The soft hush of footsteps on carpeted stone echoed faintly as Merrill returned, posture impeccable, movements smooth.
Graham Constantine, still standing near the hearth, glanced up from a cooling cup of black tea.
"Sir," Merrill announced, bowing his head slightly, "an unscheduled visitor requests a moment of your time. He insists it concerns urgent developments that should be passed to the relevant authorities."
Graham's brow arched faintly. Authorities, was it? Unusual... but not impossible. He waved a hand.
"Bring him."
Moments later, the guest stepped into the hall.
A modest figure—gray coat, bowler hat low over neat spectacles, slim case tucked under one arm. His dark-red gloves caught the firelight oddly, faint veins of ember threading just beneath the surface when he shifted his grip.
Graham gave the man a measured glance, noting the neutral posture, the careful economy of motion.
Nothing immediately suspicious—at least nothing overt.
The man dipped his head politely.
"Mr. Constantine, good afternoon. Apologies for the lack of an appointment. My name is Leonard Graves."
"I represent a private investigations office that handles cases pertaining to colonial disputes, asset recovery, and mercantile misconduct. My firm operates under strict confidentiality."
Graham inclined his head, silent.
Leonard continued, opening the slim case to reveal a neat sheaf of papers—notes, copied manifests, and coded exchanges. All genuine enough to pass an initial glance, though carefully curated.
"My assignment was to monitor a certain Edwin Arkwright. He commonly operates under the alias 'Mr. Ashwood.'"
Graham's gaze sharpened imperceptibly.
"I have compiled information indicating that Mr. Arkwright is preparing to engage in an unauthorized transaction tomorrow. At a warehouse along the eastern docks."
Leonard paused, letting the words settle with just enough weight.
"Due to your esteemed standing—and the knowledge that you have close ties to appropriate officials—I believed it more prudent to deliver this information into trusted hands, rather than risk the information being mishandled through lower channels."
Graham let the silence stretch, his gaze sharpening slightly behind the casual veneer.
Inside, his mind churned — not like a ticking clock, but like a wolf sniffing the edge of a trap.
Edwin Arkwright within his Broker circles, planning for a deal within a shady warehouse. What for? A plan B in case our transaction fails?
But why bring it to him? Why now?
Is this man trying to offer a warning—or sharpen the knife behind my back?
He tapped two fingers against the lip of his tea cup, with a soft, deliberate rhythm.
There was a smell to this situation—not foul—but too clean. Too perfectly timed.
As if the story had been built precisely to brush against his nerves without openly setting them ablaze.
He leaned back slightly, considering the man standing there: composed, unthreatening, polite to a fault.
"And this information," Graham said at last, voice low and steady, "you expect me to deliver personally?"
Leonard offered a disarming smile. "Only if you find it credible, sir. My firm simply believes in discretion. You, given your connections, are better suited to decide its weight."
Again, no pressure and no demands.
Graham let a beat pass before speaking again, tilting his head.
"Why not take it to the authorities yourself?" His tone was mild, almost curious.
Leonard adjusted his spectacles with a faint, almost self-effacing motion.
"My personal credibility, Mr. Constantine, may not carry sufficient weight," he said, tone warm but edged with modesty. "A private investigator's word only travels so far in Belltaine. But you—your standing, your discernment—would ensure the matter reaches the appropriate hands without suspicion of fabrication."
He dipped his head slightly, as if acknowledging an unspoken truth between men who understood how fragile reputations could be.
Graham's lips pressed into a thin line.
He let the pause stretch. Then, when he spoke again, his voice carried a different texture—layered, heavier, with a slow-rolling weight tucked beneath the words.
"And you believe," Graham said softly, "that I am the best steward of this information?"
"Of course, sir," Leonard replied. "No one else came to mind."
The weight Graham wove into the air met no resistance… But also found no real purchase.
It slipped, as if pouring across glass.
A mild, pleasant agreement floated back to him, confirming nothing he hadn't already heard.
A shallow sense of control blossomed through Graham's mind.
But somewhere beneath that, like a ripple hidden under still water, something smiled.
Graham's eyes narrowed ever so slightly.
Still, he offered only a mild nod, masking the sharp tug of war slipping under the conversation's surface.
"Wait here," he said again, more firmly this time, before turning toward the study, steps slow but deliberate.
Leonard remained where he was, composed, deferential—offering nothing more, nothing less.
As Graham moved away, the faintest pulse of unease stirred in the air again—like stepping onto a stair that was half an inch lower than expected.
Graham moved down the corridor with measured steps, the cool marble underfoot muffling his tread.
He reached a small adjoining room—one tucked discreetly between the main study and the outer hall. A place meant for reflection, reading… or, more practically, the handling of sensitive matters without witnesses.
Closing the door behind him, he let the stillness settle over his shoulders. Only then did he allow his thoughts to unfurl fully.
Far too convenient. A self-effacing investigator? Handing me trouble neatly wrapped in a bow, just early enough for me to intervene? Is this a warning? A threat? A setup?
Graham moved down the short side corridor, the quiet stretching thin behind him.
He reached the discreet cabinet near the window—a place meant for contingencies, not everyday use.
Second shelf. Left corner.
His fingers brushed past rows of mundane records and ledgers, until they found what they sought—a small, unmarked case no larger than a man's palm. Smooth leather, firm under his touch, yet carrying the faintest sensation of structure beneath.
A cold weight of disciplined order.
He slipped it into his inner coat pocket. It nestled easily against his chest—ready, yet invisible.
Paranoia?No... Prudence.
This whole encounter... it reeked of coincidence.
And yet...
It fits.
Edwin Arkwright, known for shadow games, for taking shortcuts too risky to cover properly. A meeting set up without clearing the fog behind him.
It wasn't impossible.
But it wasn't clean either.
Graham straightened his cuffs, adjusted his collar, and smoothed the thought from his face.
He would listen.
And if things began to slip—
His fingers brushed briefly against the hidden artifact, reassuring in its silent patience.
—he would act.
Turning on his heel, Graham retraced his steps, the muted thud of his boots once again swallowed by the velvet-thick quiet of the estate.
Leonard still waited by the sitting room entrance.
Graham re-entered with a mild smile that never touched his eyes and gestured toward the nearby seats.
"Now," he said smoothly, "let us continue."
Leonard remained where he stood, posture unassuming, an image of professionalism carved from patience.
Graham moved forward with slow, deliberate steps, each measured as if treading on thin glass.
"I've reviewed your claims," he said, voice composed, neutral. "Curious timing, curious details and a curious choice of messenger."
Leonard offered a courteous smile, neither deferential nor bold.
"I merely seek to pass what I know to capable hands, Mr. Constantine," he said, tone warm, polished. "No entanglements. No affiliations. Only the hope that those who can act, will."
The words fell naturally.
As Leonard spoke, a peculiar undertone seeped into the air around them—soft and elusive.
Graham's senses, honed over decades of dealings both public and clandestine, prickled faintly in warning.
A loophole, smoothing of the current too slick to be natural.
For a fleeting moment, Graham caught a faint shimmer behind Leonard's round spectacles—a quicksilver glint in the man's eyes, like oil flashing across glass. Gone in the next blink, leaving only polite attentiveness in its wake.
A minor thing. A trick of the light, perhaps.
He pressed onward without pause, masking the slight tension in his jaw.
"You expect me to deliver this information?" Graham asked, voice sliding into a smoother, quieter register, subtly weaving Distortion into the cadence.
His words layered themselves against Leonard's perception—pressuring, guiding and nudging him subtly toward acquiescence.
Leonard responded without missing a beat.
"If you find it credible, yes. Otherwise, discard it.
The credibility of my firm is... flexible in such circles. I understand."
A clever answer. Modest and Disarming. Deflecting suspicion without denying vulnerability.
And yet, even as Graham layered his influence deeper into the conversation, he found the flow refusing to warp entirely to his favor—redirected subtly, bent without breaking.
This one is not as he appears, Graham mused, a cold clarity surfacing beneath the outward calm.
Still, everything Leonard said aligned disturbingly well with what Graham already knew—or at least suspected—about Edwin Arkwright's dealings.
Enough truth to make full denial dangerous.
Enough deception to make full trust foolish.
He allowed a mild nod, lips barely shifting.
"You acted wisely," Graham said, offering a faint smile that did not reach his eyes. "Discretion is rare in Belltaine."
Leonard inclined his head again, the picture of modest gratitude.
Graham stepped forward, extending his hand in an old gesture of agreement—outwardly polite, inwardly armed with a final test:
Bribe—Connect — a tether meant to slip beneath the skin, to anchor influence.
Leonard accepted the handshake with unhurried ease.
The moment their palms touched—
Nothing.
No link. No anchor. No pull.
Graham's instincts roared in warning.
He recoiled mentally, reaching inward for the latent authority stored within his concealed artifact—
And found a yawning void where the familiar resistance should have been.
Also stolen.
The realization detonated like icewater down his spine.
His coat flared sharply as he took a sliding step backward, instinct drawing on Order to reinforce his defenses—but the weave of Law he normally commanded felt sluggish, staggered, missing pieces.
Across from him, Leonard straightened his cuffs with an absent, almost indifferent motion.
The faintest, most fleeting smile touched his lips.
The air between them shifted.
Only the slow, inevitable coiling of two predators who had sniffed out the blood on each other's teeth.
Graham's eyes hardened into shards of blackened amber.
"You're no mere detective," he said softly.
Leonard's smile grew a fraction.
"And you," he replied, voice rich with unspoken mockery, "are no mere intermediary."
Graham moved first—because hesitation was death. His right hand swept outward in a sharp arc, the leather-bound Sealed Artifact flickering with silver light as he activated the hidden Whip of Pain woven into its false pages.
Lightning danced in the depths of his eyes, forked and furious.
The invisible lash snapped through the room—an electric current not aimed at the body, but at the Spirit Body beneath.
Leonard didn't dodge.
He tilted.
For a split second, Graham's targeting slipped sideways, like a bead of water on oiled glass.
Disorder.
The realization flashed a heartbeat too late. His whip cracked empty air.h.
Leonard stepped into the opening, not attacking outright—
—layers of Deceit unfurled in the space between them like a spider's web, trying to bend Graham's focus, his instincts, his momentum.
Graham grunted, hardening his mind behind a wall of sheer willpower.
But the web still tugged, however faintly—not enough to bind, just enough to stall.
It bought Leonard time.
The man flicked his wrist subtly.
Beneath the sleeves of his dark-gray coat, parasites—no bigger than motes of dust—detached from their hiding places.
They slipped into the seams of furniture, the gaps beneath side-tables, the undersides of wall sconces. They spread out silently, weaving a subtle net through the corners of the study, positioning themselves without yet pressing an attack.
Graham didn't notice. Not yet. Not while clashing on the immediate plane.
He reset his stance, breathing low.
He invoked Bestowment from his core—a ripple of power sliding outward, seeking to weigh Leonard down with sluggishness, anxiety, the hesitation of prey before a predator.
A flicker of faint black mist, like silk threads unwinding from Graham's hand.
Leonard smiled, almost warmly.
Then flicked two fingers upward—
—and stole the entire weave midair.
The mist collapsed into a harmless eddy of displaced air.
Theft.
Graham's heart hammered once—cold and hard.
Error Pathway, his mind snarled. Parasite... or something worse.
Leonard moved again—no heavy strikes, no grand gestures.
Just Deceit clouding the distances between them. Rooms stretching where they shouldn't, corners flickering wrong, footing tilting subtly off-axis.
Graham ground his teeth and countered.
If subtle measures failed—
then let reality itself hammer the intruder flat.
The ambient gravity of the room shifted—
weight, sound, even the pulse of breath all magnified until even standing became an act of violence.
Leonard recoiled half a step—
—but then tilted again, slipping around the edges of the magnified zone as if following some unseen thread.
Loopholes, Graham realized grimly. He's finding the flaws faster than I can close them.
But worse—something else lingered at the edge of his senses.
Small things. Silent things.
In the flickering distortions of the clash, Graham caught the barest glimpse—
—tiny glistening worms scattering across the room's margins: the shelves, the walls, the ceiling's carved moldings.
Not yet on him, but weaving a trap.
He hissed under his breath.
Parasites.
He abandoned pure offense, summoning a field of Order—not focused, not weaponized, but a raw flood meant to burn away foreign influences before they closed in.
The air trembled.
Along the edges of the room, a few of the scattered worms shrieked soundlessly, shriveling as they brushed too close to the law-infused zone—
—but most simply lurked, hiding within furniture, behind books, beneath panels.
Too many to purge without full escalation... and too little time.
And Leonard knew it.
The "detective" adjusted his spectacles again, utterly calm.
He's forcing me into a corner, Graham thought, cold fury tightening behind his ribs.
The next move would determine everything.
Either Graham forced a decisive shift—
—or Leonard would bleed him dry, one loophole at a time.
From within the folds of his coat, he produced a small brooch—plain brass, unmarked—and flung it lightly toward Leonard.
A seemingly innocuous gesture.
But it was an offering.
Bribe — Arrogance.
Invisible influence washed through the air: a subtle pressure, a coaxing hum encouraging the mind toward overconfidence.
Leonard's posture shifted slightly—shoulders rolling back, stance opening up a hair too much.
But the glint in his eyes did not falter.
The glasses caught the gaslight again—and for the briefest moment, Graham thought he saw it: a shimmer behind those lenses, a ripple like a thread being plucked.
Then it vanished.
A deep-seated itch stirred along Graham's spirit, the warning signs his Sequence sharpened to near-instinct.
"The Bribe landed... but something slipped its hook."
Leonard's hand flexed—and the Grim Reminder gloves bloomed.
Dark red leather drank in the light, faint veins of ember-fire pulsing along the seams.
The air rippled subtly—heat without smoke, precision without flourish.
Graham felt the shift—the way Leonard's presence sharpened, the way invisible fractures seemed to outline themselves across the study's furniture, walls, and worse, himself.
Leonard moved, striking with a terrifying economy.
His fist cleaved through the air, wrapped in disciplined white-orange fire, aiming not for show but for fault lines—the kill zones of anatomy and structure.
Graham twisted aside, just barely. The heat singed his cuff, leaving a faint burn along the edge.
Without pause, Graham drew upon his accumulated spiritual force—seizing the momentum of Leonard's sudden, lethal step forward.
Exploit.
He seized the strain of Leonard's own momentum—the shift of his center of gravity—and stretched it, extending Leonard's forward motion a fraction longer than intended.
For a heartbeat, Leonard's weight overcommitted.
Not a misstep—he corrected instantly—but the gap was there.
Graham lashed forward, hand snapping open.
A whip stirred within the false book tucked into his coat—responding to his call.
Invisible lightning arced down his arm, igniting the spiritual lash.
For an instant, the world shrank to a singular line of crackling agony—a whip of thorns ready to coil into Leonard's Spirit Body.
He struck.
The lash hissed through the air—
And Leonard blurred sideways, deceiving the distance.
The crack of the whip slammed into empty space, carving a jagged groove along the polished floor.
Graham's jaw tightened.
"Not a layman. Not even a normal demigod. This... this is a professional predator."
Leonard retaliated, another tight punch rippling toward him—this time angled not for the body, but for the residual traces of spiritual power still clinging to the Whip.
Graham wrenched himself backward, feeling the hairs along his arms rise as the air itself screamed under Leonard's Cull-enhanced strike.
He fished for another Bribe instinctively—an old cufflink from his pocket.
But as he moved to offer it—
—he felt it.
A void.
The Bribe—missing.
Not blocked. Not jammed.
Stolen.
Graham layered more force into the air around him, Law crackling invisibly along the seams, but Leonard blurred sideways, slipping along the folds of Order like a phantom.
The Grim Reminder gloves flared again—thin veins of white-orange flame threading the knuckles.
Then came the first strike.
Precise and relentless.
Graham blocked it across his forearm, the impact resonating bone-deep.
Flame licked at his Spirit Body. A tremor of pain lanced along his spine.
Another blow followed—fast, low, slipping past his guard, striking near the ribs.
A weakened point—magnified by Cull, burning deeper.
Parasites hidden in the folds of dust seized the moment.
They lunged inward—threads of transparent hunger, reaching for the seams of his Spirit Body.
Graham cursed inwardly, gathering force—Distortion coiling at his fingertips—ready to sever the threads before they latched—
But Leonard moved, two fingers flicked in a small, insignificant motion.
The connection formed—subtle and razor-sharp.
Bribe-Connect.
Before Graham could unravel the parasites, the thought of resistance itself blurred, ripped free from his mind like a page torn from a book.
A blankness.
A stumble in intent.
His arm froze, mid-command.
The parasites burrowed deeper, slipping past the last defenses.
Graham's limbs stiffened.
He felt it immediately: the cold, hollow sensation of something else guiding his flesh.
His head turned—mechanically, unwillingly—until his gaze locked onto Leonard.
The man stood just as before: composed, unhurried, adjusting his spectacles with casual precision.
A thin, mocking smile tugged at Leonard's mouth.
"Well," he said lightly, voice almost amused, "that's better."
He stepped closer, boots tapping lightly across the stone floor.
"You had your chance, Mr. Constantine," Leonard murmured, his tone somewhere between courteous and cruel. "And you fought admirably."
He crouched slightly, tilting his head.
"But now... you'll be far more useful this way."
Graham's jaw clenched—his body obeying even that in slow, broken movements—while inside, he seethed with impotent rage.
And Leonard, calm and precise, merely straightened his sleeves.
"As you were saying, Mr. Constantine," he added smoothly, as if picking up their polite conversation once again.
"About tomorrow's situation at the docks…"