Raen

  Eyes the color of the Alaric Sea, kissed by sunlight — so trusting, brimming with quiet hope. They had haunted his dreams intermittently for eight long years.

  In the dream, he was always back in that sun-dappled room, the air thick with the scent of lilacs and ink. Those eyes would find him, and for a moment, he believed he could fix everything. But the room would dissolve, leaving only the ache of failure. Raen woke, his chest tight, the phantom scent of lilacs still lingering.

  After that case, those eyes appeared to him almost every night, and he would wake with a gnawing sense of powerlessness. A bitter reminder that he hadn’t been able to change anything back then. Hadn't been able to — or perhaps hadn't dared to — challenge his superiors and risk his career? That question clawed at him every time those eyes visited his sleep.

  But then the harsh routines of the borderlands, where he had been exiled on a lengthy assignment after that case (apparently, he'd asked too many questions), gradually dulled his backward glance. Only occasionally, when he couldn’t overcome a particular challenge, would those impossible, fairy-tale eyes return, rending his soul anew.

  It seemed he had become such a proficient investigator solely to avoid seeing that ghostly gaze in his sleep. But why now? The last time had been when his team struggled to catch a rogue vampire draining barmaids dry as they returned home from late shifts. But when the Blaine twins finally picked up the trail that led them to the killer, the dreams had stopped. And now, here they were again... Strange.

  Raen glanced at his timeweaver. "An hour before wake-up call," he thought. "Might as well train since I’m awake early." It would help dispel the familiar sense of helplessness that always shadowed him after a visit from those haunting eyes.

  He rose, pulled on his training trousers, and went to wash his face. Then he headed to the hall, where his right hand instinctively lifted a sword from the wall, and with his left thumb, he tapped a small, round blue relic embedded in the stone. A few steps behind him, an illusion of a drow warrior materialized. Raen turned sharply, fell into a battle stance, and began his practice.

  The drow moved with calculated malice, each strike swift and precise. Raen countered, his sword slicing through the illusion's parries. Sweat slicked his brow as he pushed himself harder, envisioning every missed opportunity, every question he hadn't asked, etched into the drow’s cold, violet eyes.

  An hour later, he had showered, dressed, and eaten breakfast, though he barely tasted the food. He left his home, walking briskly toward the glider stop. His mind, as if on autopilot, transitioned into work mode. By the time he reached the towering glass doors of the Enclave of Arcane Affairs, the morning's dream had nearly dissolved into the background.

  Upon arriving at work, Raen first went to see Master Arcanis Albert Noland, who had managed the Enclave for the past five years.

  They had met on the Alaric Sea's border eight years ago, where Noland was then a senior investigator at the local enclave. Staff was scarce, and he had been genuinely pleased when they sent him an assistant from the Vraveil District Enclave. Albert and Raen quickly found common ground, both driven by an intense work ethic and a genuine desire to protect civilians from criminals.

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  Raen sometimes wondered if, had Noland been his superior during that fateful case, he would still be plagued by helplessness every time that soul-piercing dream returned. Those unreal, striking eyes—the shade of an Alaric wave, backlit by sunlight—framed by long, upward-curving black lashes, gave him no peace.

  "Ah, Raen, come in! I must convey my gratitude for catching a particularly dangerous criminal," Albert said, his smile bright against his tanned skin as he sat behind his wide oak desk.

  Raen raised an eyebrow in confusion. The dangerous criminal—the vampire who had taken a liking to draining barmaids—had been apprehended nearly six months ago. Since then, the days had blended into routine, even boredom.

  "This gratitude is from Madame Rupert, who insisted I take this token of appreciation. It was quite the challenge to fend her off," Albert added, noting Raen's puzzled expression and nodding toward a large basket draped with linen cloths at the desk's edge.

  For a month, Madame Rupert had haunted the Enclave's halls, lamenting that she was the victim of terrible, mysterious crimes that threatened her life's work. She needed their department’s help because she simply couldn’t trust the competence of the Briolle District Enclave, where she should have filed her complaint. After all, her son-in-law worked there, and there was no way he could be any good—he was rude and disrespectful. He had, for instance, persuaded her darling daughter to live independently and moved her to the far end of town, to the Crest District. Now Madame Rupert had to spend two hours on the glider just to visit her daughter and make sure they were living properly. And she had her own business to run—a very successful patisserie—and couldn’t afford to let her staff, those "thieving scoundrels," out of her sight.

  After spending ten minutes with Madame Rupert, Raen fully sympathized with the son-in-law who now endured a two-hour commute just to maintain a safe distance from his formidable mother-in-law. Raen, too, would have gladly walked to the Alaric Sea to escape her voice. And he thought, the son-in-law must truly love her daughter to have married into such a "bonus" to his marital bliss.

  Desperate to rid himself of the persistent woman, Raen had sent Tyler Ulric, the seeker-shapeshifter on his team. Despite his beastly nature, Tyler possessed remarkable patience and was the best choice to untangle the case without first throttling Madame Rupert, as Raen often fantasized doing.

  Of course, it was a minor case—one the Blaine vampire twins, who had joined the team just a year prior, could have handled. But Raen wasn't confident they wouldn't have drained Madame Rupert dry if she tested their patience. After all, they were still young and fiery, even if their blood was ice-cold.

  Tyler met expectations, but now Madame Rupert returned to the Enclave, this time with overflowing gratitude. Raen sincerely hoped that the disciplinary talk with her young nephew—an illusionist-in-training at the Academy of Arcaneous Visions—had proven effective. With luck, the boy would cease staging silly illusions of bakery robberies, and Madame Rupert would finally forget the way to their door.

  Raen finished his pastry, discussed matters with Albert, admired the arcanegraphs of the newborn son adorning the office walls, and made his way to his department. On the stairs, he ran into Tyler, who immediately began updating him on the surveillance of a visiting drow suspected of robbing the homes of local elites. As they discussed the case, they entered the office, and Raen abruptly halted—there, right in front of him, sat her.

  When he looked into those familiar, hypnotic eyes, Raen couldn’t move. He stared at Alice, thinking that his dreams had been far kinder to him. For in them, her gaze had never held the ocean of disappointment that now poured over him the moment she recognized him.