Damacia Empire. Year 229. Spring.
The hiss of heated mana stones brewed life into the morning air—thick with the scent of roasted beans and burnt mana oil.
The square outside the café, opposite the grand Kingsmere Station, was already full of travelers waiting to board the next train.
Norman Creed sat by the window, coat crisp, boots shined, a notebook open beside his cup. He wasn't writing. Notebook open, untouched—he was watching.
"Extra, extra!" came the cry from the street. "Minister's son missing—read all about it!"
A boy, no older than twelve, weaved through pedestrians, waving rolled newspapers over his head like flags of war.
His fingers were smudged with ink, his cheeks with soot.
Norman raised two fingers in the boy's direction. The boy darted over, hand already outstretched.
"One?" he asked, breathless.
"Two," Norman said, fishing a few thin coins from his pocket. "And keep the change."
The boy grinned. "Thanks, mister!" He darted off, his voice rising again before Norman had even unfolded the page.
Norman scanned the headline: Young Lord Havering Vanishes—Investigation Underway. Tension Rising Before the Peace Conference.
He folded the paper slowly, took a sip of coffee, and didn't look up when the seat across from him creaked under weight.
"You're early," came a gravel-lined voice, tired but familiar.
"Sleepless night," Norman replied, sliding the paper across the table. "And so was someone else."
Inspector Aldrich Hitchcock leaned forward, glancing at the headline before pulling out his pipe—not yet lit, out of respect for café rules. He frowned.
"Great." His eyes narrowed. "Just what we need before the peace talks."
"Any suspects?" Norman said. "Separatists? Loyalists? Royal factions?"
Hitchcock gave a grunt of disagreement. "Finish your coffee, boy. The stationmaster's waiting, and so is the train to Rosendale."
Outside, the great mana-powered clock above the station let out a hum as it struck eight.
The hands moved with a shimmer of violet energy, precise and cold—just like the city it watched over.
Norman glanced at the humming clock above the station, then back to his coffee, still half-full and steaming gently in the morning chill.
"It's just eight," he said, swirling the cup slightly. "We've got time."
Hitchcock gave him a sidelong look, like a man trying to decide whether to argue or settle for the warmth of his seat.
"That's how the young think," he said, tapping the rim of his unlit pipe against the table. "Like time's something they've got in surplus. Let me tell you something, boy—trains, women, and time... they all leave the moment you look away."
Norman smirked. "Noted. I'll be sure to keep staring at the clock."
"That'd be a first," Hitchcock muttered.
He took out a silver matchbook and flicked it open, then remembered the café rules again and sighed, slipping it back into his coat.
A waiter passed with a tray of clinking cups and fragrant steam, dodging between tables filled with station-goers in layered coats and clattering heels.
The soft hiss of distant engines leaked through the noise of chatter and clinking cutlery.
Somewhere across the street, a musician struck a chord on a mana-powered lute, its tones warm and slightly warped by enchantments.
Norman leaned back. "You ever been to Rosendale before?"
"Not since the war," Aldrich said, his voice low and distant now. "A city of old blood... and something always lurking in the shadows."
Norman blinked, puzzled. "That supposed to mean something?"
The older inspector shrugged. "Just saying. Some people don't forget what they buried."
Norman raised an eyebrow. "You're full of cheerful thoughts this morning."
Aldrich chuckled. "I'm not cheerful any morning."
They sat in a moment of easy silence. Norman traced a thumb over the edge of his notebook.
"Do you really think the minister's son is tied to the peace talks?"
Aldrich didn't answer immediately. He reached out and slid the newspaper back, tapping a thick finger against the headline.
"Minister's only son vanishes without a trace, two weeks before every major power's envoy arrives in the capital?" He looked up. "There are no coincidences, boy. Only timing."
Norman exhaled slowly and glanced again at the clock. It shimmered as the minute hand ticked forward, smooth and arcane.
"I still say we've got time," he murmured.
Aldrich snorted, rising from his seat with the quiet creak of old leather. "You're welcome to believe that. I'll be on the platform—trying not to miss the train."
Norman watched him go, then drained the last of his coffee in one long sip.
Outside, the wind picked up slightly. The mana lights in the street flickered as if something unseen had just passed through them.
He stood, slid his notebook into his coat, and followed.
The mana clock above the Kingsmere Station gave another low chime, its crystalline tones vibrating through the iron arches and glass domes of the structure.
Beneath it, the train awaited—a gleaming serpent of brass and lacquered wood, runes glowing faintly along its joints, mana stones pulsing like a heartbeat in its belly.
Aldrich paused at the platform edge, staring at the engine like it might vanish if he blinked too long.
"No matter how many times I look at it," he said, scratching at the gray stubble on his chin, "it still amazes me."
Norman followed his gaze. "The train?"
Aldrich nodded. "Back in my day, if you wanted to get somewhere, you walked. If you were lucky, you had a horse. Unlucky, you had two feet and a long road.
Took me three days to reach the capital when I joined the force. Three days and one very angry mare."
Norman gave a short laugh. "You? On horseback? That's a picture."
"Oh, it wasn't pretty," Aldrich said, starting forward toward their carriage. "She threw me halfway through the second day. Spent the rest of the trip limping with a busted boot and a bruised backside."
The platform hissed with arcane pressure as attendants loaded luggage and adjusted the mana stabilizers.
One of them, a young woman in a red-trimmed uniform, bowed politely as they passed.
"These days," Aldrich continued, "you sit in a padded seat, sip warm tea, and arrive smelling like roses instead of horse sweat. Don't get me wrong—progress is a fine thing.
But some part of me still expects the train to explode every time I step aboard."
"Comforting thought," Norman said dryly.
Aldrich smirked. "You'll appreciate the paranoia when you've seen what I've seen."
They reached their assigned carriage—third from the front, just behind the engine.
The door opened with a smooth mechanical click, and a rush of warm air, scented faintly with polished wood and mana oil, spilled out.
Norman held the door for Aldrich. "After you, Sir Seen-A-Lot."
Aldrich stepped inside, giving the ceiling a wary glance. "If I'm going to die in an arcane combustion, I'd at least like to sit down first."
The interior of the carriage was quiet—well-upholstered benches in green velvet, polished wood panels, and brass fittings that gleamed under soft mana-lit sconces.
The hum of the engine pulsed gently beneath the floor, steady as a heartbeat.
Aldrich sank into the nearest seat with a relieved grunt. "Well, this is new. No soot, no yelling, no one trying to sell me miracle tonic through the window."
Norman sat opposite, loosening his coat and setting his notebook on his knee. "Give it time. We haven't left the station yet."
Aldrich leaned his head back, eyes half-closed. "You always this cheery in the morning?"
"Only when I haven't slept," Norman replied, watching a waiter in a crisp vest move down the aisle with a tray of teacups and biscuits.
"Besides, you're the one who thinks everything's going to explode. I'm just trying to appreciate the peace before it does."
Aldrich chuckled, a dry rasp that might have been mistaken for a cough. "Smart lad. You'll learn."
Norman pulled out his newspaper and went through it again. "You really think it's a kidnapping? Not just some bored noble brat running off to avoid a speech and a lifetime of politics?"
The older man opened one eye. "You ever met a noble who 'vanishes' without taking three servants with him, and leaving a trail of receipts?"
Before Norman could respond, the quiet changed. Not silence—just a pause. A shift in weight, like the carriage had exhaled.
A man had entered—tall, broad-shouldered, and moving with a stiffness that spoke of old wounds.
His coat was military cut, though worn at the edges, and faded medals glinted faintly beneath the lapel.
His face was a map of healed scars and sunburn, his jaw square, eyes sharp beneath a service cap that had seen better decades.
He didn't speak, didn't glance around, just took a seat facing the aisle, back straight, hands folded over a weathered satchel.
Norman leaned slightly forward. "That the kind of man who doesn't forget what he buried?"
Aldrich didn't smile this time. He studied the stranger for a moment, then sat back slowly. "That's the kind of man who doesn't bury things. Just leaves them behind... still breathing."
They both watched in silence as the train gave a soft jolt and began to move, the city sliding past in a blur of brass and morning light.
The veteran hadn't moved. Not a twitch. His eyes stayed fixed on something only he could see—some battlefield, some memory.
Norman started to turn away—then froze.
The man's satchel, worn and stained, had shifted slightly with the motion of the train. Just enough to reveal a crest etched faintly into the leather flap.
A winged lion clutching a torch.
Norman's eyes narrowed. He knew that emblem. Everyone in the force did.
"That's the emblem of the 9th Battalion," he murmured, more to himself than to Aldrich.
Aldrich didn't answer at once. Then, in a low voice: "Rumor was, the whole unit was wiped out. Thirteen years back."
The hum of the train deepened as it picked up speed, mana runes along the carriage flickering in steady rhythm.
And across from them, the man who shouldn't exist... slowly turned his head—and looked directly at Norman.
Not with surprise. Not with curiosity. But recognition.
Norman's breath caught in his throat.
The train barreled into the morning fog, and the city disappeared behind them...