By the time Raen made it home, night had already settled over Vraveil. He’d spent hours poring over Alice’s report, captivated by the methodology behind her blood crystal analysis. He kept circling back to what he’d read earlier in Noland’s office, mentally layering it with Alice’s field notes and observations. The more he thought about it, the more one question gnawed at him—why had no one ever thought to freeze blood samples before?

  They always ran diagnostics for poisons and curses, scanned internal organs for signs of disease or direct arcane interference… but this? This was new.

  And yet, it made so much sense. It had long been known that water could retain emotional frequencies—fragments of energy, memories, echoes of past events. Blood, in that regard, was an even richer medium. A liquid archive chronicling a person’s entire life.

  Incredible.

  If Alice’s technique proved replicable, it could revolutionize the way investigations were conducted.

  As he moved through his usual evening routines—boiling water, putting away his field gear—his mind kept drifting back to her. There was something about the discovery that didn’t sit right. Not in a bad way—just... like there was more to it. Something unsaid.

  He remembered their first encounter clearly: she’d been fifteen, mourning and furious, her grief sharpened into conviction. Alice had looked fragile then—not small, not weak, but stretched thin by the weight of what she was carrying. Her voice, though? Steady. Unshaken. She’d spoken of Armon Eider and her father’s death with an eerie kind of certainty. And at the end of it, she’d said something strange:

  “Water doesn’t lie.”

  At the time, he’d filed it away as poetic grief. A bright, traumatized girl searching for meaning. But now... he wasn’t so sure.

  The memory returned in full: the house on Trower Street, tucked in the eastern quarter of the capital—technically under Brom District Bureau’s jurisdiction, where Raen had been stationed back then. The place had been too quiet, the kind of silence that settles in the wake of something permanent. And Alice, standing in the middle of it all, looking far too composed for a teenager who’d just lost her father.

  Now she was back. Older, sharper—but the eyes were the same. And she’d brought with her a gift no one had seen coming. Not even her, perhaps.

  And Raen? He wasn’t sure what unsettled him more: the brilliance of her work… or the memory of a young girl saying something he hadn’t understood—and how easily he’d let it go.

  He set his mug down on the counter and stared out the window, the night’s reflections wavering in the glass.

  There was more to Alice Lamard than she let on.

  And one way or another, he meant to find out exactly what.

  Raen leaned back from the window, the reflections of city lights fractured across the glass. His mind, however, was far from the present.

  Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.

  The memory rose without warning—sharp, uninvited, but undeniable.

  ***

  The Brom District had always appealed to upper-middle-tier arcanists and professionals—not elite, but close enough to feel the glow. Nestled not far from the Mirror Lakes, its charm came without the price tag of Brasam. Families here liked to believe they lived well. And for the most part, they did.

  Trower Street was lined with solid two-story homes, each ringed by hedges or carefully wrought fences—the handiwork of local gnome artisans. It was a quiet haven for successful business owners, established vitalists, and corporate minds with enough power to earn comfort, if not fame.

  When Raen and his team arrived at the scene, the housekeeper—a stern older woman with traces of orc blood and little interest in appearances—answered the door. She led them silently into the living room.

  A well-dressed woman in her forties sat stiffly on the couch, hands clasped tight, gaze unfocused. Her body was there, but the rest of her had drifted far. Beside her, a teenage girl in a sky-blue dress sat close, gently holding her mother’s hand. One arm moved on a loop—tucking curls behind her ear, again and again—as if clinging to rhythm in the chaos.

  “Mama,” the girl murmured. “Mama, wake up. The Enclave will be here any minute.”

  But the woman didn’t move.

  In a nearby chair sat a man, hunched forward, his shirt and sleeves blotched with dark stains. His hair—salt-and-pepper and disheveled—hung low over his face. His hands covered his eyes. His frame rocked ever so slightly.

  Only the girl looked up when Raen entered.

  Her eyes—the color of the Alaric Sea at sunrise—locked onto his. Clear. Unblinking. Impossible. They shimmered with tears she didn’t seem to notice.

  She stood. Shoulders squared, spine straight. A breath caught in her chest, but when she spoke, her voice was steady.

  “My name is Alice Lamard,” she said. “My father was murdered.”

  Raen felt a hitch in his throat. He straightened slightly, his tone measured but quiet.

  “Raen Thorne,” he replied. “Forensic Investigator. Brom District Bureau. This is my team.”

  The housekeeper stepped forward again, resting a steady hand on Alice’s shoulder.

  “I’ll take you to the study,” she said gently, then added with quiet firmness, “Alice, stay with your mother.”

  She turned slightly, lowering her voice for Raen alone. “Arcanis Thorne, I’d advise assigning someone to watch over Master Ved.”

  Raen followed her glance to the man in the chair—still rocking, face buried in his hands, bloodstains dark on his sleeves. Silent. Shaking.

  He gave a tight nod and signaled to one of his team. No words were needed.

  As Raen moved to follow the housekeeper, something made him glance back.

  Alice was still standing beside the couch, her eyes fixed on him—steady, unblinking. Tears traced down her cheeks, but she still didn’t seem to notice them.

  Without speaking, Raen reached into his coat and held out a warded handkerchief.

  She took it gently, her fingers brushing his. Her gaze never wavered.

  The study was dim, the walls crowded with books. On a leather couch lay a man in his forties, his shirt soaked through with blood. A dagger rested on the floor nearby, its bone hilt stained dark.

  A scan confirmed what the eye already knew: one wound, straight to the heart. Precise. Efficient.

  Raen suited up, bagged the blade, catalogued the evidence.

  It was clean. Too clean.

  The man in the other room had blood on his hands—literally. The scan matched. But the family’s reaction didn’t.

  No accusations. No screaming. No “He did it!”

  And Alice… she hadn’t pointed. She hadn’t blamed. She’d simply said, My father was murdered.

  Not He killed my father.

  Just the truth.

  He told himself they’d get to the bottom of it.

  But they didn’t.

  He could’ve come back to it later—quietly, off the books. But he chose caution. Chose to protect his sister. Chose peace.

  And in doing so, he’d failed Alice.

  Now he couldn’t stop replaying the look she gave him at the door today. Not angry. Not angry. Not bitter. Just… honest. And that made it worse. And then she smiled—really smiled—and it caught him off guard. He’d never seen it back then. Not once. But now? Now there were golden sparks in those impossible eyes, like light catching on deep water. And Raen found himself wanting to be the reason those eyes lit up again.