# Chapter 1: The Price of a Secret
The backlash hit Konto like a physical blow, a spike of ice driven through the base of his skull. He recoiled in his worn leather chair, the cheap springs groaning in protest, and squeezed his eyes shut. The neon glow from the Undercity bled through his office blinds, painting the back of his eyelids in frantic slashes of magenta and cyan. For a moment, the ghost of another mind lingered—a phantom scent of expensive cologne, the cloying sweetness of a celebratory cigar, the smug satisfaction of a sealed merger. Konto pushed it away, shoving the psychic residue into the dark, cluttered corners of his own consciousness. It was a messy job, but the payment, already transferred to a secure, untraceable account, was clean. He ran a hand through his dark, perpetually disheveled hair, the stubble on his jaw a rough counterpoint to the expensive suit he'd worn for the job. It was a necessary costume, a facade of legitimacy that let him slip into the penthouses and corporate suites of the Upper Spires. Here, in his cramped office overlooking the city's grimy underbelly, he could finally shed the skin.
He opened his eyes and reached for the half-empty bottle of amber liquid on his desk. The glass was cool against his fingertips, a small, solid anchor in the sea of throbbing pain behind his eyes. He didn't bother with a glass. The burn of the cheap synth-ale was a welcome distraction, a different kind of fire to scorch away the echoes of someone else's life. This was the price of his trade, the toll exacted by the Aspect he'd never asked for. Dreamwalking. To the Magisterium Council and their Arcane Wardens, it was an unlicensed, dangerous aberration. To Konto, it was the only tool he had to claw his way out of the gutter. Every secret he plucked from a sleeping mind was another brick in the wall he was building between himself and this city, a wall high enough to finally forget the last job that went wrong. The one that had left Elara…
A sharp, deliberate knock on his office door cut the thought short. Konto froze, the bottle halfway to his lips. No one knocked on his door. Clients were vetted, scheduled, funneled through a series of digital dead-drops and anonymous comms channels. A direct, physical visitation was either a mistake or a threat. He slowly set the bottle down, his hand sliding to the drawer where he kept a heavy-caliber pistol loaded with arcane-nullifying rounds. The knock came again, three precise, confident raps that spoke of money and impatience.
"Konto & Co. Psychic Investigations is closed," he called out, his voice rougher than he intended. "Try the Night Market. I hear they sell secondhand futures and bad advice."
The door handle turned. The lock, a cheap mechanical thing he trusted more than any magi-tech, clicked open with a soft, resonant chime of counter-magic. Konto's hand tightened on the drawer pull. The door swung inward, revealing a woman who seemed to have stepped out of the Upper Spires and into his grime-coated reality by sheer force of will. She was tall, her posture impeccable, clad in a tailored, charcoal-grey pantsuit that probably cost more than his entire office lease. Her dark hair was styled in a severe, elegant bob, and her face was a mask of cool intelligence, her dark eyes assessing every inch of the room—and him—in a single, sweeping glance. She didn't belong here. She was a predator in a cage full of scavengers.
"Your security is quaint," she said, her voice crisp and devoid of warmth. She stepped inside, closing the door behind her. The air in the room, already thick with stale smoke and regret, seemed to thin in her presence. "But then, I suppose you rely on not being found, rather than not being breached."
"I rely on people having the good sense to make an appointment," Konto countered, letting his hand fall away from the drawer. He leaned back, affecting a casualness he didn't feel. The headache was still pulsing, a dull, persistent drumbeat. "So, what can I do for you? Lost cat? Cheating spouse? Or did you just want to admire the ambiance?"
The woman's lips thinned, a flicker of impatience crossing her features before being smoothed away. She placed a slim, metallic data slate on his desk, the surface gleaming under the dim light. "My name is Liraya. My father was Councilman Valerius."
Konto's expression didn't change, but something inside him went cold. Councilman Valerius. The name was all over the newsfeeds two days ago. A tragic accident in his sleep. Heart failure, the Wardens had ruled. Case closed. "I read the papers. My condolences."
"Spare them," Liraya said, her voice like chips of ice. "The Wardens are calling it an accident. They are wrong." She tapped the slate, and a glowing image shimmered above it. It was a crime scene photo, but one that defied all logic. The room was opulent, a penthouse suite, but the far wall… it wasn't a wall anymore. It twisted inward, the plaster and steel lathing swirling into a grotesque, impossible spiral, like water down a drain. The floorboards around it were warped, buckling upward as if in the throes of a physical agony. "This is where they found him. In his bed. The official report says a localized ley line surge caused a structural collapse. A lie."
Konto stared at the image, his professional detachment shattering like glass. He knew that signature. The sickening, physics-defying warping of reality. It wasn't a ley line surge. It was a psychic hemorrhage, a nightmare so potent it had bled into the waking world. He'd seen it once before. The memory hit him with the force of a physical blow: the smell of ozone and burnt sugar, Elara's scream cut short, the way the walls of their safe house had started to breathe, to melt like wax…
He pushed the memory down, hard, the pain in his skull flaring into a nova. He forced himself to meet Liraya's gaze. "And you think a private psychic investigator can do what the Arcane Wardens cannot? Why me?"
"Because you're unregistered," she said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. "You operate outside their system, which means you're not bound by their conclusions or their corruption. And because you have a reputation for… discretion. You find things people want to stay buried. I want you to find out what killed my father. I don't care about the Wardens' official story. I want the truth."
She was sharp. Too sharp. She'd done her homework. Konto leaned forward, the cheap springs of his chair groaning again. He gestured to the image. "This kind of thing isn't just a secret, Liraya. It's a contagion. Digging into it is liable to get you infected. The people who can do this… they don't leave witnesses."
"I'm aware of the risks," she replied, her chin lifting slightly. "I am also prepared to compensate you for them." She swiped a new screen onto the slate. A number appeared. It was followed by a staggering number of zeros. Enough to buy a new life on a quiet island in the middle of the sea, far from the hum of Aethelburg's ley lines and the ghosts in his head. It was everything he wanted.
Konto felt a bitter laugh rise in his throat. He wanted to take the money. He wanted to tell her to get out and never come back. But the image of that twisted room was burned into his mind's eye. It was a challenge, a puzzle wrapped in a nightmare. And beneath it all, a terrifying echo of a past he couldn't outrun. His curiosity, a curse that had kept him in this business long after he should have quit, was hooked. He looked from the number on the slate to Liraya's unflinching eyes. She was hiding something, of course. They always were. But her grief, or her anger, felt real.
"That's a lot of money for a ghost story," he said, his voice low. "Why is this so important to you? A councilman dies. Happens all the time in this city."
"He was my father," she said, a crack finally appearing in her polished armor. "And his death was an insult. The Magisterium Council, my colleagues, they're all content to sweep it under the rug. I am not. There is a rot at the core of this city, Konto. I believe my father stumbled upon it. I want you to find it and cut it out, root and branch."
Konto was silent for a long moment, the weight of the decision settling on him. He could feel the familiar pull, the siren song of a mystery that promised both immense reward and immense danger. He thought of Elara, lying in her sterile hospital bed, her mind lost in an endless, dreamless void. The money from this job could pay for the best private care, the experimental treatments the public system wouldn't touch. It was a justification, and he knew it, but it was a powerful one.
He slowly pushed the data slate back across the desk. "I'll take your case," he said, his voice flat, devoid of emotion. "But that number," he tapped the glowing digits, "is my starting fee. For what you're asking, for the kind of fire I'll have to walk through, it's going to cost you double."
Liraya's eyes narrowed, a flicker of something—respect, perhaps—in their depths. She didn't hesitate. She picked up the slate, her fingers moving with practiced ease. The number on the screen doubled. "Done," she said, her voice once again all business. "When do you start?"
Konto leaned back, the headache a dull throb now, overshadowed by the cold clarity of purpose. He looked past her, through the rain-streaked window, at the sprawling, neon-drenched city. A city of secrets. And one of them, a secret that warped reality and left men dead in their beds, had just become his problem.
"I already have," he said.