Minutes later, Rosalyn and the others are confined within a sealed section of holding cells beneath the Sand Market.
The descent is steep and narrow, stone steps spiralling downward into a chamber carved directly from bedrock.
When Clive receives permission from Mr. Kaelan, he makes his way down alone.
The moment he crosses the final threshold, the atmosphere changes.
The air is heavy with the smell of scorched cloth and burned ozone, remnants of lightning that still cling to the walls.
Low groans echo from behind iron bars, mixed with the uneven breathing of the injured.
Ben's voice carries sharply through the corridor.
"Hey! We are the police of the kingdom! You can't arrest us like this!"
Further down, Cassandra's calmer tone follows.
"Please provide treatment to the patrolmen. They're injured."
Clive steps into view, boots clicking softly against the stone floor.
The voices falter.
Ben spots him first.
"Clive?" he calls out, disbelief cutting through his anger. "What are you doing here?"
Heads turn. Rosalyn lifts her gaze from where she sits against the back wall of her cell, eyes narrowing slightly. Cassandra straightens. Simon moves closer to the bars.
Clive spreads his hands slightly.
"I came to check on you all."
Ben scoffs.
"They let you in here?"
Clive nods.
"I asked permission from Mr. Kaelan."
At the name, the reaction is immediate. Confusion flickers across faces. Except for Cassandra, none of them has seen Kaelan clearly; they have only felt his power.
Cassandra speaks, her voice steady.
"Mr. Kaelan is the alchemist who shocked us and ordered our imprisonment."
A brief silence follows.
Rosalyn exhales slowly and shifts her posture, legs crossed as she leans back, eyes half-lidded as if meditating despite the circumstances.
"Clive," she says, opening one eye, "can you ask Mr. Kaelan to release us?"
Ben seizes the opening.
"As a citizen of the kingdom," he adds sharply, "you should do everything you can to help us."
Rosalyn snaps her eyes open and turns her head.
"Shut up, Ben."
Simon steps forward to the bars of his cell, gripping them tightly. His expression is strained, urgency written plainly across his face.
"Clive, you have to help," he says. "Another child was taken this morning. That's why we came here. We followed the clue straight into this mess."
Clive's jaw tightens.
Simon continues, voice lowering.
"The others… the chances are low. But the seventh child still has a higher chance of being alive. For that, you have to get us out."
Clive studies them in silence for a moment, then asks,
"Did you determine who the culprit is?"
No one answers immediately.
Several glances shift toward Rosalyn.
She closes her eyes briefly, then nods once.
Cassandra steps forward.
"We haven't found the culprit," she admits, "but we believe we've found the reason for the kidnappings."
Clive frowns.
"Were the missing children not the reason?"
From everything he has uncovered so far, the victims' families seemed random. Different trades, different districts, no obvious connection.
Cassandra shakes her head slightly.
"The connection isn't the children themselves," she says. "It's fifteen years ago."
She pauses, organising her thoughts.
"Each of the families had a member who belonged to the Masoon Gang."
Clive's eyes sharpen.
"At the same time," Cassandra continues, "the Watson family was massacred by robbers. And shortly after that… the Masoon Gang vanished."
Clive lifts his head.
"The Watson family?"
Simon nods.
"The clay used to create the dolls," he says, "comes from clay unique to the Watson family's land. The properties are extremely similar. That's how we noticed the link."
Clive goes still.
The pieces begin to align.
Fifteen years ago.
A gang disappears.
A family massacred.
Clay is unique enough to be recognised after a decade.
Fear-drawing dolls made from that clay.
His thoughts accelerate, connections locking together with frightening clarity.
The Masoon Gang.
If the gang vanished without a trace, it was not a simple dissolution. Gangs do not disappear overnight unless something forces them to. The massacre of the Watson family happened at the same time. Not before. Not after.
At the centre of both events lies motive.
Vengeance.
The children are not random. They are leveraging. Symbols. A message carved in fear and clay.
And Old Rick.
An alchemist hiding his identity for fifteen years.
Living quietly.
Repairing dolls.
Recognising the clay instantly.
The image sharpens in Clive's mind, then fractures.
He exhales slowly.
"So," Clive says at last, voice low and deliberate, "the kidnapper is a member of the Watson family who escaped the massacre and is now taking revenge."
They nod.
Simon speaks next.
"Old Rick was the alchemist serving the Watson family."
Clive's eyes lower, unfocused, as another picture forms.
Old Rick.
The Masoon Gang.
The Watson family.
At first glance, the image seems complete: an internal betrayal, a massacre staged as a robbery, one survivor slipping through the cracks, returning years later with hatred sharpened into method.
But then the inconsistencies rise.
Too many of them.
Clive lifts his head slightly, frowning.
"It doesn't fit," he says.
They look at him.
"The Watson family wasn't wealthy," he continues. "Lower middle class. If they had been robbed and survived, it would make sense for them to live quietly for a year, maybe two. Hide stolen wealth. Avoid attention."
He shakes his head.
"But fifteen years?" he says. "Fifteen years have passed. They still lived as lower middle class. No sudden rise. No hidden prosperity. And Old Rick, "
His gaze hardens.
"A fifth-tier alchemist apprentice," Clive says. "Living by repairing children's dolls."
That alone makes no sense.
A fifth-tier apprentice alchemist could easily earn more through sanctioned alchemical work, mercenary contracts, or even teaching. Yet Rick chose obscurity. Poverty, almost. Not the life of someone profiting from a massacre.
"And there's another problem," Clive adds.
They wait.
"Earl Vane," Clive says. "An earl cannot be a member of a gang like the Masoon Gang. Not directly. Not secretly. His grandson was taken, yes, but that doesn't place him in the gang."
The picture wavers again.
Clive rubs his temple.
"There's a missing connection," he mutters. "Someone who ties the clay, the massacre, the gang, and the victims together."
Simon shifts uneasily, then speaks.
"How is the Dicken family related to the Masoon Gang?"
Clive looks up sharply.
"Dicken family?"
Simon nods.
"Robert Dicken is the owner of the Dynamite Clay Company. And the seventh victim, "
He pauses, jaw tightening.
"...is his paralysed sister."
Bell adds quietly,
"Ruth Dicken. Eighteen years old."
Silence descends on the cell block.
The air feels heavier, as if the truth has leaned closer, waiting to be acknowledged.
Clive does not speak immediately.
His mind turns inward, gears spinning faster, deeper.
Clay.
Dynamite factory.
Watson land.
Masoon Gang.
A massacre disguised as robbery.
A paralysed girl.
A missing child was taken this morning.
Then something else surfaces.
A memory not his own.
A ritual.
One Charlie had once described, half-laughing, half-serious, as if afraid even words could give it power.
Flesh and Blood Alchemy.
Fate Reversing Ritual.
Clive's breath slows.
The ritual is extreme. Forbidden in many regions. It uses the blood, life, and fate of enemies to alter the destiny of a chosen target. It does not resurrect the dead, but it can pull someone back who has stepped one foot through the door of death.
Healing paralysis?
That would be trivial.
Clive looks up.
"There's a ritual," he says quietly. "From Flesh and Blood Alchemy."
They all stiffen.
"A fate-reversing ritual," he continues. "It requires sacrificing enemies tied by fate. The more deeply bound they are, the stronger the effect."
Understanding begins to dawn.
"If someone wanted to save, or restore, someone who has been crippled," Clive says, "this ritual would do it. And children taken from families connected to the original crime would be perfect sacrifices."
Shock ripples through them.
Ben's face pales.
"Robert Dicken and Ruth Dicken," he whispers, "are members of the Watson family."
The final piece clicks into place.
Not revenge.
Restoration.
The massacre fifteen years ago was not just an act of violence; it shattered a family's fate. The Masoon Gang didn't merely kill. They doomed what came after.
The survivor did not return to punish.
They returned to correct fate.
Rosalyn grips the bars tightly.
"Clive," she says, voice sharp with urgency, "you have to get us out. The children's lives are in danger."
Clive meets her gaze.
He nods once.
"I'll do what I can."
He turns away from the cells and climbs the stone stairs, each step heavy with consequence.
When he emerges from the holding area, the sounds of the Sand Market wash over him, muted voices, clinking tools, distant alarms still humming from the earlier chaos.
He stops a passing guard wearing the Sand Temple insignia.
"Do you know where Mr. Kaelan is?" Clive asks.
The guard stiffens slightly and shakes his head.
"I don't know Master Kaelan's whereabouts."
That answer is all Clive needs.
He does not waste time asking further.
Turning sharply, he breaks into a run, weaving through the market's corridors, heart pounding not with fear, but with urgency. He heads straight for the Void Antiquity Store.
If Kaelan is there,
If anyone can intervene without tearing the city apart,
If anyone understands Flesh and Blood Alchemy deeply enough to stop a fate ritual,
It is him.
Clive runs faster, breath tight in his chest, praying, not to gods, not to fate, but to probability itself.
Please be there.