The city woke slowly, reluctantly, as though the rain had left it too dazed to stir. Thomas Black moved through the streets of Corvalis like a shadow himself, coat still damp, collar turned up, pipe smoldering with faint smoke. By the time he reached a small café tucked in an alleyway between two apothecaries, the city's pulse had begun: merchants shouting over the sizzle of frying fish, street performers juggling orbs that glimmered with small sparks of magic, children darting between puddles with boots that squeaked in protest.
Black didn't pause. He had a day to untangle the threads of a death that promised to be more than simple misfortune. The Kane family didn't do simple.
He ordered black coffee—no sugar, no cream, no unnecessary fuss—and spread his notebook on the table. The pages were already full: observations, sketches, timelines, strange magical residue notations. Black's handwriting was jagged, slanted, almost illegible to anyone else, but it carried a rhythm, a kind of quiet urgency. He thumbed to the page with his initial observations of the Kane Estate.
"Victim: Alabaster Kane. Male. 195 years old. Occupation: Patriarch of Kane Family, arcane consultant to city council, wealthy beyond reason. Cause of death: undetermined, magical interference suspected.
Notable details: Candles burned in unnatural patterns. Sleep charm traces on goblet. Cryptic note: 'Not all who serve are loyal.' Family present: multiple heirs, staff, apprentices. Apprentice Petra Emmerson appears unusually calm.
Hypothesis: Death not accidental. Potential internal family scheme. Magic used as instrument of murder.
Black exhaled. He liked the sound of a good theory, but the streets of Corvalis had taught him to love observation more than theory.
The café door opened, letting in a gust of cold air, and a figure approached. Petra Emmerson. She moved with a quiet confidence, steps deliberate yet fluid, eyes scanning the café as if she had already accounted for every possible threat. She wore simple clothing, muted colors, but there was a subtle shimmer along her sleeves—a faint residual aura of protective charm. Black noted it immediately.
"Detective Black," she said softly, voice almost swallowed by the ambient noise of the café. "You're awake early."
"Coffee," he said simply. "Always early." He gestured to the empty chair across from him. "Sit if you want. This isn't social hour."
Petra smiled faintly, but it didn't reach her eyes. She sat, hands folded neatly on the table. "I imagine you have questions."
"Do I ever not?" Black murmured. "Let's start with the family. Tell me about them. Honestly."
She hesitated, a flicker of thought passing across her face. "The Kanes… are complicated. Each sibling carries grudges, debts, or ambitions. Alabaster was… patient, but he had favorites. And enemies. Not all of them outside the family. Some… within."
Black tilted his head. "Within?"
"Within," she confirmed, voice quiet. "I… I suspect there are things even they don't know about each other. Secrets buried under centuries of privilege and magic. But I don't know who did it. I didn't touch anything."
He studied her carefully. Nothing in her tone suggested deception—yet he had learned long ago that tone was a poor measure of honesty. People lied in subtler ways: the cadence of a word, the blink of an eye, the slight shift of weight. Petra's secret, he could feel it, lay somewhere behind her calm surface.
"Noted," he said finally. "I'll need names. Allegiances. Anything you've observed in the last twenty-four hours that seemed… off."
She listed them quietly, carefully, each name a thread he would later pull: Veyron Kane, the eldest son, sharp as broken glass, protective of the family image but with a temper no one could measure; Arcelia Kane, the daughter, elegant and aloof, known for her experiments with charms of persuasion; Dorian Kane, youngest son, reckless, fond of gambling and dark spirits; and several others, each a possible player in a deadly game.
Black jotted notes, his mind already weaving scenarios. Each family member had motive, opportunity, and, in this city, magical means. The problem was not identifying a suspect—it was finding the one who could strike quietly under layers of protection and secrecy.
After Petra left, Black lingered over his coffee, listening to the city outside. Something about the estate didn't sit right. It wasn't just a family death—it was an event staged to look casual. Candles, confetti, the note… every element was precise. Someone had orchestrated it, but who?
He decided to revisit the estate. Not officially—he needed to see the family in motion, unguarded, to read their interactions. Black walked through rain-slicked streets, keeping to shadows, feeling for traces of magic that might linger in the air. Corvalis rewarded careful observation. He noticed small things: a street lamp flickering unusually, the faint shimmer of protective wards on certain buildings, a beggar muttering in runes no human tongue could fully parse.
By midday, he arrived at the Kane Estate again. This time, the atmosphere had shifted. Staff moved quickly, too carefully, like mice aware of a predator. The family gathered in the central hall, a vast space dominated by marble floors and portraits that glared down from the walls. Black entered quietly, unnoticed, a phantom among the living.
Veyron noticed him immediately. "Detective," he said. "Back so soon?" His tone was polite but edged with something sharp—curiosity, suspicion, maybe fear. Black didn't respond. He observed.
Arcelia Kane approached him next. She was a study in control: hair pinned perfectly, clothing immaculate, aura subtly enhanced by charms to calm and manipulate. "Detective Black," she said, voice smooth, "we hope you find answers quickly. Our father… our family… we need clarity."
"Of course," Black replied. "But I don't work in clarity. I work in truths."
He moved slowly through the room, eyes flicking over details others ignored: a smudge on a polished banister, a slight scorch on a tapestry, the faint smell of lavender masking something acrid beneath. Every detail was a question, every question a potential answer.
Over the course of the afternoon, he began piecing together small incidents: Veyron's temper had flared over a minor dispute with a distant cousin; Arcelia had been experimenting with persuasion charms in the library; Dorian had been gambling with enchanted dice that could influence luck. Each incident was minor alone—but combined, they formed a lattice of suspicion and motive.
Yet Black kept returning to Petra. He remembered her calm, precise demeanor, the subtle aura of protective magic she carried, and that faint shadow behind her eyes. She seemed innocent—but he knew better. In Corvalis, innocence was often a carefully maintained illusion.
By evening, he had compiled a rough mental map of the household: who could be where, who had access to what, and which magical instruments could have been used. But one question nagged him: the note. "Not all who serve are loyal."
Loyalty was complicated in a family like this. Servants were bound by contracts, charms, and fear—but fear alone did not dictate action. Someone had been clever enough to exploit loyalty and charm both, to craft a murder that looked like accident.
Black returned to his office late, dripping wet and exhausted. Rain had resumed, relentless and unyielding. He lit his pipe again and stared at the glowing embers.
The city had many monsters, he thought. Some were loud and obvious. Some were quiet, patient, waiting for the perfect moment. And then there were the monsters that hid in plain sight—human faces, innocent smiles, apprentice's eyes.
He pulled out the note once more, reading the shifting script under the lamplight. "Not all who serve are loyal." Who was loyal? Who served? And who had the cunning to turn loyalty into death?
Outside, the city pulsed with quiet energy. Somewhere, someone had watched him, and probably, someone had already noticed Petra's subtle games.
Black exhaled, smoke curling around his face like a shroud. Tomorrow, he thought.
Tomorrow, the real work begins.