Outer District, Eastern Ilins Quarter, 121A Cork Street.Old Dunlin had already fallen into night.In the starless sky above, the black whale drifted slowly as it always did, its massive body gliding across the clouds before it cast down a pillar of light—an unblinking eye surveying the sleeping city below.
Scalding steam hissed from the cracks in the pavement and the gaps beneath manhole covers. Through that pale fog, Lloyd emerged—moving slowly, cane tapping against the wet stones.He didn't look too bad, though his face was a touch too pale, the kind of pallor that told of lost blood and long nights.
He had escaped before the mounted patrols arrived.The tangled alleys of the Lower District had saved him again, and from the practiced rhythm of his flight, it was clear this wasn't the first time he'd been hunted.But this time, his luck hadn't held.Even Lloyd had to admit those thugs had some craftsmanship in them—they'd somehow cobbled together a nail gun.Amid the flurry of iron and smoke, one nail had found its mark, embedding itself deep into his side.A glancing hit, mercifully—nothing that would kill him.
The constant mist of Old Dunlin had done him a strange kindness: everyone's clothes were perpetually damp, so Lloyd preferred black. That way, no one could tell whether the stains on his coat were water… or blood.
He walked for what felt like forever before finally reaching the door.121A Cork Street.A quiet corner of the newly developed district—cheap enough for the desperate, far enough from the city's main arteries that few came snooping.Even so, "cheap" was still too much for a detective's salary. So, on Burrow's recommendation, he'd taken this place as a rental.
He didn't knock. He never did.The door creaked softly as he slipped inside.
The first floor belonged to Madam Vanrud, the landlady—a formidable old woman who'd once served as an air cavalry officer, or so she claimed.She liked to tell Lloyd about her youth, stories so vivid he could almost smell the gunpowder.Her favorite tale was always the same: how she met her husband.
It was at the twilight of the Glorious War, when chaos swallowed Old Dunlin whole.Wounded and discharged, Vanrud had returned home to recover, only to be thrown back into the fray when riots broke out.Lloyd had imagined she met a handsome officer amid the carnage, fell in love, and all that romantic nonsense.But no—Vanrud had descended from the sky on an iron chain, shot an enemy soldier through the head… and took another one prisoner.That prisoner, as fate would have it, became her husband.
"You married your enemy?" Lloyd had asked, completely bewildered."He was just a misguided boy," she'd said proudly. "Under my supervision, he turned out fine.""You were in the middle of a battle, and you kidnapped your future husband?""Lloyd, you're still young. Ever heard of love at first sight?"
Her aged eyes had gleamed like molten brass when she said it.It was a story so absurdly fierce that Lloyd never forgot it—a love born of chaos, sealed not with a kiss, but a blow to the head. When the poor bastard woke up, he was given two choices: marry the woman who'd captured him… or hang for treason.
What became of their marriage after that, Lloyd didn't know.And he never asked again—especially after seeing how casually Madam Vanrud drew her pistol when collecting rent.
He crept upstairs quietly. Two doors faced each other in the small common room—his, and his roommate's.The roommate was a mechanic, a plain sort of man who spent more time in the factory than at home.His room was dark. Another late shift, no doubt.
Only when Lloyd closed the door behind him did he finally let out a long breath.He hung his coat neatly on the rack, fetched the medical kit, and stepped into the washroom.That was one thing he loved about this place—private bathroom. A small luxury in this part of the city.
Warm water cascaded down his back as he cleaned the wound.It wasn't deep, but it needed care.In the Lower District, the danger didn't come from the blade or bullet—it came from whatever filth coated it.In that rotting maze of pipes and gutters, you never knew where a weapon had been the night before.
The wars were long over, but death still came easily.Not by gunfire now, but by infection.People didn't fear soldiers anymore—they feared fever, pus, the slow stink of rot.
Once, a crude weapon had spread like wildfire in the slums: a rusted machete people called "The Tetanus Blade."Lloyd had laughed at the name, grimly aware it wasn't far from truth. In those parts, "doctor" was a title anyone could buy, and once you were infected, you were as good as dead.
When the wound was clean and dressed, exhaustion finally began to drag him down.He glanced at the mirror—just a passing glance—and froze.
Reflected in the glass were dark, twisting lines crawling across his back.A tattoo—if it could be called that.A great black tree stretched along his spine, roots like veins, branches like iron thorns.Looking at it always stirred that same unease, as if his skin were a thin shell stretched over something alive beneath—a nest of serpents coiling and writhing, pressing against the flesh.A tree that held up the world, or perhaps a door to something beyond it.
He'd long since learned to ignore it. One glance was enough before he turned away.
"Nice tattoo," a voice said suddenly.
Lloyd froze.The sound had come from inside the room.
Instinct tore through him like a blade. Every nerve went taut, every heartbeat a hammer against his ribs. His eyes—cold, gray-blue—hardened to steel.
On the sofa sat a man wearing an ornate mask, posture lazy, as though he were in his own home.
"I almost killed you," Lloyd said flatly.The man tilted his head, unconcerned.
Without moving his expression, Lloyd's hand slipped behind the corner of the mirror—where a loaded pistol waited, hidden from view.
That was his rule.In every room he lived, swords and guns were hidden within arm's reach.If someone broke in—no matter what he was doing, even mid-bath—he'd always be able to draw, aim, and put a bullet clean through their head.
"It seems you're not too fond of letting others see your tattoos," Burlow remarked, his eyes following as Lloyd slipped his coat over his shoulders and took a seat across from him. "A shame, really—they're quite artistic."
"I just don't enjoy being stared at by another man," Lloyd shot back coldly. He set his pistol down beside him and fixed his gaze on his employer. "So, what brings the esteemed Mr. Burlow to my room at this hour?"
Burlow didn't answer. Instead, he reached for a small iron case on the table. As he opened it, the rich scent of tobacco filled the air.
"I'm guessing these markings of yours have some meaning behind them?" he said, examining the contents.
It was Lloyd's cigarette case. His expression made it clear he was far from amused, yet Burlow continued his casual inspection, turning the cigarettes over between his gloved fingers.
"This one… windshade leaf?" Burlow asked, lifting a cigarette marked with a thin red line and sniffing it curiously.
"I didn't think you'd recognize it," Lloyd admitted, raising an eyebrow. In his eyes, Burlow was the sort of man who should be lost in gold and wine, not knowledge of rare narcotics.
"I've had a few shamans drift up from the Fertile Lands lately," Burlow continued, still sifting through the case. "Strange folk—chanting about gods and spirits as if their words could summon them. Their leader wanted to make a living in the Lower Quarter, so he came to see me. Told me many things about their craft… including that this windshade leaf, when smoked, can turn the user into a 'medium.' Supposedly, it opens one's eyes to the unseen."
He looked up, a playful glint in his gaze. "So, how long have you been using it?"
"None of your business, Burlow."
The response came sharp, harder than usual.
"Alright, alright. Then what's this one?" Burlow asked, pointing at a single cigarette marked with a thick black line. He knew Lloyd's habits—his cigarettes were usually laced with herbs to sharpen the mind—but this one was different. Its faint, acrid aura hinted at something lethal.
"It's poisonous," Lloyd said flatly. "Touch it, and you'll regret it."
"Ah… your murder weapon, perhaps?"
Lloyd gave a humorless chuckle. "You think I'd mark a murder weapon?"
It was mockery—thinly veiled and deliberate. Just hours ago, this same benefactor had nearly put a bullet through his skull.
"That one's for me," Lloyd continued quietly. "The neurotoxin induces sleep, then stops the heart. Peacefully, in a dream."
It was his suicide cigarette, yet he spoke of it as if describing someone else's death.
For a moment, Burlow faltered. He hadn't expected the jaded detective to have such ruthlessness turned inward. Lloyd caught the flicker in his expression and added, almost lazily:
"You've spent enough time in the Lower Quarter to understand—there are fates far worse than death. Sometimes, dying is the only sensible choice."
Death came in an instant. Pain, however, could last a lifetime.
"Such profound wisdom," Burlow murmured, half in admiration. "Tell me then, Lloyd Holmes—have you ever faced one of those 'better-dead-than-alive' moments yourself?"
His smile widened, serpentine, as if showing fangs.
In the next breath, the muzzle of Lloyd's gun was leveled squarely at his face. His gray-blue eyes were glacial.
"You're the one who said it, Burlow—coming to Inlveig, to Old Dunlin, was the start of a new life. And a new life means burying the past, doesn't it?"
"You really are angry," Burlow said casually. "I'm just curious what kind of man you were before you became Lloyd Holmes. But it seems you still don't care to share."
It wasn't the first time they'd had this conversation. Ever since Lloyd arrived in Old Dunlin six years ago, Burlow had been trying—and failing—to uncover his past. The man's origins were a void, as if he had stepped out of nothingness itself.
"Don't take it so personally," Burlow went on, unfazed by the gun still pointed his way. "I trust you, after all—you're my Ironthorn. If you won't talk about the past, let's talk business instead."
Their relationship was strange—technically employer and employee, yet often standing on equal ground.
"So, how's the case progressing?" Burlow asked, drawing a polished revolver from his coat and idly aiming it at Lloyd. Beneath his half-mask, he smiled—a pleasant, cordial smile. Whether the last bullet in that chamber was loaded, no one could tell.
"Thanks to you, the Suaralan Hall has finally started paying attention."
Personal matters concluded, they moved to official ones. Truth be told, if there were anyone else who could replace him, Burlow would have shot this troublesome detective long ago.