Old Dunlin, Outskirts — The Phoenix Estate
In the days of the Glorious War, the Phoenix family had earned their renown as defenders of the realm. The land on the outskirts of Old Dunlin was the Queen's personal gift to them — a reward for valor and loyalty. Through generations of patient stewardship, that gift had grown into something greater: a hidden, resplendent stronghold.
For convenience, a private railway connected the estate directly to the heart of Old Dunlin. Upon those rails thundered an armored train, refitted by the Mechanical Academy — the Phoenix Express, a privilege belonging to the family alone. Though the two lands were separated by vast distance, the journey took no more than half an hour.
On the balcony overlooking the fields, a man stood in silence. His gaze lingered on the horizon, and he sighed.
He was a quintessential Inlveig man — hair silvered and neatly combed, a mustache of an old-fashioned cut that once bespoke authority, now merely the echo of another age. His face, once charming enough to break hearts, was now a map of fine lines and weary years.
The Phoenix family had not sought this land for power, but for peace. The duke of that time was old and ailing, his body weakened by war, yet he refused to abandon the heart of Inlveig's influence entirely. He sought instead a sanctuary close enough to matter, yet far enough to breathe.
And indeed, this land was beautiful — unlike Old Dunlin, whose skies were perpetually smothered by soot and cloud, here sunlight bathed the fields in gold. The air was clean, untouched by coal smoke, the wind carried only the scent of grass and rain. Compared to the city, this place was a page torn from a fairytale.
But progress crept ever closer. Each year, Old Dunlin's shadow grew, its factories expanding, its chimneys climbing toward heaven. Now, from his balcony, the man could see the tips of the distant steam towers breaking the skyline.
It was no good sign. Give it a few decades more, and even this land would fall beneath that cursed shroud of smoke.
The Duke loved sunlight. The longer he had lived in Old Dunlin, the rarer sunlight became — a luxury, a memory. And as he aged, he wished only that his descendants might still live beneath its warmth.
For in Evera Phoenix's mind, the city did not nurture life — it rotted it. People who stayed too long became damp, gray, and soft… until they blended with the city itself.
"What a miserable thought…"
The current head of the Phoenix family, DukeEvera Phoenix, murmured with quiet exhaustion.
"And Eve? Has she come to her senses yet?"
"Miss Eve is still in her room, sir," the butler replied with a small bow. "I believe the recent events have struck her quite deeply."
"The deeper the better," Evera grunted. "Perhaps it'll finally drive that foolish dream out of her head. A detective — of all things! When she could have finished university in peace."
It was clear he did not approve of his daughter's ambitions.
"Perhaps, my lord," the butler offered gently, "she only wishes to follow in your footsteps. To serve, as you once did."
"My footsteps?" Evera's eyes darkened. "You mean the army. You mean war. The Glorious War is over. The Phoenixes paid enough blood for that glory."
He fell silent, jaw tightening.
"War. Soldiers. Guns. They're all the same — engines of grief. She should live as a Phoenix ought to — a princess of this house. I've even set aside enough to buy her an island as dowry. She could live by the sea with her children, fall asleep to the sound of waves instead of machines. No plagues, no smoke, no endless rumble of steam. A paradise, untouched."
For all his disapproval, there was no mistaking the tenderness beneath his words.
"That is the life meant for Eve — not one spent in the gutters of Old Dunlin."
Evera's voice turned harsh again.
"Do you know why they call us the Phoenix family? Because we survived. That's all. Not because we were stronger, but because we lived. Glory belongs only to the living. The dead are nothing."
The Glorious War had devoured too many of them — brothers, sisters, father, grandfather. The Phoenix name was built on a mountain of their bones. Remembering it always filled Evera with a fury he could scarcely control.
"Tell theSualan Council," he said at last. "They have one month. Convince her to abandon this detective nonsense."
Autumn had come to Old Dunlin, and winter was close behind.
Golden leaves carpeted the roads, glowing under the pale sunlight. It was a rare sight — something the city almost never saw — and it lightened Eve's mood. Dressed in a pale yellow dress trimmed with lace, she walked down the path, kicking at the leaves like a child.
She was the ruby of the Phoenix line — the brightest crimson feather on the wings of the undying bird, a light meant to pierce the gloom of Old Dunlin.
But even now, the princess looked troubled. The fallen leaves might have shone like gold, but her joy was fleeting. Her hand reached to her neck — empty. The space where the necklace should have been burned with loss.
That necklace mattered. It had belonged to her mother — a wedding gift from Evera himself. After her mother's passing, the duke had fastened it around Eve's neck on her coming-of-age day.
It was the one memory that tied the three of them together.
Thankfully, her father had not yet noticed its absence — their quarrel over her chosen career had kept them apart for weeks. The Phoenix estate was vast enough that two people could live within its walls for a month and never cross paths.
She had thought about it endlessly, replaying every step, every hour — and concluded the necklace must have been lost somewhere in theLower Quarter. That meant it was gone for good. Down there, anything precious vanished fast — broken down, reforged, resold. Perhaps by now, her mother's necklace gleamed on another woman's throat, reborn under another name.
The thought stung.
Just then, the whistle of thePhoenix Expressbroke the stillness. Steam hissed, and a train rolled to a halt before the estate's small private platform. Guards assembled in neat rows, rifles gleaming under the sunlight.
The armored train was used only for family affairs — transporting supplies, servants, or the occasional honored guest. It was one of the few threads tying the Phoenix lands to the city's heart. And so, whenever it arrived, tension ran high.
White plumes of steam curled through the air as crates of food and household goods were unloaded. Workers stood behind the guards, stealing glances at the legendary estate — awed by its beauty, wary of its silence.
Soon, the grounds were bustling. Beneath the Phoenix family's grandeur were the hands of a hundred laborers, keeping its golden façade alive.
Eve watched from afar, her thoughts adrift — until she realized someone had come to stand beside her.
He carried a folded ladder, wore a forest-green gardener's uniform, and a pair of shears hung from his belt. His head was bowed, his hair flecked with leaves, his clothes damp with sweat.
And in that quiet moment, amid the scent of soil and steam, something subtle shifted in the air.
That was just an ordinary man—so ordinary that Eve hadn't spared him a single thought.Until that familiar voice broke the stillness.
"You know," he said, "I once conducted an experiment. If you carry a ladder, you can walk into almost anywhere in Old Dunlin without anyone stopping you."
The gardener had appeared beside her, removing his stifling hat as he spoke, as if continuing a conversation that had never begun.
"I've used that same ladder to stroll into the Suarlan Hall, the City Council building, the old cinema… and now, apparently, the Phoenix Estate. Everyone just assumes I'm here to fix something."
Beneath his pale-golden hair was a face drained of color, and yet he smiled as he looked at her.
"I learned this at the Royal Academy of Arts," he went on softly. "People instinctively ignore what feels familiar. A window's open, a cup falls—your mind tells you the wind knocked it over. The subconscious explains away anomalies so you don't have to.
"That's the trick. Ordinary peoplebecomethe wind. All I need is a ladder and a pair of pruning shears, and you'll believe I'm a gardener. No one questions it. Your brain fills in the blanks—so long as the setting fits and my appearance matches, I'm invisible."
The sweat stains on his shirt had been dabbed there with water. The leaves tangled in his collar were trophies from a lazy roll across the ground.
Eve's expression shifted—from confusion to dawning fear. Then, as though realizing something crucial, she steadied herself. With calm precision, she lifted the pale-yellow hem of her gown. Before the man could even process what was happening, she drew a pistol from the silk ribbon strapped tight around her thigh.
"Then tell me," she said evenly, "did you anticipatethis?"
Eve's tone was regal and cold. She was a princess of House Phoenix—not some docile ornament. This was her domain, the Phoenix Manor. One pull of the trigger, and eight thousand blade-wielding guards would surge from the shadows to carve this presumptuous "gardener" into ribbons.
"To be fair," the man said after a long pause, raising both hands in surrender, "in my not-so-lengthy detective career, I've found cash, letters, even stolen diamonds hidden under dresses—but never a firearm. You've given me… new inspiration."
He wisely refrained from glancing at the scene beneath that hem, keeping his eyes level.
"Well then," Eve said, her aim unwavering, "you've seen it now, Mr. Lloyd Holmes."
And as those gray-blue eyes met hers, Eve felt a flicker of intuition—that her precarious career as a fledgling detective might just be on the verge of a turning point.