The Reinhart library smelled of old leather, dust, and oil-lamped parchment—a place where secrets lingered longer than guests.
Rows of high shelves stretched to a vaulted ceiling, packed with tomes whose spines bore the weight of centuries.
And at the center of it all—beneath a massive, circular stained-glass window depicting the Empire's founding—stood Duke Arthur Reinhart of Rosenvale.
He was not a man who needed to speak to be heard.
Tall, broad-shouldered despite his age, he wore a high-collared coat of deep navy, the Reinhart sigil embroidered in silver thread across the chest.
His hair, once blonde, had turned iron-grey, slicked back with militaristic precision.
His face was weathered—stern and angular, like it had been carved with purpose, not kindness. One hand rested on a cane—not for balance, but to make a point when necessary.
But it was his eyes that truly commanded attention.
Ice-blue, piercing, unreadable. The kind of eyes that didn't look at you—they measured you.
He looked up from a thick volume in his hand, closed it with deliberate care, and set it down beside a half-finished glass of dark brandy.
"Have a seat, Inspectors," he said, voice low and clipped—each word honed like a blade.
Aldrich gave a shallow nod and stepped forward first, unhurried.
"Inspector Aldrich Hitchcock." His voice gravel-lined but steady. "At Her Majesty's Service, Second Division, my lord."
He motioned to Norman with a tilt of his head.
"This is my assistant. Inspector Norman Creed."
Norman straightened instinctively at the sound of his name, offering a brisk nod. "My lord."
Duke Reinhart's gaze lingered on them in silence, as if testing the weight of their presence.
Then, with a faint gesture of two fingers, he indicated the leather-backed chairs arranged across from his desk.
They sat.
The brandy glass gave a soft clink as Reinhart nudged it aside, then leaned forward, fingertips pressed together in a quiet, deliberate steeple.
"I trust you have something to report, Inspectors," he said, voice cool as cut glass. "Let's start from the beginning—the train."
Aldrich let out a slow breath through his nose, the pipe in his coat still unlit but ever-present.
"We boarded at Kingsmere Station," he began, voice level. "Everything seemed routine. Nothing out of place."
He paused, then added with a darker tone, "But the calm didn't last. Not long after we left the capital, something shifted. Screams in the second carriage. Then chaos."
He glanced briefly at Norman, then back to the Duke.
"The train driver had his guts laid open. The engineer took a round straight through the skull—still breathing when we found him, somehow, but barely. Neither of them made it."
"But we apprehended the man who did it. On the rooftop of a moving train, if you can believe it. He was a mage from Second Glyphwork. Skilled with fire and ice magic."
Aldrich sighed, then continued. "But he killed himself before we could get anything from him, at Rosenvale Station. I believe Commander Vale has given you the details, my lord?"
Duke Reinhart didn't nod. Didn't blink. His gaze remained fixed, weighing each word like a jeweler judging flawed silver.
"I received Vale's report," he said at last, tone dry as parchment. "Sparse—he prefers action over prose. You'll forgive me for wanting the truth from the source."
He stood slowly—not leaning on the cane, but using it like a general uses a baton—to mark authority. He crossed to the tall windows overlooking the rain-slick courtyard, back half-turned to them.
"Second Glyphwork," he murmured, almost to himself. "So they've grown bold enough to attack public transit in broad daylight."
A pause.
"And what of the passengers?" he asked, still facing away. "Collateral? Or targets?"
Norman stepped forward, voice measured but still green around the edges. "We believe they were after specific targets. The VIP carriages, to be precise."
"After we disarmed the bomb and stopped the locomotive, there was a voice in the intercom. It said, 'Bravo, Inspectors. But your effort was meaningless. We already got what we wanted.'"
"Sabotage, execution in one stroke, and they knew who we were." Aldrich added. "Whoever planned this knew exactly what they were doing."
Reinhart finally turned, his pale eyes glinting beneath the stained-glass dome. "The Ashbourne, the Vermont, and my daughter.
Three noble lines have been struck in one motion—mine excluded only by fortune or foresight."
The inspectors exchanged a glance. Aldrich was the one who spoke.
"What do you think the Second Glyphwork was trying to gain from this, my lord?"
Lord Reinhart's expression remained unreadable. Voice measured. "That's your job to find out, isn't it, Inspectors?"
His cane tapped once against the stone floor. A sharp, solitary knock.
Silence followed, thick and expectant.
He crossed slowly back to his desk, eyes never leaving the two inspectors as he lowered himself into the chair—precise, poised, and cold as forged steel.
"Do not mistake my tone for ingratitude," he said, fingers resting lightly on the cane. "I do appreciate that you brought my daughter back to me."
His gaze turned to Aldrich, then to Norman. "For that, you have my thanks. But gratitude alone is not why you're here."
He slid open a drawer and retrieved a folded parchment, heavy with red wax. He broke the seal without flourish, laid it flat on the desk, and turned it toward them.
It was a map—the southern rail routes, marked in charcoal and ink. Symbols and notations—some familiar, others written in military cipher.
"Three other trains were scheduled to depart in the same two-hour window," Lord Reinhart said.
"One from Sablewick, another from Agramont, and a third bound for the Western Reach. All delayed or rerouted at the last minute due to… routine inspections."
He tapped the map with a gloved finger. "Only yours continued."
A beat.
"Tell me, Inspectors—what does that sound like to you?"
Aldrich leaned forward, eyes narrowing. "A coordinated attempt. The train we were on wasn't just a target—it was the target. The others were noise."
Norman nodded slowly. "They wanted all eyes somewhere else. Enough confusion to ensure the VIP car was isolated. Vulnerable. Then they struck."
Lord Reinhart gave a single, crisp nod. "Second Glyphwork was mere fugitives and criminals. They are not capable of this kind of coordination."
He pushed the brandy glass aside with two fingers, the motion absent but tense.
"No," he said, quieter now. "They had help. From high places."
Then he sat back and steepled his fingers again.
"Here is what I want, Inspectors. I want names. I want sigils. I want to know how far Second Glyphwork's rot has spread through the southern territories. And I want it burned out by the roots."
A pause. He let the weight of his words settle like falling ash.
"You'll have clearance. Unofficial, but total. I'll see to that."
His voice grew even colder.
"But if another train goes up before I have answers, then I will assume we're no longer dealing with subversion—but war. And I do not take war lightly."
Aldrich rose slowly. "Then we'd best get to work, my lord."
Reinhart gave a curt nod. "I'll be expecting good news..."
"...Phew." Norman let out a long breath the moment the library doors closed behind them with a muffled thud. "Gods," he whispered, "that was intense."
His voice bounced down the marbled corridor, too loud in the wake of the silence they'd left behind.
He tugged at his collar like it had shrunk two sizes, as though Duke Reinhart's ice-blue gaze had seared through fabric and flesh alike.
Aldrich didn't reply right away.
His boots struck the stone floor with a slow, deliberate rhythm, echoing down the hall like a metronome for tension.
The unlit pipe rested in the corner of his mouth, clamped between his teeth, as if it helped him think—or kept his temper in check.
His hands stayed folded behind his back, posture ramrod straight, eyes fixed ahead with the unreadable calm of a man walking into a gunfight with his coat buttoned.
"You held your own," he said at last, voice low and steady. "Didn't stammer. Didn't flinch. That's more than most manage under Reinhart's stare."
Norman laughed—sharply, nervously. Half relief, half disbelief. "Felt like I was standing naked in front of a firing squad."
He exhaled hard, then scrubbed both hands down his face. "His eyes… they don't just look at you. They see through you."
"That's because they're not eyes," Aldrich muttered, pipe shifting with the words.
"They're judgemental instruments. Reinhart doesn't ask questions unless he already knows the answers—and he's only waiting to see where you slip."
They rounded a corner, the polished floor catching the glow of tall mana-lamps.
The light cast flickering shadows across faded tapestries and towering portraits of stern-faced ancestors.
The eyes in the paintings followed them with the same cold judgment that had just radiated from the Duke's desk.
Outside, the rain picked up, tapping harder against the tall windows. Thin rivulets ran down the glass, like the manor itself was weeping.
Norman rolled his shoulders, trying to shake the weight that had settled there. "So… what now?"
Aldrich slowed, coming to a stop at the top of the grand staircase. Below, the entrance hall unfolded in solemn grandeur—black marble floors veined with silver, glinting beneath ornate chandeliers.
Outside the main doors, the deep hiss of an automobile echoed faintly in the vestibule beyond, its silhouette barely visible through the rain-beaded glass.
"What else?" Aldrich said, flicking the pipe from one corner of his mouth to the other. "We interrogate the prisoners. That's rule one-oh-one."
He tugged his coat tighter around him, eyes narrowing.
"Follow the fire back to the spark," he added. "And hope it doesn't lead us somewhere above our paygrade."