I am halfway through my morning paperwork when the badge vibrates once. I answer.
"Come to my office," Gary calls.
I rise and make my way there.
"Good Sunday, Gary," I say as I enter.
"Good Sunday," he replies.
I approach his desk and stand, hands folded lightly behind my back.
"There's something I want you to do," he says, eyes meeting mine.
I nod. "Okay. What is it?"
"Custodian Order requests help."
"The police?" I ask, brow lifting slightly. "Why would they ask for our help?"
"Guess."
I place a hand on my chin, eyes narrowing for a beat. "Alchemist?"
"Yes," he confirms. "Their captain apparently has a habit of dumping alchemy-related problems on us."
"Alright. So what should I do now?"
"Go to their main building. Meet their captain. It's near the rich neighborhood."
"Understood."
He pauses, then adds: "Also, Len—"
"Yesterday you skipped work. I know you don't have to work as a clerk anymore, but try not to skip work next time."
I nod. My face polite. My mind indifferent.
I leave his office and step into the street. Carriages pass, their wheels clattering against cobblestones. I find one waiting and settle in. The horse's hooves strike a steady rhythm as we move through the Northern Outskirt.
The carriage moves east of the Hearthlight building, passing rows of worn houses and low-rise shops. At a major cross-section, it turns left and keeps going.
After a while, a line of vaporgates hums on the side, curtains of mist filtering the air. The smog halts there, unable to pass, leaving the way clear toward the rich neighborhood. We glide past them.
Not long after, a building rises on the side of the road, familiar in its proportions. Red brick, same height and length as Hearthlight's main building, same deliberate symmetry.
The carriage slows, then stops.
People move in and out of the open doors. I step closer, eyes tracing the entrance. Above it, the emblem of the Custodian Order hangs. A soot-black shield bears a luminous white raven, radiating a spectral glow. Heavy iron chains frame it. Twin battle-axes lean against the sides, anchored by a pair of grinning skulls at the base.
I draw my badge, studying it in my hand. Hearthlight's emblem: the White Raven encased in an ornate, glowing lantern, set against a backdrop of shimmering starlight and golden laurel wreaths.
Both emblems bear the White Raven. Both claim its vigilance.
I walk inside. Even here, the lobby mirrors Hearthlight's design: high ceilings, polished floors, massive columns stretching toward glass panels above, letting light flood the space.
Clerks move with quiet efficiency, sorting papers, checking manifests, their hands steady but their eyes alert. Officers of the Custodian Order pace between the desks, boots tapping against stone, eyes scanning visitors with clinical precision. Some lean over counters, speaking in clipped tones to uniformed colleagues. Others carry trays of documents, moving in choreographed arcs that avoid collisions but dominate the space.
I approach one of the clerks.
"I have an appointment with Captain Arjuna," I say.
"Who might you be?" she asks, eyes already drifting to my coat, my posture.
I pull out my badge and hold it up, close enough for her to see every detail.
"Oh…" Her tone shifts at once. "Understood. Please follow me."
She turns and walks toward a room near the clerks' desks. I follow.
She opens the door and gestures me inside.
The room is similar to Gary's office. Same layout. Same desk near the window. Same disciplined emptiness.
A man is already seated behind it.
He looks up and smiles.
The clerk steps back and closes the door from the outside.
I turn and reach for the handle.
It doesn't move.
Locked.
Thud.
Thud.
I slam my shoulder into the door once. Then again.
"Calm down," the man says.
I turn back to him. "Captain Arjuna?"
"Yes," he replies calmly. "I am indeed Arjuna."
He is shorter than me. Slightly tanned skin. Dark hair combed back neatly. Brown eyes that watch without rushing. A trimmed moustache rests above his lip, giving him an air of quiet experience—someone used to being obeyed without needing to raise his voice.
"Why do you lock me inside?"
He raises one hand toward me, palm open, then curls his fingers inward in a slow, casual motion.
I walk up to his desk.
"How many alchemists are currently in this building?" he asks.
"I don't know," I answer, shaking my head.
He lifts two fingers.
"Got it," I nod.
He exhales, leaning back slightly. "You're here because of a situation. A month ago, the Hearthlight Order assassinated their previous Captain—Aram."
Aram.
Gary's predecessor.
"Aram was a traitor," Arjuna continues. "Not only to Hearthlight, but to us as well. A sleeper agent."
"So he's dead," I say.
"Yes," Arjuna agrees. "And that's the problem."
I tilt my head. "New problem?"
He shakes his head once, correcting himself. "Not new. Unfinished."
He folds his hands together on the desk.
"Only now," he adds quietly, "we're starting to see what he left behind."
"What is that?"
"He has been training alchemists," he says, leaning back.
I stare at him. "You want me to assassinate alchemists? Alone?"
"Yes," he replies without hesitation. "Only those trained by Aram. After all, no one is permitted to become an alchemist without our approval. Therefore we are obliged by duty to hunt them down."
"Who are they?" I ask. "These unapproved alchemists?"
Arjuna reaches into a drawer and pulls out two papers, sliding them across the desk.
Portraits. Young men. Well dressed. Soft faces.
"Aram used to mentor the sons of wealthy families in his neighborhood," he says.
I glance at the portraits once. That's enough.
"Alright," I say, already turning. "I'll be quick."
"W-wait," he calls.
I stop. Look back. "Yes?"
"Try not to let this trace back to us," he says carefully. "Gary mentioned you're… very smart."
"I know what you want," I reply.
I walk to the door. Behind me, Arjuna presses a bell on his desk.
Ring.
The lock clicks. The door opens.
I leave the office, exit the Custodian building, and step back into the street. I head south, boots steady against stone.
After a while, the vaporgates rise ahead—humming curtains of mist. I pass through the veil, smog thinning, air sharpening.
The same neighborhood where Gary and I assassinated Aram.
The houses line up in quiet repetition—some modest, some larger, but all immaculate. Only small differences mark them apart: a new window frame, a door repainted too many times, a fence polished just so.
And then there are the others. Mansions that stretch three stories high, their stone facades gleaming under lantern light. Iron gates curve into intricate patterns, gardens sculpted into perfection. Balconies overlook the streets, carved balustrades catching the last rays of sun, while topiary animals freeze in eternal pose on trimmed lawns. These homes speak of influence rather than mere wealth.
A guard steps into my path.
"Good Sunday," he says.
"Good Sunday."
His eyes narrow. "You don't look like you belong here."
"Woah," I reply lightly. "What's with the attitude?"
He exhales, some of the edge draining out of him. "Sorry. Everyone's on edge."
"Why?"
"Someone died recently. A good man. Generous. Always helping the neighborhood."
Aram.
"I'm sorry to hear that," I say.
He studies me again, slower this time. "If you're not here for something important, I can show you the way out."
"I'm here for something important."
"Such as?" His tone sharpens again. "This isn't a place you just wander into."
I glance around, letting my gaze drift from house to house. Some are neat and well-kept, some imposing, polished like jewels, and a few so extravagant they seem untouchable. Counting empty windows, closed shutters, and silent courtyards, I see the hierarchy in stone and iron.
Then it comes to me.
I smile. "I'd like to purchase a house."
His posture shifts instantly. Suspicion drains away, replaced by calculation.
"There are several vacant properties, Monsieur," he says, polite now. "I can take you to the land agent."
He gestures for me to follow.
And just like that, my mission—to erase the last of Aram's disciples—takes a different path.