“Do you want to take a break?” Ashwin asked him, eyeing Ruban with something akin to concern. “I can look through the rest on my own and get everything in order. We should be leaving soon anyway. Wouldn’t be safe to spend the night in this house. You can go get some air while I finish up here.”

He was holding a small, padlocked metal box in his hands. It was the only thing in the safe they had not yet gone through. The files and papers sat in two neat piles on one side of the vault, arranged by Ashwin according to their subject matter – one for his father’s old employment records with the IAW and the other for the unfinished Surai investigation.

Ruban looked at the case in the Aeriel’s hand for a long minute. To his own surprise and consternation, he felt no particular curiosity about the contents of the box. He was too numb to feel curious. He was too numb to feel anything. And a part of him wanted to keep it that way.

But another part of him could not forget who he was, what he was. He was Ruban Kinoh, Chief Hunter, South Ragah Division. He was a soldier, an officer of the state of Vandram, a servant to her people. There were interests greater than his own at stake here, and he had a duty to see them through. Much as he wanted to turn back the clock, he was no longer the hapless kid who had run away from the ruins of his life in Surai eight years ago. And he had no right to act like that lost boy, not anymore.

“No, I’ll stay,” he said at last, focusing on his companion’s face. Ashwin looked worried. Justifiably so, Ruban supposed. He was acting like a pathetic moron, falling apart on a mission. Ridiculous. “I want to see what’s in the damn box.”

Ashwin’s lips quirked in a faint little smile. “Okay then.” Taking the padlock between his fingers, he gave it a casual little yank, and the lock fell away like so much disintegrated jelly. “Ready?”

“As ready as I’ll ever be.”

With an imperceptible nod, Ashwin flicked the case open.

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Then he gasped, fell back away from the box and whimpered like a wounded animal.

The case clattered noisily to the floor, spilling its contents all over the dirty marble panels of the storeroom.

Ruban blinked, moving forward to get a better look at the little rocks that were now scattered around the safe, while simultaneously shielding the Aeriel with his body. Reaching forward, he picked one up, holding it carefully in the palm of his hand.

And then it hit him.

Sif ores. He was holding a bit of sif ore in his hand.

But not just any sif ore. This was darker, harder than the normal stuff, which was why he hadn’t recognised it immediately. And from Ashwin’s reaction, there could be no doubt about it. A little bit of untreated sif shouldn’t cause more than some vague discomfort in an Aeriel, if that. But this was different, of course.

This was the enhanced sif ore that his uncle had spoken of, that Dr. Visht had spoken of. The raw material for the creation of reinforced sifblades.

Heavens! Someone was stocking state-of-the-art sif technology in a vault in this secluded villa in Ibanborah. There was only one way that could be possible. After all, it wasn’t as though the government was selling untreated supercharged sif ores to the highest bidder for private ownership.

This was stolen property. Stolen state property.

And who would have the necessary influence and access to steal something as sensitive and valuable as chemically enhanced sif ores?

The pieces were falling into place in Ruban’s head, but they were forming a picture he did not want to see.

“By Zeifaa, put those vile things away,” a strangled voice croaked behind him as Ashwin pushed himself laboriously back to his knees. “My limbs feel like they have lead weights tied to them.”

“Sorry,” muttered Ruban, sheepish, and hastily collected the scattered rocks, packing them back into the metal case and flipping it firmly shut. “Better?”

“Much,” Ashwin said, releasing a rattling breath. Then, as if remembering something, he patted the floor beside the spot where the box had originally fallen. “Voila!” he said, holding up what looked like a small disk wrapped in cardboard. “This fell out of the case with that other godforsaken stuff. I was just too taken aback to pay attention to it then.”

Hesitantly, Ruban reached out to take the proffered object from the Aeriel. Slipping a finger inside the cardboard case, he pulled out the disk ensconced within.

“Damn it all to hell,” he said, voice shaking with some emotion he couldn’t name. “This is the formula. The goddamned sifblade formula Tauheen stole from SifCo.”

“Oh fuck,” the Aeriel said, appropriately.