The Department of Defence occupied a prime location at the intersection of Patriot Road and Emancipation Avenue, two of the most prestigious streets in Ragah. Sunlight glinted off the chrome and tinted glass façade of the imposing twin buildings.

A crisp morning breeze rustled the neatly trimmed hedges lining the path to the first building. It carried with it a mix of scents: the fragrance of fresh flowers from the surrounding gardens mingling with exhaust fumes and the occasional whiff of polished metal.

Ruban and Simani had just passed the main entrance – an arched gateway framed by simple wrought-iron gates. Two guards in olive-green uniforms stood by, acknowledging them with a slight, courteous nod.

As they approached the first of the twin buildings, however, they were met by another guard. Tall, slim, and neatly bearded, he too wore the olive-green uniform of his colleagues.

He greeted them with a friendly smile, positioning himself firmly between them and the cool, inviting lobby. A holstered gun hung discreetly at his hip, but his hands remained open, palms raised in a placating gesture.

He asked politely for their identification and the purpose of their visit. Ruban ignored him. It was evident the man knew exactly who they were and why they were here.

While Simani wrangled with him, Ruban focused on the activity inside.

Personnel moved purposefully between the two interconnected buildings, some clad in military attire and others in business suits. As they passed by the front doorway, many cast furtive glances at Ruban and Simani.

The two of them were here to request permission to interview Atbin Siyal, the young Hunter accused of attempting to kill Simani by pushing her in front of an oncoming energy-shell. Ashwin’s shell, to be precise.

Ruban wondered how many of these people knew that; what they made of it. Was that the reason for the furtive glances?

Well, it couldn’t be helped. For his part, Ruban didn’t understand why he needed permission from the Department of Defence to interview Siyal, who was currently being held at the Central Ragah Detention Center, awaiting the conclusion of his trial and sentencing.

If anything, this situation reminded him of Farid. One of the Qawirsin’s smugglers arrested last year at the Zainian border, back when Ashwin was still in the clutches of Janak Nath.

The Department of Defence had blocked their attempts to interview Farid then, just as they seemed to be doing now with Siyal.

As Simani argued with the guard for the fifth straight minute, a handsome young man emerged from the lobby and flashed them a too-bright smile. He wore a simple blue button-down shirt tucked into dark trousers. An ID hung visibly around his neck.

Ruban would’ve paid him no mind, as most of the personnel here were similarly attired. Yet, something about the ID dangling from his lanyard snagged Ruban’s attention. It wasn’t quite like the others he’d seen on the premises. It was a moment before he realized why that was. Ruban recognized the familiar yellow-and-green logo on the ID card.

His heart skipped a beat.

It was the logo of The Ragah Times. This man was a reporter.

No sooner had Ruban come to the realization than a few more reporters emerged from the lobby. Now that he knew what to look for, they were easy to pick out. They were all smartly dressed, but their style was almost aggressively muted. As if making a deliberate effort not to stand out in these somber surroundings.

Microphones and cameras emerged like the sudden blooming of flowers. Their lenses and recording devices focused directly on Ruban and Simani.

Ruban glanced back at the main entrance, where the two uniformed guards resolutely blocked a larger crowd of journalists and cameramen. The wrought-iron gates marked the boundary, the guards’ firm presence keeping the media at bay, even as they shouted questions and waved for attention.

“Mr. Kinoh! Could you please comment on the leaked video?”

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“How’s the Prince of Vaan coping with the situation?”

“Ms. Vaz! Do you believe the Department of Defence is obstructing justice?”

“Considering the humiliating nature of the leaked video, do you think Prince Shwaan should step down as Vaan’s ambassador to earth?”

The reporters pressed closer, their enthusiasm making it hard for Ruban and Simani to move away.

Buffeted by the throng, Ruban shot a glance at Simani to make sure she was alright.

Something in her expression gave him pause. She didn’t seem surprised by the media onslaught. While clearly uncomfortable, she looked resolute rather than flustered.

He elbowed her, signaling his suspicions with a raised eyebrow.

The flicker of hesitation before Simani met his eyes told him all he needed to know. She was the leak. The one who’d tipped the media off about their visit to the Department of Defence.

She was the reason the press was here this morning.

Before he could utter a word, Simani burst forth. “I don’t know what the Department of Defence is obstructing. But I do know this.” Her voice was loud, as if to reach even the most distant of the reporters. “The illegal feather trade costs the government millions in lost revenue each year.” She rattled off figures and statistics on the losses, as if she’d memorized them just last night. Perhaps she had. “Not to mention, it’s disgusting,” she spat. “Utterly shameful to be adorning our homes with something obtained through torture and degradation. Through so much unnecessary suffering.

“The Hunter Corps is mandated to collect the feathers that fall into our possession during sanctioned Hunts. While protecting the public from Aeriel terrorists. We don’t chase down unsuspecting Aeriels to steal their feathers.” Her voice dripped with disgust. “That was never how the system was meant to work. Aeriel feathers were always a byproduct of the Hunter Corps’ security operations; never the primary purpose.”

“Are you saying that has changed now?” A familiar voice demanded, cutting through the din. Casia Washi stepped out of the lobby, the throng of reporters parting instinctively to let her through. “That the Hunter Corps has devolved into nothing more than a band of mercenaries – paid to line the pockets of those in power?”

Ruban frowned. What tantalizing intel had Simani dangled to lure Casia Washi here in person? The other reporters seemed equally caught off guard. They clearly hadn’t expected someone of her stature to make an appearance.

“Not all the Hunter Corps, no.” Simani’s voice was grim. “But how else do you explain Atbin Siyal and his actions at the Komini Fair Hunt? It was a deliberate attempt to frame Prince Shwaan for a crime he did not commit. And now this video was leaked. And they’re deliberately preventing us from interviewing Siyal.

“Surely, all of this can’t be coincidence. Someone profits from all this chaos – someone powerful enough to pull the strings without revealing themselves. Someone,” she continued, a slight tremor in her voice. “Who stands to lose a lot if the alliance succeeds, causing the illegal feather trade to dry up.”

Casia Washi stepped closer until she stood face to face with Simani, the throng of reporters forming a watchful semicircle behind her. “We’re past the point of hints, don’t you think?” she asked, her voice soft yet steely. “Lives are at stake, Ms. Vaz. If you know who’s responsible, name them.”

“And then what?” Ruban snapped, taking a single step forward. “Get flooded with lawsuits for making accusations without airtight evidence? Bring even more danger down on those already victimized by these vicious political games? Hasn’t the media caused enough damage already? No institution is without blame for the mess we’re in today. If the Department of Defence has blood on its hands, so does the media. So does your very own WNN, for that matter.”

Casia flinched slightly, but soon regained her composure. “Is that so?” she drawled; a shapely eyebrow raised. “I take it there’s a reason you feel that way?”

“Do you really need me to tell you?” Ruban retorted, glaring down at her. “At the height of the Qawirsin’s reign, government contractors were working with the mafia to refine illegally obtained Aeriel feathers. The mafia didn’t officially control any feather refineries in Vandram, yet they were churning out tons for the black market. They still are, although the volume has decreased since the fall of the Qawirsin.”

“Government contractors…” Casia repeated slowly. “And this has something to do with WNN because?”

Because Tej Enterprises was often contracted by the government to refine Aeriel feathers collected by the Hunter Corps. Because WNN shared a parent company with Tej Enterprises. Because tracing the ownership structure through a maze of shell and holding companies would lead directly to Kushal Mayiti – stepfather to the senior secretary of defence.

Both WNN and Tej Enterprises had the same owner, and therefore a shared reason for hindering the Vaan alliance.

But these details were classified, part of several ongoing investigations. Ruban couldn’t be seen disclosing them to the press. Not openly, at any rate. All he could do was drop breadcrumbs, hoping they’d follow them to the heart of the matter.

“How many government-contracted feather refineries have recently come under investigation for collaborating with the mafia?” Ruban asked at length, having reached a compromise with his own better judgment. “How many bureaucrats and industrialists have been accused of involvement with the Qawirsin; and how many of them have been indicted? And how many hours has your news network devoted to covering these suspiciously under-reported issues?

“I think you’ll find the answer is: not that many.” He leaned forward, eyes sharp. “At which point, you should ask yourself – why one of the country’s leading news channels might be hesitant to cover one of the most pressing news stories of our times?”