Clive sighs and quickens his pace, angling his body slightly as fine rain drizzles down from the grey sky. The light rainfall is not heavy enough to soak them, but it clings to clothes and skin, uncomfortable and persistent.
Beside him, Simon keeps step as they move through a narrow alley, boots splashing softly against shallow puddles.
They are heading toward a doll-repairer's shop.
Simon breaks the silence.
"Clive, what do you think we'll get from anything there?"
Clive does not slow.
"Information," he says. "Or confirmation."
Simon frowns.
"But the doll makers already told us they stopped using natural clay. That was ten years ago. A new material came into the market, cheaper and easier to mould. They don't even know what it's made from."
"I know," Clive replies. "That's why we're not asking them."
Simon exhales.
"They only mentioned one person who might know. An old doll-repairer who fixes antique dolls. Old ones. The kind made before the material shift."
They reach the end of the alley and step into a wider side street. The rain is heavier here, unshielded by walls.
Clive scans the area.
Then he sees it.
An old shop with faded paint and warped wood, pressed between two newer buildings that clearly want nothing to do with it. The signboard above the entrance is crooked, the lettering uneven and chipped.
Rick's Doll Repair.
They carefully cross the muddy path leading to the shop, shoes sinking slightly with every step. From outside, Clive pauses and peers through the wide, open window.
The interior is dim but visible.
A large counter is built directly beneath the window, scarred by years of use. Broken dolls lie scattered across its surface, limbs missing, cracked heads turned upward with empty eyes. Piles of clay sit beside them, some dry and brittle, others sealed in damp cloth.
On one side of the room, a tall shelf leans slightly, packed with doll heads, arms, legs, and tools of various shapes and sizes. On the opposite wall, at the back of the shop, an open doorway leads into another room, hidden in shadow.
Simon steps forward and knocks on the counter.
Crack.
The sound is sharp, echoing unnaturally in the quiet space.
"Anyone there?" Simon calls out.
From the back room comes the faint sound of shuffling. Something scrapes against the floor.
Simon knocks again.
"Hello?"
"Coming!" a voice answers, strained and rushed.
A loud clatter follows, as if something heavy has fallen.
A moment later, an old man emerges from the back room. His hair is thin and grey, his back hunched, his hands stained permanently with dried clay. He stops behind the counter and peers at them.
"What do you two… want?" he asks.
His eyes narrow as he studies them more closely.
"Fine gentlemen," he adds cautiously, "what are you looking for?"
Clive reaches into the package he has been carrying and removes the porcelain doll, setting it gently on the counter.
The old man's gaze drops to the doll.
Then back to their faces.
Then to the doll again.
He leans forward, inspecting it briefly.
"I don't see anything that needs repairing," he says. "No cracks. No missing parts."
"We know," Simon replies.
Clive speaks next.
"We want you to tell us about the clay used to make this doll."
The old man pauses.
"The clay?" he murmurs.
His expression changes as he lifts the doll again, turning it slightly, fingers brushing its surface. Clive watches him closely.
The old man's eyes widen.
The doll slips from his hands and hits the counter with a dull sound.
Simon leans forward.
"Did you find something?"
The old man stares at them, alarm flooding his face.
"I… I…" he stammers, words failing him.
He hurriedly pushes the doll back toward Clive, his hands trembling.
"I don't know anything about this doll," he says quickly.
But his body betrays him.
The way his shoulders tense.
The way his eyes avoid theirs.
The way his breathing becomes shallow.
Simon raises his hands slightly.
"Don't be afraid."
The old man backs away instead. He moves around the counter, toward the side door, and begins pulling it shut.
"I'm not afraid," he says too quickly. "I don't know anything about the clay."
His hands shake as he closes the shop. The door slams shut with a loud bang, the lock clicking immediately after.
Clive and Simon stand outside in the rain, staring at the closed door.
Clive exhales.
"Can't you arrest him?"
Simon shakes his head.
"For what?"
Clive sighs.
Simon looks back at the shop, rain dripping from the edge of the awning as the old door remains shut tight.
"Let's inform my superiors," he says. "They'll have the authority to make him talk."
Clive does not argue. He only nods once, already replaying the old man's reaction in his mind, the widening eyes, the trembling hands, the haste with which he sealed himself away.
Hours later, Clive sits inside Crown University.
The room is quiet, insulated from the noise of students by layers of sound-dampening arrays. Tall windows line one wall, letting in soft afternoon light that falls across long worktables engraved with alchemical circles. Shelves filled with labelled jars, mineral samples, and bound volumes rise toward the ceiling.
Across from him, Melissa works in silence.
She holds a thin fragment of material no larger than a fingernail, taken from the doll's surface. Her fingers glow faintly with controlled alchemical light as she guides the energy through the sample, reading its structure the way a scholar reads text.
Clive watches her carefully.
Three months ago, when he first began cultivating the alchemist way, he had almost nothing. One book of blood alchemy, old and incomplete. With a single book, it would have been impossible to gain enough theoretical grounding to design an initiation array, let alone survive its activation.
So he had asked around.
Quietly at first, then more directly.
That was how he learned that Crown University was not merely an academy, but the centre of alchemical knowledge for the entire kingdom, and perhaps even the whole Holy Continent. When the university learned that he possessed alchemist talent and had already begun cultivation, allowances were made.
He was permitted to attend alchemy lectures.
He was given access to alchemical texts.
It was there that he met Melissa.
When he first met her, she was already an alchemist apprentice. Her chosen path was nature alchemy, with water and earth as her elemental affinities. Calm, methodical, and endlessly patient, she had a way of dissecting problems without being consumed by them.
He remembered one conversation clearly.
She had told him that the first array she ever constructed was related to clay.
Not weapons.
Not healing.
Clay.
That memory is why he is here now.
Melissa's hands still, and the glow around her fingers fades. She sets the fragment down and lifts her head.
"This clay," she says slowly, "was used by the army before the discovery of artificial clay."
Clive straightens.
"Huh?"
Melissa continues, choosing her words carefully.
"Natural clay like this was used to encase explosives."
The image forms instantly in Clive's mind.
A compact sphere.
Explosive powder sealed inside clay.
A thin cotton thread emerging from the surface.
Light the thread.
Throw.
Explosion.
"The throwing bomb," Clive says.
Melissa nods.
"Yes. The throwing bomb. The military calls it dynamite."
Her fingers tap lightly against the table.
"It came from the dynamite Clay Factory."
Clive's eyes sharpen.
"They're the inventors of artificial clay," he says.
Melissa nods again.
"They are."
Clive exhales slowly, thoughts accelerating as connections snap into place.
"Then they must have researched natural clay extensively," he says. "Otherwise, they wouldn't have been able to develop artificial clay in the first place."
Melissa allows herself a faint smile.
"They should have. You can't improve something without first understanding what you're replacing."
The tension in Clive's shoulders eases.
The path forward opens again, clear and solid.
The doll-repairer had recognised the clay instantly. Not because it was exotic, but because it was old. Obsolete. Replaced. And therefore, dangerous knowledge in the wrong hands.
Fear doesn't just flow through the array.
It begins with material choices.
Clive rises from his seat.
"Melissa, thank you," he says. "I have to go now. I'll invite you to lunch later."
She smiles, already returning her attention to her work.
"I'll hold you to that."
Clive does not waste another second.
He leaves the room, his footsteps quick and purposeful, then exits the university entirely. Outside, the sky has cleared, leaving the streets damp and reflective. He calls for a carriage, climbs inside, and gives his destination without hesitation.
The police station.
As the carriage begins to move, the porcelain doll rests in his bag, silent and unassuming.
But now, it is no longer mute.
It is pointing somewhere very specific.