Clive and Rosalyn sit in the living room of the Turner Mansion.
The room is spacious but not ostentatious. Tall windows allow filtered daylight to spill across polished wooden floors. Heavy curtains frame the glass, embroidered with subtle Celtic knot patterns. A stone fireplace rests along the far wall, cold now, but carefully maintained.
Rosalyn takes a seat on a cushioned sofa.
Clive remains standing.
He stands before a large oil painting mounted above the mantelpiece. The painting depicts Lake Aelwyn, a silver-blue expanse surrounded by ancient forest, mist hovering above its waters. In the centre of the lake rises a faint feminine silhouette formed by reflected moonlight, the legendary Lake Mother said to bless warriors and curse traitors.
Clive studies it quietly.
He turns at the sound of footsteps descending the staircase.
A beautiful middle-aged woman appears, stepping down with measured grace.
Anya Turner.
Axel Turner's second wife.
There is more than twenty years between them in age. She carries herself with poise. Her dark hair is pinned neatly, and her eyes are observant. She is an alchemist apprentice, though she does not display it outwardly.
Anya reaches the final step and turns toward a female servant.
"Marie, bring tea and snacks for our guests."
Marie nods respectfully and exits the living room.
Clive moves and stands beside Rosalyn.
Rosalyn rises slightly in courtesy before speaking.
"Mrs. Anya, I am Rosalyn, and, " she gestures toward Clive, "he is Clive."
Anya smiles gently.
"I do not need to introduce myself; it seems you already know who I am."
Rosalyn nods.
"Mrs Anya, please sit," Anya says.
She takes her seat gracefully. Clive and Rosalyn sit across from her.
Clive watches her carefully.
Rosalyn begins, voice softened.
"Mrs Anya, I am very sorry for your loss."
Anya's lips curve into a restrained, sorrowful smile.
"Thank you."
Rosalyn nods, then continues, "Mrs Anya, "
Clive interrupts calmly.
"Mrs Anya, can you tell me what your husband was doing with Baron Lethar and General Marsh?"
Anya answers without hesitation.
"He was having dinner with his two friends."
Clive frowns slightly.
"Your husband is Celtic. How did they become friends with him?"
He asks the question plainly.
Within the Royal Griffon Kingdom, prejudice lingers. Many in the Crown look down upon their neighbours, the Celts and the Highlanders. Friendship between such groups is uncommon, especially among the upper ranks.
Baron Lethar is nobility.
General Marsh commands soldiers.
Why would they form close ties with a Celtic businessman?
Anya gives a faint, sad smile.
"I do not know. My husband did not share such matters with me."
She meets Clive's gaze directly.
"And there is nothing wrong with being a Celt. I see no difference between a Celt and a Crown citizen."
Clive replies evenly.
"I do not see Celts or any other people as beneath me. But within noble and military circles, it is tradition to look down upon Celts and Highlanders."
Rosalyn discreetly pinches Clive's thigh.
Clive jolts slightly.
"Ouch."
Anya's expression shifts with mild concern.
"Is something wrong?"
Rosalyn glances at Clive's leg.
"Something may have bitten him."
She turns back to Anya smoothly.
"The nobility and the generals do not look down upon Celts. Celts are equal citizens of the Royal Griffon Kingdom. Her Majesty does not look down on Celts or any other people."
Her tone is firm but polite.
Before the moment can stretch further, Marie reenters carrying a silver tray.
"Madam."
She places the tray on the table.
Marie hands a teacup and plate first to Rosalyn, then to Clive, and finally to Anya.
The porcelain clinks softly against the saucers.
Anya nods once, signalling dismissal.
Marie leaves the room.
Anya lifts her cup but does not drink immediately.
"I know Her Majesty regards Celts as her own people."
Clive observes her hands.
Steady.
No tremor.
He continues.
"May I ask, do you know any mutual friends between your husband, Baron Lethar and General Marsh?"
Anya pauses briefly, then shakes her head.
"No. My husband kept his business associations separate from household matters."
Clive leans back slightly.
"Was this dinner a regular occurrence?"
"It was not uncommon," Anya replies. "They met occasionally."
"Always here?" Clive asks.
"Yes."
"Who arranged the dinner?"
"My husband."
Clive's eyes narrow subtly.
"Did he seem nervous recently?"
Anya considers.
"He seemed… preoccupied."
"In what way?" Clive asks.
"He spent more time in his study. He received letters."
"From whom?"
"I do not know. After the incident, I searched his study but did not find the letters."
Rosalyn gently interjects.
"Did you notice anything unusual that evening?"
Anya frowns. "I do not know of anything."
Clive narrows his eyes slightly. "Really?"
Anya's expression tightens. "Do you think I am lying?"
Clive replies calmly, "When did I say that?"
Anya's eyes sharpen. She rises from her seat.
"I do not have anything more to say. You two can leave."
Clive does not stand.
"So, you do not want to find your husband's killer."
Anya's face flushes red with anger.
Rosalyn immediately intervenes. "Clive, keep quiet."
She turns to Anya, her tone steady and diplomatic.
"Mrs Turner, the more information we know about your husband, the greater the chance we have of catching his killer and bringing him to justice."
Anya freezes at that word.
"Killer?"
She looks between them.
"Wasn't my husband killed by rebels because he was with the baron and the general?"
Rosalyn answers firmly.
"No clue supports that they were killed by rebels. We cannot conclude that rebels were responsible."
Anya slowly sits back down. The anger drains, replaced by thoughtfulness.
She murmurs, "Dustin would have known. But it is no use now."
Rosalyn leans forward slightly. "Why?"
"Because Dustin died two weeks ago."
Clive and Rosalyn exchange a glance.
Anya continues.
"It was natural. No foul play was found. He went to sleep and never woke up."
Rosalyn studies her carefully.
"Are there any other close friends? Anyone who might know about your husband's affairs?"
Anya shakes her head.
"No."
The conversation slows. The tension lingers but yields no further information.
A few minutes later, Clive and Rosalyn rise and take their leave.
Outside, the air feels cooler.
Clive exhales.
"Anya was lying when she said she did not know of any mutual friends or anyone who might know."
Rosalyn looks at him.
"Why do you think so?"
Clive adjusts his coat.
"That," he says quietly, "we have to find out."
They step into their carriage.
The driver's voice echoes from outside.
"Shall we return to your residence?"
Clive answers immediately.
"No. Take us to Turner Trading House."
"Very well."
The steam automaton pulls forward, gears turning smoothly as the carriage rolls away.
Inside, Rosalyn crosses her arms.
"What do you expect to find in Axel Turner's office?"
Clive stares out the window as the city passes.
"It could be anything," he says. "Or nothing."
The carriage stops before Turner Trading House.
The building is open. Workers move in and out, carrying ledgers, crates, and paperwork. The atmosphere is tense but functional.
Clive and Rosalyn step inside.
They begin speaking with employees.
From the conversations, they learn that the trading house ships goods between the Celtic region and other parts of the Royal Griffon Kingdom. Timber, ore, livestock, and crafted items.
The business had grown steadily under Axel Turner's leadership.
When asked about Baron Lethar and General Marsh, the workers hesitate.
They do not know how Axel became friends with them.
But they provide several names of acquaintances who often met with Axel.
Clive listens carefully.
Then he asks about Dustin.
The workers exchange uneasy glances.
"Yes," one says. "Dustin was also Mister Axel's friend. He invested in the trading house."
Another adds, "After Dustin's death, some partners in Olden City began questioning contracts."
A third mutters, "There have been… financial complications."
Clive's eyes sharpen.
"So Dustin's death affected business operations?"
"Yes."
"Substantially?"
"Yes."
Rosalyn watches Clive's expression shift slightly.
After gathering what they can from the workers, they proceed upstairs to Axel Turner's office.
The room is orderly.
Large desk.
Locked cabinets.
Shelves of ledgers.
A map of trade routes is pinned to the wall.
Clive closes the door behind them.
Rosalyn begins examining drawers.
Clive moves toward the desk.
He opens compartments one by one.
Nothing immediately suspicious.
He scans the room slowly.
Letters.
Receipts.
Shipping manifests.
He pulls out ledger books.
Rosalyn checks a cabinet.
"Financial records," she says.
"Anything irregular?" Clive asks.
"Not at first glance."
Clive flips through recent entries.
He pauses.
There is a noticeable gap in correspondence records.
He scans dates again.
Two weeks ago.
Around the time Dustin died.
Clive closes the ledger.
"Rosalyn."
She looks up.
"Yes?"
"Dustin dies in his sleep."
"Yes."
"Axel receives mysterious letters."
"Yes."
"The letters disappear."
"Yes."
"Three men dine together in a locked room."
"Yes."
"And none of the knives are used."
Rosalyn frowns.
"What are you thinking?"
Clive walks slowly to the window of the office.
He looks down at the busy street.
"I am thinking," he says quietly, "that something happened two weeks ago."
Rosalyn crosses her arms.
"Dustin's death."
"Yes."