For two years, Liam had exhausted every official and unofficial channel in the city. His statement to the Guardians of Balance, citing a "supernatural assault," had been dismissed as "post-traumatic delusion" and filed away. The information brokers of the underworld had only given him pitying looks and shrugged shoulders. All he had was the nonsensical words that echoed in his sister's consciousness and his own despair.
That day, he decided to find Ronan Sullivan.
The office of Ronan "the Weaver" was on a nameless side street, squeezed between the elegant facades of the city's Financial District. The air inside smelled of cigar smoke and old books. Ronan sat at his desk, listening to Liam while shaking a set of ivory dice in a cup.
"So," Ronan said, tossing the dice onto the desk and watching them settle. He gave a faint smile at the result. "You've been chasing the same ghost for two years. No progress. No leads. And now you're asking me to map a void."
Liam was used to Ronan's jargon of fate and probability. "It's not a void," he said, his voice calm but firm. "It was a Denier. Whatever its name, it must have left a trace."
Ronan leaned back. His blue eyes sized Liam up. "Liam, my friend," he said, his tone more serious now. "You're obsessed with the past. You think you can fix your sister's history the same way you fix a machine. But fate isn't a clockwork mechanism. You can't wind it back. You can only play the next move."
"Then give me the next move," Liam replied.
Ronan sighed. He pulled a crumpled newspaper clipping from his drawer. "This is going to cost you."
"I have money."
"I'm not talking about money," Ronan said. "Hope. If I give you a lead, you'll get your hopes up. And on this path, hope is the most dangerous gamble. If you lose, you'll fall harder than before."
Liam waited in silence. Realizing he wouldn't give up, Ronan pushed the clipping across the desk. "Lord Harrington. A wealthy collector. Something was stolen from his estate three days ago. The official report says it was a common burglary."
"What does that have to do with me?"
"The thief didn't touch priceless jewels or works of art. They only stole one thing: a broken, pre-Shattering sextant. And ever since that night, Lord Harrington has been speaking incoherently, having trouble remembering the recent past. As if he's been hit by… a memory parasite." Ronan looked at Liam meaningfully. "And here's the most interesting part. Lord Harrington's father was one of the chief inspectors of the Central Pumping Station disaster ten years ago. He also began suffering from memory problems after the incident."
Liam froze. It couldn't be a coincidence. The rusted cogs of the past were beginning to turn again after ten years.
"Where is Lord Harrington?" Liam asked, his voice trembling with a hint of excitement for the first time.
Ronan smiled. "Now that's the next move," he said. "But play it carefully. You're not the one rolling these dice."