When the sun finally dipped, I headed southeast toward the Nightward Keep. I’d heard the names: , . It looked like a giant, obsidian tombstone marking the edge of the Merchant’s District.
At the entrance, two statues—The Witnesses—blocked the way. They were massive, eyeless things carved from weeping grey stone. As I stepped forward, I felt a vibration in my boots. The stone —a slow, bone-deep rumble. The statues tilted their hooded heads toward me, sniffing for my soul. My heart hammered. I’m a kid from the gutters; I don't belong near things that have been alive since the first king.
A man in a heavy charcoal coat stepped out. "Solmar is at the Sun-Glass Observatory. Top of the hill. Move, or the statues will think you’re a gargoyle."
The Observatory was a massive crystal dome where the rich came to look at the stars. Tonight, it was crawling with guards and guys in long coats looking grave.
I slipped inside, trying to look smaller than I am. I found Soren standing on a brass platform. Above him, a man was caught in the gears of the giant telescope. It wasn't messy; it was… surgical. He was folded into the ironworks like a pressed flower in a book.
Soren didn't turn around. He just stood there, a statue of professional frustration. "You’re late. And you look like you’ve been fighting a jar of buttons."
How did he ….
"Buttons won," I muttered, looking up at the body. My stomach did a little flip. I’ve seen dead bodies in the Warrens—usually they’re in a puddle of something and missing their boots. This guy was still wearing silk slippers, but his limbs were bent at angles that made my own joints ache.
"We have a locked room," Soren said, his voice a low, analytical rasp. "No signs of struggle. No magic residue. It’s as if the machine grew around him."
I stayed back, keeping my hands in my pockets. I wasn't an investigator. I didn't know the law or "forensics." But I did know how much space a body takes up when you’re trying to haul it through a narrow shaft.
"He didn't die here," I said, my voice sounding too loud in the quiet dome.
Soren finally looked at me, his eyes sharp and wary. "And how would a 'sturdy assistant' with no training know that?"
I shrugged, pointing to the brass railings. "Look at the grease on those gears. It’s thick and old. If he had been caught in them while they were moving, there’d be smears. But the grease is undisturbed. He was placed there. Carefully."
I walked a bit closer, my "mover’s eye" scanning the heights. "And look at that window at the very top of the dome. The latch is loose. It’s not broken, but it’s loose."
"That latch is forty feet up, Eymire," Soren said, his voice flat. "Even the best thieves wouldn't risk a vertical climb like that for a silent hit."
"Maybe," I said, catching myself before I mentioned that I could have jumped that distance in two seconds back in my "mover" days. "But someone did. They used the height. They dropped him in on a line, threaded him into the gears from above, and pulled the rope back up. It’s like… trying to fit a heavy crate into a tight basement without touching the walls. You don't walk it in; you lower it."
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Soren walked over to the base of the telescope, looking up at the latch I’d pointed out. He seemed impressed, but then his gaze snapped back to me, cold and suspicious.
"You have a very specific way of looking at a crime scene, Eymire. You see weights, heights, and 'hauling.' Most kids from the Undercity would be staring at the blood or the jewelry."
"I... I worked for a lot of people in the Warrens," I lied, my heart racing. "Lifting stuff. Moving furniture. You learn how gravity works when your lunch depends on not dropping a wardrobe."
Soren didn't look convinced. He reached into his coat and pulled out a small, glowing lens, scanning the body. Suddenly, he stopped. "What is this?"
He leaned in, looking at a thread caught in the astronomer’s collar. It was silver, but it glowed with a faint, unnatural blue light. "Strange. This isn't common thread."
I squinted at it from a distance. I’d seen that same shimmer earlier today. "The Duchess," I whispered.
Soren’s head whipped around. "What?"
"In the Duchess's house," I said, playing it safe. "Oren was showing her a catalog. There was this 'Academy Silver' thread—meant for ability-catalyst robes. It has that same blue tint. She said it was only for the 'high-bloods' at the school."
Soren went dead silent. He looked at the silver thread, then back at me, his eyes narrowing into slits. "You recognized a high-level magical material because you were... eavesdropping on a tailor?"
"I was sorting buttons! It was boring!" I snapped, trying to sound like an annoyed kid and not a secret agent.
Soren looked back at the body, his face a mask of deep concern. "The Academy... if this thread came from their workshops, then this murderer has access to the most secure district in the city. This isn't just a serial killer. This is a Statement being written from within our own walls."
He turned to me, and for the first time, he didn't look like he was ignoring me. He looked like he was studying a problem he couldn't solve. "An ex-resident of the Warrens with a 'guardian angel' ability he can't control, who just happens to have the eyes of a master logistics officer and knows more about Academy materials than my own junior agents."
"I'm just lucky?" I suggested, offering a weak grin.
"Luck doesn't exist in my line of work, Eymire. Only variables." Soren adjusted his coat, his shadow stretching long across the crystal floor. "Go back to Oren’s. Stay there. I have to verify this lead, and if you’re right... then your 'rent-free' life is about to get significantly more crowded."
I walked out of the Observatory, the cold night air hitting my face. I thought, my boots clicking on the expensive stone.
I looked at my hands, thinking of the "Sky Wrath" and the "Jumper" ability hidden in my blood. I was a mover who had moved into a trap, and the teeth were starting to close
I was trudging back toward Oren’s shop, my brain a messy soup of telescope gears, "Dull-Ryn" thread, and the unsettling way Soren Solmar looked at me. I just wanted to crawl into my rent-free room and pretend the Upper City didn't exist for eight hours. But as I passed —a restaurant where the napkins probably cost more than my internal organs—I saw a splash of red that made my heart skip a beat. It was Lirra. She looked incredible, wrapped in a fancy crimson dress that made her look like a flame against the cold marble of the street. I actually started to raise my hand, a stupid, hopeful grin already tugging at my face. But the words died in my throat when he stepped out behind her. He was easily in his thirties, wearing a suit that probably had a soul of its own, and he moved with the kind of effortless grace you only get from never having to work for a living. He slid a hand onto her waist, pulling her close. I froze, my hand still half-raised like a confused hitchhiker. I thought desperately. Then he leaned down and kissed her, and let’s just say it wasn’t the kind of kiss you give a relative.
My heart didn't just break; it did a "Mover’s Drop"—fell five stories and hit the pavement with a wet, pathetic thud. I stood there in the shadows, looking at my scuffed boots and my soot-stained sleeves, remembering how I’d actually spent five minutes today cleaning the dirt out from under my fingernails because I was supposed to go hear her play tomorrow. A surge of anger, hot and sharp like a Sky Wrath spark, flared in my chest, followed immediately by the cold, biting realization that I was a complete idiot. I’m a ghost from the gutters playing dress-up in a tailor shop. I whispered to the empty street, my voice cracking just enough to be annoying.