The private sitting room within the Blackwood Keep offered a sense of hushed, formal comfort. Heavy velvet curtains were drawn back slightly, letting in the pale, morning light that seemed to hold the dust motes in suspension. Roric sat on a plush, high-backed armchair, the leather worn smooth by decades of use. Directly opposite him, across a low, polished mahogany coffee table laden with delicate porcelain, sat Alaric and Elara, his posture rigid with the anxieties of lordship, hers relaxed yet attentive.
A young maid, silent as a ghost, entered the room carrying a silver tray. She carefully placed a tiered stand of pastries—small, perfectly glazed tarts and buttery shortbread—and a steaming porcelain teapot before quietly withdrawing. The domesticity of the scene clashed sharply with the grim truths that had just been exchanged.
Roric reached for the pot and poured himself a cup of dark, fragrant tea. He took a long, restorative sip, the heat a welcome burn in his throat. He had just finished recounting everything: the encounter with the wraiths in the shack in the forest; his discovery of the presence of the former Azure Rose Knights in Blackwood; the tedious hours of monitoring the former Knights' movements, which led him to that jewellery shop; the unexpected, fleeting rendezvous with S.K. in the city on the day of the attack; and the horrible sequence of events that had followed. He spared no detail in his narration.
Elara, who had been watching his face with an unwavering maternal gaze, leaned forward slightly. She poured a cup for her husband, then for herself, waiting until the rhythmic clinking of porcelain subsided.
"But why didn't you tell us he was in town?" she asked.
Roric sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose where a faint, persistent ache lingered.
"I had only met him earlier that day. When I asked him, he said he was only passing through and would be leaving that evening. Of course, I tried to convince him to stay and even attempted to use my Trait. But the old man was far too stubborn and smart. He said he was leaving that very evening—heading straight for the border to Kemet, given the direction he was headed."
Roric took another sip of tea, his eyes fixed on the amber liquid.
"Of course, I would have pressed him more if I'd known things would end up like this."
The silence returned, thick and charged. Elara watched her friend closely, noticing the subtle tension in his jaw and the quick, shallow nature of his breathing. Despite his tough-looking exterior, he was quite sympathetic and compassionate. He had been that way since their school days. Looking at him now, she knew he blamed himself, even though he had no way of knowing that these two variables were connected just like when his wife died...
"Oh, Roric," Elara said, her voice dropping to a soothing murmur. She reached across the table and covered his hand with hers as he reached over to take some bread.
"None of this is your fault. You had no way of knowing those thugs were after him, and you certainly couldn't have predicted they would be attacked and silenced the moment you turned your back. You were simply lost in a machine that had already been activated."
Roric nodded slowly at her reassurance, though the guilt did not lift. He brought the bread closer to his lips, taking a small bite, chasing it with a draught of tea.
Alaric, who had been silent, his gaze lost in the dancing flames of the hearth, voiced his own deep-seated reservations. He was less concerned with blame and more with logic.
"I accept your timing was unfortunate," Alaric began, his voice dry and steady.
"But that leads me to my own question: why was S.K. on the run in the first place? Could it be, dare I ask, that he was involved in some… shady business? Some arrangement that went sour?"
Alaric paused, leaning back, the expression on his face showing that the question pained him to ask.
"He was always a complicated, difficult man. It wouldn't be that hard to entice him if artefacts were involved."
Elara immediately shook her head.
"I doubt that. He was too arrogant to be involved with anything shady. Too much of an aesthete. He always prided himself on his genius, not his connections. He wouldn't debase his art for common criminality."
"I agree with Elara on the arrogance," Roric said.
"Still, I theorise this is all related to Artifacts in some fundamental way; that's the only way I'd be able to tie him into all this. With the way he was, he'd make enemies, sure, but that would most likely be due to his attitude than anything that would make them go as far as killing him. Whoever perpetrated this, either an individual or a group, weren't after his person; they were after his skill. Either they wanted him—the best artisan alive, bar none—to build them something of colossal power, or perhaps they needed him to restore a certain relic from the Bygone Eras that only his craft could touch."
"Yes, I agree. But they killed him anyway. Maybe they did so since they couldn't get him to join their side?" Roric offered.
Alaric shook his head.
"No, that seems too much like a waste of resources."
Elara, who had been rubbing her chin, asked:
"You said that when you met him in town earlier that day that aside him looking rugged, he was whole?"
"Yes."
"Hmm, describe the wounds to his arms and eyes. Did they look like they were possibly destroyed during the fight?" she asked again.
Roric thought for a moment, reliving the scene in his head.
"Actually, no. By the time I got there, fresh blood was flowing out of his wounds. Like his arms had been freshly cut and his eyes had just been plucked out. And they were clean too, as if done by a professional butcher."
Elara's eyes narrowed.
"That's it. They got what they wanted." Elara concluded.
"What do you mean, my love?" Alaric asked.
"For whatever purposes they needed him for, they could still achieve that with a part of him. We all know that Characteristics are the residual Flow imprints left behind on an object. One can bring back whatever abilities those Characteristics performed as Functions, and these work on humans just as much as they work on Beasts. In other words..."
"In other words, they took his arms and eyes in order to use their Characteristics as artefacts," Roric said, his eyes widening as he came to the realisation.
"Why didn't I think of that?"
Alaric just smiled at his wife, causing her to blush slightly.
"Now, we have a vital piece of information, but how do we move forward from here? The men who might have provided us with more information to broaden our understanding are dead."
Elara picked up her cup once again.
"Speaking of the men, you said that jewellery shop has been active for over two years now, a reputable business, seemingly. How did we not know about its existence?" She took a sip.
"I agree. As you know, I take my position as Lord of the land very seriously. There's no way I wouldn't know about such a shop opening in my city," Alaric said, folding his arms. He continued.
"Does that mean that these former Knights have been operating in Blackhaven for that entire period, or did they somehow only recently get access to the place?"
"When I first looked at the place, I found all the papers," Roric confirmed.
"Every certificate, every tax document—all proved the legitimacy of the shop. It was convincing enough to throw me off for a time."
Elara smiled thinly, a flicker of dark wisdom in her eyes.
"Which proves nothing. That could also be a well-established ploy to throw any routine investigations off the scent. A legitimate business with a hidden operation beneath it. It's the perfect cover."
"Has there been any word from the shop owner?" Alaric asked.
"The actual proprietor, the one who presumably ran the legitimate side of the business."
Roric shook his head.
"I passed by his supposed residence yesterday. It was empty. The furniture was still there, but no clothes, no personal items. The man himself is nowhere to be found. Vanished without a trace."
"Strange," Alaric muttered, reaching for his own pastry. Elara gracefully rose, moving the teapot closer to Roric, silently offering to refill his cup.
"No, thank you, my lady. I've had plenty," Roric said, placing his empty cup back on the saucer with precise care. He looked from Alaric to Elara, his expression grim, summarising the grim inventory of their investigation.
"As it stands, we have no leads. The shop, the site of the clash, is burnt to cinder."
Alaric met his gaze, the decision of a Lord weighing heavily in his eyes.
"So,how do we move foward? Now that we know that they want to turn his body parts into tools for their use, do we need to recall the Inquisitors ?"