The morning light was sharp and clear, the kind of light that followed a night of heavy rain, when the clouds had finally exhausted themselves and retreated beyond the horizon. Duke Karmis stood at the window of Sheila's room, looking out at the capital below. The streets were wet, the cobblestones gleaming, the gas lamps extinguished for the day. In the distance, he could see the spires of the palace, the towers of the Grand Tribunal, the smokestacks of the factories that lined the river.
The city is the same, he thought. The buildings are the same. The streets are the same. But everything has changed.
Behind him, Sheila slept. The doctor had been in earlier, had checked her bandages, had pronounced her recovery on track. She would heal. She would walk again. She would live.
But what kind of life would it be?
The King was still on the throne. The Crown was still hunting for scapegoats. And Leximus—wherever he was—was still being hunted as a terrorist and a murderer.
I need to find him, the Duke thought. Before the Audit does. Before they kill him.
But where do I start?
He left the hospital at noon.
The streets were busy—carts rattling over the cobbles, vendors calling out their wares, children running between the adults' legs. But there was something different about the city now. A tension. A fear. The Royal Guards were everywhere, their uniforms dark, their faces stern, their hands resting on the batons at their belts.
Thepeople are afraid, the Duke thought. And fear makes them dangerous.
He walked toward the Audit Office, his footsteps steady, his face calm. He had been here many times before—to file reports, to request information, to plead for answers about Sarah's disappearance. The building was grey, imposing, its columns tall, its doors bronze. Guards flanked the entrance, their eyes scanning the crowd.
"State your business," one of them said.
"Duke Charles Karmis. I'm here to see Archivist Thorne."
The guard's eyes flickered with recognition. "Wait here."
He disappeared inside.
Archivist Thorne was a small man with thin hair and thick spectacles. He had been at the Audit Office for forty years, had seen governments rise and fall, had filed reports on wars and plagues and assassinations. He knew where the bodies were buried—literally and figuratively.
"Your Grace," he said, bowing slightly. "It's been a long time."
"Too long," the Duke replied. "I need your help."
Thorne's eyes narrowed. "With what?"
"The bombing. The investigation. The man they're calling Leximus."
Thorne was silent for a long moment.
"That's a dangerous subject, Your Grace."
"The King can declare whatever he wants. That doesn't make it true."
Thorne sighed. He gestured for the Duke to follow him, leading him through a maze of corridors, past rows of filing cabinets, into a small room at the back of the building. The walls were lined with shelves, the shelves lined with boxes, the boxes lined with files.
"The Audit's records are... incomplete," Thorne said, closing the door behind them. "Many documents were destroyed in the bombing. Others have been sealed by order of the Crown."
"Sealed?"
"Classified. Eyes only. Not even I have access."
The Duke felt his jaw tighten. "Then what can you tell me?"
Thorne pulled a box from one of the shelves and set it on the table.
"These are the public records," he said. "The ones the Crown approved for release. They contain the official narrative—the timeline of events, the list of suspects, the evidence linking Leximus to the bombing."
"And the unofficial records?"
Thorne shook his head. "I can't give you those, Your Grace. I would lose my position. Perhaps my life."
"I'm not asking you to give them to me. I'm asking you to tell me what's in them."
Thorne was silent for a long moment.
"The unofficial records suggest that Leximus was not acting alone," he said finally. "They suggest that he had help—from inside the government, from people with power and influence."
"Who?"
"I don't know. The names have been redacted. But the patterns are clear. Someone was feeding him information. Someone was helping him evade the Audit. Someone wanted him to succeed."
The Duke felt a chill run down his spine.
Someone inside the government, he thought. Someone with power and influence.
Someone who wanted the bombing to happen.
He left the Audit Office with more questions than answers.
The streets were still busy, the guards still present, the tension still thick. He walked without direction, his mind churning, his thoughts racing.
Someone inside the government.
Someone with power and influence.
Someone who wanted the bombing to happen.
Who?
The King? The Prince? One of the other Great Houses?
He didn't know. But he intended to find out.
He stopped at a small café near the river, ordered a cup of tea, and sat at a table by the window. The rain had started again—a light drizzle, barely more than a mist—and the droplets streaked the glass, blurring the view of the street.
I need to talk to someone who was there, he thought. Someone who saw what happened. Someone who can tell me the truth.
But who?
The outriders were dead. The nobles had fled. The commoners had scattered.
There's one person, he thought. One person who might know.
The Prince.
He found Prince Lumian in the palace gardens, standing beneath a bare oak tree, his hands clasped behind his back, his face turned toward the grey sky.
"Your Highness," the Duke said, approaching slowly.
The Prince turned. His eyes were sharp, assessing.
"Duke Karmis. I wasn't expecting you."
"I need to ask you some questions. About the bombing. About Leximus."
The Prince's face didn't change. "I've already told Lady Karmis everything I know."
"Then tell me."
The Prince was silent for a long moment.
"Leximus was in the capital for months," he said finally. "He was hiding in the slums, working with the Void cult, planning something. The Audit knew he was there. They were tracking him, watching him, waiting for him to make a move."
"Then why didn't they arrest him?"
"Because they wanted to see who he was working with. They wanted to find the people inside the government who were helping him."
"And did they?"
The Prince shook his head. "The bombing happened before they could. The investigation was compromised. The evidence was destroyed. The witnesses were killed."
"Convenient."
"Very."
The Duke studied the Prince's face—the sharp lines, the cold eyes, the practiced composure.
"Do you know who was helping him?" he asked.
The Prince was silent for a long moment.
"I have my suspicions," he said. "But I can't prove anything. Not yet."
"Then what can you do?"
The Prince looked at him—really looked at him, as if seeing him for the first time.
"I can watch," he said. "I can listen. I can wait. And when the time is right, I can act."
"That's not enough."
"It's all I have."
The Duke returned to the hospital as the sun was setting.
The sky was orange and red, the clouds tinged with gold, the rain finally gone. He climbed the stairs to Sheila's room, his legs heavy, his heart heavier.
She was awake when he entered, sitting up in bed, her bandaged arm resting on the blanket.
"Grandfather," she said. "You've been gone a long time."
"I've been asking questions. Looking for answers."
"Did you find any?"
He sat in the chair by the window, suddenly exhausted.
"Some," he said. "Not enough."
"What did you learn?"
He told her about the Audit Office, about Archivist Thorne, about the sealed records and the redacted names. He told her about the Prince, about the suspicions, about the people inside the government who might have been helping Leximus.
She listened without interrupting, her face pale, her eyes wide.
"Someone inside the government," she said when he finished. "Someone with power and influence."
"Yes."
"Someone who wanted the bombing to happen."
"Yes."
She was silent for a long moment.
"Who?"
"I don't know. But I intend to find out."
Sheila reached out and took his hand.
"Be careful, Grandfather."
"I will."
"I mean it. The people who did this—they killed thousands. They won't hesitate to kill again."
The Duke squeezed her hand.
"I know," he said. "That's why I have to stop them."