The black giant moves first.
Its step cracks the ground, raw strength radiating from its towering form, and Elodie feels it instantly—the difference between them is absolute.
She does not answer with force.
She cannot.
More than half of her fighting energy is already gone, drained by Frostmoure and the earlier clash, and trading blows with something stronger than an official knight would be suicide.
So she moves.
The giant's arm sweeps down like a falling tower, claws carving a trench through the earth where she stood a breath ago.
Elodie slips aside, boots skidding, ice flaring briefly beneath her feet to redirect momentum.
She never stops moving.
Another strike follows, faster, heavier.
She ducks under it, feeling the pressure ripple through the air, her cloak snapping violently as black energy passes inches above her head.
Her sword stays close to her body, used not to attack but to deflect, to guide, to survive.
Ice forms only when needed—thin barriers, momentary anchors—never more.
The giant roars and slams both hands into the ground.
A shockwave ripples outward.
Elodie leaps, twists midair, and lands hard, rolling to bleed off force.
Pain flares along her ribs, sharp and bright, but nothing breaks.
She exhales once and rises again.
Hoofbeats thunder behind her.
Her knights.
They have arrived.
"Don't come near," Elodie shouts without looking back.
Her voice cuts cleanly through the chaos.
The knights rein in instinctively.
They see it now—the scale of the enemy, the weight behind every movement.
All of them are knight apprentices.
Numbers mean nothing here.
One careless charge would only add bodies to the ground.
The black giant turns, sensing new presences, and its laughter rolls across the field like distant thunder.
Elodie shifts, placing herself between it and her knights.
She draws its attention with movement alone, forcing it to track her, to follow.
Another massive strike comes.
She slides backwards, ice shattering beneath her boots, barely maintaining balance.
Her breathing grows heavier.
Not from fear.
From restraint.
Time stretches.
Moments become narrow, precise calculations—distance, angle, stamina.
Then something changes.
The sky lightens.
A thin line of pale gold appears at the horizon.
The sun begins to rise.
The black giant stiffens.
Just for a heartbeat.
Elodie notices instantly.
The mist forming its body ripples unevenly, edges fraying as if burned by invisible heat.
The giant lets out a distorted roar and staggers.
Black energy bleeds from it in thick streams.
Elodie does not attack.
She watches.
The first ray of sunlight touches the field.
The giant freezes completely.
Cracks of light spread through its form, blue-white against black.
Then it breaks apart.
The towering shape collapses inward, dissolving into swirling mist that scatters across the ground and evaporates into nothing.
Silence returns.
Elodie stands still, sword lowered, chest rising and falling steadily.
The battle is over.
She finally allows herself to relax her grip.
The knights ride up cautiously, eyes scanning the empty field where the monster stood moments ago.
"It's finished," Elodie says.
Her voice carries fatigue, but no doubt.
—
Back in Olden City, the morning light spills between buildings as Clive walks with purpose.
In his hand is a neatly folded sketch.
Robbie Smith's face.
He stops before a familiar address.
The home of the second victim.
Clive looks up at the door, expression unreadable, then steps forward and knocks.
The investigation moves again.
Clive spends the afternoon moving from door to door near the second victim's home, showing the sketch of Robbie Smith to shopkeepers, tenants, and passersby.
Some glance at it with mild curiosity.
Others shake their heads without a second look.
No one recognises the man.
As the sun begins to sink, steam carriages hiss past along the street, their hollow rods glowing faintly as they vent pressure.
Clive stops near the curb and exhales slowly.
He stares at the traffic, mind racing.
If the trail does not lead outward, then it must lead inward.
The Canary Club.
But that path is blocked.
The Canary Club is not merely a brothel.
It is a high-end club where noblemen and businessmen gather to drink, discuss contracts, exchange favours, and display influence.
Many patrons never touch the women.
Membership is tightly controlled.
Without a noble title or significant business standing, he will not even be allowed past the door.
And without entering the club, he cannot confirm Robbie Smith's adultery.
Words alone will not satisfy Carrie Smith.
He needs to see it.
He sighs and starts walking aimlessly, turning the problem over again and again.
Then a voice calls out.
"Hey, lad."
Clive turns.
The grocer from the corner shop is waving at him from the doorway.
Clive approaches.
"The sketch you showed me earlier," the shopkeeper says, lowering his voice, "that's Robbie Smith from Smith Textiles, isn't it?"
Clive's pulse quickens.
"Yes," he says carefully. "Have you seen him here?"
The shopkeeper shakes his head. "Not me. But maybe Earl has."
"Maybe?" Clive asks. "And who is Earl?"
The shopkeeper scratches his chin. "A homeless fellow. Lost his family years back. Sometimes sleeps outside my shop when the night gets cold."
Clive listens intently.
"A few weeks ago," the shopkeeper continues, "Earl told me that late at night, sometimes the carriage from Smith Textiles stops in front of Maya's building."
Clive's eyes narrow. "Earl didn't come last night to sleep?"
"He might have left before I opened," the shopkeeper says. "Hard to say."
Clive nods. "Do you know anywhere else I can find him?"
The shopkeeper shrugs. "Not sure. But you could ask the priests. Earl's regular at the churches and temples. Goes there for food."
Clive bows his head slightly. "Thank you."
He turns and walks away, thoughts sharpening.
Earl would not wander far from the lower districts.
Food, shelter, routine.
He mutters to himself as he walks.
"There are only three places of worship allowed by the court."
The Temple of Sand, dedicated to the Lord of Sand and Alchemist, the oldest faith, is said to originate from the Golden Sand Continent.
The Church of Pain, devoted to the Lord of Pain, was imported from the Holy Continent.
And the native faith.
The Sacred Lake Shrine of the Lady of the Lake.
Clive looks ahead, recalculating his route.
"The nearest one is the Shrine of the Lady of the Lake," he murmurs. "Let's start there."
He picks up his pace.
As he steps onto the shrine's grounds, he slows instinctively.
The air changes.
The grime and smoke of the lower district fall away as if left behind by an unseen boundary.
The scent of flowers fills his lungs.
Water reflects soft light.
For a moment, he feels as though he has stepped into a garden rather than a place of worship.
Gravel crunches underfoot as he walks along the path.
People pass him quietly, some entering the shrine, others leaving with peaceful expressions.
Ahead stands the shrine itself.
White marble, smooth and pristine, rising in a cylindrical form, crowned by a gentle dome.
It stands at the centre of a lake, connected to the land by a narrow stone bridge.
Clive pauses, taking in the scene.
Then he walks across the bridge.
At the foot of the shrine's steps, a priestess speaks softly with visitors.
Clive waits behind them, hands folded, observing.
When the last visitor departs, he steps forward.
"Excuse me," he says politely. "I'm looking for someone named Earl."
The priestess tilts her head. "Which Earl?"
Clive curses himself internally.
He describes Earl instead.
"An older man. Homeless. Comes for food. Lost his family."
The priestess's expression shifts.
"Oh," she says softly. "Old Earl. He came every Tuesday and Thursday for lunch."
Clive's relief flickers—and vanishes.
"I heard he is dead."
The words hit him harder than expected.
"Dead?" Clive asks. "When? How?"
The priestess lowers her gaze. "Ten days ago. They found him in an alley not far from here."
Clive's breath stills.
"An alley," he repeats. "How did he die?"
She hesitates before answering. "The guards ruled it death by old age and cold."
Clive nods and turns away.
As he walks, his thoughts murmur quietly. *What a coincidence. Maya was killed ten days ago as well.*
*It must be a coincidence,* he tells himself. *The report says Earl died of old age.*
He shakes his head, unease tightening in his chest. "But I don't believe in coincidences."
Stepping beyond the shrine's perimeter, he begins to plan his next move, already wondering how he might gain entry into places closed to men like him.
That evening, dressed neatly and with deliberate care, Clive arrives at the house of a friend.
Jack Well.
Once his classmate, now a surgeon at the Royal Hospital.
Tonight, Jack is hosting a party.
Clive steps inside.