The morning fog hung low over Corvalis, seeping into the city's alleys and twisting around lampposts like coils of smoke. Thomas Black moved through it silently, coat collar raised against the damp chill. He had spent the night reviewing his notes, retracing movements, and reconstructing the subtle signs of the Kane estate's secrets. By the time he reached the estate again, he had a plan: speak to the family directly, observe carefully, and uncover the cracks in their polished façades.
The front door opened almost immediately as he approached. No maid, no formal greeting—just the faint scent of polished wood and something older, richer, almost alive. Black entered, not needing permission. The estate welcomed him the way it welcomed shadows: with recognition, and with caution.
He found Veyron Kane in the main hall, pacing beneath the grand chandelier. His movements were sharp, almost predatory, the type of motion that suggested someone used to ordering people around. Veyron stopped mid-step as Black entered, nodding curtly.
"Detective," he said, voice precise. "I suppose you're here to ask questions."
"Yes," Black replied. "And I'm here to observe. Questions without answers are worthless without context."
Veyron's brow furrowed slightly. "Context, yes… I can provide what you need, but there are limits. Family matters… you must understand."
"I understand perfectly," Black said, stepping closer. "Your father is dead. Your household is tense. Secrets are thick in the air. And someone in this house—someone clever—killed him. That's context enough."
Veyron's eyes narrowed. "Clever? You suspect one of us?"
Black gave a faint shrug. "I suspect several of you. I'm a detective, not a fool. Opportunity, motive, magical ability—there are no shortages here."
Veyron stiffened, and Black noted it. The eldest Kane was proud, controlled, but every word revealed a trace of fear. Fear of exposure. Fear of incompetence. Fear that someone had outplayed him already.
Arcelia Kane appeared then, gliding into the hall like a shadow in silk. Her eyes, sharp and calculating, flicked to Black and Veyron in quick succession.
"Detective Black," she said softly. "I trust you've been thorough."
"I've observed much," Black replied. "And heard even more. You, for instance—Arcelia—have been experimenting with persuasion charms recently, yes?"
Her lips twitched almost imperceptibly. "I have my ways. But that is hardly relevant to my father's… untimely demise."
Black tilted his head. "Persuasion is subtle. Often it's used to influence, to manipulate, to obscure. And in a house like this, manipulation is a form of power."
She regarded him coolly. "You tread carefully, detective. Assumptions can be dangerous."
"And yet," Black said, voice low, "danger is my business."
Black moved next to Dorian Kane, lounging near the window with enchanted dice clutched loosely in his hand. Each roll glimmered faintly in the light, spells of chance subtly influencing fate itself.
"You gamble," Black said, eyes fixed on the dice. "Careful with enchanted dice. They can twist probability, but not morality. Have you considered that someone could manipulate the house's wards with such tools?"
Dorian snorted, tossing the dice lightly. "I'm not stupid, detective. These are for fun. The real danger comes from inside this family, not from my little games."
Black studied him silently. Reckless, charming, dangerous—but not subtle enough to have orchestrated Alabaster Kane's death. At least, not alone.
Petra remained elusive. She appeared briefly in the doorway, hands clasped neatly, observing the interactions like a hawk hidden in plain sight. Black noted her aura of calm—the faint shimmer of protective magic around her—and the way her eyes darted subtly from one family member to another.
He cornered her in the conservatory later, a space heavy with the scent of exotic flora and magical residue. Candles floated lazily in their holders, casting distorted shadows across the walls.
"You move with intent," Black said. "Every step, every glance… deliberate. I've seen the stairway, the secret corridor, the scrying mirror. You know this house in ways no one else does."
Petra straightened, finally meeting his gaze. "I do what I must to survive, detective. That's all."
"Survive?" Black asked. "Or control?"
Her lips pressed into a thin line. "Sometimes they're the same thing."
Black's eyes narrowed. "You're hiding something. I don't know what. But every instinct I have tells me it's important."
Petra's gaze flickered, and he caught it again: a shadow behind her eyes. Something deliberate. Something not yet revealed.
The day passed with a careful rhythm of observation and interrogation. Black noticed patterns others overlooked: the subtle signals between Veyron and Arcelia, Dorian's reckless wandering, a servant who lingered too long near the library shelves, and Petra's quiet movements—always at the edge of his perception, always observing, always calculating.
By evening, he had pieced together a rough timeline of the previous day's events: the party, Alabaster Kane's interactions with each family member, the movement of magical wards, and the moments when opportunity aligned with motive.
The note haunted him still: "Not all who serve are loyal." It had been written by someone with knowledge of both magic and the family's internal hierarchy. Someone capable of subtlety, of timing, and of manipulating perception.
Black lit his pipe once more, smoke curling lazily around him like a shroud. He reviewed the sequence in his mind:
The party had been a spectacle, designed to impress outsiders.
Wards had been active, but someone had bypassed them.
Candles and magical implements suggested precision, not panic.
Every family member had motive, opportunity, and magical ability.
Petra… was the wildcard.
He jotted down a new note: Petra Emmerson—watch. Observe. She may be the key, or she may be a pawn. Both possibilities are dangerous.
Late that night, Black returned to the secret corridor he had discovered earlier. The footprints he had followed yesterday were still faintly visible, pressed into dust that no wind or cleaning could erase. He traced them carefully, noting the direction, speed, and pressure. Someone had been meticulous. Someone had moved quietly.
He followed the trail to the scrying mirror, observing the residual magical energy. It pulsed faintly, as if still recording, still aware. He murmured an incantation, allowing him to glimpse the recent past: shadows moving across the room, whispers of conversation, the faint glimmer of an object being hidden.
Black exhaled. Whoever had orchestrated this, they were cunning, deliberate, and patient.
And that object, whatever it was, was the key.
In the early hours, Black paused at the top of the main stairwell, watching the city through the mansion's windows. The fog had thickened, curling around lampposts and twisting through alleyways. Somewhere out there, the quiet monsters of Corvalis stirred. Not beasts, not demons, but people—some human, some not, all patient, all waiting for mistakes.
He considered the family below him. Each member played a role, hiding truth beneath veneers of civility. Each moved through layers of loyalty, ambition, and fear. And Petra, small, precise, calculating, moved among them as both observer and participant.
Black exhaled, smoke curling from his pipe. He had questions, but the city demanded patience. Clues would appear. Lies would falter. And the truth—always patient, always precise—would reveal itself.
The game had begun.
And in Corvalis, games were never simple.