The walk to the Constantine estate had been uneventful, but Impheil never trusted uneventful. By the time he reached the gates, he'd already changed his face twice and rerouted his path three times.
He was ushered in eventually — one of the house stewards recognized the name on his card. Minutes later, he stood at the door to Graham's study.
Graham sat behind his desk, sleeves rolled with precision, a half-empty teacup near his elbow. He looked composed — but only if one ignored the faint tautness in his jaw and the exhaustion veiled behind his eyes.
Impheil stepped in without ceremony, eyes scanning the room with polite indifference. "Afternoon," he said.
Graham gestured toward a chair but didn't offer a greeting. "Nobody appeared here for help." He said. "Whatever happened in the Warehouse, it ended there."
Impheil gave a thin smile. "I see. Anything else noteworthy?"
"Red Gloves from the Church appeared." Graham's tone was clipped. "They asked questions to confirm their suspicions."
Impheil tilted his head. "And?"
Graham exhaled sharply. "A headache, but manageable. It seems there was no evidence whatsoever of my alliance with the Brokers, so no problems. Yet"
"Mmm." Impheil let that hang in the air. "Letting that aside… What exactly were you expecting from the Brokers?"
Graham's eyes narrowed. He didn't speak immediately. His fingers drummed against the desk once. Then he gave a short sigh, leaned back in his chair, and fixed his eyes on Impheil.
"You're persistent."
"I'm curious," Impheil corrected. "There's a difference. One gets you answers and the other gets you killed."
Then, finally, Graham relented. "They were supposed to give me two things: backing and intelligence. Specifically regarding one of the other Constantine branches."
Impheil blinked once, slowly. "Ah. Family matters. Let me guess, internal squabble?"
Graham's jaw tightened. "There's a particular branch associated with the Hermit Pathway. They've always acted separatel. But over the years they've taken liberties. Heirlooms and Artifacts that don't belong to them."
"Robbery under the guise of piety. A classic."
"It's worse than that." Graham's voice was lower now. "There are rumors that some of them are backed by the Moses Ascetic Order."
Impheil gave a soft, amused whistle. "Lovely. So your relatives are militant mystics with a direct line to one of the more unhinged Orders. And you thought brokering a deal in Belltaine was going to solve that?"
Graham didn't answer.
"What were you able to get from them before things went haywire?" Impheil asked.
Graham's fingers curled slightly atop the desk. "One name. Nothing else before the deal went to hell."
Impheil sat back, steepling his fingers. "Unfortunate. Still, I suppose even a breadcrumb has value when you're starving."
Graham didn't reply, but the silence was enough.
Impheil watched him for a moment, gaze thoughtful. Then, with a lazy stretch, he rose from the chair. "Well. Let's see how far one name can take us."
Impheil leaned a hand lightly on the edge of the desk, gaze fixed and unblinking.
"You should go after that clue. Leave the city. Follow what the Brokers gave you, before it slips further away."
Graham, still seated behind the desk, eyed him warily. "Alone?"
"You'll have assistance," Impheil said, tone smooth. "Just not much."
That earned a small scoff. Graham leaned back slightly, arms crossing. "How generous. And what if I decide not to? After everything that's happened… I'm not sure there's even a point anymore."
Impheil didn't blink. "Then you have two options."
Graham stiffened.
"Go after your lead," Impheil continued calmly, "on my terms."
He paused.
"Or die here. Quietly. Right now."
There was a long silence. Graham's hand twitched slightly atop the armrest.
But before he could speak, Impheil raised a hand, voice still light. "Of course, I'll help. Like I said. But you'll lose everything in the process—your standing, your name… Bit by bit, I'll take it from you. Because that's the cost of living, when you're no longer useful on your own."
Graham stared. "You're threatening me?"
"No," Impheil said, tilting his head. "I'm offering you the only route forward that doesn't end in a grave."
He stepped back from the desk and gave a faint, hollow smile.
Graham's expression twisted, equally baffled and uneased. "Your help won't mean much if you're not traveling with me. There's only so much a parasite can do on its own."
Impheil didn't miss a beat. He shrugged, tone light. "And on what grounds do you assume I work alone?"
That hung for a moment — enough to flick a brief ripple through Graham's features.
"Besides," Impheil went on, a faint smirk tugging at one corner of his mouth, "you might still gain something. Go with the first option, and not all is lost. You could end up with more than your little public position ever gave you. No need to beg favors from heathens and bottom-feeders."
Graham narrowed his eyes. "And what exactly would I be, then?"
Impheil's smile widened, sharp now. "Guess."
The silence that followed was stifled only by the ticking of the office's brass carriage clock. Graham glanced toward the windows — the heavy drapes drawn against the outside light, as if even the sun was no longer permitted here.
He whispered a low curse, then another — muttering under his breath as if trying to negotiate with the air itself. He paced once, stopped, ran a hand over his face, then looked up reluctantly.
"…Fine," he muttered. "I'll leave Belltaine."
"Good," Impheil said, stepping forward once more, the moment shifting into motion. "Then you'll begin by telling me everything."
Graham hesitated. Impheil's tone remained casual, but his eyes had gone still.
"Everything," Impheil repeated. "Down to the minute details.
…
The carriage rumbled through the rain-glossed streets of Backlund, its interior lit by a dim, warm lamp that swayed slightly with each turn. Jack sat in silence, one hand resting atop the curved head of his cane, the other tapping gently against his knee.
His face tonight was Ethan Carter's — charming, middle-aged, with an expression tuned precisely to appear worn but dignified. A mask layered over another mask. He had grown quite used to it.
He watched droplets race across the fogged window, but his thoughts wandered elsewhere.
Before the Mirror backlash, he had visited Audrey Hall under this very guise. She had been… helpful. Gentle in manner, but sharp beneath it. Her powers as a Psychiatrist had calmed the mental issues within him, even if only temporarily. She'd never asked too many questions. That was something he appreciated.
Now, though — now he returned with damage.
The Mirror had lashed back during the divination. His mind hadn't fully recovered since. The Fool's Mark had taken care of most of the brunt, but he could still feel a rift.
A part of him bristled at needing help again. Another part — the part that had survived this long — reminded him that help, when used wisely, was a tool like any other.
Still, he'd have to play it carefully. Audrey was no fool.
The carriage turned onto Phelps Street, and his thoughts drifted backward again — to the last few weeks.
As Victor Hale, he'd spent time across cities — East Balam, even a stint near Intis's southern border — taking commissions and issuing provocations. Each "job" had come with a manipulated desire: a whispered need from a wary employer, phrased just right to qualify as a wish.
Weaken this noble house. Undermine that organization. Find the one who leaked the information.
He'd delivered. Or rather, his marionettes had. Victor Hale, the veteran mercenary with a sharp blade and sharper eyes, had started to gain a reputation. Not too loud — but enough to matter.
Slowly, he started to build-up some anchors through this persona, but nothing tangible enough to make a difference yet.
Each wish he fulfilled added to his tally — wishes tied to uncovering secrets and weakening people or organizations.
Jack leaned back slightly, exhaling through his nose.
The carriage slowed, tires sloshing against shallow puddles as the estate gates came into view.
Jack adjusted the cuffs of his charcoal-gray suit and straightened his tie. Ethan Carter smiled softly in the reflection of the carriage glass.
"Time for your check-up, Mr. Carter," Jack muttered under his breath.
And the door opened.
The rain had lightened to a mist by the time Jack stepped from the carriage. A steward in a navy coat greeted him at the base of the steps, an umbrella already raised.
"Mr. Carter," the man said with polite efficiency, "welcome. The event is being held in the east drawing hall."
"Thank you," Jack replied, his tone warm. He passed beneath the archway, cane tapping softly against the stone as he entered.
The Loen Charity Bursary Foundation's venue was dignified but unassuming — no golden chandeliers or stained glass, but elegant wood-paneled walls, tall windows draped in cream, and soft lamplight casting warm shadows across polished floors. The kind of place that whispered wealth without bragging.
Jack's gaze moved smoothly across the hall. Attendees milled about in small clusters — charity patrons, professors, minor nobles, and socialites whose smiles were just slightly too fixed. Somewhere in the far corner, a small string quartet played a delicate, unobtrusive melody.
And then, of course, there was Audrey.
She stood near a tall bookshelf in conversation with an older gentleman, her green-and-yellow dress drawing light like fresh spring leaves in candlelight. Her posture was open and unguarded.
Jack's steps carried him casually across the drawing hall, his cane tapping lightly beside him. As he moved through the crowd, he offered the occasional nod.
He waited until Audrey's conversation ended. The older gentleman chuckled, shook her hand with gratitude, and stepped away — and only then did Jack approach.
"Miss Hall," he greeted with a smooth voice.
Audrey turned at once, her eyes brightening."Mr. Carter. What a pleasant surprise. I hadn't expected you this evening."
"Nor had I," he admitted, with a smile. "But sometimes, a certain kind of evening makes its own decision for you."
She laughed softly. "Well, the Foundation is always happy to welcome its most generous patrons. You'll find the atmosphere mostly cordial, and the wine almost tolerable."
Jack chuckled, then tilted his head slightly. "And the company?"
Audrey offered a coy glance. "Exceptional, of course."
They drifted closer to the refreshment table, more for the privacy of the crowd than any actual interest in its offerings. He allowed the hum of conversation and clinking glasses to build a buffer around them before speaking again.
"I'd meant to socialize more," Jack said, his tone softening. "But the past few weeks have been… difficult."
Audrey's expression shifted, subtle concern appearing into her features. "Is it your health again?"
He gave a brief shake of his head. "No. Physically, I'm fine. But mentally… Well, that's a more complicated matter."
Her eyes steadied. "Would you like to talk about it?"
Jack's voice was even, but there was a strange hollowness to it.
"There was a time," he began quietly, "not long ago, when I thought I had a hold on things. I knew my roles. The problems in my life were many, yes, but familiar. Familiar enough to navigate."
His eyes didn't meet hers. They drifted toward the candlelit drapery.
"I used to think I knew what I was doing," he said, voice quiet but even. "There was always a method. A structure. Everything made sense — even the chaos. I could read it. Navigate it. Shape it."
Audrey didn't interrupt. She simply observed, silently using Placate. The tension in Jack's shoulders loosened slightly.
"But now…" Jack exhaled slowly. "Now I'm not sure I ever understood it. Not really. Maybe I only thought I did. And that certainty — that feeling of control — maybe it was just a comfort I let myself believe in."
There was no drama in his tone, just a quiet admission.
Audrey kept her voice soft. "You weren't wrong for trusting what you knew," she said. "You've made it this far because of it. But knowledge is not prophecy. Even the wisest reader can be surprised by the next page."
Jack didn't reply. But he listened. His posture remained still, like someone trying not to disturb what little balance they had left.
Audrey continued, her tone steady but gentle. "You thought you knew the shape of the game. And for a while, you did. But the board shifts, the pieces change, and sometimes… even the rules rewrite themselves when we're not looking."
Her eyes softened, but the weight in her words remained. "That doesn't mean you were blind. It means you're still learning and still adjusting. That's what keeps people sane, not the certainty, but the willingness to reevaluate."
Another subtle application of Placate settled between them. Jack closed his eyes briefly, as if something within him had healed.
"I thought I had already grown past this," he murmured, more to himself. "That I didn't need… correction anymore."
"And maybe you had," Audrey said softly. "But growth isn't linear. Doubt doesn't disappear — it visits, from time to time. You just learn how to greet it better."
Jack opened his eyes again, slower this time.
Audrey gave a faint smile, but her gaze remained steady.
"You don't need to have every answer," she said. "Only the readiness to keep asking."
With that final wave, her Placate settled into place. Jack's mind was restored further. Still not completely, but stabilized enough to breathe again without the weight pressing in.
The silence stretched for a beat.
Then Jack muttered, a dry edge beneath his breath, "You should charge more for these conversations."
Audrey's smile curved gently. "I do," she said. "You're just getting the charitable rate."
Jack gave a shallow nod, the shadows beneath his eyes catching the lowlight. "It helps. I wouldn't admit that to just anyone."
Maybe I am overreacting. It's just one slip-up, nothing that concerning… Jack lampooned. The effects of godhood really takes a toll on you, huh?
Audrey studied him gently. Her smile remained kind, but her next words carried a thread of intent.
"You hide it well," she said. "Most wouldn't notice… but I've found that people who speak so carefully often have far more they're choosing not to say."
Jack didn't answer at first.
She is suspicious of me? What gave her a hint for that?
He turned slightly, gaze drifting across the quiet gathering. "Everyone has their thresholds," he replied. "I'm just careful not to spill over mine."
Audrey tilted her head, with a calm voice. "And yet you come to these events and you ask for help in your own way. That takes trust, Mr. Carter."
"Or calculation," Jack said evenly. "Sometimes they look the same."
Audrey's gaze softened. "I don't need to know what you're not ready to say. Just know… if the thing ever goes awry — you're not alone."
Jack's smile returned, thinner now. "You're either very wise, Miss Hall… or very good at guessing."
"Maybe both," she said, her tone brightening again. But her eyes didn't waver.
Before Jack could reply, a soft voice interrupted from nearby.
"Miss Hall?" A young woman in a deep green dress had approached, holding a clipboard. "They're ready to begin the presentation. The board's asking for you."
Audrey glanced toward the gathering at the front of the hall.
"Of course," she said with a polite nod, then turned back to him, voice lowering slightly. "I'm afraid I have to disappear into formality for a while."
Jack offered a smile, warm and unassuming. "A tragedy for the guests — but a triumph for the Foundation."
"Thank you," he added, quieter now. "For the words. The kindness. I'll remember it."
"And for what it's worth… it's good to know someone here still listens. It makes this city feel a little less cold."
Audrey's smile deepened.
"Take care, Mr. Carter."
With a dip of his head and the faintest gleam of something unreadable in his eyes, Jack turned and slipped back into the sea of guests, disappearing before the music changed again.
The carriage ride back was silent save for the steady creak of wheels and the soft shuffle of the horses hooves against cobblestone. Jack sat alone inside, gloves folded neatly on his lap, his eyes fixed on the faint reflection in the rain-streaked window.
The streetlamps outside flickered past in amber glows, smearing light across his features before vanishing into the dark.
She noticed something.
Jack wasn't sure what exactly — the lingering hesitation, the fracture beneath his words, or the too-careful manner in which he held his posture. But she had seen it. The glint in her eye hadn't come from polite empathy; it was suspicion.
So I really couldn't fool her entirely. Well, it's not unexpected, I'm going against a Discerner, not even "He" managed to fool her completely when she was of a lower sequence, even less now…
But still, despite it all… she had helped him.
Even being suspicious of me, she still hears me and helps. I don't know if that is her goodwill or not, but it can be the fact that I have been truthful to her and with that, she learns more about my character, giving me the chance to let things neutral with her.
Still… neutrality was as fragile as paper. One flicker and it could burn.
His eyes lingered on the rain-streaked window of the carriage, watching the city pass like memory — vague, impressionistic.
Audrey's words echoed softly in his head.
"Knowledge isn't prophecy. You don't graduate from doubt."
She was right. It had taken the Mirror to show him just how wrong he could be, even when he was sure he wasn't.
He'd been walking a line, certain he knew where it led. But maybe the path wasn't fixed. Maybe it never had been.
A flicker of light broke the silence.
Jack straightened.
Within the carriage's partially drawn curtain, a sudden shimmer coalesced in the air. Then a figure appeared.
A Fairy.
Six flaming wings fanned out behind her, casting ripples of red and gold across the upholstery. Her black hair hung just past her shoulders, her eyes obsidian with a glint of red, like coals smoldering under ash. She wore a simple black linen robe, her feet bare above the floor, untouched by dust or rain.
She held out a letter..
Jack accepted it without a word. The Fairy then vanished.
He turned the envelope over once, then opened it.
Nivlek's handwriting.
"Come to East Balam. There is an urgent matter we need to discuss. Don't make me wait."
Jack flickered the letter, burning it to a crisp.
"Of course," he murmured. "It never stays quiet for long."
He leaned back in his seat and let the city drift past once more, the night pressing in like a curtain before the next act.