The binders had information related to many different investigations, some of which were later solved and some that were never solved. Investigations from multiple years ago, and the closer he came to the end, the newer the cases were. Most things were petty crimes, but sometimes there were murders as well.

Corruption was never mentioned. Not once was corruption a crime someone had committed.

The door was slammed open. And a guard walked in. They walked at Kanrel with their dull eyes until they reached the end of the room. On the table, there was the same binder that the previous guard had sat on; they picked it up and walked away with it. Never once saying anything, never once noticing the man that stood before them, holding a binder in their hands.

With such behavior, he was truly invisible to most. And depending on how far this invisibility went, he could benefit greatly from it. He returned to reading, but it amounted to nothing relevant when it came to Hartar’s case. He had not totally read through them, only eyeing them and figuring out what information they might entail and what names were within.

It was interesting that he could read through these cases, as they weren’t truly relevant. Would they not be like the people he met, who gave him no regard? Would these binders not be empty if the people were as well?

But if there was no relevant information in these binders, then where could he find such information? He observed the table, the metal can that had many cigarettes in it, and the pages that lay there. Only some of them had anything written on them; most were empty and abandoned. There was nothing here. He had wasted an hour of his time. Time, which was the only recourse that mattered, for how long would his body last before it would die? When would he die?

He went to the door and opened it again, and he was greeted with conversation. The words they used weren’t something that he could understand; it was like the people there were talking in nonsense, in combinations of words that perhaps could make sense, but the overall sentence would mean nothing. Again, he saw the guard that had entered the little storage room just now. In their hands, they had the binder, and they were carefully studying its contents.

The chair they sat on was on the other side of the room, and the table where they sat was mostly empty. No one else was with them, and no one else talked to them. They were alone with that binder. The last binder he’d read through before figuring out what to do next.

Kanrel walked to them slowly, passing people who walked by and squeezing through some who were in his way. And when he got to the lonesome guard, they did not pay any attention to him. They kept reading, browsing through their little binder.

Kanrel sat next to them and awaited; he observed. What would this individual do? How complicated was this memory—this dream of a world he had been placed into?

They had no emotions. They had no reactions when he went ahead and poked them, yet touching them felt normal, as if they truly were alive. As if this were not a dream but more real than reality itself. He could hear them breathe at a normal pace, one that anyone would have. On their face, there were scales that pushed through the skin, glittering colors of mainly red and some orange.

How would they feel? He thought to himself, went ahead, and touched their face; he touched the scales. Warm and smooth, but hard. Slowly the guard turned toward him, their eyes still dull, an expressionless face, nothing there, but then their lips moved, and words came out: To think that you are allowed to see the magnificence of N’Sharan, and you choose to touch the face of a random person, one that might’ve never existed in the city itself. The familiar voice said, their tone holding the faintest amount of discontent in it.

Kanrel was startled and pulled his finger back. He frowned slightly. “I was just curious."

Yes, I can see. But do you have so much time to waste? If you want something, just take it. The voice encouraged, and the guard slowly turned away, returning their gaze back to the binder they were reading. There’d be no more words to be offered.

Kanrel let out a long sigh and carefully took the binder away from the hands of the guard. Even with that, they just kept their arms in the same position, their eyes following along something, and then they lifted their other hand and made the motion of turning a page.

Kanrel ignored the lifeless guard and began reading through the binder. The very first words were a very familiar name. Ignar Orcun… A name he had learned just today, just a little over an hour ago. He dug out from his pocket the note the receptionist had given him, and there read the same name and the word "audit.”.

He had at first thought that the name was of the guard who had spoken to him, but no, it was here, written on these pages. So he carefully began reading.

Ignar Orcun, case 465, treason.

On the 21st of the 9th, the 2nd Office of Peace at the District of Copper was tipped about an exchange of explosive materials; this was to happen at Olruan Street. One member of the Office of Peace and an individual known as Ignar Orcun would take part in this exchange. The exchange is to happen at night on the 23rd.

An ambush will be set, and a warrant for an arrest will be given. The two parties are to be caught alive, questioned, and then judged.

23rd. A body is found, possibly the guard, with no signs of the murderer. A manhunt for Ignar Orcun, with no descriptions known, is proposed. The investigation begins with the surrounding areas of the murder scene.

On the 27th, it was decided that the guard, identified as Wiltem Torna, is unlikely to have anything to do with any trade deal related to explosions or with anyone named “Ignar Orcun."

29th, all investigations thus far have led to one person, Ignar Orcun, and the guard involved in the trade, and Ignar Orcun is identified to possibly be a young person named Hartar Agna.

On the 30th, the youngster, born Hartar Agna, was arrested and questioned; they denied all accountability and involvement with any plot related to buying or selling explosives, as well as the murder of Wiltem Torna.

On the 30th, it was decided that Hartar Agna is the murderer, and other investigations relating to the murder or the individual going by the name of Ignar Orcun are canceled or put on hold.

So, the question remains: who is Ignar Orcun? What about the guard that was mentioned—was the now-dead Wiltem Torna the person who was supposed to trade explosives to Ignar? Or were they just someone who had found themselves at the wrong time in the wrong place, resulting in their untimely death? And why did they give up on the investigations?

This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

The binder had no more pages to share, only those few; the information given shed no light on this matter. For a few minutes, Kanrel sat still on that chair, the binder on the table, his finger running across it, tapping it in a quick rhythm. Around him, the guards went around, talking to each other in that same speech that had no sense to it and doing menial tasks that had no point to them.

He had no idea how late it was or how long he had spent here or in this city, but he did not feel tired. At all times, he felt perked up; each moment, he lived as if fully awake. It was interesting; even as time went by, he didn’t really feel its passing.

But to confirm something, there was only one person he could talk to. The culprit themself, Hartar. So he got up from his chair, took the binder, and carefully placed it back in the hands of the person who was still sitting down, turning pages of a binder that was not there. Perhaps now it will find the place where it belongs.

He left the room and began to navigate his way around the building, trying to find a cell or perhaps a prison in this building. He was about to visit a prison in a prison. Not giving it much thought, he went ahead and followed the very helpful arrows that led him down one flight of stairs and through a few rooms and a long corridor or two, all the way to that which he was looking for. A cell.

One that was not much better than the one that he had spent a few days in. But in these cells there were multiple people, all of whom were the same as the guards above; they would not speak, and their eyes were dull and lifeless. Again, this makes one question if these people actually ever existed or if they were just a random addition, a correction of sorts, of memory so that the memory would seem more real than it actually is.

The prisoners were behind bars, some sharing a cell, others all alone, with just a bunk bed as their only company. There was just one guard around, and they sat in a little office with an open door, not too far away from the cells. But on the same corridor, there were also three doors with locks on them.

He tried opening each of them in turn, just to confirm that they were indeed locked. And, as he had no choice, he went to the little office and looked for a key. The lonely guard sat there; they kept shuffling a deck of cards over and over again. Never once starting a game to play; never once dropping a single card. On the table, there was a keyring with multiple keys on it; each of them would open a different cell.

He observed the guard for a moment, cleared his throat loudly once, then went ahead and took the keyring. He even waited for a while to see if the guard would suddenly come to life and utter angry words at him, but they kept shuffling the deck of cards without missing a beat.

So he went ahead and tried opening the first locked door; in turn, he tried each of the keys until he found the correct one, braced himself, and opened it carefully. On the other side, there was a small space. Inside, there was a person with their back against him, staring at the stone wall. At times they would flinch, but they did not notice that the door was opened. Kanrel was just air to them.

In the small cell, there was a bed and a toilet as well, not far from each other. Kanrel shut the door and locked it; surely he wouldn’t have to, but all he knew was that the person inside could’ve been a murderer or worse. Maybe they never existed, but in his heart, he could never let someone like that free.

He went for the next door, and on the other side was a similar room and a sight no man would like to see. A figure stood right before him, staring into his eyes with their own lifeless stare, breathing slowly and with a slight smile on their face, muttering words that made no sense. Their breathing was gravelly, and the room behind them was a mess; their blanket was shredded into pieces and stained with something.

With a shudder that ran through his body, Kanrel quickly closed the door and locked it. He stood there for a while, breathing quickly. After pacing himself for a moment, he went for the third and last door.

Carefully, he found the correct key and opened the door. Another small room, but this time the inmate inside sat on their bed, their face buried into their hands. A slight sob could be heard now that the door was open. The person seemed to flinch when they heard the door opening more. They looked toward Kanrel, their eyes red from tears, and the underneath of their eyes were dark in color. They had not clearly had much sleep lately.

Kanrel could feel relief; tension left his body. He could almost relax now. He stepped inside and closed the door behind him. The person began to back off. Slowly, they went against the wall, at all times keeping their gaze on Kanrel, never once leaving him out of sight. But a corner is where they ended up.

Kanrel cleared his throat and brought a smile as pleasant as he could to his face when he asked, “Are you perhaps Hartar Agna?”

There was only silence, but the person in the corner of a small cell nodded ever so slightly. There was fear in their eyes, and one could smell it in the damp air of the cell as well. Seeing this—how they behaved, how they acted, and how they were—was more than enough for Kanrel to know the truth: this person was not a murderer; they were someone so deeply afraid of most things that it was unlikely for them to be able to even move when under the threat of the world.

“I am Kanrel Iduldian, of the Times of N’Sharan, and I have a few questions for you, if you don’t mind, that is." He asked and remained where he stood; taking a step forward would only scare them even more.

Hartar Agna was a person of a small frame, petite even, and if their face were not so dirty, one could perhaps find considerable beauty there. Their deep blue eyes, from where tears came flowing down, and their small body that kept trembling out of fear. They opened their mouth a few times, perhaps trying to find words to say or perhaps just the ability to speak, but no words came out.

They licked their lips and tried again; it looked like they were biting, but soon they closed their mouth again. Not producing a single word. Their discomfort, their fear, and all of their emotions could be seen so visibly on their face. But they could not say a thing; they could not verbalize what they had on their mind. So silence remained between them, one that was broken by Kanrel’s sigh.

From the pocket of his vest, he took out a tissue of silk, one that was garnished with beautiful embroidery depicting a colorful flower arrangement. It was soft and fragrant; perhaps it had been perfumed. He slowly approached Hartar, who trembled even more; they looked even more afraid than a moment before.

And when he was close enough, Hartar just closed their eyes, not wanting to see what the person who had come into their little cell would do to them. Gently, Kanrel began wiping their face, removing the tears that kept flowing down. Carefully, he removed the dirt and the tears from their face, uncovering a person who looked like nothing more than a small girl—one that reminded Kanrel of Roslyn.

He felt a pierce in his heart; the image of her going through something like this felt just so heartbreaking—so unfair. This situation was unfair. Her… Their condition was unfair; everything surrounding her was unfair. This world in which they were born was unfair.

Finally, Hartar dared to open their eyes, further solidifying the similarity with his apprentice. There just wasn't the fierceness that Roslyn had; there was just fear and defeat, despair, and even agony.

“I don’t know... what will happen to you, and I don’t know if I can do anything.” He whispered; his voice was hoarse. “And even if it is unfair and I can’t do anything, I beg of you to tell me everything.” His voice was a whisper as he battled tears that wanted to push through. He tried swallowing a piece that refused to go down.

He felt a touch—the fingers of a frail creature on his own hands, the hand that held the tissue. They looked at him, deep into his eyes, perhaps looking for something, perhaps deciding on something, and at last whispering, “Help me."

A whimper, just a whimper. And all that Kanrel needed. It had to be enough as an answer. He wouldn't, and he couldn’t ask further. His heart ripped apart; the reality was sinking in… He could do nothing. Not only could he do nothing, but no one did anything. They had let this happen.

Kanrel held their hand, closing his eyes, not being able to handle the intense despair in the eyes of another soul, of another living creature. Such torment and fear were greater and more real than anything he had ever felt before.

But closing one's eyes didn’t matter; he would still see their eyes. They were right there; they stared right into his soul. Calling for him and pleading for his help.

And nothing. He could do nothing. His brows furrowed as he opened his eyes. He was not in the cell anymore. And he did not stare into the eye of Hartar Agna anymore. He was again looking over the city; the people of N'Sharan were walking on the streets. The sun was showcasing the glory of morning to them all.

But the light that touched him felt so cold.

In N’Sharan, there isn’t anything more warm and beautiful than the moments of another dawn.