The clank of gears and the flicker of half-dead runes in the stonework made the room feel like it was alive—breathing, waiting, watching. Evelyn leaned against a workbench cluttered with alchemical apparatuses, the smell of burnt ozone lingering in the air. Her shadow flickers towards the door. Movement! Someone is coming. Someone...small.
The door slammed open with the kind of urgency Evelyn usually associated with someone running from a fire, not towards it! She pushed off the workbench and slipped back into the cold night of her shadow, hand instinctively brushing the hilt of the blade strapped to her side.
A wiry figure stumbled in, arms cradling what looked like a glittering pile of shattered starlight—crystals, rare enough to fund a year of her paychecks. His sandy hair fell into his face as he took in the scene. The blood, the runes, Alaric’s slumped form. His mouth opened, but no sound came out. The materials slipped from his hands, scattering across the floor like shattered dreams.
"Alaric?" The voice cracked, trembling like a plucked string.
Evelyn didn’t answer. She watched him from inside the shadows. She watched the way his shoulders dropped, the way his breath hitched. Genuine grief painted across his fair face. But something else flickered there too, an undercurrent she couldn’t quite name. She stayed silent as he knelt beside the body, his ink-smudged fingers trembling as they hovered over the motionless corpse.
“No... no, no.” The words came out in a whisper, barely audible over the hum of the dying wards.
“Would’ve been a hell of a welcome home,” Evelyn said finally, emerging from the darkness, her voice low and even. “If he were still breathing, that is.”
The man’s head snapped up, blue eyes sharp despite the moisture gathering in them. “Who—who are you?”
“Evelyn Blackwood. Detective.” She pulled a cigarette from its holder, rolling it between her fingers but not lighting it. “Got called in when someone noticed your boss wasn’t answering his door. Lucky me.”
He blinked at her, processing. His lips parted, then closed, and he looked back at the body like answers might be found there.
“And you are?” Evelyn prompted, waving the cigarette in a slow circular motion.
“Lysander Voss.” His voice steadied, though his hands didn’t. “I’m... was his apprentice.”
“Not much of a promotion now, is it?” Her tone was dry, her green eyes unrelenting. “Mind telling me where you were while your mentor was getting himself murdered?”
“I—” He hesitated, his fingers twitching toward the crystals scattered across the floor. “He sent me out. To gather materials for a new experiment. The light quartz and shadow opals—”
His gaze darted to her, and Evelyn didn’t miss the subtle shift in his posture, like he’d just realized he was sitting in the wrong chair at the wrong poker table.
“Convenient timing,” she said, keeping her voice casual. She pulled a notebook from her coat pocket, flipping it open and pretending to jot something down. “What was this experiment?”
“I don’t know. He didn’t tell me.” Lysander’s words came fast, too fast. “He never told me everything. Just what I needed to do my part.”
“How obedient of you.” Evelyn tucked the notebook back and stepped closer, her boots scuffing the uneven stone floor. The shadows on the walls seemed to stretch toward her, a subtle pull she didn’t bother to resist.
“Any reason someone might’ve wanted Alaric dead?”
Lysander’s jaw tightened, and his gaze darted away, fixing on a particularly elaborate brass contraption.
“He had enemies. Every alchemist does. That’s the nature of the craft. Competition is... fierce.”
“Enemies,” Evelyn echoed, tilting her head. “Specific ones?”
He hesitated. “I wouldn’t know.”
Evelyn stepped closer, her shadow brushing his, and leaned in just enough to make him flinch.
“Don’t make me ask twice, Voss. What aren’t you saying?”
“I don’t know!” Lysander snapped, louder than he intended. He ran a hand through his hair, leaving a streak of ink across his temple.
“I wasn’t here, all right? I wasn’t here when—when this happened.”
“Relax.” Evelyn held up a hand, watching him crumble like damp paper. “You’re not on trial. Yet.”
He swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing.
“I just—there were tensions, all right? Disagreements. Alaric didn’t... he didn’t think I was ready for some of the things I wanted to try. We argued about it. But he was my mentor. I respected him.”
“Sure sounds like it,” Evelyn murmured, stepping back. Her gaze lingered on him for a beat longer before flicking to the runes on the wall. Fading, broken. “Anything else you want to share?”
Lysander hesitated again, his hands fidgeting. “No. That’s... that’s all I know.”
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“Right.” Evelyn tucked her cigarette back into its case and gave him one last, measuring look. “Don’t go far, Voss. Something tells me this conversation isn’t over.”
She turned on her heel, the shadows curling after her as she strode toward the broken wards. Behind her, Lysander stayed kneeling by Alaric’s body. His thoughts, Evelyn guessed, tangled in more knots than he was willing to admit.
Leaning against a stone wall, arms crossed, Evelyn's eyes tracking Lysander as he knelt by the body of Alaric. His head was bowed, as though in reverence or guilt; she wasn’t sure which, and it wasn’t her job to guess.
Her job was to pry it out of him.
“You done down there?” Her voice cut through the stillness, low and dry, a match against wet tinder.
Lysander glanced over his shoulder, his eyes catching the glow of a nearby rune. He didn’t respond immediately, just exhaled softly, then straightened, brushing dust from his trousers as he stood.
“I suppose there’s nothing left to learn here,” he said, his tone clipped, though his hands betrayed him by trembling faintly. He clasped them behind his back, but Evelyn had already noticed. She watched him as he walked back to the doorway and collected the supplies he was sent to get. The starlight crystals in his arms caught the flicker of candlelight, refracting faint hues of violet and silver as he crossed to the workbench. With a deliberate care that made her think of someone stalling for time, Lysander placed the pile down beside a clutter of alchemical tools and papers. Evelyn followed, boots soft against the uneven stone floor.
“Strange stuff,” Lysander murmured, mostly to himself, as he adjusted the crystals. But then his gaze snagged on something else—the file Evelyn had taken out of Alaric's hand when she first entered the room.
“You recognize that?” she asked, leaning in slightly, voice smooth and disarming. She didn’t miss the way his fingers twitched, moving instinctively toward the vial before he caught himself. Lysander hesitated, but the delay was enough for Evelyn to catch the faintest flicker of unease.
“The smell,” he said finally, his voice low, “and the residue inside. That’s… Sablebane.”
The word hung in the air like smoke. Evelyn gave him a sidelong glance.
“Go on.”
Lysander wet his lips, fingers drumming the edge of the workbench now.
“It’s a poison. Rare. Lethal. Banned in most territories,” he said, each sentence quick and precise, like he was running down a checklist. “It’s… almost impossible to acquire without access to the black market.”
“That so?” Evelyn’s tone didn’t shift, but her eyes narrowed just slightly.
“Yes.” His gaze darted to hers, then away, settling on the vial again. “My—Master Alaric shouldn’t have had this. It doesn’t make sense. He—” Lysander stopped himself, shoulders tightening. “He only ever bought legal items and ingredients.”
Evelyn let the silence settle between them for a moment, watching how Lysander’s hand drifted toward his hair, pushing it back in a nervous reflex. His words had the faint ring of rehearsed denial, but the way he avoided her eyes told her there was more underneath.
“How would you know that?” she asked, voice casual but pointed, like a knife in a drawer. Lysander bristled, visibly struggling to piece together a response that wouldn’t unravel further. “I—I assisted him with his purchases. Logged the inventory. I’d know if he ever—”
“Would you?” Evelyn tilted her head, arching a brow.
“Yes,” Lysander insisted, his voice firmer now, though he didn’t meet her gaze. Instead, he stared at the vial, his jaw set as though he could will the conversation to end.
Evelyn straightened, stepping back into the center of the room.
“Interesting,” she said, “Because you don’t sound entirely convinced yourself.”
Lysander turned sharply, his ears tinged red at the edges, Evelyn's eyes still fixed on him cataloging every twitch and tremble. She didn’t need him to admit it now. Lies, like poison, had a way of working their way to the surface eventually. So she stood there and said nothing, her gaze sliding past him to the wall behind his shoulder. The stone there was no different from the rest of the room—dark, worn, and stained with time—but something about it tugged at her attention.
“Move,” she said, jerking her chin toward him.
Lysander blinked, startled. “Pardon?”
“I said, move. You’re standing in my way.”
Her boots clicked sharply against the uneven floor as she approached the wall, her eyes narrowing on the Sigil etched deep into the surface. She reached out, pulling on a pair of gloves from her coat pocket, the leather creaking faintly as she tugged them on. Her fingers traced the carved lines, following the loops and spikes of the outer sigil—a classic reinforcement rune, expertly etched. But beneath it, barely visible in the flickering light, something darker coiled. Another sigil, its lines hidden within the structure of the first, like a parasite feeding off its host.
“This one’s different,” Evelyn muttered, almost to herself. As her gloved finger started tracing the intricate lines, noting the faint glow emanating from the grooves. The warmth from the etching hummed against the leather, making the hair on the back of her neck prickle. Evelyn’s lips twitched into a half-smile.
“You’ve got a real talent for subtlety here, Voss.” She cast a sidelong glance at the alchemist, who was now fidgeting with a brass vial.
“What is it?” he asked, hesitant.
“Two sigils,” she said, sketching the overlapping patterns into her notebook with practiced precision. The charcoal pencil scratched against the paper in quick, efficient strokes.
“The protection rune’s solid. That part makes sense. These old places are always rigged with them. Keeps the whole operation from blowing itself sky-high in the event of an...Miss calculation, or some alchemist getting too cocky for their own good. But the other…” Her voice trailed off as she tilted her head, studying the lines. “The second one’s not something you see every day. Or at least, not if you plan to stay on the right side of a permanent prison cell.”
Lysander swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “I—I don’t know who—”
“Spare me the stuttering.” She closed the notebook and slid it back into her coat.
“You know more than you’re saying. Your face gives it away every time you open your mouth.”
His jaw tightened.
“I’m telling the truth,” he said, though his eyes darted to the sigil like it might spring to life and rat him out. Evelyn leaned closer, her eyes narrowing.
“Maybe. Or maybe you’re just scared. Either way, you’ll want to think real hard about what you’re sitting on here. Whatever this is”—she gestured toward the wall—“it’s dangerous. And I don’t think it’s here by accident.”
Footsteps echoed in the hallway, the telltale clatter of boots and muted voices signaling the arrival of the other detectives. Evelyn straightened, pulling her gloves off and tucking them into her coat.
“Looks like your audience is here,” she said, jerking her head toward the door. “Enjoy the show.”
“Wait,” Lysander said, his voice lowering. “What happens now?”
Evelyn paused in the doorway, one hand resting lightly on the frame.
“Now? Now I make sure this doesn’t get swept under some bureaucratic rug.” She glanced back at him, her expression unreadable. “I’ll be in touch.”
And with that, she stepped out into the dim corridor, her silhouette briefly swallowed by the flickering shadows, leaving Lysander alone with the hum of sigils and the weight of her words.