In the humid stillness of the Reach's early afternoon, the town moved with its usual rhythm. The docks echoed with voices and groaning wood, fishmongers shouting over crates of catch still wet with seafoam. Farther inland, the marketplace pulsed with heat and barter, the kind that softened tempers and sharpened tongues. But tucked away from the noise and sweat of the town, behind the high walls of authority and polished brass, two men sat across from each other in silence.
The office was large—lavishly so. The desk between them was carved mahogany, lacquered to a mirror sheen. The carpet was a deep crimson with golden threading. Thick velvet curtains blocked the sunlight, muting the room into a soft amber glow. The walls bore a scent of expensive cologne and oiled leather, and on either side of the window, two flags stood tall. One Elias recognized at a glance—green, red, and white stripes, crowned by a crane in flight: the banner of Vundora. The other was unfamiliar until now: white and green, emblazoned with a seven-headed sea serpent coiled around a trident. The Reach's own.
Behind the desk sat the chief of police—a man with a clean shave and coal-black hair, dyed to hide the hints of gray creeping in at the temples. His uniform, unlike the practical garb worn by his subordinates, was impeccably tailored. A gold pen rested between his fingers, twirling with idle precision. His eyes, however, were sharp and alert.
Across from him sat Elias Whitaker, tie loosened, coat draped more than worn. His shirt was slightly rumpled, the collar damp with sweat. A morning spent running from clerk to office, then to a cell and back, had worn the edge off his patience—but not his gaze. That was still cool. Still curious.
On the desk lay three items: a Velmorne-issued passport, a crimson-etched badge from the Imperial Standard, and a simpler journalist's license from the Vundoran Gazette. The chief had been turning them over in silence for the better part of a minute.
Finally, Elias spoke, dryly.
"It's legitimate. If that's what you're wondering."
The chief didn't look up. "These days, forgery's an art form. You'd be surprised."
Elias didn't smile. "Then let's talk about the art of how I ended up in a holding cell for asking to look at your records."
That got the chief's attention. He set the badge down, folded his hands, and regarded Elias with something between amusement and calculation.
"You'll forgive the rough treatment. We're a small town, Mr. Whitaker. And lately, small towns don't take kindly to strangers with too many questions. Particularly not ones from the empire."
Elias's brow lifted. "Kingdom."
"Pardon?"
"Velmorne's a kingdom. We don't throw around the word 'empire' much these days."
The chief smiled without warmth. "Of course."
He picked up the Gazette card and gave it a twirl between two fingers.
"Help me understand, then. What's a Kingdom man doing all the way out here in the Reach?"
Elias leaned back slightly. "Tourism."
That earned a genuine chuckle. The chief tapped the Gazette card once against the desk and set it down.
"And the badge?"
"Insurance."
"You get many accidents in your line of work?"
"Only the interesting ones."
The two stared at each other a beat too long.
Elias broke the tension first. He straightened in his chair and brushed an imaginary crease from his coat.
"I'm here because the number of disappearances in your town has started to rattle some nerves beyond Nezra's borders. Especially in the capital. Especially among people with cousins here."
The chief's smile thinned. "So they sent one man to save us."
Elias shrugged. "I've always preferred working alone."
"And the Standard expects what exactly? Glory? Justice?"
"Just a report."
The chief nodded slowly. Then reached into a drawer, pulled out a stamped document, and slid it across the desk.
"This gives you temporary access to certain files—supervised, of course. It's not carte blanche. But it'll save you from any more... misunderstandings."
Elias glanced at it. He didn't hide his satisfaction. As he reached to take it, he offered his hand.
"I look forward to working with you, Chief Wren."
The name landed in the air like a dropped coin.
The chief took his hand, firm and practiced. "Likewise."
Elias stood, straightening his coat, and made for the door.
Behind him, the velvet curtains swayed slightly as a breeze found its way through the seams.
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