Outside, atop one of the nearby buildings overlooking the Moon Dallah Coffee shop, a woman stood, her silhouette stark against the early morning sky. Her dark blueish hair, tied back in an elegant yet functional style, fluttered lightly in the breeze. Her eyes gleamed a piercing yellow, resembling the glow of a predator surveying its prey. She wore a sleek Victorian-era outfit, tailored from a specialized fabric meant for stealth—a blend of dark, muted colors with reinforced seams, yet designed to allow fluid movement.
In her gloved hand, she held a small pane of glass no larger than her palm, runes intricately etched into its surface. With a subtle motion, she pressed her fingers against the edges of the glass, injecting a faint trace of mana through her touch. The runes flared to life, glowing softly as they absorbed her energy.
The surface of the pane shimmered, and an image began to form—captured moments ago. It was a lumen capture: Jason Berth, leading three unknown individuals into the coffee shop below. The woman's yellow eyes narrowed, her focus intensifying as she studied the image, calculating.
With a swift motion, she stowed the pane of glass away. Then, without hesitation, she stepped off the edge of the building. The fall seemed almost effortless as she flipped mid-air, landing soundlessly in the alleyway below. Dust kicked up in a swirling cloud around her boots as she straightened, her gaze sharp and unyielding.
In the shadowed alley, two men waited for her arrival. One leaned casually against the rough stone wall, methodically sharpening a dagger. The metallic rasp of steel on stone echoed faintly, creating a sharp rhythm. His face was partially hidden beneath a top hat, but his eyes gleamed with cold precision as he glanced up at her approach.
The other man stood upright, his expression furrowed in intense focus as he scribbled furiously in a worn notebook. His pen scratched feverishly across the paper, barely keeping pace with the thoughts spilling from his mind. Dark ink stained his fingers as he flipped to a fresh page, lost in his frantic note-taking.
The woman cast a brief glance between the two. "It's time," she said, her voice low and authoritative, cutting through the tension of the alley like a blade. The man with the dagger merely smirked, sliding the blade back into its sheath, while the writer paused, his hand hovering over the page before snapping the notebook shut.
The man with the notebook spoke out, “Eliz, what did the higher-ups say about this mission again? Oh, darn. I need some Ink… Cedrick you know any places to get some quality ink here?”
Woman listlessly replied, “Riftel, did you not read the report again? We’re hunting down these mercenaries who were involved in the Marin incident. Once they give us the all clear we’ll be moving in, Understand Riftel?” She sighed, her sharp yellow eyes narrowing as she watched Riftel rummage through his pack. “We’re in the middle of a mission, Riftel. Keep your head in the game,” she warned, her voice cold but measured. However, she knew better than to try to completely reign him in—Riftel always found a way to balance his quirks with his job, even if it drove her mad sometimes.
Cedrick, leaning lazily against the alley wall with his arms crossed, chuckled. “He’s got a point, Elizabeth. Bakhlav Market is practically the heart of this city. If there’s anywhere to grab your fancy ink, it’s here.”
“Fancy ink? Cedrick, I’m a professional. This is essential,” Riftel shot back, adjusting his glasses with a flick of his wrist. “You can’t expect me to document everything with some low-grade market sludge.”
Elizabeth ignored them as she slipped on her jacket. “Fine, get your ink, but don’t stray too far. The State Security could give us the signal at any moment. And don’t forget why we’re here. The mercenaries who escaped after the Marin incident are dangerous. We’re not dealing with a few amateurs.”
Riftel nodded but seemed preoccupied, his thoughts already on his shopping list. He adjusted the fountain pen in his hand, his fingers itching to continue writing. “Yeah, yeah. I know the drill.”
Cedrick pushed off the wall, stretching as he adjusted his hat. “Alright, alright. I’ll stick with him to make sure he doesn’t wander off too far. I’m sure the ink will be life-changing.” He threw a smirk in Riftel’s direction.
Elizabeth rolled her eyes. “Just stay alert. We can’t afford any slip-ups.”
With that, the trio began walking out of the alley, blending into the growing crowds of Bakhlav’s bustling market streets. Riftel’s eyes darted to the various stalls selling handcrafted goods, quills, and ink pots, his curiosity barely contained. Meanwhile, Cedrick kept a casual eye on their surroundings. Elizabeth remained focused, though, her senses on high alert as she scanned the streets, her thoughts still on the mission ahead.
“Once I have my ink, we can regroup. I’ll even write a report this time,” Riftel mused, grinning as he headed toward a stall brimming with stationery supplies.
Elizabeth cast a glance at the glass rune communicator in her hand, waiting for the signal. For now, the hunt could wait, but it wouldn’t be long before they’d be thrust back into the fray.
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The spiral staircase led us down what felt like two stories deep into the earth, finally opening up into a broad, well-constructed hallway. The air was thick with an earthy smell, like damp stone and soil, mixed with something faintly metallic. From further in, the soft murmur of movement echoed, hinting at activity beyond the immediate silence.
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Jason walked ahead, his posture shifting ever so slightly as if he were stepping into familiar territory—like a man returning home after a long absence. His eyes swept over the stone walls and the intricate carvings as he led us deeper into the corridor, eventually coming to a stop in front of a heavy, wooden door. Resting his hand on the handle without opening it, he turned to face us, his expression unreadable.
Jason’s words hung in the air like a warning, his gaze silently telling us not to stir up any trouble. Without further comment, he turned and pressed against the heavy wooden door. It groaned as it slowly swung open, revealing a glimpse of the room beyond. Jason strode in with his suitcase in hand, the low hum of conversations coming to an abrupt halt as the door fully opened.
I couldn’t quite see into the room from where I stood, but I could hear the sudden silence followed by a voice, laced with surprise, calling out, “Jason?”
For the first time, I saw Jason smile as he plopped his suitcase on the ground and walked toward the voice that had spoken. “Vargo, How have you been?”
“I’ve been just fine. How have you been while you were out of Ardem?” the voice replied.
I stepped further into the room, with Farthington and Nanik trailing close behind. As my eyes adjusted to the dim lighting, I took in the sight of the man Jason had been speaking to. He was tall, with lengthy black hair cascading over his shoulders, and piercing sage green eyes that seemed to see more than they let on. He wore a cream-colored shirt tucked into dark pants, his demeanor relaxed yet alert. At his side hung a sword resembling a katana, ready for quick use.
Taking in the rest of the room my attention was drawn to a figure leaning casually against the far wall. He wore a long black trench coat adorned with silver flourishes that caught the flickering lantern light. His posture was relaxed, yet something about the way he carried himself that seemed… quirky I guess? (I’m not sure how else to describe it.) Holstered at his sides were two magnum revolvers, gleaming faintly in the muted glow of the room.
Our eyes met, and I immediately noticed his sharp, intense gaze fixed squarely on me. His eyes were a pale gray, like storm clouds before rain, and they seemed to pierce through the room’s shadowy veil, studying me with quiet scrutiny. He seemed to have a dark and brooding vibe about him.
Upon laying eyes on me, Vargo's hand crept to the wrapped grip of his sword. His green eyes narrowed as he inquired, “Who is she, and why does she look almost identical to Otome?”
Before I could react, Jason held up a hand, stepping between Vargo and me. “Calm down, Vargo,” he said firmly, his voice cutting through the rising tension. “This is Tokei Makina, and she claims she’s here because she’s looking for someone who may be related to her. She’s not Otome, but... there seems to be a connection.”
Vargo’s gaze flicked between Jason and me, his sword halfway drawn, but he hesitated, clearly torn between his instincts and Jason’s words. “A connection?” he echoed, his voice still edged with suspicion. Vargo’s hand slipped off of his sword handle and he then nodded his head in the direction of Nanik and Farthington. “What about those two”
Jason glanced at Nanik and Farthington, his expression carefully neutral. "They're with her," he replied, motioning toward me.
Nanik straightened his outfit, his face calm and composed. “We mean no harm, and we’re just here with our companion.”
Farthington, meanwhile, gave an exaggerated, almost theatrical wave, flashing a grin that seemed entirely out of place given the tension. “Indeed, We’re simply tagging along! A pleasure to meet you all,” he said cheerfully, ignoring the wary looks from both Vargo and the man in the trench coat.
Vargo's eyes narrowed, clearly unconvinced. "We’ll see about that," he muttered, before finally stepping back, though his posture remained guarded. “If any of you cause trouble, I won’t hesitate to cut you down where you stand.”
Jason sighed. “Relax, Vargo. Let’s at least hear what Otome has to say before jumping to conclusions. She is the one who is directly involved with this after all”
Vargo’s grip loosened slightly as he gave Jason a sharp nod. “Fine,” he muttered, though his gaze flicked back to me, lingering as if he were trying to unravel some hidden truth. "Otome should be here shortly. We’ll wait for her to clear things up."
As the conversation lulled, I felt the weight of the room's collective gaze press down on me. Everyone seemed to be waiting, their unspoken curiosity hanging thick in the air. It was as if they were expecting a revelation, some slip-up that would finally provide them the answers they sought. Nanik and Farthington, however, remained unfazed. Nanik’s expression, as always, was unreadable, while Farthington, with characteristic nonchalance, pulled out his well-worn autobiography. How many times had he read that thing now?
Jason picked up his suitcase from the floor, gesturing for us to stay where we were before exiting through a door that led deeper into the underground base. The room fell into a heavy silence, broken only by the faint crackle of the lanterns hanging on the walls. Time seemed to stretch endlessly as my thoughts began to spiral.
‘What do I do when I see her? How would she react if we’re really related? We have the same last name, after all. Could she know something about my past?’ The questions raced through my mind, each one tugging at my nerves. I found myself absently adjusting the frame of my glasses, trying to keep the rising anticipation in check as the minutes dragged on.
I lost track of time, my mind a whirlwind of speculation, until the sound of footsteps broke through the haze. The footsteps grew louder as they descended toward us from outside the room, and soon, the door creaked open.
Two women stepped in.
The first was young, probably in her early twenties. Her reddish-orange curls fell in soft waves around her shoulders, framing a face marked by nervous energy. Cerulean eyes darted around the room, betraying her shy nature. Her outfit was a mix of vibrant reds and warm brown leathers.
Then came the one I had been waiting for.
Otome Makina.
The resemblance between us hit me hard, like looking into a mirror reflecting a version of myself molded by different circumstances. She stood at my height, but her build—solid and defined—spoke of someone who had spent countless hours honing her physical strength. Her presence commanded the room, not with words but with the air of someone who had weathered life's storms and emerged stronger. There was no doubt in my mind—this was the woman I had come to find.