The street outside the Scarlet Crescent was thick with perfume and promise, lanterns swinging gently above the cobbled slope, voices trailing from shaded doorways, laughter warm as wine.

  Gale paused beneath one of the iron lanterns, adjusting his cloak. Even now, weeks into his stay, the brothel’s nightly transformation unsettled him — a different city from the one he’d walked through at dawn.

  The usual pair of giants stood guard at the door, stone-faced and immovable. Neither blinked as Gale passed — by now, even he wasn’t strange enough to faze them.

  Music spilled through the halls — strings, flutes, something soft with a biting rhythm — and the scent of spiced oils and rosewater coated the air. Velvet drapes shimmered like ink in motion, and slippers whispered over marbled floors.

  A familiar girl stepped into his path before he could reach the stairs. Glossy black hair, faint sparkle around her throat. He remembered her from his last visit — sharp tongue, silver bracelets, probably not yet twenty.

  “Professor,” she purred, all mock-curtsey and glittering mischief. “You’re not staying the night, I hope. That would ruin the mystery.”

  Gale arched a brow. “I’d rather not tempt fate. Or your Madam.”

  “Wise choice. She’s busy, anyway. You know how she gets on Feast nights.”

  He didn’t.

  The girl leaned in slightly. “And Puppy’s busy too. Training.”

  “Training?”

  She nodded toward the upper floors. “Left wing. Third floor. Far end. The room you’re absolutely not supposed to enter under any circumstances.”

  Gale sighed. “Of course. Thank you.”

  She stepped aside with a grin, bracelets chiming. “Unless you like being turned into a footstool.”

  Gale nodded, resisting the urge to smirk, and made his way up.

  The Crescent pulsed with life. From one open door came a burst of giggles, the sound of cards slapped on a table, someone cursing in Zanatheian. Another, slightly ajar, revealed a woman straddling a client’s lap, whispering something that made him groan and laugh at once. Downstairs was a pleasure-house; up here, it was a kingdom of masks and bargains, where truths were traded between sheets and eyes gleamed like coins.

  He found the door she’d described. Dark wood, no handle, faint shimmer in the air around it — a veil of magic so subtle he almost missed it. Gale touched the surface gently with his palm.

  It gave way like smoke.

  And he walked into a ballroom.

  Candlelight glittered from chandeliers of blown glass. Music floated through the air — violins, a harpsichord, the distant hum of voices. Guests milled about in formal attire, their laughter soft as snowfall. Valets carried trays of fluted wine glasses and glistening confections. In the corner, a woman leaned against a column, reading a slim book with gilded edges.

  For a breath, Gale hesitated.

  Then his eyes narrowed. The music. It looped — subtle, but there. Every four minutes, a violin trill restarted in the exact same place. The woman by the column flipped to a new page, and he caught a glimpse of blank parchment. Two guests brushing past him wore the same face. The illusion was beautiful. But it frayed, if you looked too long.

  A movement caught his eye. Near a corner, half-hidden by a velvet curtain, a serving boy moved stiffly between guests, tray in hand. Gale narrowed his eyes.

  Daimon.

  Not the usual version — this one was polished, calm, older in the posture but unmistakably the same. His hair tied back, eyes watchful, the tray balanced perfectly. He moved like someone who had observed this scene a hundred times but never belonged in it.

  Then a voice shattered the spell.

  “Blank pages. Repeating sound loops. Duplicate faces in the back row. And the food tastes like wet chalk.”

  Ludmilla’s voice sliced through the air. She stood at the far end of the room — or what remained of it. The ballroom melted into haze, gilded columns collapsing into shadow, guests dissolving into motes of colored light. The last to vanish was the book. The woman reading it flickered once, then faded.

  For a single blink, the illusion twisted.

  Now there was sand under Gale’s boots. Wind. A gull’s cry. A pale beach stretching to nowhere, waves lapping at a body hunched on the shore.

  Then it was gone.

  Only the training room remained. Narrow, bare, its windows sealed, the floor scuffed from countless steps.

  Ludmilla scowled at Daimon, who stood motionless near the center, his fists clenched.

  “Again,” she said. “And this time, no doubled faces. No lazy repetition. And gods above, give the strawberries a fucking taste.”

  Before Daimon could answer, she turned and strode past Gale without a word, robes trailing smoke and perfume.

  The door clicked shut.

  The silence that followed was brittle.

  Daimon muttered something and dropped into a low crouch, hands on his knees. He looked winded, shirt clinging to his chest, hair stuck to his forehead, but his gaze was sharp — and tense.

  Gale stepped forward. “That wasn’t a failure.”

  The boy didn’t look up. “It was. I missed the details. Again.”

  “I’ve taught full Society classes who couldn’t conjure an apple that didn’t flicker.”

  Still no answer.

  Gale waited. “You do realize this illusion would’ve fooled most mages, don’t you?”

  “She said it’s useless,” Daimon said — not like he disagreed, just like he’d already decided to believe it. “And she’s right. What’s the point of making it look real if it falls apart as soon as someone picks up a book or listens too closely?”

  Gale recognized the tone - he’d heard it in his own voice years ago, though for different reasons. Ludmilla’s students always sounded like this eventually.

  “She’s hard on everyone,” he said quietly. “I should know - I sat in rooms like this for three years, getting every flaw catalogued.” He paused. “The difference is, I was too arrogant to let it discourage me. You’re too honest to ignore it.”

  Daimon glanced at him, uncertain.

  “But that honesty doesn’t change what you accomplished,” Gale contined, “there are seasoned illusionists in Velarith who couldn’t do half of what you just did — not with that complexity, and not for that long. You created a room full of people, with music, scent, motion, layers of detail. Even if it wasn’t perfect… you’re not exactly an old man, Daimon.”

  “That’s not how she sees it,” Daimon murmured. But there wasn’t bitterness in his voice — only fatigue, and something like longing.

  Gale’s gaze softened. “Ludmilla sees everything. That doesn’t mean she’ll tell you when she’s impressed.”

  Daimon gave a tired shrug. “She doesn’t need to. I know I mess it up. Always in the same ways. I overreach. I forget the corners. And when I think I’ve fixed one flaw, five more appear.”

  There was a long pause. Then Gale leaned back, eyes on the dim ceiling.

  “Well. For what it’s worth... I think it was beautiful.”

  Daimon blinked, caught off guard.

  “And highly inconvenient,” Gale added with a half-smile. “You nearly had me waltzing with a phantom.”

  Daimon’s mouth twitched - almost a smile. For a moment, the exhaustion lifted from his face.

  “Come on,” Gale said, rising. “Let’s get you out of here before she comes back with more strawberries to critique.”

  They stepped back into the corridor, Daimon blinking like he’d come from underwater. The hallway seemed louder now — laughter, footsteps, the lingering echo of a lute. Somewhere nearby, someone moaned with theatrical flair.

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  “Do they ever sleep here?” Gale muttered.

  Daimon gave a weak smile. “Depends how you define sleep.”

  They descended in silence. On the landing just above the main floor, a pair of guards flanked the staircase — stone-faced giants who nodded respectfully at Gale, a gesture that still unnerved him.

  They had barely crossed the second floor landing when a girl emerged from a side corridor, adjusting the folds of her robe with one hand while tucking a coin into her bodice with the other. Short, freckled, with unruly chestnut curls and curves that seemed specifically designed to unhinge the sober-minded, she raised an eyebrow as she spotted Daimon.

  “You look like death,” she said bluntly, plucking a small pastry from a tray on the nearby table and offering it to him. “Eat something before you pass out and stain the curtains. Madam just had them cleaned.”

  Her tone was teasing, but her gaze lingered — on the pale skin at his throat, the sweat darkening his collar, the way his fingers curled slightly around the illusion residue still clinging to him — and for a moment, something softer flickered across her face.

  Daimon blinked, caught off guard. “Thanks, Selina.”

  She flashed him a grin and drifted toward a waiting client. “You owe me a dance next time,” she called, her voice a touch too cheerful, before disappearing into a velvet corridor.

  Gale watched her go, noting how she glanced back twice before disappearing around the corner. “Friend of yours?”

  Daimon shrugged, already finishing the pastry. “She’s kind. She is with everyone, I think.”

  “She brought you food. That’s practically a marriage proposal in this place.”

  They walked on, the brothel’s evening symphony growing louder around them. Somewhere a woman laughed, rich and knowing. A door opened and closed. The scent of wine and cardamom drifted from below.

  By the time they reached the stairs, Ludmilla was waiting — lounging halfway up, one hand on the railing, the other holding a goblet of something red and molten.

  Her silhouette was framed by the colored glass of the stairwell, casting long crimson shadows over the steps. The scent of her drink — wine and something spiced — mingled with smoke and perfume.

  She looked at Daimon first. Then at Gale. And smiled like a knife.

  “You took your time,” she said. “What was it this time? Giving a lecture on advanced technique? Or did you get distracted by his ballroom dancing?”

  “I was admiring the composition,” Gale replied smoothly. “And the taste of wet chalk.”

  Ludmilla snorted. “That boy can conjure a palace, but strawberries still taste like despair. At least this time he didn’t forget the shadows.”

  Daimon’s shoulders twitched.

  “But,” she added, and here her tone sharpened, “this isn’t about strawberries or shadow. You came here for answers, and you’re about to get one. Or a trap. Hard to say which,” she swirled her goblet. “One of my little rats passed word an hour ago. Ressan’s scent turned up again.”

  Gale tensed. “Where?”

  “Not the docks. They’ve got too many eyes these days. East ridge, just past the old bath ruins. There’s an abandoned Chapter — officially shut down after the last wave of plague. My guess? It’s not as abandoned as it claims to be.”

  Daimon looked up. “You want us to go now?”

  Ludmilla’s grin was slow and razor-edged. “Unless you’d rather tuck in for another round of ballroom failure, darling.”

  Gale exhaled, half a sigh, half a curse. “Fine. But if I end up fighting smugglers at midnight in mud up to my knees, you owe me boots.”

  “You already have boots.”

  “Yes, but I like those.”

  She raised her goblet in mock salute. “Then try not to get them bloodstained.”

  Gale sighed. “Come on then.”

  They left by the side entrance, slipping past the iron gates and the scent of cardamom oil, into a night that had grown colder, quieter. The revelry stayed behind, sealed in velvet and perfume. Ahead, the wind tugged at their cloaks and the sea whispered secrets along the dark horizon.

  The streets thinned as they walked east, past the flickering lanterns and uneven pavestones of the lower district. The cobbled streets grew narrower, the lanterns fewer. Shadows moved differently here — longer, less forgiving. They passed an old dye shop shuttered for the season, its sign faded to illegibility, then wound through a passage that reeked faintly of smoke and fish brine. Beyond the last row of taverns and bathhouses, Kentar gave way to sparser land — low walls, crumbling shrines, and rustling grasses bending under the salt wind.

  Gale pulled his cloak tighter. The moon was out, high and bone-white, veiled by wisps of cloud. Below them, the city’s red-tiled roofs shimmered like embers in the dark. But here, the only sound was the wind and their footsteps.

  Beside him, Daimon moved with quiet certainty. But Gale frowned.

  The boy’s hair — unmistakably red now — caught the moonlight with a copper sheen. And his eyes, though half-shadowed, gleamed gold and pale blue. Not black and deep blue like the day at the docks.

  “You dropped the disguise,” Gale said softly.

  Daimon didn’t stop. “No. The spell’s still working.”

  Gale arched a brow. “Then why—”

  “I excluded you from it.” The boy glanced sideways. “There’s no reason to deceive you.”

  There was no arrogance in the reply. Just a tired, simple truth. And that made it worse.

  Gale said nothing for a moment. The control that required — the finesse — it wasn’t just rare. It was alarming. He studied the boy out of the corner of his eye. Daimon looked tired, yes, but focused.

  They followed a narrow path along the ridge — stone on one side, sea on the other. After a few minutes, the crumbled outline of a wall emerged from the grass. A faded wooden sign swung loosely on rusted chains: Chapter of the Third Cipher. The letters were worn but still legible.

  The building beyond it was silent.

  The structure had once been elegant — white stone with turquoise inlays, the remains of old arcane sigils still faintly visible beneath the dirt. Its door was intact, warped slightly by time, but not broken. The courtyard was overgrown, though not wild. Someone had walked here. Not long ago.

  “Last wave of plague hit this quarter hardest,” Gale muttered. “Most of the institutions never reopened.”

  “Some of the Chapters never even cleared out their archives,” Daimon added, voice low. “Too many bodies.”

  Gale glanced at him, but Daimon had already moved on — silent now, eyes scanning the walls.

  The door was locked — at least, physically. But a faint glyph shimmered as Gale pressed his hand to the wood. He tilted his head.

  “Alarm ward. Old. Passive. Not triggered.”

  He glanced at Daimon, who gave a small nod. “I can veil us. Temporarily.”

  “No. Let it sense us.” Gale’s fingers brushed the glyph. “If Ressan’s here — or was here — I want whoever he’s working with to know we found it.”

  Inside, the building felt hollow. Not ruined. Not untouched. Just... paused. Like a breath held too long. Dust coated the stone floor in swirls disturbed by shoeprints. Faint ones. Not weeks old.

  The entrance hall opened into a circular foyer with columns carved in spirals. What had once been an elegant space now showed signs of recent disturbance. Faded murals lined the walls — elemental diagrams, the Aspects of Binding, sigils of the Crescent Orders. A broken sigil was etched into the marble floor; half had been scrubbed clean, the other half recently scuffed as if boots had scraped through soot. A few chairs lay broken in a corner, their legs stacked as if someone had tried to clear a path.

  “This was used,” Gale murmured. “Recently.”

  They moved inward.

  The next hall had six doors. Four were open, revealing abandoned offices: overturned chairs, dust-covered shelves, chalkboards faded to gray. One room still held a row of untouched desks — and a kettle on a stove that had gone cold only hours ago.

  But it was the final room that stopped them. It had no door, just a tattered curtain. Inside, a low desk sat beneath a broken window, its surface blackened by fire. Shelves had been torn apart, scrolls half-burnt or shredded. Someone had tried to destroy evidence. But not well enough.

  Daimon moved to the desk. His fingers hovered over the scorched paper scraps.

  “Wait,” Gale said.

  He conjured a faint glow — soft and low, just enough to read. The scraps curled in on themselves, smoke-edges still clinging to the air. One sheet had been written in cipher. Gale recognized the angular symmetry — not an Arcanist’s code, but something more practical. Merchant? Smuggler?

  He turned it carefully. On the top corner, a name had once been written.

  Only the last letter remained.

  An S. Nothing more. His heart sank.

  “Three weeks,” he muttered. “Three weeks here and this is all I get?”

  “What?” Daimon asked.

  Gale handed him the scrap. “Coded message. Someone tried to burn it. Look here—” he pointed, “—there was a name. Whoever it was, it ended in S. That’s it.”

  Daimon stared at the paper. His face gave nothing away. “Could be anyone.”

  “Or no one.” Gale stood, brushing dust from his sleeves. “Still warm. They weren’t here long ago.”

  “Do you think they’ll come back?”

  “Not now. Not tonight. But someone’s been using this place, and they didn’t like being followed.”

  He folded the scrap into his coat.

  Daimon said nothing.

  Gale turned to the far wall. Something had been drawn there — a chalk diagram, partially wiped away. Not arcane. A floor plan? Warehouse, maybe.

  He stepped closer, tracing the lines with his eyes.

  Then Daimon tensed.

  It was subtle — a shift in posture, the slightest intake of breath. His gaze had dropped to the floor.

  “What is it?” Gale asked.

  Daimon didn’t answer at once. He crouched, brushing aside dust near a fallen crate. A small shard lay there — translucent, irregular, no larger than a fingernail. It caught the light strangely, faintly pulsing like a breath held in.

  He didn’t touch it.

  Gale came up beside him. “Glass?”

  “No,” Daimon said after a pause. “Not glass.”

  “What then?”

  A beat.

  “I don’t know.”

  But his voice was tight. Off.

  Gale studied the shard, frowning. There was something odd about it — not dangerous, exactly. Just… wrong. The kind of wrong that made your skin prickle a little if you stared too long.

  He looked back to Daimon.

  “You sure?”

  The boy straightened slowly. “It’s nothing.”

  Gale didn’t push. But as they moved on, he noticed Daimon didn’t look back at the shard.

  Not once.

  They were already turning back toward the door when a sound broke the silence.

  A shuffle. Outside. Light, rapid.

  Both of them froze.

  Daimon stepped ahead, careful now, hands half-raised. Gale moved to the side, spell forming beneath his breath.

  Another noise — quick pads on stone.

  They slipped outside.

  The courtyard was empty. But beyond the outer wall, past the crumbled arch, something small darted through the moonlight.

  Gale narrowed his eyes. “A child?”

  “No,” Daimon said. “Too low.”

  They approached cautiously.

  And there, sitting in the path between two old stones, was a dog.

  Small, black, with ears too large for its head and a tail curled tightly around its feet. It looked up at them without fear — or much interest. Its eyes were mismatched. One brown, the other clouded with old injury.

  It sniffed.

  Daimon knelt, slowly, offering his hand.

  The dog licked it once. Then sneezed.

  Gale blinked. “Seriously?”

  Daimon shrugged. “Not everyone tries to kill us.”

  The dog stood, circled once, then began walking ahead — as if leading them.

  They followed.

  The road curved downward, past the ridge, through low brush and broken stone. Wind bit at their cloaks. And then, suddenly, the path opened.

  A beach.

  White sand. Wind-carved. Moonlight dancing on the water. The same sound of gulls, faint and ghostlike. The same stretch of empty sea and silence.

  Gale stopped cold.

  “This beach…” he said.

  Daimon turned. “What?”

  “It’s the same. From your illusion. After the ballroom. The beach you showed me.”

  Daimon stared at him blankly. “Beach?” he said. “It was a ballroom. Or the poor imitation of it.”

  Gale looked at him.

  But Daimon’s face was calm, sincere. Not lying — or lying so well it didn’t matter.

  The dog barked once. Sat.

  And refused to move.

  They stayed there for a long moment, listening to the waves.

  The same beach from a dream. Or a memory.

  Or both.

  When they finally turned back, the dog trotted after them, as if it had always belonged.

  They didn’t speak again until the Crescent reappeared, warm and distant in the night, windows glowing like scattered stars.