The armored police carriage clattered away with Molin shackled inside, its iron wheels grinding toward the city outskirts. Luge watched it vanish into the dusk, then turned to his father.
"Evershine Jewelers was hit?" His voice tightened. The crown-owned vaults were impregnable – or so the propaganda claimed.
Ruve adjusted his badge, sweat glinting on his brow. "Inspectorate Bureau's taking over. Some hotshot deputy from the capital." He lowered his voice. "They're scrambling before Maire arrives."
Maire. The philanthropist noble whose web of connections spanned continents. Luge's implant buzzed – [Potential: 37.3%] – as pieces clicked.
"Moore family's been hoarding gems for months," he muttered to Gehr once Ruve left. "Yet Anvis wears cheaper cuffs than a dockside hustler."
The hound's nose twitched. "You think Maire's their buyer?"
"Buyer? More like architect." Luge recalled the barren tomb they'd stumbled upon weeks prior – its curse-laden scroll now a liability. "That 'charity tour' is a smokescreen. He's here to–"
A figure materialized from shadowed alleyways – a grime-streaked boy clutching a blood-smeared letter. The paper unfolded to reveal a crimson blossom, its petals still wet.
Meet at the ruins. Midnight.– Eighth Revenge Witch
Luge dabbed saliva on his pen, scrawling Acknowledged beneath the gory flower. "Tell your masters I'll play their game," he told the boy, though the child's eyes held decades of cruelty. "For now."
Gehr sniffed the retreating messenger. "Since when do Bellenas' streets have beggars?"
"Since never." Luge crushed the letter. "That was no orphan – just another mask."
[Potential: 38.9%] flared hungrily as they melted into the labyrinthine lanes. Somewhere, a witch's laughter echoed.