The parent of Hartar took a deep breath, after which they began the story of their child: “My child—our child—Har or Hartar, was one created out of love and with hope for a brighter future somewhere else—not here.”

"Twenty-one years ago, we combined our magics—the little we have of it—and brought them into existence. We raised them here in this little house, which we turned into a bakery not long after their creation.”

“Here, they took their first steps. Here, they spoke their first words. Always around us were people, those who came from all around the district to buy our bread; they too got to see our child grow up.”

“As a child, they were timid and perhaps not as bright as one would think, but..."

They went silent for a moment and shifted their eyes toward the dough that lay under a cloth.

“Har loves baking; they are better at it than me and Ulan; it is like a great passion of theirs. It was all they cared about—other things they found boring and not as engaging. With dough, one can create—one can forget that you don’t have much. It is simple; it is honest work, and they loved it.”

Their eyes met again. “So tell me, stranger, in what world would our child have the need or the want to kill anyone? Even if someone was demanding their money, our child is someone who’d give the money away, and it is more likely that they’d be the one found dead."

“Har had no friends, no lover, nothing—just us,” they said as they stood up from their chair and pointed at the door. “Now you may leave—that is all that there is to know about our child.”

And with no questions asked, Kanrel got up and left. He dared not test their patience, and it was unlikely that he would return to ask any further questions. He stepped outside, leaving behind the smell of freshly baked goods, and found himself again in the small area where the children kicked their ball. Near a place where a person had died.

The next place that he would visit would be the Office of Peace, the organization that overlooked the city guard and all the other things that involved holding the peace of the city. This organization was part of the Domain of War and Peace; their Sharan was someone who led the armies of the city, one who was the strongest of the Sharan. Apparently, their magical ability was as great as all of the other eight magi combined. It was no wonder they became the one to handle things related to war.

In each district, there was an Office of Peace; some had multiple, and the District of Copper had many, but even still, there weren’t enough officers and city guards to make sure that all of the people would be safe or that there would be no crime.

The structure felt out of place in an area where there were no grand things. A great marbled building that stood as if overseeing the nearby buildings, the people who lived in those buildings, those who walked the streets, and those whom they were supposed to protect from hostility.

A sense of dread walked through his body, making him wary of that which was before him. Other people walked past him, making sure to not go too close to the Office of Peace; they would much rather walk on the edge of the mine made into a district, risking falling down on the buildings that were beneath.

In front of the building, four guards stood still; they looked only forward. They wore light armor, most of which was covered with red cloth—a tabard garnished with three gilded heads of the same beast, one of which had fangs and a tongue stuck out.

He walked in front of one of them, perhaps to see if they would ignore him or demand that he make way and be out of their vision. But the guard just looked through him—its eyes felt dead; they lacked depth; they lacked personality. It was like they were statues, and if one would suggest this to him, he would not question it.

On the face of the statue-like guard were the slightest hints of scales, so they had at least some magical ability. It made him wonder if those who were in the richer districts would have more scales on their faces and if they would be far greater in magical ability than those who worked in the District of Copper. For it to make sense, the guards had to have a greater magical ability to deal with those who might cause harm to others.

In the memories that Kanrel was provided with, there were memories of terrorist attacks committed with magic. Once, an artisan in the District of Silver walked into the local Office of Peace and blew themselves up by concentrating all of their magical ability into themselves. Their body could not handle it, so they simply blew up, releasing raw magic all around them in an explosive manner.

The attack had been too random for anyone to prepare for it. Twelve bystanders lost their lives. It was only assumed that the person who had done it had something against someone at the Office of Peace, but of course, the investigation claimed that the person was mentally ill, someone who, after nearing bankruptcy, chose to commit such an act.

Could something like that happen at any time? Could any of the people who lived in this city just blow themselves up if they wanted to do so? And just how far does one have to be pushed to commit such an act? Murder, in itself, is extreme. But what about the murder of many, all in an instant, most just innocent bystanders who have nothing to do with your pain or your cause—other than the fact that they might as well be victims of that same pain?

Followed by such questions, he entered through the open door with no regard given to him by the guards, who just stood there.

What greeted him indoors was a room with a high ceiling, multiple doors on each side of the room, and a long desk with four chairs. On one of them, a person sat, and on the other side of the desk, four people sat across. In front of them were papers and pens, and one of them was keenly writing down things that the person across them was saying.

The other three sat in silence; they looked forward with no emotion on their faces. They took no action and made no notes. And when Kanrel walked toward them, they did not see him. They gave him no words. Their eyes did not meet his.

Unauthorized use of content: if you find this story on Amazon, report the violation.

The person who was speaking to one of the receptionists stood up and bid farewell to the person that they were talking to. They walked out of the building, never once looking at the direction in which Kanrel stood.

Finally, the receptionist that sat on the left-most chair stood up, looked directly at Kanrel, and, with a faint smile on their face, asked, “How may I help you?”

Startled, Kanrel met their eyes—there was emotion in them; they felt more real than the other three receptionists or the four guards that were outside, more real than the children playing ball near a murder scene.

“Ah, yes… I do have some questions. I have some questions that I would like to ask about the internal investigation regarding the accusations of corruption in the Office of Peace.”

The receptionist looked at Kanrel for a while, measuring him. “Have a seat,” they urged and promptly sat down, and as Kanrel walked to them, pulling out a chair, he could see how the receptionist carefully placed an empty piece of paper before them.

“State your name and occupation,” they demanded after writing on the piece of paper the date.

“Kanrel Iduldian, I work for the Times of N'Sharaan. I am collecting material for the follow-up story about the murder. I assume that you have read the latest publication that came out this morning.”

The receptionist kept writing as they said, “Why yes, I have—it is good that the truth of the matter is published in ink for all to see, making it so that there could never be even a question about the integrity of the Office of Peace or the investigation itself.”

“Alas, I cannot give you what you want... The details of this investigation are only for those who have clearance, but since the Times of N’Sharan is an important ally for our cause, I can direct you to the officer in charge of the investigation. They spoke and stopped writing; they looked to their right and to their left and leaned forward, “For a price, of course."

After a moment of hesitation, he uncovered from his pocket a coin, which he lay on the table. Not once did he break eye contact with the receptionist as he slowly pushed the coin forward until it reached the waiting hands on the other side.

With a sweet smile, they accepted the coin and leaned back with a pearly smile. They placed the coin in their own pocket and hastily wrote another sentence on the piece of paper, which they then folded and pushed to the middle of the table.

But their hands did not leave the note, so Kanrel took another coin and placed it next to the note. The receptionist parted ways with the note and pocketed the other coin. On their face, the continuation of that pearly white smile, which could mean only one thing: "a pleasure doing business with you."

Kanrel took the note and got up from the chair. He went to the side and opened the note. It began as any report would, containing the date and information regarding Kanrel, but at the bottom of the note, another name was written: Ignar Orcun. And the word ‘audit’.

A name he had no memory of, one that was not given to him by the Voice. He looked back at the receptionist, but they sat as did the other three, looking forward with no emotion on their face, with no words to give, not even that pearly smile that was there before.

With a shudder that ran through his body, he left the reception area of the Office of Peace, went past, and entered a corridor, which then led to another more open room, one that was more like an office than anything else. There were multiple tables and chairs. People walked around wearing the same armor as the guards outside. Some were seated and in conversations or furiously writing down on their papers and notebooks.

In the corner of the room, around one of the tables, multiple people conversed with each other. From the ceiling above them hung a plaque: Audit, it read, and nothing else. He walked toward it, past a pair of guards going his way; they looked straight at him but then went past as if he were not there.

He walked toward the corner and met eyes with one of them, who then promptly got up, on their face a question that would be left unanswered, and walked to Kanrel. They opened their mouth to say something but then noticed the note that Kanrel was carrying and instead grabbed Kanrel’s arm and pulled him to a door, which they then entered together, closing the door behind them.

A dark room with rows of shelves, all of which were filled with binders, at the end of the room there was a small table, on which an open binder.

“Ask your questions and leave, lest the others find out." The guard whispered; their voice was low and rough, and they smelled like tobacco. Years of smoking were what made their voice what it was.

“Tell me about the corruption allegations,” Kanrel asked promptly, not leaving a moment of silence between them.

The guard scratched their head, and soon, from the pocket of their pants, they uncovered a cigarette. They lit it with magical fire and inhaled a long hit before blowing it at Kanrel’s face. “And if I do, what’s there for me?” They asked a simple question with a toothy smirk on their face.

After a fit of coughing, Kanrel offered a smile of his own: “Coin.”

The guard’s smile widened. “Well then... Let’s see how much coin you’ve got."

Twelve. He had just twelve coins, no more and no less. Just twelve. “Let’s first see how valuable your information is, shall we?”

The guard took another long hit of their cigarette and blew it out in a long, almost sigh. “It’s only fair, I suppose."

They walked to the end of the room and sat on the table, on the open binder that slowly bent under the weight of the heavy guard and their armor. “It’s all rotten—to the fucking core... and there is no even point in doing anything about it."

“Imagine an apple,” they said and took another hit from the cigarette. More smoke filled the room: “a big, beautiful, red apple; one that anyone would like to bite into... but beneath there are maggots that have eaten most of the flesh, and that which is left is rotten and stinky."

They inhaled more smoke before blowing it all out again. Then they pressed the cigarette against the table forcefully, and from the side, they pulled out a metal can in which they dumped it.

“The whole Office of Peace is like that, and not just that, but the whole fucking city is." They got up and walked to Kanrel with another toothy grin on their faces. “So why not indulge in it?” They asked and extended their open palm at Kanrel, who looked at it for a while before digging out three coins that he laid on it.

The guard observed the coins and smacked their lips. The coins disappeared out of sight, and the guard gazed at Kanrel from head to toe. “And you and your kind—the rich—it's worse there than here... At least here, we do it because we have to. Up there, you do it because you can." They pushed past Kanrel, opened the door, walked out, and slammed the door, leaving Kanrel alone in the dark room.

The smell of tobacco had overwhelmed the room, but he didn’t mind it. He should not mind it. The things that he had learned from the guard were already things that he already knew, but the room that they had brought him into...

All these binders and all this information were cataloged and organized well. There was reading to be done—maybe here he’d find anything related to the actual investigation—any information that would confirm all these memories, which could not be outright trusted.

So he got to it.