Jeremy’s words made Lance halt, like a boot catching on a hidden stone.

“Alright… I might’ve been rash.” He drew a deep breath; nerves stretched like bowstrings eased a notch.

Fulin felt the weight of their worried eyes first, then the sting of her own lapse. She’d almost let impulse steal the reins.

This won’t do, she told herself, letting the heat settle into cool ash.

Calm again, Lance chose a path. “We’re going to the Mage Association.”

That choice puzzled Jeremy. “Why the Association now?”

“To find a mage who’s good at finding people,” Lance said, straight as an arrow.

In Golden Bay City, the Mage Association sat inside the commerce district, lanterns pooling light like spilled gold. A few turns, and they arrived.

At the doors, Lance laid it out. “You wait here. Jeremy, Yuna, you two with me.”

“Yes, boss.”

“Understood, master.”

The moment Lance crossed the threshold, unease crawled over his skin, not pain but the prickle of unseen eyes, like reeds whispering in a night wind.

The source sat in the hall: two robed mages, their gazes like needles under silk.

Lance strode to one. “What did you just do to me?”

“No offense meant, sir.” The mage bowed; the peeping feeling thinned, like a curtain drawn halfway.

Lance turned to hunt the other source, but it slipped away, a fish in shadow. He let it go.

At the counter, the clerk greeted him. “What service do you need, Sir Lance?”

“Find me a mage who specializes in tracking. Right now.”

“Do you mean the consultant service?” The clerk hesitated.

Fulin glanced at the service chart—boxes stacked like honeycomb, overlaps like tangled vines. Clean labels, messy reality. Her head throbbed.

No time for lessons. Wearing Lance’s face, Fulin made the call. “Consultant service.”

“Our consultants are off duty.” The clerk checked the big clock, hands crawling like tired spiders. “You might want to file a commission.”

“Commission it is,” Lance snapped, the word like flint striking.

“Please fill out the form, in duplicate.” Two parchments slid over; the clerk lifted thick lenses. “Do you know your letters?”

“I do,” Lance said, impatience sparking.

“Wonderful. Our scribe’s off. Please fill it yourself.”

Heat flared in Fulin’s chest, a red pulse. She pinned the clerk’s name to her blood list, a rose thorn pressed to paper. The thought of tasting that bright blood cooled her quick.

Minutes trickled by.

“This good enough?” Lance nearly slapped the form against her nose, paper whipping like a swatted fly.

The clerk didn’t flinch. She checked it, disappeared to the back, then returned. “All set. Please wait a few days.”

“A few days?” Ants bit at Lance’s heels. “I thought we could move now.”

“Sir, what are you thinking?” Her lenses flashed like ice. “Formal mages only accept commissions after review. We confirm it’s legal, then publish it.”

“Alright, alright…” Lance’s shoulders sagged, a sail in a dead calm.

Fulin swallowed the admission: she’d simplified this world’s magic business. A commission would take time. Showing her true self could find Reina fast, but the risk loomed like a cliff. Discretion first.

“I need someone now,” Lance pressed. “Isn’t there a mage on standby?”

“Sir, we’re not a mercenary guild.” Her tone could cut paper. “Even if your name is big, mages don’t come on call.”

Laughter rippled through the hall, cold rain on tin roofs, jeering at a country boy.

Fulin dove into Lance’s memory. The truth throbbed like a drum. On the Nordland Continent, formal mages stood as nobles of craft, status equal to knights awakened with Battle Aura. You don’t hire them by snapping fingers, unless they wish to come.

“Isn’t that the Blazing Fire Knight from the papers?” A mage dressed like an assassin approached, red scarf trailing near his waist like a live flame.

His arrival folded the hall into silence, a flock of birds suddenly still.

“You are—?!” The clerk’s voice shook.

The red-scarf mage raised a palm for quiet, then stepped up to Lance. “My name is Veyn. Mage name: Spy Mage. A pleasure.”

Lance read the odd, flowing garb and nodded. “Lance Morrison. Knighted name: Flame of Chaos. Likewise.”

“What do you need?” Lance asked.

The Spy Mage curled a finger toward the back. A commission sheet whisked out like a leaf caught by a wind, landing in his hand. Lance’s tracking commission.

“I’m taking this knight’s commission,” he told the counter.

“That… that’s against regulation.”

Veyn stroked his chin, thought like a blade testing its edge, then said, “I’ll invoke a covert writ. I order you to let me take the young knight’s commission.”

“I understand.” The clerk bowed to the command.

Outside the doors, Lance dipped his head. “Thanks for being a lifeline in a snowstorm.”

“No need.” The Spy Mage lifted his hand, eyes flicking to the wanted board like a raven to a coin. “Lance Morrison, first time hiring a formal mage, right?”

“Yeah.” His voice thinned; his gaze slid away from the board’s black ink.

“Then listen close.” He listed clean and quick. “I’m good with tracking spells and anti-tracking stealth. Plus a few protective arts.”

“Ah—almost forgot. I use insect mediums for scoutcraft.”

A real Spy Mage, then, Fulin thought, the words tasting wry. At his hip hung a curved blade etched with old fights, steel like a crescent moon. Broad skills, maybe a battle mage too.

But his style was too offbeat. Fulin couldn’t place him in Lance’s memory.

After a beat, Lance cut to it. “Can you find the Rose Knight now?”

“A knight maiden who may be in danger?” Veyn’s eyes narrowed, sharp as glass. “No problem.”

His gaze skimmed Jeremy, Yuna, the rest, a wave passing over stones. They looked back, careful as deer, avoiding his eyes.

“They’re my retainers,” Lance said quickly.

“Interesting.” Veyn nodded, gaze settling on the big cat, fur like smoke. “Even the phantom beast?”

“We met on the road,” Lance said for the cat.

“Very interesting, Lance Morrison.” He looked up at the starless sky, then flipped his scarf and strode out, boots tapping like a metronome. “Let’s begin. May this night’s darkness be short.”

They followed the Spy Mage into the search.

The method almost made cartoon question marks float over Lance’s head. The Spy Mage went door to door like a nosy neighborhood lead, asking shopkeepers, “Excuse me—have you seen this, this, or this carriage?” Illusions bloomed in the air like watercolor sketches.

“No. No. Oh! That one looks familiar.”

High art met street legs; his Revealing Spell carried weight and ink.

“Good. If you saw that carriage, then what about these knights?” Images shifted—capes, crests, the cut of armor.

“Duke’s direct knights… seen him. This one… no.”

He kept asking, patient as rain, thorough as a comb. Half an hour later, he folded the results like a map. “The Rose Knight’s in the Upper District of Golden Bay City.”

“How do you know?” Lance asked, doubt like a stone in the boot.

“Deduction.” Veyn’s answer landed light and strange.

“Not tracking magic?”

He shook his head, raised a finger, and wagged it gently. “Golden Bay’s crowded, scents twisted like knotted rope. Any tracking spell gets scrambled here.”

“And I know this city by heart,” he said, voice bright with certainty. “Who lives where, what carriages run, whose assets sit behind which walls—I keep it all straight.”

So we hired a private detective who knows magic, Fulin thought, half amused. Lucky, though. With scraps of news, he mapped Reina’s trail cleanly.

“Curfew hits the Upper District after midnight,” the Spy Mage called from ahead. “We should hurry.”

By ten, they reached the Upper District. As the name says, it gathered the high and polished: theaters like jewel boxes, clubs murmuring soft music, villas crowned with light. For most, those gilded facades were a lifetime’s finish line.

At the gate, Lance caught a faint fragrance. Memory stirred like a leaf in wind.

“Tulip,” the Spy Mage said, casual as dusk. “Fainter than pure stock, probably hybrid. Longer bloom. The wealthy love that kind.”

“You know flowers?”

“My first dream was to be a gardener,” he sighed at the blank sky. “Flowers are romance.”

He chose a quiet flower bed, earth clean and dark. “Alright. Fewer people. I’ll cast. You watch the perimeter.”

“I’m on it. You heard him?”

“Understood!”

They formed a guard ring around him, bodies set like stones in a stream. The Spy Mage sat cross-legged, eyes closed, breath steady as a drum. A hundred birds of mana-light blossomed and flew, scattering like sparks into night. Long moments later, one returned, dove, and sank into his chest.

He opened his eyes. “Found her. At the Golden Grape Restaurant.”