. Not only is he short, but hot-tempered too. Might as well be a dwarf.
"I should shoot you where you stand for even mentioning them!"
"Enough," Gard said—calm, but edged in iron. The gnome backed off.
Ard gave Gard a measured look. Is this the protagonist of my story, he wondered, or merely the tallest man in a room full of children?
"You're bold," Gard said. "But bold doesn't mean trustworthy. Why are you really here?"
"To write," Ard said, brushing soot off his lapel. "And perhaps to immortalize you lot in ink. Heroes, villains... who's to say?"
Gard studied him. Then let out a dry chuckle.
"You're either mad or hiding something."
He stepped forward, looming over Ard. "I don't know if we should trust you. What are you good at, aside from your... hobbies?"
"I'm observant," Ard replied instantly. "And I have good intuition. Is that not enough?"
Gard frowned. "Everyone claims intuition. But not everyone stays the same in a battlefield."
He paused. Then asked the one question that made the room feel smaller.
"Have you killed before?"
---
Ard went quiet. No one spoke.
"Well?" Art broke the silence. "Have you?"
Ard stared at him for a beat too long.
Then, softly:
"Tell me... if I offer the gun, the motive, and the seed of temptation… does it still count as murder, or merely persuasion?"
Art blinked. For the first time, he felt cold.
He glanced at the wall clock to break the tension.
1:54.
When had it gotten so late?
"You better hurry this story up," Art muttered. "Or I'll extend your stay by another day."
Ard grinned.
"What's the rush? You wanted to hear my involvement in all this…" He leaned forward, chains clinking softly as he moved. "I'm giving you exactly what you asked for."
He paused. His smile didn't.
"All I ask… is a bit more of your time."
"Fine." Art grew more impatient. "But I'm extending your stay. We can't possibly continue this late at night."
Art looked at the wall clock again.
1:54...?
Godamn engineers. Didn't we hire someone to fix the clock?
"Get on with it. You have about a minute more before I clock out." He muttered.
"I appreciate you for making time." Ard snickered a little. "Your gonna love this part. It's when they let me in. "
"Now, where were we?"
---
"Have I killed before?" Ard looked almost offended. "What do you take me for? I'm a novelist, not a murderer."
Gard didn't smile. He stared at Ard for a long, unreadable moment… then leaned in.
"You can watch," he said. "But you don't get a gun."
"Hah! You serious?!" someone scoffed from the back.
The small man stepped forward — wiry, hunched, face crumpled like a kicked can. The scar running down his cheek twitched when he scowled.
"He's a scribbler, Gard," the man spat. "What's next, we let in singers too? Maybe a bloody juggler?"
Ard turned to him slowly, smile sharp as a scalpel.
"You'd be surprised what words can do. Maybe I could teach you a thing or two."
He let the pause linger.
"Like how to read between the lines."
The scarred man stiffened. His hand went to his belt, fingers curling around the hilt of a knife.
Gard stepped between them before anything could happen.
"That's enough," he said flatly. "I never said Ard was fighting with us. But it don't hurt to keep another smart one around."
He looked between them. "Long as he remembers who's boss."
Ard dipped his head slightly. "Oh, I never forget who's in charge."
And just like that, the storm passed — but the tension stayed.
***
"Alright, that's it."
Art's voice was sharper now, clipped with irritation and fatigue. He glanced at the wall clock.
1:55.
*Exactly one minute had passed. It felt longer.*
"Your minute's up. I'm not about to lose sleep over some scribbler's bedtime story."
Ard chuckled.
"Aw, but I was just getting to the meat of it."
He leaned back in his chair, the chains clicking gently, like windchimes in a dead hallway.
"You'll want to hear what happens next."
Art stood without replying. He crossed the room and knocked twice on the steel door.
"We're finished here. I'll come back tomorrow."
The door didn't open right away. A second passed. Then another.
Behind him, Ard's voice slithered back through the quiet:
"Bring a thicker coat next time."
A pause.
"Tomorrow gets… colder."
Art frowned.
The clock ticked once.
1:55. Still.
The lock clunked. The door creaked open.
And Ard smiled to himself — alone again, but not for long.
---