Sussuro always carried a gentle murmur, like a sleepy child whispering in your ear about their day. A slow-moving river, the sounds of the Sussurokawa were soft, and the cityfolk matched its easy pace.

  Cobblestone paths meandered through Sussuro’s streets, seemingly in no hurry to get anywhere, while colorful timber houses dotted themselves right up to the river’s banks. Dusk was beginning to fall, and the bluegrass blanketing the ground took on a silvery hue which reflected the evening chill.

  The count and the duke rode side by side.

  “So, this was Noué Areygni’s hometown, huh?” Ailn asked.

  “With how much tourism her name brings, we in Sussuro certainly hope so,” Count Fleuve said, his smile amiable. “At the very least, the famous Areygni villa is here. Yet that was built after she’d achieved fame as an artist.”

  “And that’s where most people think her vault is,” Ailn intuited.

  “That’s right. Though not a single vaultseeker has ever found a single true hint,” Count Fleuve shook his head, as if he found the whole thing exhausting. “We’ve had to thoroughly limit access to the villa.”

  Then the count turned his head curiously. “Is that the nature of your visit to Sussuro?” His demeanor seemed to relax a bit. “To seek the vault? I can grant you a tour, given by the foremost Areygni historian—Ellen Lirathel.”

  “That’s part of why we’re here,” Ailn nodded. “But we’ve got… more pressing issues to talk about, once we can speak in private.”

  Count Fleuve’s posture stiffened.

  “I must admit,” Count Fleuve started, “I was shocked to hear that His Grace Sigurd had been bested by his younger brother.”

  His tone was uneasy, likely reflecting his doubts that Ailn was up to the task of dukedom. It was a good sign—better than if he’d started sucking up from the start, certainly.

  “Sigurd is currently reacquainting himself with the northern wall,” Ailn shrugged. “Think of it as a better allocation of resources, since I can’t fight shadow beasts.”

  “Certainly,” Count Fleuve agreed, albeit half-heartedly. Anxious as he was, his disquiet only manifested as a thoughtful hum, as if it matched how carefully he chose his words. “I’m sure you’re aware, though, Sigurd’s contributions to Varant were greater with the quill than the sword.”

  “I’ve become eminently aware of that, yes,” Ailn said. He stifled a groan as he rubbed the back of his neck. “I intend to maintain every agreement and friendship that Sigurd built—including ours, Count Fleuve.”

  “You can call me Conrad, Your Highness.”

  “Then just call me Ailn.”

  He meant it. For now, at least, while he still held the title of duke. Being a 'former duke' seemed almost as useful as sitting duke when it came to throwing around clout—in his quest to suss out reincarnators—and it came without the position’s burdens. But he couldn’t exactly hand the title back to Sigurd immediately after wresting it from him.

  At any rate, he’d do what he could to maintain the status quo, leaving the duke’s desk and all its parchments exactly as he’d found them. In the meantime, he’d build personal ties with the higher nobility to further his own mission.

  “Another river crossing, huh?” Ailn remarked. “Makes sense.”

  Built at the narrowest part of the river, Sussuro embraced both banks of the Sussurokawa. The Fleuve estate was located on the northern bank.

  Coming from Varant, they were approaching from the north themselves, but the geography forced them to take a circuitous route. Sussuro’s north side was sheltered from the top by low mountains dense with forest. Thus, they had to travel around the mountains and cross a bridge into the south bank—and cross yet another bridge to reach the north bank.

  “You have my assurances, this crossing will be far safer than your last. To speak plainly, Ailn, I was taken aback to see such a flagrant assault within my domain—on a man of your distinguished position no less.”

  Conrad’s expression hardened, as he continued. “If I may be so bold, I should like my men to question our captives. I cannot let matters flow unchecked.”

  “As long as we get to sit in,” Ailn said, his eyes taking on a sharper glint. Then they softened, and he took a furtive glance backward toward his entourage. Renea looked skittish on her horse still.

  Ailn hushed his voice a bit, addressing the count. “Listen, Conrad. My sister’s had a lot to deal with lately. And… unfortunately, that wasn’t the first time in her life she’d been ambushed by bandits.”

  “Of course, the former Saintess…” Conrad’s expression turned complicated for a moment. As a count with close ties to the eum-Creids—and once a close ally of Celine when she led the family—the revelation of Renea’s deception likely left lingering traces of pain and mistrust.

  His expression cleared, though, as he stole a glance at his own daughter, who was just a few years older. She caught her father’s gaze and tilted her head slightly, covering her mouth with her hand as if stifling a soft laugh.

  Yet somehow, the intimacy of the gesture made her seem distant—just out of reach. Was it yearning that stirred within Ailn at that moment, or…?

  “Why don’t the two of you visit the naiads tomorrow? Before you meet with Ellen,” Conrad suggested, breaking Ailn out of his thoughts. “Their presence may help Lady Renea’s heart find its way back to calm waters.” He met Ailn’s eyes. “You seem a bit adrift yourself.”

  “Yeah, well… I’ve got a lot of work to do this vacation.”

  Upon arriving at the Fleuve estate, Ailn had gotten right down to business, meeting the count in a private room of counsel.

  The chamber was quite different from Ailn’s office.

  A small indoor fountain trickled softly where you’d typically put a low table, and the walls were stucco painted cerulean. Lit lanterns hiding their fires behind frosted glass, the room made clear the stark difference between Sussuro and Varant.

  Fundamentally, this chamber was made for entertaining. More like a lounge than an office—much less a war room—it reflected Sussuro’s idyllic way of life. Though Varant served as capital of the duchy, it was Sussuro that held its wealth.

  The Sussurokawa flowed all the way from ark-Chelon to sil-Kytsune, and it was the Fleuves who had made Sussuro the empire’s central hub for trade.

  Far from rentseeking behavior, they’d made a resort of sorts where merchants and even statesmen could meet; the pleasant atmosphere loosened ties and kept the ink flowing on parchment.

  Besides that, with the help of the naiads, the Fleuves simply controlled a long stretch of the river.

  The Fleuves could have easily succumbed to arrogance, given how central a spoke they were to the machine that was the empire, but they had no compunctions acting as essential vassals to the eum-Creids. Relations between the two families were warm, because they understood the importance of the northern wall, and the service rendered by Varant in protection of the empire.

  “You’ll have to pardon my unease, Ailn,” Conrad said, though his expression remained taut. “When word reached me that you had replaced Sigurd and sought immediate counsel with us, I confess, I found it rather unsettling. Allow me to be perfectly clear from the outset: I hold the dues we pay to be more than equitable.”

  After the subsidies received from the empire writ-large, the eum-Creids’ second largest source of income came from dues paid by the Fleuve family.

  Conrad had likely assumed that Ailn had come with the intent to demand more—especially as he’d heard rumors the imperial family was threatening to reduce their subsidies to Varant. Ailn’s reputation as a younger, brasher duke had no doubt preceded him.

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  “This isn’t about dues,” Ailn waved his hand, and carefully pulled the obsidian jar from the inside pocket of his trench coat. “It just wasn’t something that could be explained by missive.”

  He opened the jar, letting the miasma billow out.

  “I trust you know what this is?” Ailn asked.

  “I have seen the northern wall but once,” Conrad said, his face paling. “And it is not something one forgets.”

  “Underneath Varant, in its catacombs we found jars and jars of this stuff.” Ailn grimaced, hating every time he had to pull out the ‘shadow jerky.’ “...Along with alchemy circles and holding cells.”

  Conrad’s eyes widened. “What is it that you would ask of the Fleuves?” he asked, his voice anxious.

  “We just need mages who can study this substance,” Ailn said. “As I understand it, your family and retainers are excellent mages.”

  “The praise is received with honor, and yet…” Conrad let himself draw just a bit closer to the shadowy substance in Ailn’s hand. He made as if he were reaching out to teach it, but shuddered at the last moment. “Alchemy is—I have always understood it as a fool’s discipline.”

  “I’ve heard that. But that’s what makes you the closest thing to an expert,” Ailn said, shrugging lightly. “If there’s nothing you can figure out, that’s fine. But right now this is the best lead we’ve got.”

  He paused, taking note of the sweat that formed on Conrad’s brow, and the intense physical reaction he had to it. “Something wrong, Conrad?”

  Eschewing politeness, Conrad, still shivering, kneeled down to splash his face with water from the small fountain.

  “Merely touching it,” Conrad said, his voice tight, “it feels as if something inside me were being rended apart.”

  Down in the basement, unused storage space had been fashioned into makeshift detention chambers. While Ailn brought the obsidian jar before the notice of Count Fleuve, Kylian was observing the interrogation of the captives.

  The consequences for their ambushers had been grim: few had survived. The first set of attackers had been entirely wiped out in the battle with Varant’s knights. And the second set defeated by Count Fleuve’s retinue had hardly fared better.

  Sussuro, though inexperienced with war, was no stranger to bandits—as such, they’d given no quarter. Sussuro’s mages had dispatched their foes so swiftly and cleanly that Kylian almost failed to catch how lethal they’d been.

  There was a gentleness to it that unsettled him. It certainly lent new significance on the glass of water placed before the captives during interrogation.

  “Drink, I insist,” the interrogator, a female water mage, said. Ironically, her tone was rather dry. “It’s a fine glass, no?”

  The captured mercenary, sweating terribly, seemed content to swallow his own spit. He rasped out an anxious laugh. “I’ve heard tale of water mages suffocating men by swirling the water in their throat. I’d prefer you merely plug my nose if you wish to kill me.”

  The mage scowled, and with a lift of her finger water floated out of the glass. The man gave a short scream, covering his hands and mouth, but the water simply took laps around his head a few times before making a waterfall back into the glass.

  “I would never kill you that way because then I’d have to cleanly visualize the inside of your throat,” the mage said, wrinkling her nose. “That’s no feast for the imagination.”

  Then she raised a finger in lecture. “And mind you, there is no such thing as a water mage,” she snapped. “Only mages who happen to be good at manipulating water.”

  Kylian certainly didn’t wish to be the one to tell her how pedantic that was.

  “Should I take the moniker ‘ladle mage’ as well because I don’t wish to personally stir the pot?” she grumbled. “Bah, forget it. You and your friends are mercenaries, yes? They have already admitted so. No need to act brave.”

  “Those stupid cowards…” the mercenary shook his head in disbelief.

  She took the glass of water herself and sipped it.

  “You though,” she pointed again, “are their superior. You must have personally met your patron.”

  “I should rather be executed,” the mercenary said, solemn if fearful, “than break an honor-bound contract with my client.”

  He shut his eyes, perhaps expecting to be drowned right there. But the mage merely scrunched her face up in exasperation and shrugged exaggeratedly.

  “Honor? Honor. How honorable is an ambush, tell me?” The mage tsked, shaking her head. “Your patron, did they show you honor? Tell you the knights you were attacking had the divine blessing?”

  The mage slammed the glass on the table hard enough to shatter it.

  “This is your contract. Unsalvageable. Do you think it’s smart to lick the water?” she asked. “Of course not. What can anyone do but clean the mess?”

  The mercenary, trepidatiously letting a single eye open, looked at the shattered glass, the little water that had been left in it making a puddle that slowly reached the edge of the table and spilled over.

  His expression had been defeated, but here it took on a note of clarity. The mage’s speech had been enough to unburden him, however much it mocked his values.

  “The contract holder… even I was never told her real name. She always came to us in cloak and mask,” the mercenary said reluctantly. “Given that she outfitted my crew with geomisil tunics, we guessed she was a noble from sil-Kytsune or mer-Sereia. It didn’t really matter to us. The one strange thing was…”

  “Was?”

  “She wore a mask and… Her eyes looked just like rubies.”

  “Eh, rubies?” The mage gave him doubtful eyes.

  “They were red and glittering.”

  “You mean the flashing demon eyes?” Kylian felt himself tensing.

  “Perhaps,” the mercenary said. His eyes turned distant, as if he were pulled into a reverie by the thought. “They were beautiful, though.”

  The mage looked annoyed and completely unconvinced. But when the man only squeaked in reply to her squint, she folded her arms and shrugged again; then she turned to Kylian, her lips curling as if it couldn’t be helped.

  “Then does the holy knight have any questions?” she asked. “You’re a superstitious lot up north, is it not true?”

  “I wouldn’t describe myself as such,” Kylian said. “Yet recent events in Varant have made mention of demon eyes… an item of interest.”

  The truth was, he’d seen them—Renea’s red eyes, during the inquisition. He had no idea what to make of them then, but he understood well that the possession of strange eyes was no meaningful basis for guilt.

  Given Ailn’s actions immediately after, hiding Renea’s face so he could make unwatched eye contact, the hypothesis Kylian had went like this: there was something in the eum-Creid lineage that let them manifest those strange eyes.

  If this woman’s ‘ruby eyes’ were really the same, then that would entirely falsify his hypothesis.

  Anxieties and theories half-formed tugged at the back of Kylian’s mind. Ailn had mentioned to him a masked woman much like the mercenary was describing—yet he hadn’t said a word regarding her eyes.

  Even if Ailn was hiding something, it wasn’t Kylian’s place to pry. At least not as a knight. But as a ‘detective,’ it was frustrating to work with incomplete information.

  “Setting aside her eyes for now,” Kylian said, “a masked woman had helped to orchestrate a heist we prevented in Varant.” He made direct eye contact with the mercenary. “Was the aim of your ambush to steal a portrait from us?”

  The mercenary looked at him with some surprise.

  “...It was,” he said.

  “And yet you took such violent measures to do so?” Kylian asked.

  “We were told to capture the portrait and… to capture the girl unharmed while leaving none else alive,” the mercenary said. He averted his eyes. “The sum paid was hefty.”

  “You wished to kidnap Lady Renea?” Kylian asked. His eyes turned sharp. “For what purpose?”

  “There are endless reasons to kidnap a noble lady,” the mercenary said helplessly. “Do you expect we’d be told which?”

  Kylian silently appraised the mercenary. As best he could tell, the mercenary was being honest.

  “Mmm, at any rate, an imperial execution awaits you it seems,” the mage said, making the mercenary flinch. She raised an eyebrow. “Would you rather I dilute my words?”

  “Do you know why she wanted the portrait?” Kylian asked.

  “You know as well as I do,” the mercenary groaned. “She must wish to find the Areygni vault.”

  The mage scoffed. “From one myth to another.”

  They continued interrogating the man for a long while, but it seemed all the useful information had already been coaxed out. By now, it was the dead of the night—an hour Kylian was used to, certainly, yet that didn’t make it anymore pleasant.

  “Water?” the mage asked Kylian. He stifled a wince.

  “...Much appreciated,” Kylian said, taking the glass from her.

  The two of them were out in the basement’s corridors. Most of the basement’s space was dedicated to food storage—a cellar, a larder, and so forth—and she’d gone into a small cabinet that kept glassware.

  “It is fine glass,” Kylian said, thinking back to the interrogation. “I should think too fine to break so carelessly.”

  “Ah.” The mage scratched her cheek. “I would be most indebted if you could refrain from informing my superiors?”

  “...I suppose the Fleuve estate should manage its own business,” Kylian frowned.

  “Indeed, just as I do not question Varant’s knights chasing phantoms, no?” the mage asked. She gave him a coy smile. “Naomi’s my name.”

  “Kylian.”

  “Your duke truly came all the way to Sussuro to treasure hunt, Sir Kylian?” Naomi asked. Her smile was pleasant enough, yet she couldn’t hide the skepticism in her eyes. “You yourself don’t seem so naive to me. Endless fools with eyes wider than their purses come here begging to enter the Areygni Villa, you know?”

  “Varant has its reasons for being here,” Kylian said. Tired as he was, he brushed her off. Then he redirected the conversation.

  “You seem an effective interrogator, Naomi.”

  “Ah yes,” Naomi looked quite pleased. “It seems when I question, the criminals secrets flow free.” Then her eyes twinkled. “It helps to have a soothing personality, you see.”