What separated those called light elms from dark? Drawing lines was a tedious query since there were some creatures that walked like men, and there were some men who acted as monsters. While countless distinctions could be drawn between the two sides, there was one that stood unchallenged.

Light elms could speak.

They could communicate where their adversaries could only manage odd sounds like that of wild animals. Light elms cherished their gift of voice, saw it as a line closer to humanity and further from darkness.

But such reasoning gave birth to another question. What was a light elm if it lost its ability to speak?

District Seven's Office Of Law was in charge of keeping the city peaceful. Despite the decline of magic coupled with the mass abandonment of Elm, officers were never trained to ostracize elves and goblins. They weren't taught to persecute magic, but as the era changed its color, many perhaps found themselves unconsciously drawing lines.

“Aaaaaahhhh” was the shriek of a man, an elm on his knees while a tongue was cut from his mouth.

Vilk stood outside the dimly lit cell, waiting, while an officer interrogated and butchered the unfortunate soul. He did his best to avoid watching the process, but those whales of pain were too great to ignore, even for him.

“You’re certain they’ll be in the mineral district?” Jocelyn, the officer with blade in hand, spoke to the goblin while admiring her work of the severed tongue.

The woman, dressed in black and copper coat, was indistinguishable from a man. With her shoulders taught to spread, and her head shaved smooth as an apple under her cap, she wore the air of an officer. Though the blood on her leather gloved fingers sold the attire far greater than the mannerisms she had taught herself to mimic.

“They’ll be in a wagon painted red with white trim,” Vilk answered.

“And their target?” Jocelyn asked and continued her interrogation, though her prisoner had finally gone silent.

“The Airlight trading company is moving sapphire stones.”

“And how do the thieves plan to take the gems?”

“I don’t know,” Vilk said hesitantly.

A sudden clang of tools hitting the rough cell floor drew him to turn his head. Just then, Jocelyn opened the heavy door to step out into the narrow corridor. The goblin’s attention lingered on the boy lying motionless in the cage behind her.

The prisoner’s ears had been clipped, fingers crushed, and face beaten. It was impossible to discern what breed of elm they were while covered, and leaking, copious amounts of blood. Still, Vilk might have overlooked all the cruelties of “lawful investigation.” His stomach was tough enough to stand the stench of entrails and bodily disfigurement. In those underground holding cells, there were humans and elms alike. No one was spared. Left or right, there were prisoners butchered and beaten within an inch of their lives. Yet, as per the law, they would all be granted the chance to see daylight again.

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Vilk's hidden revulsion was directed at the specific action of severing a tongue from the mouth of an elm. A human mute could walk without trouble. An elm without a voice would suffer forever, regardless of their release. It was the harshest of punishments, second only to death by spinning wheels. An Elm without voice was lower than a dog and could be treated as such without concern of law or repercussion.

“It’s your duty to know,” Jocelyn spoke and moved in front of Vilk’s line of sight to collect his attention.

“They’re children,” Vilk argued.

“Should we wait for them to fail?” Jocelyn suggested rhetorically, of course.

“They aren’t like that one,” the goblin said, referring to the condemned elm Jocelyn hadn’t cleaned her hands of yet.

“That one was going to kidnap the daughter of our city’s greatest inventor. You can’t pity an elm who chooses the dark.”

The woman and her informant exited the holding cells and proceeded up the steps towards the main building of the Law Office. At that hour of night, officers were scarce, which allowed Vilk to accompany Jocelyn as long as they were careful in their steps.

Vilk’s involvement in investigations was lawful, but kept as a tight secret. Neither he nor Jocelyn had need nor wish to have anyone know he frequently spoke in the ear of an officer. As a woman, having the goblin in her pocket had given Jocelyn fuel to reach new heights in her uncommon line of work. Had anyone known her secret, her position would have quickly fallen to ruin. Vilk, however, cared less over those who might have seen him inside the great silver structured building. His worry was anyone who might have seen him leave.

Naturally, when the two neared the end of their visit, Jocelyn had escorted the goblin to the safest exit point she knew. The incinerator. Elm may have been a dying god, but his existence was never in doubt. Few understood the reason for burning bodies, but when a person or creature died, it was burned. Be it an elm, a human, or an animal, corpses were not allowed to rot. Insects may have been the only exception, but even they were put to fire when possible.

The Office of Law wasn’t the only place that offered such a service, but they were the only not to charge a fee. Unlike other crematoriums, the office didn't have the luxury to pause their process for ceremonies as they were overwhelmed with a large number of deceased.

The incinerator, located on the north side of the Law Office’s building, was a large pipe that stretched into the sky. There was a long conveyor belt that led into the heat trap, constantly feeding the fire. But the flames could be turned down. And, secret to most, there was a small door inside the pipe that opened to the outside of the building. The use of the secret door would make it trying for anyone to see Vilk leave. Though, he had to trust Jocelyn to keep the fire down long enough to allow his escape.

Climbing onto the moving belt, Vilk was met with a final request by Jocelyn. “I want the location of the horde’s alehouse,” she said.

The green-skinned male froze. Concealing his shock was something he’d learned to do long ago, but that request penetrated his defenses.

“No,” he said, turning back.

“Your duty is to aid my office in protecting the city.”

“Have I not done my duty?”

He jumped down from the belt when heat grew near enough to draw sweat.

“You have withered in usefulness. We’ve prevented larger scale unrest and disaster, but by the day, our arrests grow small. The horde is our city’s last great hurdle.”

“I won’t.”

“Then I’ve no use for you.”

“You have every use for me. Is there another soul under your command that stands without doubt?”

Jocelyn stood near the controls of the incinerator, hand at the wheel of the fire.

“Bring me the horde, Vilk. If I find it before you come to your sense, I may be forced to see you as a lost asset. And if I find you among the horde yourself, I will take you as an elm turned dark.”

“Close the flame, Officer. Or would you see your only ally burn?” Vilk said.