Enark held onto the fragrance.
In a city like this—dense, restless, always moving—nothing lingered for too long. Heat warped the air, footsteps disturbed the ground, and the wind, unpredictable as it was, tore through streets and alleys alike, scattering scents before they could settle into anything meaningful.
But Enark's senses held higher authority than the wind.
He stood at the edge of the rooftop for a brief moment longer than necessary, his head angled slightly as he drew in a slow breath. His focus narrowed onto a single point.
The direction and distance of that fragrance.
"…That way," he murmured under his breath.
The confirmation was quiet, but it carried weight. There was no hesitation in him as he moved.
He stepped forward, then accelerated—not recklessly, not with the same explosive speed as before, but with more control. Each footfall was deliberate, placed with precision as he crossed the rooftops, his body adjusting instinctively to the subtle changes beneath him.
The scent stretched ahead of him like a thin line, pulling him forward.
"She's not far…" he continued. "Don't worry, Eliot! Your mom will come back to you!"
The thought came unprompted, forming as naturally as breath. Not a conclusion—yet—but a possibility that grew stronger with every step he took.
He adjusted his path slightly, angling to the right as the scent drifted. The wind had carried it differently across this stretch of rooftops, bending the scent in twisting trails.
But just then, the scent split off into two trails.
One faint. One sharp.
Enark stopped instantly, hesitation settling into his bones.
"Two trails?!" he thought. "Which one---which one do I follow?"
He stood still for a few seconds, pondering.
"I don't have time to waste," he continued. "I'll search every source if I have to!"
He sprinted toward the stronger trail.
The roofline broke ahead, with the trail leading down into a narrow alley.
"She has to be up ahead..." he thought.
Without slowing, he stepped off the edge.
The drop wasn't steep enough to be dangerous, but it was enough to disorient. Enark landed lightly in the alley below, knees bending to absorb the impact, leaving him momentarily unsteady.
"Tch---sloppy..." he muttered to himself.
But then--
Something changed.
The scent twisted.
Enark froze instantly.
"…No."
The word slipped from him before he could stop it.
The air felt wrong—and his other senses picked up nothing, not a sign of anyone nearby.
He could feel it—the way the space held itself. The alley was narrow, hemmed in by tall brick walls that trapped everything within it. Moisture clung to the stone, the ground uneven with patches of grime and stagnant water. The smell of rot lingered, heavy and suffocating.
The fragrance—Eliot's mother's scent—was still there.
But distorted.
Twisted under the weight of everything else.
Enark crouched slightly, one hand brushing against the ground as he tilted his head. He inhaled again, slower this time, filtering through the interference.
"This---she's not here..."
His fingers pressed lightly against the stone. It was cold, damp in places, but undisturbed. No displaced debris. No indication that anyone had passed through here with intent.
"The scent was carried here by the winds cutting down from above," he muttered, more to organize his thoughts than anything else. "It pooled here and got trapped."
Enark exhaled slowly, irritation flickering through him.
"Dammit! I wasted too much time!" he slammed his fist against the wall.
He straightened and pushed off the wall in a single motion, scaling upward with practiced ease. His foot found purchase against the brick, his hand catching the edge of the roof as he pulled himself back onto higher ground.
The moment he cleared the ledge—
He inhaled again.
"There!"
The faint scent from the other trail snapped back into clarity, cleaner now, less burdened by interference.
"…It has to be this way."
He moved again, faster than before.
The rooftops blurred beneath him as his pace increased, each step flowing into the next with growing confidence.
The scent held steady, but it seemed to be leading farther and farther away.
"She's moving... and fast!"
This time, the thought came with more certainty.
Enark slowed slightly, not from doubt, but from calculation.
"It hasn't been too long since she's been missing..." he continued. "They haven't settled her anywhere yet."
He caught up quickly, landing on the edge of the street just in time to see a carriage rolling through the road. His focus zeroed in—the fragrance was unmistakable, mixed with his other three senses. She was there.
"That's her... Eliot's mother! But she's not alone..." he muttered. "I can't stop them here; they're right in the middle of the street. There are too many people around."
But then, Enark's interest piqued.
A man leapt from the carriage, stretching exaggeratedly and yawning.
"Alright, I'm hopping off here. Continue business as usual. Deliver this cargo to the location I told you. Mr. Grant doesn't want interference tonight," he said to the driver.
"Wait—where are you going?" the driver snapped. "You can't just—"
"I can," the man interrupted cheerfully, brushing dust from his coat. "I got the rest of the night off. You'll be fine as long as you dodge any Enforcers."
The driver groaned. "Tch-leaving me alone at a time like this? Enforcers aside, what if I run into an Imperial Knight?"
"Relax," the man said with a grin, clapping him on the shoulder. "The Imperial Knights aren't even in the city anyway."
The driver muttered under his breath, swatting at the reins as the horses snorted. "Whatever… fine."
"Don't miss me too much while I'm gone!" the man called, turning down a backstreet with a dramatic wave.
The carriage rolled on, Eliot's mother inside, moving farther from Enark's reach.
But Enark locked onto something else that caught his attention.
"He broke off."
A slow, sinister grin spread across his face.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The man ducked into the back street, muttering to himself as he fumbled with a small pack.
"It's been a while since I got some time off," he grumbled, finally lighting a cigarette. The orange glow briefly illuminated his face, twisted in self-satisfaction.
Something shifted in the dim light at his side.
Before he could react, a boot slammed into his chest. He coughed violently; the cigarette flying from his fingers.
"—GaaAHHHH!" The man slid across the ground; pain etched on his face.
"You picked the wrong night for a vacation," Enark said, his silhouette appearing almost otherworldly.
"You're going to tell me exactly where your buddy's going," he said, his voice low but deadly.
The man coughed again, scrambling backward. "I-I don't know what you're—wait, wait!"
Enark's heel pressed down sharply against the man's chest. "Start talking!"
The man's eyes widened, sweat beading along his forehead. He shook his head, panic creeping into his voice. "I—I don't know what you're talking about! Freaking lunatic!"
Enark leaned closer, a shadow falling over the man's face.
"Feign innocence all you want, but to me your lies are as loud--"
The man's body tensed, his breath catching in terror.
"...as your beating heart."