"Alright then, Calder. If your theories are correct, then you need not continue your investigation," Arven said, his voice steady but carrying that distinct tone of authority that left little room for argument.
The air in the restaurant felt heavier than before. A faint aroma of roasted herbs lingered between them, mingling with the soft hum of morning chatter. Ryneth sat across the table, hands clasped loosely, posture composed — though a quiet unease churned beneath his calm exterior.
Arven leaned forward slightly, studying him. "You seem like a smart person," he said. "Why don't you join the Directorate?"
The words landed like a spark in still water. Ryneth blinked once, uncertain if he'd heard correctly. Join the Directorate?
He opened his mouth to reply, but Arven continued before he could.
"Someone with your knowledge of translation and interpretation — a linguist from the Arcanum — would be a valuable asset to us. You've already demonstrated insight beyond your position."
Ryneth's lips parted slightly, unsure if this was praise or a quiet test.
Across the table, Morwen shifted in her seat, her gaze flickering between them. Her voice came soft but firm, almost as if speaking to herself, "Is this the right thing to do?"
Arven ignored her hesitation, his expression unmoved. Callen stood a few steps away, near the wall — one foot against it, arms folded. His expression was calm, but his eyes watched every small movement Ryneth made, as if waiting to see what he'd do next.
Ryneth glanced briefly toward the window beside their table. For a fleeting moment, he thought he saw the curtain move — a shift in light, the sway of fabric — before it actually did. It wasn't vision or memory, just that faint echo that had followed him since last night. A murmur before the event. A whisper without words.
He blinked it away.
"I don't think I have the necessary qualifications for such a position, sir," Ryneth said finally, his tone polite but guarded.
Arven smiled faintly — a measured, knowing smile. "Don't worry about that," he said. "I can personally recommend you as a junior investigator. Everything after that is just experience and merit."
The words hung in the air like the last note of a quiet song. Ryneth felt his pulse quicken, though his face remained calm. He gave a slight nod, unsure if it was agreement or just a reflex.
Was it truly an offer… or a test he had already failed to see coming?
Arven leaned forward again, the shift subtle but heavy — enough to pull the air taut around the table. His tone changed; the calm was still there, but it had sharpened.
"Besides," he said quietly, "you're pretty good at thefts."
The words hit Ryneth like a physical blow.
Thefts? For an instant, his mind blanked. His pulse stuttered — and then the realization crashed down on him like a cold wave.
The texts… Leslie's office.
He felt his throat tighten, heat creeping up his neck. His fingers twitched against his knee, hidden beneath the table. No… no, that can't be what he means. But the truth was already written in Arven's steady gaze.
"The punishment for stealing texts from the Arcanum…" Ryneth thought, panic crawling through his chest, is imprisonment, maybe worse.
Arven didn't stop. His voice grew quieter, more deliberate — almost like a whisper designed to wound.
"I know we told you to look into those texts, Calder," he said. "But I never expected you'd be daring enough to steal them from both the Directorate's custody and the Arcanum's eyes… and think we wouldn't notice."
Ryneth's heart pounded so hard he could hear it in his ears. A bead of sweat slid down his temple. The restaurant suddenly felt smaller — the air thicker.
He glanced at Arven's hand on the table, and for a moment, he saw it move before it actually did. That faint echo again, that curse — the moment unfolding twice. He wanted to close his eyes, to make it stop, but doing so would've shown weakness.
Across from him, Morwen's eyes shifted briefly to Arven, a flicker of disapproval passing through her face, but she said nothing. Callen's calm gaze from the corner hadn't changed. His posture was the same — one foot against the wall, arms crossed — but his hand now rested near his waist, close to the badge on his belt.
They know. All of them.
Ryneth forced himself to speak, though his voice was barely steady.
"I didn't—" he began, but stopped himself. The words felt dangerous — any wrong syllable could seal his fate.
The silence that followed was unbearable. The faint clatter of plates, distant chatter, and footsteps from the kitchen seemed muted, far away — as if the world itself was holding its breath.
I can't slip now, he thought. If I show fear, I'm done.
Arven leaned back slightly in his seat, exhaling through his nose. The faint tension of the moment lingered like a held breath.
"But worry not," he said, his tone shifting into something smoother — almost reassuring, though the edge never faded. "We are in charge of Leslie's case. The Directorate does not allow others to interfere with evidence from another's jurisdiction."
Ryneth didn't move. He watched the faint ripple of light across Arven's polished badge as the man continued, every word like a slow twist of a knife.
"Only the three of us know of your crimes."
The words landed cold. Morwen's eyes flicked down for a moment, her silence heavy. Callen stood motionless by the wall, the same unreadable expression plastered across his face — yet Ryneth could sense something in his stance, a quiet readiness that made his stomach tighten.
Arven's tone hardened. "Calder, you don't have a choice."
He paused, letting the weight of that sink in before finishing, his voice low but unmistakably commanding.
"Join the Directorate, and we'll make sure this remains buried."
Ryneth's heartbeat was a muffled roar in his ears. His mind raced — buried? He glanced between them. None of them looked like they were bluffing.
"All the formalities and paperwork will be taken care of," Arven continued, his voice calm now, almost casual. "A clean start. A quiet favor in return for your… cooperation."
Ryneth's lips parted slightly, but no words came out. He couldn't decide whether this was mercy or blackmail — perhaps both.
So this is what they wanted from the beginning, he thought, a bitter realization curdling in his chest. To pull me under their leash.
The faint whisper brushed his mind again — that eerie foresight — and for a fraction of a second, he saw Arven's mouth move just before it actually did, repeating the same words:
"You don't have a choice."