No sooner had we crossed the threshold than our senses forfeited all utility. Juliana was not merely an edifice; she was a wandering architectural fallacy—a place where geometry renounced Euclid. Stairways of stone burgeoned from the nowhere, coiling into angles that defied reason; ceilings traded their lot with floors, and narrow passageways whispered in tongues that had died before ever being heard. This place was a maddened idea given substance in stone. And yet, our position never altered; one could stride toward any seeming shift, and everything remained steadfast, as if all transformation here could be halted or resumed by a will far deeper.
From the heart of that labyrinth, down a stair that reached into some inner nebula, descended a human form as though ripened by long, magical solitude. He wore a robe of deepest crimson, dark as river silt, its weave coarse like clotted blood; his arms lay hidden within its folds, and his posture spoke of both readiness and dominion. His face was a terrain of wrinkles carved by bitterness, his eyes glassy and gleaming with ire, observing us as one might watch worms defiling a sacred tomb.
"Ye rabble…" he uttered, his voice trembling betwixt pride and dread. His very soul knew it was committing an offense. "How dare ye violate the sanctity of Juliana? By what right do ye intrude upon the Baron's solitude unbidden?"
We halted. Ancaues granted him no chance to reply.
In a motion no eye could apprehend, Ancaues cast his "spiritual gravity" upon the place. It was not pressure, but a forced re-crafting of being: the villa groaned beneath the weight of his will. The impossible geometry collapsed; twisting stairways straightened; dissonant angles were forged into cold, conventional forms. Ancaues compelled the space to forsake its magic and submit to the laws of inert matter. Reality lay bare and brittle in its imposed simplicity.
Ancaues cried out, his voice rising from some distant abyss, cold and merciless:
"Lower thy tone, shepherd's son. We are here for discourse, not needless bloodshed."
Then he seized the magician's heart in his grasp, as though its very pulse had become a tangible thing under his hold.
Suddenly as he had begun, Ancaues withdrew his pressure. Juliana returned to her architectural madness in the blink of an eye. Silence fell once more—but a silence heavy with defeat. The crimson magician crumpled like a pile of tattered cloth, kneeling upon the white stone, panting with a primal fear. Between gasps, he raised a trembling hand to his chest, searching for a pulse he feared might be gone.
The detective stepped toward the magician sprawled upon the ground. His body, black and glass-like, clear as a starless night, reflected Juliana's frenzied geometry in a way that rendered it even more distorted; the twisting stairways and impossible angles danced across its smooth surface, making his form seem a hole that devoured space itself.
He bent and sat before the magician*l, cross-legged upon the stone. He possessed no face—no eyes to meet the victim's gaze, no mouth to give words a familiar passage. The magician stared at the detective's "head," seeing only the reflection of his own countenance: fallen, humbled, shattered upon the blackness of that glass.
"I apologize for Ancaues' sharpness..." The voice emerged not from a throat, but as though from a trembling in the very air around him. "He is a fool of sorts. But I assure you, we are not here to violate your master's sanctity. We have only questions."
The detective extended his glass-like hand and helped the magician rise—a motion mechanical and cold. The magician, gathering the shards of his composure, sensed the detective's interest in information concerning his master. He cried out with a desperate rasp:
"My thanks… for your courtesy. At least one among you understands the courtesy due a guest." His voice trembled. "But know this—whether I possess what you seek or not, I would sooner die than betray the Baron!"
From behind them came the sound of derisive laughter, as though a full audience mocked a failed jester. It was Castor.
"And why thinkest thou we would ask whether thou wouldst cooperate?" he sneered, his tone dripping with noble arrogance. "We need not ask. A simple spell of mine could make thy tongue dance to our tune."
The magician tensed. "A ward lies upon me within Juliana's walls. Should you try to enter my mind, I shall burst—and you shall gain nothing."
Castor's mocking smile did not waver. "I could undo it."
But the detective raised a hand, signaling Castor to step back. His voice, calm and contemporary, cut through the tension.
"Undo the ward? Would you ruin the evidence? I shall conduct the interrogation."
The detective began to pace in tight circles around the magician. His polished black glass form absorbed the light of the magical lanterns, returning none of it. The stairways that coiled upon themselves shimmered across the surface of his "face" like ripples on a black pool reflecting a shattered sky.
"Might we at least know your name?" The voice emanated from the glass void.
Sweat beaded on the magician's brow as he watched his own anxious reflection waver upon the detective's polished torso. "I am Óengus… Right hand to the Archmagician of House Simon Eisenhart, Lord Mogan, and commander of his magical battalion. That is all I will offer."
The detective inclined his glass head slightly to the right—a gesture that seemed both mechanical and chilling.
"The honor is mine, magician Óengus. I… you may call me the detective."
Óengus let out a choked laugh, a blend of mockery and primal terror, his eyes darting toward the "shadows" standing aloof in the background with their unblinking, superior gazes.
"The detective? Truly, the honor is mine—to stand before one of the continent's most formidable beings."
The detective paid no heed to the sarcasm. His nonexistent "eyes" continued observing Juliana's decaying geometry.
"Tell me, Óengus… who built Juliana?"
Óengus swallowed, feeling the villa's walls close in around him.
"Mogan built it five years ago, under direct orders from my Lord Simon. It was one of the few structures that survived the celestial quakes."
"And why did Simon command its construction?" asked the detective, abruptly halting his circling to stand face-to-face with the magician.
"I cannot answer that," Óengus replied curtly, struggling to reclaim his shattered dignity.
The detective gave a slow, cold nod of understanding.
"I comprehend… you are a man of honor. You do not wish to betray your allies."
He took a single step forward, clasping his glass hands behind his back, then continued in a tone as sharp as a blade's edge:
"I am not here to strip you of your loyalty. I am here to rectify… the Situation. I have a function to perform—one that will determine whether you continue to exist… based on my success or failure."
Óengus frowned in bewilderment.
"What do you mean? Why would my Lord Simon's disappearance threaten my own existence?"
The detective paused before a corner that ascended downward, his calm voice cutting through the heavy air:
"Simon's disappearance is a logical lacuna in the Narrative, Óengus. It is a story not yet born, yet it persists… a tale without a beginning, whose present imposes itself with such force that it vexes… the Cosmos. The fabric of existence dislikes things with no discernible origin; they resemble paradoxes that fracture its very mind. So, it reacts like an angry child—it simply erases them."
A weighty silence lingered before the detective continued:
"But if I can grant this story a clear sequence, if I unravel the knot of mystery and bestow upon it logic, the narrative will stabilize. The Cosmos will be permitted to continue telling it… That is my function. I am the detective; I unveil enigmas to grant reality the right to endure."
Óengus's features tightened, the words seeming to surpass his grasp.
"I do not understand what you speak of… nonsense, stories, narratives, cosmos? I know nothing of such things!"
"It is of no consequence. I do not expect you to understand," the detective replied coldly, his gaze returning to the impossible ceiling that seemed to recede the longer one stared.
"Just tell me this… why did Simon order the villa built in such… twisted fashion?"
"How should I know?" Óengus cried out in despair. "He was an eccentric man—his main palace was even stranger. He simply… enjoyed this kind of architectural folly."
"Simply enjoyed?" the detective repeated the words slowly, as though they were a poor jest. "People do not 'simply enjoy' things, Óengus. To love something is a mirror reflecting the finest details of human nature. This contortion is not a preference… it is a necessity."
Óengus's eyes darted wildly, fixing upon the detective's black form that mirrored his own distorted reflection.
"So you will tell me Simon is a twisted man because he built this? Very well—the joke is on you, for I know it well. He is my lord, and I know perfectly well that he is cunning and deceitful. Yet that will not make me betray him."
From the detective came a rasp resembling laughter—dry as logic set to parchment.
"I would have said he possesses a unique taste, nothing more… and it seems he has excellent taste in choosing his allies as well."
Óengus's eyes narrowed, suspicious of this poisoned praise.
"My thanks… I would ask you to leave if your questions are done, but…" He glanced at the shadows standing behind the detective and felt the chill of death. "I doubt we are finished."
"No, we are not yet finished," said the detective, taking a step that sent the villa's reflections swirling violently across his form.
"Each of us has different desires and priorities, my friend Óengus. And each of us will do whatever it takes to achieve them. That is human nature—cold, grey, and not necessarily good. None of us stands wholly on the side of virtue, nor wholly on the side of vice… so long as the game continues. Just like you and Simon… I am here to win. And I am not obliged to use ethical means to achieve my end. We all twist, deceive, and use others for our purposes."
The detective fell completely silent. His glass body grew still as a tomb, while the geometry of Juliana around them seemed to coil, ready to devour all within.
The detective tilted his head slightly. The reflection of the twisting stairways upon his "face" now appeared to sink inward, forming a black hole at the center of his smooth head.
"You know, Óengus… morality is a luxury the living grant themselves when they believe they have time to spare," he said, his tone calm.
"But you are a man of numbers, of battalions and magic. Tell me… in your military calculations, what do you do when you discover that the fortress you are defending was not built to protect you—but designed as a trap specifically to eliminate you?"
Óengus stiffened, trying to swallow the dryness in his throat.
"Simon may be a twisted man, but he does not betray his own men. I am the vault of his greatest secrets—he entrusted them to me because I am worthy."
"No. You are the curtain he draws to hide what lies behind," the detective cut in, stepping into Óengus's personal space until the hem of his classical green tunic nearly brushed the crimson robe of the magician.
"Look around you… Juliana is not complex because Simon 'loves' complexity. Juliana is complex because it is a 'grinding machine.' The stairways you see ascending downward, the angles twisting beyond logic… they consume consciousness. You feel it, do you not? A fog creeping toward your oldest memories… You feel that your loyalty is the only thing tethering you to reality—because if loyalty goes… nothing of you will remain."
The air grew colder as the detective continued:
"Juliana is not merely a building beautiful in its absurdity. It embodies Simon's spirit—his mechanism of operation. He is complex, but he allows you to go only to specified places in his life… places where he knows you can be useful—and easy to dispose of."
Óengus stepped back, his eyes trembling.
"This… this is nothing but wordplay. The Baron gave me a place in this world! I was a man of no worth before him—now I am what I am: a powerful magician. I have a family. A life. Prospects. I have rejoined humanity."
"No. He gave you a place outside the world," whispered the detective, his glass form beginning to reflect Óengus in a distorted manner, as though seen through a shattered mirror. "He gave you a place in his world. He gave you exactly what you needed—more threads to bind you to him. You are the commander of his magical battalion… Where are your soldiers, Óengus? Why are you alone in this impossible hall? Did you ever wonder why no one else is here? Did they disappear with your lord last night? Were they chosen to accompany him while you remained—alone—after he knew you were no longer useful? Or perhaps… he had them killed… as he ordered you to do to others in the past?"
Óengus froze. That precise question was the fissure he had avoided for years. Cold sweat beaded on his brow; his hands, clutching his robe, began to shake.
"They… they were the ones who betrayed the Baron first… The others were sent on missions…"
"On missions from which they never returned," the detective completed for him, his voice now echoing from behind Óengus and beside him at once. "Simon consumed them, one by one, to feed his hunger for the eternal identity he seeks. And now only you remain. You are the 'final reserve' in Simon's story. He did not disappear, Óengus… He simply finished with you. And left you here to face… the logical lacuna."
Óengus cried out in despair: "Lies! You are poisoning my mind! The Lord will return… He always returns!"
The detective drew near again—but this time he did not move; rather, the space itself seemed to draw in around Óengus.
"If he were to return… why did Mogan place an erasure ward upon the very stone where you now stand? Look beneath your feet…"
Óengus looked down in terror at the white stone underfoot. Though no visible ward could be seen, the detective's suggestion held more power than reality. He felt the ground beginning to swallow his being, his entire history dissolving before this faceless glass entity.
"You possess no honor to offer Simon," the detective continued with lethal coldness. "You possess only… the truth. And that is the sole currency that might purchase your continuance in the narrative I am trying to compose. If you do not speak now, I will close the ledger… and leave Juliana to digest what remains of your soul. You will not be a traitor… for betrayal requires two persons… and in Simon's eyes, you are not a person at all."
He paused, and his voice deepened, resonating like a tolling bell:
"He uses you the way a gambler uses a Hammer —
a hand without a future,
thrown to the table without a second thought,
not to win,
but to make room for a royal flush
that will only ever be played once.
The last resistance crumbled in Óengus's eyes. His psychological armor collapsed under the weight of this logical void. No longer did he see Simon as a noble lord—but as a black hole that had drained his life away.