Kyralteth, Lakon, year 1703, 23th day of the 6th Moon

Working in His Emperor Majesty's judiciary forces makes you get used to… seeing things. Things that any sane person would rather avoid. This view, and even worse, the smell, could make anyone—even someone as hardened as Thorne van Lokke—reconsider their career choices.

Bloody hell, I could have been a carpenter. I’d wake to the smell of wood. But other people’s lives always taste that much sweeter.

The stench of charred flesh clung to the air, a morbid reminder of the marketplace’s vibrant life just hours ago. Smoke still curled lazily into the overcast sky, painting the scene in greys and blacks.

“Captain,” Thorne barked, his voice sharp and cutting through the murmurs of his men. “Tell your guards to gather everyone in the area. And I mean everyone. There are questions to be asked.”

Unpleasant ones.

“Yes, Investigator,” the captain answered, though his voice lacked conviction. His face was pale, as if he’d stared into the abyss itself. “Is it really necessary? They look...”

Thorne cut him off with a cold glare. “Do you really want me to explain why this is necessary?” He didn’t believe the survivors knew anything—chances were slim—but protocol and appearances had their uses.

“No, Investigator,” the captain stammered, retreating a step. “I will do as you say.” He turned to leave but hesitated.

“There is… one more thing, Investigator.”

Thorne narrowed his eyes. “Yes?”

“You weren’t the first to arrive.”

Thorne’s jaw tightened. “Who?”

“Grymuar.”

Those sorcerous bastards.

“They were here before my guardsmen,” the captain said, lowering his voice. “Didn’t stay long, though. Left just before you arrived.”

“They left?” Thorne’s voice rose sharply. “And you let them walk away?”

The captain swallowed hard, his pallor worsening. “It wasn’t exactly up for discussion. They didn’t say much, just examined the scene, left some mark, and disappeared.”

Thorne cursed under his breath. Dealing with Grymuar never meant anything good. Their presence here wasn’t just inconvenient—it was dangerous. They were as much a riddle as the explosion itself.

“Show me,” Thorne demanded.

The captain led him to the epicenter of the destruction. In the scorched cobblestone, a faint sigil shimmered, faintly pulsing with residual energy. Its intricate, twisting lines were unlike anything Thorne had seen before.

“This wasn’t left by the blast,” Thorne muttered, crouching to inspect it.

“No, sir. They—uh, Grymuar—did this. Their Arcano traced it themselves,” the captain explained nervously.

Thorne’s eyes snapped to the captain. “Did they say anything about it?”

“Not a word. Just called it ‘necessary.’ They wouldn’t explain further.”

Thorne’s stomach twisted. Grymuar’s silence was louder than words. They were hiding something—something big.

“Anything else?”

The captain hesitated, glancing at his men. “They took something from the wreckage. I didn’t get a good look. Some kind of fragment, I think. Whatever it was, it glowed.”

“Glowed how?”

“Like the sigil, but… brighter.”

Thorne stood, brushing ash from his coat. “And you didn’t think to stop them?”

“With all due respect, Investigator, you don’t stop Grymuar.”

Thorne didn’t argue. Grymuar operated above the laws of men. No magistrate dared challenge them, and no soldier had the courage. Thorne might have tried, but only a fool would believe it would change anything.

“Seal this area. No one goes in or out without my say-so,” Thorne ordered, his voice sharp. He turned to the sigil, his mind racing.

If Grymuar’s actions were any indication, this wasn’t a random act of terror. There was purpose behind the devastation—a pattern he couldn’t yet see. And the sigil? What was its purpose?

***

This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

Witnesses dragged to the interrogation rooms deep in the bowels of the Tower knew nothing, as expected. Thorne had learned throughout his career that in a job like his, appearances were as important as results. You had to look like you were doing something, and dragging in a bunch of poor bastards gave precisely that impression.

Shame it didn’t accomplish a damn thing. Unless you counted them pissing themselves as progress.

The Tower’s damp stone walls were as oppressive as the work done within them. The air stank of mildew, sweat, and despair. A single, flickering oil lamp in the hallway cast long, wavering shadows that seemed to shift and crawl on their own.

Thorne leaned against the doorframe of one of the rooms, arms crossed, watching as a wiry young man with soot-streaked cheeks babbled incoherently to a stone-faced interrogator.

“I swear! I don’t know anything! It just… it happened! The fire, the noise… I ran, I swear!”

“Ran where?” growled the interrogator, a stocky guardsman with a scar across his jaw. “To whom?”

“Nowhere! To nobody! Please!”

The guardsman leaned closer, looming over the trembling figure. Thorne cleared his throat deliberately, drawing the interrogator’s attention.

“That’s enough,” Thorne said. His tone was calm, almost disinterested, but it carried the weight of authority. “He doesn’t know anything. Let him go.”

The guardsman hesitated, then stepped back with a nod. “Yes, Investigator.”

Thorne turned to leave, his boots echoing against the stone floor, but the young man’s voice stopped him.

“Wait!” the boy cried. “There was… there was something.”

Thorne froze. Without turning, he asked, “What?”

“I don’t know if it matters, but… I saw someone yesterday. I work at the market, you see—I sell cabbages. There was this man, real suspicious-like. He stank like a wet cat.”

“So you saw a drunk,” grunted the guard, raising his fist in frustration. “Don’t waste the Investigator’s time.”

“Leave us,” Thorne commanded, his hand raised to stop the guard. His piercing gaze locked onto the boy. “Focus, boy. Did this man wear blue and gold?”

The colors of Grymuar.

“His clothes were torn and all, but I think there was some blue under all that dirt,” the boy stammered, his voice trembling.

Thorne’s eyes narrowed, his mind snapping to attention. Blue beneath the grime. It wasn’t much to go on, but it wasn’t nothing either. He leaned in slightly, the intensity of his gaze pinning the boy in place.

“Anything else?” Thorne asked, his voice steady and deliberate.

The boy hesitated, clearly trying to piece together the fragments of his memory. “He had… a bag. A big one, over his shoulder. Looked heavy. I—I didn’t think much of it.

While Thorne questioned the boy, a figure appeared in the corner of his eye—a tall man dressed in the pristine white uniform of the High Judge's assistants.

Bloody hell, just what I fucking needed.

“His Excellency is expecting you”

Thorne sighed, giving the boy a brief nod before tossing him a gold coin. Without another word, he turned on his heel and made his way to the exit.

***

You’d think that when His Expecting Excellency summons you, you wouldn’t be kept waiting… and yet, here you are.

Sitting on the uncomfortable couch was made even more pleasurable by occasional annoyed glances cast by the secretary from behind the desk, clearly irritated by his mere presence.

All this money and he couldn’t at least  put something comfortable to sit on.

Finally, a big double door opened showing another white figure.

“His Excellency will see you now”

Thorne stepped into an all-too-familiar room  illuminated by the large circular window at the far end. Everything was meticulously arranged, not a speck of dust in sight. The high ceiling loomed above, designed to make every visitor feel insignificant—much like His Excellency’s opinion of everyone. The space was dominated by a wide oak desk, behind which was sitting His Balding Excellency, the High Judge of the Union, Rotrand van Kassel, even whiter than his assistants. The golden seal on his chest gleamed faintly as he hunched over a letter, his eyes fixed on the parchment as if Thorne weren’t even there.

„Your Excellency” followed by a quick nod.

„You know why you are here. What’s the progress?” Kassel said quietly, and finally honored Thorne with his gaze. 

A big old nothing if you ask me, but saying that would be unwise.

„Our interrogators are entertaining bystanders at this very moment. I am afraid we are dealing with Grymuar. They were…”

„ No, we are not.” Kassel cut him off. „Follow other leads. I trust  you understand, I would hate to have to replace you”

Thorne clenched his jaw, swallowing the sharp retort that threatened to escape. The weight of the High Judge’s words settled heavily in the room.

So that’s how it’s going to be.

He took a steadying breath, meeting Kassel’s cold gaze. “Understood, Your Excellency.”

Rotrand van Kassel leaned back in his chair, his thin fingers drumming against the polished oak desk. “I trust you’ll have something more… productive to report soon, Investigator. Our Emperor values efficiency above all, and you wouldn’t want to disappoint him.”

You mean disappoint you. 

Thorne managed a tight nod instead of voicing the thought.

“Dismissed,” Kassel said curtly, turning his attention back to the letter on his desk as if Thorne had ceased to exist.

Thorne turned sharply on his heel and left the room without another word, the tension coiled in his shoulders like a spring. The double doors shut behind him with an audible thud, and he was greeted by the secretary’s glare.

He ignored her, stalking past and heading down the marble hallway, his boots clicking sharply against the floor. The walls felt closer than they had before, their pristine white suffocating. The High Judge’s dismissal played over in his mind, and the implication was clear.

Don’t look at Grymuar. Don’t ask the questions about Grymuar.

The political leash tightened, and it burned.