The corridor beyond the preparation room was awash with pale morning light. The walls, lined with polished stone and quiet lanterns, reflected it like a calm sea of glass. Ryneth walked in silence, the faint sound of his boots echoing in even rhythm. The coat fit him perfectly — light, balanced, neither restrictive nor showy — as though made for someone who was meant to move unseen. The insignia on his collar caught the light each time he turned, a twin-ringed glint like a whisper of fire.
Morwen waited at the corridor's far end. "This way," she said simply, and set off with a measured pace.
They passed through hall after hall — the Directorate's heart unfolding like an intricate machine. Every room they crossed carried its own quiet pulse.
In one, scribes sat in rows before large tables, copying records and stamping them with thin bands of wax marked by the Directorate's flame. In another, two investigators stood before a wall-sized map of the kingdom, colored pins and strings tracing the spread of something unseen — outbreaks, disappearances, or perhaps lies.
"Every case enters through the Hall of Submission," Morwen explained as they moved. "Each report is verified, prioritized, and assigned to the appropriate wing. The Directorate functions in three layers — Analysis, Field, and Internal Review. You'll begin in the second, under the direct oversight of Senior Investigator Arven."
Ryneth gave a faint nod. "Efficient."
"Efficient," she agreed, "but not simple. What you'll learn here isn't how to uncover truth, but how to preserve it — at the right angles."
Her tone made it sound less like a duty and more like a warning.
They turned another corridor. Through tall windows, the city stretched below — calm, unaware. The Directorate towered above it, pale and precise, like an organ separate from the world it served. Ryneth watched the streets far beneath — carts moving through fog, bells tolling distantly — and wondered if anyone had ever looked up at this building without knowing its name.
Morwen stopped before a pair of wide wooden doors marked with a single silver flame.
"Your briefing awaits," she said. "Arven doesn't like to be kept waiting."
Ryneth glanced at her once, then pushed the doors open.
Arven's chamber was not grand — only purposeful. Tall shelves lined the walls, filled with ledgers, bound reports, and sealed scrolls arranged with mathematical precision. A single long table stood at the center, its surface buried under maps, half-written notes, and an open brass timepiece ticking steadily. Light poured through a high window, falling in thin, angled beams across the desk like measured judgement.
Arven stood beside it, sleeves rolled to the forearm, gloved hands resting on the edge of the table. He looked up as Ryneth entered, expression unreadable yet charged with quiet intent.
"Good," he said, without preamble. "You're presentable. Sit."
Ryneth obeyed, taking the seat opposite him without a word. The door shut behind him with a soft echo that seemed to erase the world outside.
Arven closed one of the ledgers and turned it so that its seal faced Ryneth. "You've joined on an opportune morning. A case has surfaced — not urgent, but... delicate enough to test both discipline and discretion. You'll accompany another investigator, observe, and record. You're not to interfere unless told otherwise."
His tone carried the rhythm of old authority — a voice shaped by repetition, expectation, and quiet command.
Ryneth folded his hands on the table. "What's the case?"
Arven flipped open the ledger. Inside lay a single parchment, worn at the edges, stamped with the mark of the rural districts — a simple flame over a ring. "A series of disappearances," he said. "A small settlement called Dareth Hollow — a trade village north of the low marshes. Four missing in the last fortnight, one confirmed dead. The local sentinels reported signs of struggle and…" He paused, eyes narrowing slightly as he scanned the words again. "...evidence of something unnatural, though they're too superstitious to define it."
Ryneth's gaze didn't move from the parchment. "And the Directorate's interest?"
Arven's lips curved faintly. "Patterns. Coincidence is the language of fools, and Dareth Hollow has begun to speak too fluently in it. The Crown wants silence, but silence achieved through certainty — not rumor. Your role is to find that certainty."
He closed the ledger with a muted thud.
"You'll depart by dawn. Callen will lead the investigation — you'll remember him. Your ranks are equal, though he holds seniority in experience. Follow his instructions where prudence demands, but learn where you must. I expect an initial report within three days."
Ryneth's expression remained composed, though something sharp flickered in his eyes at the mention of Callen — a quiet acknowledgement of the balance between familiarity and rivalry. "And if the disappearances prove to be more than coincidence?"
"Then you will adapt," Arven said simply. "The Directorate's strength is not in foresight, but response."
The air between them shifted — not heavy, but taut with unspoken meaning. Dust motes drifted lazily through the light between them, glimmering like fragments of thought caught in suspension.
Finally, Arven stepped back from the table and gestured toward the door.
"Morwen will provide your field clearance. Callen is waiting in the lower hall. He'll brief you on travel and procedure."
Ryneth stood, his posture calm yet alert — the kind of quiet readiness that concealed calculation.
As he turned to leave, Arven spoke again, his voice quieter, slower, as if brushing deliberately against memory.
"One more thing, Ryneth."
Ryneth paused at the door.
Arven's gaze lifted, sharp and unwavering. "You'll find that out there, the Directorate's reach feels distant. The villagers will not trust your insignia or your tone. They'll speak in superstition and silence, not truth. Learn to read both — because lies told in fear are often truer than words sworn in light."
For a moment, the ticking of the brass timepiece filled the room — steady, precise, unrelenting.
Ryneth inclined his head faintly. "Understood."
"Good," Arven replied, his tone dropping into something almost like approval. "Then go. The door to the field is not one you cross twice."
Ryneth turned and left. The door closed behind him with a deep, resonant sound — the kind that lingered, as though sealing not just a room, but a decision.
The echo of Arven's door faded behind him, replaced by the distant hum of voices and the measured rhythm of boots against marble. The lower hall stretched before Ryneth — a corridor of pale stone and glass, lined with wall-mounted sigils that pulsed faintly with restrained light. Through the high archways, he caught glimpses of clerks moving like clockwork, carrying sealed documents and whispering to one another in the language of routine and secrecy.
Near the end of the corridor stood Callen, leaning casually against a pillar, hands tucked into the pockets of his field coat. His posture was a study in relaxed defiance — the kind that belonged to someone too clever to fear reprimand and too seasoned to invite it. When he spotted Ryneth, a crooked grin spread across his face.
"Well," Callen said, pushing off the pillar. "Look who's finally wearing the coat. Thought you'd sworn off institutions after the Arcanum."
His tone carried humor, but there was a thread of curiosity beneath it — as if gauging whether Ryneth had truly changed or was simply adapting again.
Ryneth stopped before him. "I prefer walls that listen less and pay better," he said evenly.
Callen let out a short laugh. "Ah, the Directorate's motto in spirit if not in writing."
He began walking beside him, steps echoing lightly. "I'll admit, when Arven told me I'd be taking you on a field assignment, I expected at least a day's grace before the first disappearance case. But no — straight from induction to the hinterlands. Efficiency, I suppose."
"Or eagerness to test the untested," Ryneth said.
"Untested, yes. But not unobserved." Callen gave a mock conspiratorial glance. "Morwen's already made three bets about how long you'll last before arguing with Arven."
Ryneth's brow lifted slightly. "And you?"
"I'm too wise to bet against you," Callen said with mock solemnity. "I've seen what happens when you're right — people start questioning their careers."
The faintest curve touched Ryneth's lips. "Then I'll try to spare you that fate."
Callen clapped him lightly on the shoulder, tone easing into something sincere. "It's good to see you here, Ryneth. Really. The Directorate can use a mind like yours — provided it doesn't start dismantling the place for the sake of curiosity."
Ryneth's gaze shifted ahead. "That depends on what the Directorate lets me find."
For a moment, silence stretched between them, not uncomfortable but edged with something quieter — an unspoken recognition of where they stood now: not as acquaintances of circumstance, but as equals in a place that trusted neither.
Callen exhaled, glancing toward the end of the hall. "Come on. The carriage is being prepped already. Morwen said we're to leave by first light — though with her, that could mean anything between midnight and tomorrow's funeral bell."
Ryneth raised an eyebrow. "Then I'll pack for both."
"Prudent as always." Callen grinned again, then turned toward the outer corridor. The light from the glass ceiling dimmed briefly as a shadow passed across it — something vast, momentary, like the wing of a bird or the brush of a storm cloud.
Callen paused mid-step, glancing up. "Huh. Either we're blessed or forewarned."
Ryneth followed his gaze, the faint tension returning to his posture. "Sometimes," he said quietly, "those two are the same thing."
Callen looked at him for a beat longer — amusement flickering into something sharper — then motioned ahead.
"Let's find out which one it is, shall we?"
They continued down the hall, their footsteps fading into the echoing expanse — the shadow above lingering for a moment longer before dissolving into the pale Directorate light.