By dusk, when the sun's last light was fading, the carriage bearing Charles Ravencroft drew close to the capital's gates after more than five hours on the road—traveling from rural fields into the bustle of the grand city.
Towering gates rose like a fortress, encircled by thick walls. People bustled in and out in a steady stream, their faces illuminated by the torchlight flaring from the ramparts above, where watchful guards kept a keen eye on all who entered.
At the checkpoint, Charles hopped off the carriage with his belongings and navigated through the throng to show his credentials to the stationed soldiers—producing a polished silver badge engraved with the guild's seal. That alone sufficed for him to pass into the city without trouble.
Once inside the capital, he wasted no time flagging down a public carriage to go on to the guild headquarters. Nestled between the middle district and the district of the knights, the guild was set up in a location easily accessible to people of various standing.
Charles paid for the ride according to the time spent, then settled onto the carriage's stiff leather seat. Though not as comfortable as a private coach, it let him rest his tired legs. He remained silent, the driver offering no conversation beyond the steady rhythm of hooves on the paved roads. Charles's mind drifted over the latest dream he had experienced—and over the mysterious scrap of paper he still carried.
When at last they arrived, Charles stepped down from the carriage and stretched away his stiffness. Before him stood a large, stately building, painted in a crisp white, prominently displaying the guild's insignia.
To Charles, this Guild was like a second home, a place where people came to post or accept all manner of jobs—escort services, apprehending wanted criminals, guarding trade caravans, and of course, detective work. There were minor requests and major ones, some fairly straightforward and others extremely perilous. Those daring enough to tackle them could reap commensurate rewards.
He passed through the heavy, carved wooden doors and went straight to the counter where rewards were claimed. A young woman, dressed in a dark professional uniform, was diligently filling out paperwork by candlelight.
"Good evening, Mister Ravencroft," she greeted him with a warm smile, her eyes reflecting genuine delight. "Welcome back! How would you like your payment?"
"I'd like four ten-crusédo notes, four five-crusédo notes, and twenty gold coins, please," Charles replied, handing over the proof of job completion. The paper bore a deep red seal and the signature of his client.
"Certainly. I'll take care of that right away," she said, her quill making soft scratching sounds as she recorded the details. The flame of the desk candle flickered gently in the mild draft, casting unsteady shadows across the wall.
"Thank you," Charles murmured, then remembered something. "By the way, is Morgan around? I'd like to schedule a training session with him tomorrow."
"He's not in at the moment," she replied, flipping open a small leather-bound appointment book. "But he did say if you dropped by, feel free to leave him a time."
"Great. Let him know I'll meet him at the usual hour in the training yard out back," Charles said with a faint smile.
She penciled the note swiftly, then turned back to him with a congratulatory nod. "All right, I'll be sure to pass that on. He'll be ready to give you his full attention at the appointed time. And congratulations on completing your assignment."
Charles smiled softly. "Thank you. I'm glad it worked out, and I appreciate all your help."
Once the transaction was done, he tucked the coin pouch away and waved a friendly goodbye before heading to his lodgings in the middle district.
On his way, Charles stopped by a roadside market to pick up something for dinner: a large loaf of bread for five denarius, a block of cheese for ten, and two smoked sausages for fifteen, totaling thirty denarius—enough for dinner and breakfast.
Nearby, a vegetable vendor muttered under his breath, drawing Charles's attention. "Taxes keep rising every day. Those nobles keep wringing us dry. The war's ended, so why are prices still climbing?"
A customer nodded in agreement. "Exactly. The war's over, yet nothing's gone back to normal."
The vendor sighed. "Guess we just have to live with it. Here's hoping the nobles show a little mercy soon."
Charles listened quietly, well familiar with such laments. After paying for his groceries, he rejoined the same public carriage he had hired, heading finally to his rented home. All in all, from the city gate to his lodgings took about forty minutes, costing thirty-three denarius. He handed over one gold crusédo and received sixty-seven denarius in change. Then, he made his way down a narrow lane toward his residence.
The rhythmic clatter of hooves sounded behind him, and Charles quickly stepped aside as a lavish noble's carriage barreled past, stirring up dust and irritated glances from the people in the street. Charles observed it with a calm, accustomed expression, used to the deeply entrenched inequalities of city life. A short walk later, he found himself at his house.
His home came into view—a single-story place painted in white, modest yet welcoming, with a tiny garden and enough space for a coach in front, although he did not own one. He had managed to lease the property at a special rate from an old noble friend from his distant memories.
"Ah, Charles, you've returned?" a voice called from the wooden fence next door.
He turned to see Mrs. Wilson, an elderly neighbor over sixty, smiling as she tended to a row of flowers in the glow of a dim lantern.
"Good evening, Mrs. Wilson," Charles greeted. "I almost forgot about the flowers I planted. Are they still alive?"
"Oh, they're thriving," she chuckled proudly. "I've been watering and lightly hoeing around them while you've been away."
Charles rubbed the back of his neck, embarrassed. "Thank you so much, and I'm sorry for the trouble. The case I was on kept my mind elsewhere."
She waved it off. "No trouble, dear. I had free time on my hands anyway. How did your job go? Did it all turn out well?"
"At first, I thought it was a minor missing-item case, but it escalated into something bigger than I expected. Fortunately, we caught the culprit. Right now, though, I need to rest—I'll tell you more another time," Charles said, lifting his bag of food in gentle emphasis.
"All right, off you go. And come have tea with me in the morning if you'd like. I'll bake an apple pie for you to taste," she offered, waving goodbye.
Charles answered her wave with a tired smile and went inside. The single-story house was simple but cozy. Its white-painted walls contrasted with the dark-brown wooden door. A snug living area waited just inside, furnished with a cream-colored fabric sofa, across from which stood a fireplace for wintertime use. Above the mantel hung a shelf with paintings and decorations, while a light rug of short fibers brightened the floor.
A doorway on the left led into a modest kitchen equipped with the basics: storage cupboards, a washbasin, and a stove. A small table with four chairs served as a space for morning or evening meals. To the right, a door opened onto the bedroom-cum-study. Charles liked having his resting area and workspace combined. Inside stood a dark wooden bed, wardrobe, large desk, and shelves holding books on everything from fundamental studies to history.
What he loved most about the house, though, was the small back porch leading to an equally small garden. In fine weather, he would sit on an old wooden chair there, sipping tea in the afternoon or rum at night, listening to birds chirp or watching sunlight filter through leaves. It was his private retreat, easing his mind after difficult cases.
Though unremarkable, the house had everything he needed: comfort, privacy, and an atmosphere that helped him unwind. No matter how exhausted he felt, coming home always filled him with renewed calm.
After closing the door, Charles set his groceries on the kitchen table and changed into more comfortable clothes. Then he laid out his bread, cheese, and sausages, pouring a glass of water to quench his thirst, all while pulling out that mysterious paper from the village.
As he ate a simple supper, he allowed his mind to wander. The recent case had concluded well, but the loose ends of his lost past—and that strange slip of paper—still nagged at him, tugging him onward to seek answers.
Yet tonight he would let his concerns drift on the night breeze and the gentle moonlight. He hoped to regain his strength in a proper, peaceful sleep, so he could awaken ready to train—and to investigate his own forgotten history.
Once he had tidied the dishes, Charles retired to his bedroom, letting himself sink into the bed's soft cushions, eyelids heavy with fatigue. He half expected to rest more soundly than usual, relieved of his latest burdens.
But just as before, his dreams refused him solace. The same haunting vision returned—more vivid and real than any ordinary slumber.
Amid a frenzied night storm, thunder rumbled through sheets of rain, and the acrid tang of salt air stung his nostrils. The chill spray of seawater clung to his skin, making him shiver.
Two ships pitched and rolled through the colossal waves under a black sky. Their crews fought desperately to survive. Here and there, adversaries brandished weapons with grim determination. Some laughed in twisted triumph when they felled an enemy, blind to the true peril swirling around them in that raging hell of life and death.
A dark-haired, sharp-featured young man, wearing a white linen shirt rolled to the elbows and black trousers, looked wildly around, braced for flight. His attire sharply contrasted with the rough, salt-stained clothes of the sailors. His skin was clean of grime save for the rain that soaked him to the bone.
Unease radiated off him, as though a buried instinct warned him to run. He did so without question, leaping away just before the air at the exact spot where he had been standing warped into a deadly void. In an instant, everything caught within its range was crushed to splinters, then the distortion vanished as quickly as it had appeared.
Shock paled the man's features, rain or sweat dripping down his forehead to sting his eyes. Had he hesitated even for a blink, he would have been ripped apart, unrecognizable.
But the direction he jumped held its own danger—a fierce fight was underway there. A man armed with a blade whirled in the windblown rain, taking the life of his enemy in one decisive sweep. Blood and rainwater mingled in a crimson rivulet on the ship's slippery deck.
At that exact moment of his foe's defeat, Charles collided with this combatant head-on. The force of impact sent them both tumbling across the wet planks, battered by wind and rain, thunder booming overhead as though mocking them. Their weapons slipped from their grasps, clattering away. Gasping, each struggled to stand on the pitching deck. Waves battered the ship relentlessly, carrying off debris and blood into the darkness.
Lightning flashed, illuminating the two men staring at each other. One, the stranger, looked shocked and perplexed; Charles himself was fearful and uncertain. None could say who was friend or foe in this chaos, with only the storm's howl and crashing seas to fill the silence.