Dim candlelight illuminates the derelict desk area of the detective agency. The silence occasionally broken by the indiscernible chatter from the adjacent meeting room and the tearing of cloth. Messy desks sit scattered around the room covered with crinkled paper and overused stationary, all of their adjoining chairs empty. Victor reclines at his desk, head slumped back and staring at the ceiling. He rubs his temples with his left hand, his breathing lethargic. Sid slams down a bottle of clear alcohol on his desk and re-takes his seat to Victor’s right.

“I’m finished, aren’t it?” Victor asks, relaxing his eyelids to a close.

Sid unscrews the bottle and dabs a small cotton ball with alcohol. “I’ll be honest, it doesn't look good. I explained everything to Falk, how it wasn’t your fault, he spotted us, blah blah blah. Sorry about this.”

Victor’s brow furls. “What are you sorry-” Searing pain explodes throughout his right arm. He bounces out of his seat, snapping his head forward to see Sid gently patting the gash on his arm with the cotton. Victor’s breathing gets heavy, his hands firmly closed, glaring at Sid.

Sid shrugs. “I said sorry.” Victor relieves his head back once again, allowing the silence between them to thrive. Sid works earnestly, cleaning up the wound and dressing it with soft bandages. The murmuring from the next room fluctuates in tone and volume, deepening the darkness in Victors head. “You’re all set. Keep. It. Clean. Infection is the last thing you need right now.” Sid demands, rising to his feet. Heavy footsteps silence the inaudible conversation in the next room. The door swings inwards to allow a quiet stampede of detectives out. They head straight upstairs, not one staying behind. After the last one leaves, a dimly lit Chief Falk pokes his head out.

“You can come in now.” Falk’s voice rumbles. Sid looks down at Victor and gives a slight nod. He groans to his feet, snatching the bottle off the table and taking a swig. His face contorts, momentarily taking the focus away from his pain, and enters the meeting room.

Falk is sat opposite Victor at the table. His huge frame swallows the chair and half of the room. His shoulders droop. He’s rearranging file notes carefully as Victor massages his knee, waiting to be chastised. The candlelight flame stands tall and unwavering as if holding its breath in anticipation. Falk releases a sigh, dropping the notes in a messy pile.

“This cannot keep happening Victor.” He says, rubbing his chin. Victor stays silent, answering with an emotionless face and a gentle nod. “They want you gone. They said you’re a liability. I’m inclined to agree. That's two cases in a row that you have ruined, add those to the numerous others over the last 2 months. Talk to me, what’s going on?” Falk leans forward, his words dripping with sincerity.

Victor reluctantly looks up at Falk, his face stoic as stone. “I’m fine. Just unlucky.”

“Unlucky…right.” Falk reclines. The creaking of his chair the only sound in the room. “There is something going on with you Victor. You were never the best, but you were reliable. You didn’t make mistakes like this, and now you’re injuring yourself, throwing yourself off of balconies? I’m not saying this as your Chief, this is man to man – I’m worried about you. If you need to take some time off-”

“No. No time off, I just… I’ll be better.” Victor stumbles over the words after jumping to interrupt.

“You need to be. I can’t keep defending you time and time again, because soon my choices are to drop you, or everyone else leaves. I think you know the decision I’ll make. So, another mistake, another compromise, another injury to you or the public and you’re done. And I’m saying this as your Chief.”

Victor nods. He gets up to leave, and stops halfway out the door. “I’ve been meaning to ask, what would be the possibility of a kid I know getting an apprenticeship job here?”.

***

A glowing strip of street lanterns cast a warm glow on the frigid, grim streets of Vintermarche. Few people roam, and for fewer good reasons. Subtle light and movement can be seen from most interiors at this time of night. The occasional tavern offering a stark contrast, overflowing with drunkards dancing to the newest travelling bard. They sing songs of the three Gods; The Wall and it’s disappearing. Evanara’s three moons; Amara, Tenir, and Liorax, named after the three Gods, casts their mixture of blue, green and red that forms a white divine glow that showers the land at night.

Wrapped tightly in his coat, lit only by the smouldering cigarette in his mouth, Victor meanders home. He keeps his gaze locked to the distance, careful not to catch the eye of those brave enough to wander the streets at night. He rattles the near empty pack of cigarettes in his pocket. The market district begins to filter away as he continues down the dark streets, passing pitch black alleyways through to the upper district.

“Gotta spare smoke mate?” A hoarse voice calls from the darkness.

“This is my last one.” Victor replies without slowing his limp, finishing his answer with a heavy drag of his cigarette.

“Victor Cain, yes?” The hoarse voice says. Victor freezes. His eyes dart around the pathetically lit street before he turns to face the darkness.

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“Nah, you’ve got the wrong guy.” Victor answers, squinting into the abyss. He snaps around to continue, but is met with two men stepping out of the shadows. Turning back toward the voice, another two men emerge. Victor pulls the pack from his pocket and tosses them to the floor. “There. Take them. No trouble.”

One of them pockets the cigarettes. “We don’t want trouble. We need you to follow us, our boss wants to meet you for a job offer.” He says, gesturing to guide Victor forward. Cranking his head back and forth, Victor obliges and follows them.

Slowing their pace with Victor’s limp, the four men guide him through the lavish upper district roads. Everything here is an improvement on the rest of Vintermarche, from the street lanterns to the overall cleanliness. Meticulous cut topiary perches upon beautiful brick walls that outline huge estates. All of them having their distinct features and stonework, all of them looking the same to Victor. They take him down a set of streets he’s never seen before stopping at a metal gate. A shadowed figure opens the gate without a word, and they lead on. They enter into a lavish estate with carefully cut grass, wonderfully maintained hedges and what Victor can assume to be a beautiful assortment of flowers – but they’re closed. They follow a short straight path up to an extravagant building. Three floors of filthy rich living with stained glass windows littered everywhere.

Brought inside, Victor is surprised at the modesty. The walls, which he expected to be covered in tapestries and paintings, are bare. The foyer, which he expected to be cluttered with expensive and useless furniture, is empty. The barren room is illuminated by the moonlight cascading through the stained windows, leading to the wide staircase that splits in two. Victor is taken up the stairs and down an equally empty corridor to a closed door. Fiery colours flickers underneath the door, the only source of artificial light he has seen since stepping foot inside. One of the men opens the door and allows him to enter first. He does, and a whip of wind followed by a clunk of a lock sounds behind him.

Inside, a raging fire crackles to Victors right. Atop the fireplace are a collection of multicoloured trinkets and gemstones, each worth more money than Victor has ever seen. To his left, beautifully bespoke curtains drape from the high ceilings and rest carefully on the checkerboard flooring. Tall, full bookshelves lean against the front and back walls, looming over the two armchairs that face towards the fire. A wrinkled hand with maroon painted nails delicately holding a small glass appears from the side of the armchair thats facing away from Victor.

“It’s about time. I was starting to think you weren’t coming.” She says, regal but croaky and still only showing her arm.

Victor glances behind him at the locked door. “I didn’t know I had a choice.”

“The boys are darlings really. As long as one stays on their good side, that is.” She swings the glass back behind the armchair.

“I assume blindly accepting the job offer you've brought me here for keeps me on their good side?” Victor prods.

“Oh of course not darling.” She leans over the arm of the chair to look at Victor. A set of wrinkled, experienced eyes stare back at him. A small button nose, lips adorned with dark lipstick and short, white hair mark the woman with age. A lady who has seen plenty of life and prefers the comforts of familiarity. She gestures to the chair opposite her. “I’d never let you go in blind. Please, take a seat.”

Victor obliges, basking in the warmth of the fire beside him. With a heavy groan, he reclines in the impossibly comfortable armchair. The orange glow bringing to light the scrapes his clothing sustained during the days earlier events. She pours him a half glass of deep purple drink. Victor takes it.

“In the two months since The Wall fell, do you know what the hardest job to hire for has been Mr. Cain?” She asks, sitting back, staring deep into his soul.

Victor’s eyes playfully dance around the room. “I would say Interior Decorators, Miss…?”.

She lets out a pitiful chuckle. “Miss Moreau. The hardest job to hire for is a Courier. Would you like to hazard a guess as to why this might be?”

“No idea.” Victor takes a swig. His right eye involuntarily squints at the strength and his lips pucker. He takes another swig.

“Eight years of experience with over one hundred successful deliveries, and not the slightest clue as to why that might be?” Miss Moreau playfully swirls her drink as she inquires. Victor attempts to stay stoic at the obscure reference to his past.

“Before The Wall, the middle woodland of Evanara was dangerous, but navigable if you knew what you were doing. With The Wall now gone, I would imagine it’s nothing short of a warzone there, with bandits and thieves fighting each other and anyone passing by for their claim in the recovered land.”

“Precisely. So, a rather large drop in reliable couriers brings the topic of conversation to you, Mr. Cain. I have something I need delivered, and I need you to deliver it.” Miss Moreau stops swirling her drink and stares at Victor.

He takes a breath, ready to speak. He pauses. His eyes search the room for another answer, something to stop him from what he wants to say. “Go on.”

“You will be delivering a stone statue. It’s considerable in weight, so you will be taking a two horse cart. My clients, whom you will be delivering too, will need the statue authenticity confirmed, so you will be accompanied by an appraiser. One thousand gold, half before and half once you return and the deal is done. You’ll be delivering to Haymarsh in the Northwest, I suspect you know-”

“No. I’m not doing it.” Victor’s breathing accelerates. He guzzles the rest of his drink, swallowing it with difficulty. Rising to his feet, he places the empty glass on the table in front of the dumbstruck Miss Moreau.

“Well now, Mr. Cain, let us not make any hasty decisions. I’m willing to negotiate. What about five hundred gold now, and seven hundred when you return?” Miss Moreau offers while retaining the composure she let slip across the room.

Victor limps back towards the door. “With respect, I’m not a Courier anymore. I’m not doing it. Goodnight.” There are no words that chase him out of the door. Walking back the way he came without any hassle from the men who brought him, Victor returns to the street.

He wastes no time travelling home, powering through the pain in his leg as best he can. Skulking into his pitch black apartment, the weight of the day falls from his shoulders. Carefully to avoid his bandage, he doffs his coat and tosses it on a rickety chair. He waddles over to his bed and slumps down, kicking his boots off. The silky moonlight though his window showers his lower half as he massages his knee, hoping to relieve it of pain. He rubs his hands together and glances over to his bedside table, where a clean wedding ring sits amongst the rest of the dusty items. Victor picks it up, twirls it around before gently sliding it on to his finger. It still fits perfectly. His vision blurs, a few tears break away and fall onto his hands.

Victor lay back, holding his hand. He quietly sobs, and drifts off to sleep.