SCREEEECH.
The steam-wagon's brakes bit into the cobblestones, the vehicle shuddering to a halt in front of the Cog-Watcher station. A hiss of released pressure punctuated the stop, steam billowing from the undercarriage in ghostly plumes that dissipated into the ever-present smog of Steelhaven.
The side door slid open with a metallic groan.
Amir stepped out first, his boots landing heavily on the street. He was followed by Johnathan, who moved with the stiff gait of a man whose body had been reminded, violently, of its limitations. Pyotr emerged last, his pristine white coat now streaked with soot and grime, though his ever-present smirk remained firmly in place.
Johnathan took a long, weary breath, his gaze sweeping over the familiar, soot-stained brick facade of the station. "Finally," he grunted, rolling his shoulders with a series of audible pops. "A place that's less of a hellhole. I need a drink, a bed, and about twelve hours where nothing explodes or tries to kill me."
Pyotr chuckled, already straightening his coat and running a hand through his disheveled hair. "Oof, finally. Now I can properly introduce myself to that beautiful new constable I saw last week. The one with the—"
"Save it," Johnathan cut him off, his tone flat. "Your libido can wait."
Amir barely registered their banter. He closed his eyes for a brief moment, leaning against the side of the still-warm steam-wagon. His mind was a storm of images from the night—flames devouring Oakhaven, Gail's final, blood-soaked words, Reil's small body crumpling to the earth. The hallway of Black Iron, slick with gore. The headless woman in white. The Shadow Demons. The coup. The endless, grinding violence of it all.
But through the chaos, cutting through the noise like a knife, was a single, unexpected image: Princess Seraphina's face. Her eyes—hazel flecked with gold—wide with terror one moment, then softening with a fragile, bewildered gratitude the next. The way she'd looked at him after he'd comforted her, as if he were the first person in her gilded cage to see her as something other than a pawn.
He couldn't stop thinking about those eyes.
Why? He had no answer. Only the ghost of her gaze, lingering in his mind like an afterimage.
A firm hand clamped down on his shoulder, yanking him back to the present.
"Come on, kid," Pyotr said, his tone shifting from playful to firm. "No time for daydreaming. The Captain called for us. We've got a debriefing, and trust me, you don't want to keep him waiting."
Amir's eyes snapped open. He straightened, shaking off the fog of exhaustion, and followed as Pyotr and Johnathan made their way toward the station's heavy oak doors.
Inside, the Cog-Watcher station was a controlled storm. The main hall was packed with constables and inspectors moving with urgent, focused energy. Some were taking statements from shell-shocked civilians. Others huddled over maps of the city, marking positions and plotting patrol routes. The threat had been neutralized, but the aftermath was a beast of its own—identifying the dead, hunting down conspirators, and piecing together the fractured narrative of the night's horrors.
As the three Inquisitors entered, heads turned. Conversations paused. A ripple of recognition and respect moved through the room.
Standing near the central counter was Inspector Alan, a man with sharp black eyes and neatly combed brown hair. He looked up from a stack of incident reports, his expression one of weary relief. He straightened and gave a short, respectful nod.
"Sirs," Alan said, his voice carrying the weight of the night. "Because of you, the Iron Lord still draws breath. The entire Republic owes you a debt." He paused, glancing at the bustling room around them. "I know the other inspectors and constables here would like to personally thank you for what you've done tonight. But..." He gestured toward the chaos. "I won't waste your time with ceremony. Not when there's still work to be done."
Johnathan gave a curt nod of acknowledgment. Pyotr offered a casual, two-fingered salute. Amir simply met the man's eyes, the gravity of the statement settling on his shoulders.
Alan turned and walked toward the side office where the hidden passage was concealed. He stopped before the bookshelf—its shelves lined with thick, leather-bound legal volumes and dusty municipal records. Without a word, he reached out and pulled on a specific, unassuming book with a faded spine.
Click.
With a soft click and a low grind of hidden gears, the entire bookshelf swung inward, revealing the narrow, dimly lit passageway beyond—the secret threshold to the Harmonic Inquisition.
Alan stepped aside, gesturing for them to enter. "The Captain is waiting."
The three men exchanged a brief glance, then moved forward. The bookshelf swung shut behind them with a heavy, final thud, sealing them off from the mundane chaos of the Cog-Watchers and ushering them back into the shadowed world they truly belonged to.
They descended the passage in silence, their boots echoing on the treated stone. The air grew cooler, cleaner, carrying the faint scent of ozone and old parchment. The corridor opened into the Inquisition's headquarters—the circular atrium with its softly glowing Aether-lamps and display cases of strange, humming artifacts.
Without breaking stride, they made their way through the atrium, past the receptionist's desk where she gave them a brief, acknowledging nod, and toward the back hall that led to the Captain's private chambers.
The door loomed before them—heavy darkwood, marked only by the stark emblem of the Inquisition's unblinking eye within a gear.
Pyotr raised a hand and knocked twice, the sound sharp and deliberate.
From within, Captain Rustof's calm, authoritative voice rumbled through the wood.
Enter
The three Inquisitors stepped through the heavy darkwood door, and the atmosphere shifted immediately.
Captain Rustof's office was a study in controlled authority. The walls were lined floor-to-ceiling with bookshelves, each volume a record of cases closed, mysteries solved, and horrors cataloged. Between the shelves hung detailed maps of Steelhaven and the surrounding territories, their surfaces marked with colored pins denoting active investigations, closed cases, and areas of paranormal activity. Display cases flanked the desk, their glass fronts revealing an array of contained artifact
The only light came from Aether-lamps mounted on brass fixtures, their steady, amber glow casting long shadows across the room. On the Captain's massive oak desk, a single crystal ashtray held a smoldering cigar, its thin plume of smoke curling upward like a ghost seeking escape.
The Captain himself sat behind the massive oak desk, his posture relaxed but his presence undeniable. His sharp blue eyes, framed by that magnificent silver mustache, swept over the three men as they entered. He didn't speak immediately. He simply watched them, the silence stretching into something heavy and uncomfortable.
Amir shifted his weight, suddenly aware of every scrape and bruise hidden beneath his coat. Pyotr maintained his usual smirk, but there was a tension in his shoulders. Johnathan stood at attention, his jaw set.
Finally, Captain Rustof leaned back in his chair. The leather creaked softly. He took a slow, deliberate drag from his cigar, exhaled a thin plume of smoke, and spoke.
"Well done."
The words were simple, but they carried the weight of absolute sincerity.
"You three—and every agent currently working in the field—have saved the future of this kingdom." He let the statement hang in the air for a moment, his gaze moving from face to face. "I don't know how much you believe in yourselves. But I believe in you. I believe in you more than you could possibly know."
Johnathan straightened slightly, his voice steady and formal. "Thank you, sir."
Pyotr and Amir exchanged a brief glance, then looked down at the floor, each giving a slow, respectful nod. The praise felt strange. After a night of blood and chaos, after watching good men die and horrors walk the earth, the idea of victory felt... hollow.
Captain Rustof seemed to sense this. His expression hardened, the brief moment of warmth evaporating like morning dew on hot iron.
"However, gentlemen," he continued, his tone shifting to something sharper, "the threat is not over. As you well know, we must identify who orchestrated this attack. The Blade Master is already pursuing leads in the field. But I need you three focused on the investigation here."
Amir's mind wandered for a moment, a stray thought worming its way through his exhaustion. How the hell is he so calm? The King almost died. The castle was swarming with assassins. The entire Republic nearly fell apart. And he's sitting here like it's just another Tuesday.
Captain Rustof's eyes flicked to Amir for a fraction of a second, and a faint, knowing smile touched the corner of his mouth. Amir felt a chill. Right. He can sense thoughts. Forgot about that.
The Captain stood, his movements deliberate and controlled. He walked around the desk, his boots silent on the polished floor, and stopped before them. "Gentlemen, I wish I could celebrate our victory tonight. Crack open a bottle of the good whiskey, toast to the fallen, and allow you all a moment's rest." His expression darkened. "But this victory is temporary. The real war is about to begin."
He took another deep, slow drag from his cigar, the ember glowing a fierce orange in the dim light. Then, with a casual flick of his wrist, he dropped a thick, leather-bound file onto the desk with a heavy thud.
"Pyotr. Johnathan." His gaze locked onto them. "I am assigning both of you to lead the conspiracy investigation. This file contains everything we've compiled so far. Data entries of every individual who entered or exited Black Iron Keep over the last seven to eight months. A list of the dead. A list of the survivors. And most importantly..." He tapped the file with a single, deliberate finger. "...a list of suspects whom we believe were involved in the assassination attempt."
Pyotr stepped forward, his usual levity replaced by a grim professionalism. He picked up the file, opened it, and began scanning the first few pages. Johnathan moved beside him, reading over his shoulder.
They flipped through lists of names, dates, guard rotations, supply manifests. Then, halfway through the suspect section, Pyotr froze. His eyes widened, just for a second, before his professional mask slammed back into place. But the damage was done. Johnathan saw it too. His jaw tightened, his knuckles whitening as he gripped the edge of the file.
There, on the page, was a face both men recognized. An Ultra Ether Ray print—a full-body image captured in sharp, grey-scale detail—clipped to a dossier...
General Zulias
Commander of the Iron Army.
And, most damningly, the King's own blood-related brother.
Pyotr looked up slowly, his eyes searching Captain Rustof's face for some sign that this was a mistake, a clerical error, a cruel joke.
The Captain met his gaze without flinching. He took another drag from his cigar, exhaled, and spoke with the same calm, measured tone one might use to discuss the weather.
"I expected you to be surprised by seeing Zulias on that list." He paused, letting the words settle. "He is, after all, the supreme general of the Iron Army. A man who has bled for this Republic." Another pause. "And the King's brother."
He walked back around his desk, sat down, and steepled his fingers. "But in a crisis of this magnitude, gentlemen, no one is above suspicion. Not generals. Not nobles. Not even family."
Pyotr and Johnathan exchanged a long, weighted look. The gravity of what they were being asked to investigate had just multiplied tenfold. This wasn't just hunting conspirators. This was walking into a political minefield where one wrong step could shatter the Republic from within.
Amir, standing slightly to the side, absorbed this information with a growing sense of unease. So the general of the entire Iron Army... is the King's own brother? Interesting. But also... suspicious. His mind flashed back to the courtyard, to the King bleeding out on the gurney, the Queen in shock, the frantic surgery. And through all of that chaos, where was this so-called brother? Where was General Zulias?
Captain Rustof's voice cut through his thoughts like a blade. "Yes, he was absent."
Amir's head snapped up, his eyes wide. The Captain was looking directly at him now, a faint, almost amused glint in his gaze.
"Being the general of an entire army is no easy task, Mr. Zen," Rustof continued, his tone almost conversational. "Even if Zulias had wanted to be present for the Iron Triumph, his duties would have made it... difficult. You cannot condemn a man simply for being absent." He leaned forward slightly. "The real culprit, I assure you, was among us. Someone who had access. Someone who could move freely. Someone we trusted."
Amir felt his face flush. Right. The Gear of the Unheard Chord. He doesn't read minds outright, but he can sense intentions, detect lies, feel the shape of thoughts. I really need to stop thinking so loudly.
Captain Rustof's smile widened, just a fraction, before he turned his attention back to Pyotr and Johnathan. "Now, gentlemen. I know this investigation is not traditionally within the Harmonic Inquisition's purview. We hunt the paranormal, the occult, the things that go bump in the night." His expression hardened. "But this is a national emergency. Our only goal, for now, is to support the other law enforcement factions—the Cog-Watchers, the Iron Army's internal investigators, the Royal Intelligence Bureau—and work together to identify the mastermind behind this attack."
Both men gave a sharp, synchronized nod.
"Good." Rustof's gaze shifted, landing on Amir. "Oh, one more thing. Amir will not be joining you on this mission."
Pyotr and Johnathan both turned to look at Amir, their expressions a mix of surprise and concern.
Captain Rustof stood again, walking over to a second file cabinet. He pulled out a much larger folder—this one bound in faded blue leather, its edges worn with age. "Although our current primary objective is uncovering the conspiracy, I cannot afford to send all of my agents chasing a single lead. If I do, the paranormal activity in this city will skyrocket." He turned, holding the blue file. "Every day, citizens die to rogue Tuners, cultists, and entities we don't yet have names for. The Inquisition's work does not pause for politics."
He walked over to Amir and held out the file. "And now, for you, Amir Zen."
Amir took the heavy folder, his fingers brushing over the embossed title on the cover: THE TANNERY INCIDENT.
He looked up at the Captain, confused. "What does this mean? 'Which tannery?' Sir, in the last week alone, we've been dealing with multiple paranormal sites—cultists in warehouses, ghouls in the slums, wraiths in abandoned—"
"Your first mission, kid." Captain Rustof's tone was pointed. "Do you remember it?"
The words hit Amir like a freight train. His eyes widened, his breath catching in his throat. Images flooded back, sharp and visceral. The tannery. The smell of rot and chemicals. The shadow demons flowing like oil through the darkness. The headless woman in white, cradling her doll of living darkness, her voice a chorus of children and screams. Mayor Valerius's daughter, Salena, acting strange, her eyes holding secrets she wouldn't share. The oppressive, suffocating dread of that place. The way it had felt like the walls themselves were watching, hungry.
He swallowed hard, his throat suddenly dry. "The... Galloway & Sons Tannery."
"Yes." Rustof returned to his desk, sitting down with the air of a man delivering an unpleasant but necessary truth. "But it's more than that. This is a combined mission."
Amir blinked. "A combined mission?"
"A case where two separate incidents have been identified as connected," the Captain explained, his tone taking on the measured cadence of a lecturer. "When the Inquisition finds evidence that multiple paranormal events share a common origin, we merge them into a single, comprehensive investigation. It allows us to see the larger pattern, rather than chasing shadows in isolation."
Amir's stomach sank. A cold weight settled in his gut. "So... you're telling me I have to go back to that place? Back to the tannery?"
"Yes. But don't worry." Rustof's tone was almost reassuring, though the faint smile on his lips suggested he found Amir's discomfort somewhat amusing. "The site has been mostly cleaned and secured by a specialized containment team. The immediate threats have been neutralized....
"Mostly cleaned," Amir muttered under his breath, his mind already painting vivid pictures of what horrors might still be lurking in that blood-soaked place. "That's... reassuring."
"And," Rustof continued, ignoring the sarcasm, "the second case connected to this investigation is the VIC Plumber Company."
Amir stared at him, his expression a mixture of disbelief and resignation. Two haunted sites. One investigation. And he wants me to... what? Just waltz in and solve it? The bitter thought crossed his mind before he could stop it: I think the Captain is trying to get me killed.
Captain Rustof's eyes glinted with that familiar, knowing light, but he said nothing about Amir's internal panic.
Before he could spiral further, Pyotr's arm wrapped around his neck in a friendly, brotherly headlock. "Good luck, kiddo," Pyotr said, his grin wide but his eyes serious. "You're all grown up now. Just... don't die, okay?" He leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "I promise you, if you survive this and do well, I'll take you to another bar. One with even more beautiful women."
Amir managed a weak, sarcastic smile. "Can't wait."
Johnathan stepped forward, his arms crossed, his expression stern and conflicted. "Captain," he said, his voice tight with barely restrained frustration. "Yes, Amir is learning quickly. He adapts faster than most rookies I've trained. He's got guts, and he thinks on his feet. But don't you think this mission is... far too dangerous for him to handle alone? At the very least, shouldn't he have backup? A senior agent? Someone with more—"
"Are you questioning my judgment, Inspector Johnathan Blake?"
The words were not shouted. They were spoken in a low, calm tone that somehow carried more menace than any roar could. The temperature in the room seemed to drop. The steady glow of the Aether-lamps seemed to dim, as if the light itself recoiled from the weight of the Captain's authority.
Johnathan froze. His jaw clenched so hard a muscle twitched in his cheek. His gaze dropped to the floor, his posture stiffening into something that looked almost like a soldier bracing for punishment. "No, sir."
Captain Rustof held the silence for a long, uncomfortable moment. Then, his tone softened, just a fraction. "I know what Amir is capable of, Johnathan. You don't need to tell me what he can or cannot handle. He is a valuable member of this Inquisition. I would not send him into a death zone without reason." He leaned back in his chair, the leather creaking. "And besides, I have given you a full description of your own mission. You have your orders. Thus, you and Pyotr are dismissed."
Pyotr glanced at Johnathan, giving him a small, subtle shake of the head—a silent message: Don't push it. Not now.
The two men turned and headed for the door. As Johnathan passed Amir, he paused, just for a second. He looked at the younger man, and despite the tension, despite the frustration simmering beneath his skin, a faint, genuine smile touched his lips. It was small, almost hidden, but it was real.
"Don't forget to use your potions, dumbass," he said quietly, his voice just loud enough for Amir to hear.
Then he was gone, the door closing behind him and Pyotr with a soft, final click.
Amir stood there, staring at the closed door, a faint smirk tugging at his own lips. He didn't know Johnathan Blake had such a soft heart.
He turned back to face Captain Rustof, the blue file still clutched in his hands. The embossed title seemed to mock him: THE TANNERY INCIDENT. "What's my first objective, sir?"
"Visit the tannery," Rustof said simply, his tone returning to the calm, measured professionalism of a commanding officer issuing orders. "Search for any clues we might have missed during the initial sweep. Physical evidence, lingering paranormal traces, witness accounts from any survivors who might have seen or heard something useful Understood?
Understood, Amir replied, turning to leave.
Wait.
Amir stopped, his hand on the door handle, and looked back.
Captain Rustof was lighting a fresh cigar, the match's flame casting sharp shadows across his weathered face. "Since this is a combined mission, you will not be working alone. There will be another investigator assigned to this case. Someone... specialized."
Amir's eyebrows rose. "Another Inquisitor?"
"Not exactly." Rustof exhaled a plume of smoke, his expression unreadable. "He operates independently, but he has worked with us before on cases involving industrial sabotage, occult machinery, and corrupted artifacts. His expertise will be invaluable, given the nature of the VIC Plumber Company's... activities."
"Who is he?"
Captain Rustof's eyes glinted in the lamplight, a faint, knowing smile playing at the corner of his mouth.
"His name," the Captain said, "is The Cog Master."