The potential victim was a family named Whitmore, minor nobility with a townhouse in the Upper District and a collection of enchanted heirlooms that rivaled the Ashfords'. Their dispute was public knowledge—the current lord's younger brother had been cut out of the inheritance after a scandal involving gambling debts and a married countess, and he had been loudly contesting the will for months.
Sound familiar? Chen had said when she briefed me. Same pattern, different family.
I arrived at the Whitmore townhouse under Guard escort, my examination kit over my shoulder and my nerves tightly controlled. The family knew why I was there—they'd been briefed on the investigation and had reluctantly agreed to cooperate—but that didn't mean they were happy about it.
Lord Whitmore met me at the door himself, a thin man in his fifties with the perpetually worried expression of someone whose comfortable life had recently developed cracks. "Inspector Chen said you might find something wrong with our heirlooms," he said, leading me through a foyer decorated with enchanted portraits—ancestors who moved within their frames, some watching us pass with obvious curiosity.
"That's what I'm here to determine, my lord."
"Please, just Whitmore. I've never been comfortable with titles." He gestured for me to follow him up a grand staircase. "The family artifacts are in the vault. We've kept them there since... well, since the dispute began. Security measure."
The vault was in the basement, behind a door reinforced with enough protective enchantments to make my skin tingle. Whitmore produced a key that glowed faintly in his hand, and the door swung open to reveal a chamber lined with glass cases, each containing objects that hummed with old, powerful magic.
"The Whitmore collection," Whitmore said, a note of pride entering his voice despite the circumstances. "Twelve generations of accumulated enchantments. My great-great-grandmother's scrying mirror, my grandfather's battle standard, the family seal that supposedly grants authority over certain bound spirits..."
I moved through the room slowly, letting my examination crystal extend its senses. Each artifact was indeed old and powerful, their enchantments layered and complex. But none of them showed the dark threads of a sympathetic drain.
Until I reached the final case.
The object inside was a pocket watch, similar in design to the Ashford piece I'd worked on days before. Its case was silver rather than gold, its engravings depicting maritime scenes rather than the Founding of Ashborne, but the feel of it—old magic, intricate craftsmanship, the weight of generations—was immediately familiar.
"This watch," I said, pointing. "May I examine it more closely?"
Whitmore nodded, opening the case and handing me the watch with careful hands.
I let my examination crystal sink into its depths. And there, wrapped around the watch's heart like a constrictor around its prey, I found what I was looking for: a sympathetic drain, dark threads pulsing with stolen power, connecting to something beyond the artifact itself.
"We have a problem," I said quietly. "This watch has been compromised. Same technique as the Ashford piece."
Whitmore's face went pale. "But how? The vault has been sealed for months. No one has access except—"
He stopped, his expression shifting from confusion to something darker.
"Except who?" I asked.
"Except my brother." His voice was barely a whisper. "He has a key. He had it made before our father died, when he was still the heir apparent. I thought I'd confiscated it, but if he made a copy..."
"Then he could have placed this drain before the vault was sealed." I was already reaching for my tools. "My lord, I need to extract this drain immediately. And I need your permission to contact the Guard—they'll want to question your brother."
"Do what you have to do," Whitmore said, his voice hollow. "And tell Inspector Chen that I'll cooperate fully. Whatever my brother has gotten himself into... I want no part of it."
I worked quickly, the extraction process now familiar from my previous experience. The drain on the Whitmore watch was younger than the one on the Ashford piece, its threads less deeply embedded, and I was able to remove it with less resistance. When I sealed it in the containment crystal, the dark mass settled like a captured shadow.
But the connection—the thread leading out to whatever had been receiving the stolen power—pulled tight before it snapped. Whoever was on the other end had felt us. Again.
"They know we're here," I said, sealing the crystal's lid. "We need to move."
Chen's team arrived within minutes, and we extracted from the Whitmore townhouse with a speed that drew stares from passersby. Whitmore's brother was already being sought—the Guard had officers heading to his last known address—but something told me we wouldn't find him. He was a pawn, I suspected. A convenient relative with a grudge and access to valuable artifacts. Someone else was pulling the strings.
I returned to the Guard station, the cracked containment crystal heavy in my bag, and found Darian waiting for me.
"Two drains in two days," he said, falling into step beside me. "They're accelerating."
"Or we're finally seeing what was always there." I handed him the crystal. "This one was fresher. Less damage to the host enchantment, less entrenchment. Whoever placed it either didn't have time to let it develop fully, or they didn't think they needed to."
"The latter, I'd guess. The Whitmore brother isn't an enchanter—he doesn't have the skills to place a drain like this. Someone gave him the technique, probably in exchange for access to the family artifacts."
"Which means we're looking for the same person who placed the Ashford drain." I paused at the door to the briefing room. "The same person who's been doing this for years. The same person who felt us when we severed their connections."
Darian nodded grimly. "And now they know we're getting closer. They'll either run or fight."
"Or both." I pushed open the door. "Let's make sure we're ready either way."
Inside, Chen had assembled the full investigative team—perhaps a dozen Guards and specialists, all looking as tired and determined as I felt. Maps covered the walls, marking artifact thefts, enchantment failures, and family disputes across the city. In the center of it all was the serpent-and-crystal symbol, its fangs bared.
The Order of the Consuming Serpent. Two hundred years old and still hungry.
I took my seat, ready to begin the next phase of the hunt.