The blacksmith watched Mandele’s silence hang like damp wool and asked, “You didn’t catch him?”

“One slipped away, a shadow through rain.”

“Then it might stir the Dark Realm awake again, like a abyss rolling in its sleep.”

“I’ll ring the Sacred Cathedral with boots, and I’ll contact the higher-ups. How soon can the Investigators get here?”

“Soon.” The blacksmith’s fingers skimmed his leather coat, like a skulking beetle. “They hung up the moment they heard.”

“Why didn’t you call back? You didn’t even ask when the Dark Realm wakes—time’s a loaded storm!”

“Once the Dark Realm Research Institute hears, they send people at once; and the Dark Realm detectors are viewable only by the Director and Deputy Director.”

Mandele raked his wet hair, a bitter grin showing. “In the end, every line’s dead as a drowned wire.”

“Every field Investigator has the Director’s and Deputy Director’s direct line. The Director’s been summoned by His Majesty—that’s normal. But the Deputy… the line’s cut like a vein.”

Mandele shook a cigarette from the pack, pain gnawing his lungs, the smoke clenched between his lips. “Try again. Without the wake time, we can’t prep; the clock’s a blade.”

“Any news, I’ll tell you at once, a bell at dawn.”

“One more thing. In our town, are you the only Dark Realm Investigator, a lone torch in fog?”

The blacksmith rose in silence, refusing the question. His ears seemed built like a legend’s merfolk, with a valve for proper and improper, opening and shutting at whim.

“Figures.” Mandele nodded to himself. “If everyone’s exposed, what covert work is that—our net’s torn and flapping.”

“Once I reach the Deputy Director, I’ll notify you immediately, the word carried like a swift arrow.”

Mandele said nothing, a worn creature unable to shape words. The issue wasn’t speech, but answers; “notify immediately” sounded like bile dressed as promise, words soft with rot.

The blacksmith’s face showed helplessness, lines sagging like wet rope; yet the phrase itself was a brush-off, thin as paper.

“One last reminder,” the blacksmith said at the door, looking back. “Be ready for the sudden, like a storm breaking glass.”

Mandele flicked the dying cigarette into the rain curtain, then shut the window, walling the clamor outside. Dense raindrops drummed the glass, each a weight adding heft to sound.

He walked the blacksmith to the door, then turned to an officer about the tall man’s interrogation. The officer’s wry smile bit his lip. “Not a single word?”

“Carrot or stick, neither worked—waves on a rock.”

“Damn,” Mandele spat, the word a hot coal.

“We learned a few things, though,” the officer said, voice like balm. “His nerves are iron; that alone says he’s rigorously trained.”

“That kind is the hardest to pry open, a locked chest welded shut!”

“I suggest we report this upstairs, send it like smoke.”

Mandele shook his head, cutting it off. “Reports need reasons. A Sacred Cathedral disturbance is too light; we need threads to stitch it to the missing-woman case.”

“That’s the problem. No tavern patron saw anyone drinking with the woman—eyes fogged like beer foam.”

“What about the skull, pale as a moon?”

“All tissue from Moloko Bay is back at the station, confirmed as the missing woman’s. From the bone disassembly and the joined flesh, it’s less dismemberment, more—”

“Eaten?” Mandele’s voice was a blade.

The officer looked at Mandele, swallowed hard, throat clicking like a pebble. “A wild animal leaves bite marks, and buried that deep… it points to a human.”

“That’s worse than a murder case, a shadow bigger than a blade.”

“So I propose reporting it, a flare into the sky.”

“Do it,” Mandele said, short as a knife tap.

“You agree?” Hope blinked like a match.

“And add one more thing,” Mandele sighed, breath heavy as rain. “Naghtown’s Dark Realm is about to wake.”

He said it lightly, standing near the door, yet the station fell silent—footsteps, chatter, pages, all cut off like strings.

“What’re you looking at me for?” Mandele swept the room, eyes cold as iron. “That’s the fact: we’ve got a Dark Realm over our damn heads, a cloud like an anvil.”

“Where’d you get that info?” a voice speared him.

“An Investigator,” he dropped the word like a stone.

“We have an Investigator here?!” Eyes flared like lamps.

The officers traded looks, minds paging through every Naghtown resident like a ledger.

“Who? The blacksmith?” The name sparked.

Mandele licked his lips, tongue dry as paper. “He’s the only one who’s visited the station lately.”

“Hidden deep, a root under stone…”

“Cut the chatter. Damn, I’m dead-tired,” Mandele said, eyeing the officer spinning the dial, a wheel of tin. “Report it.”

“Everything?” The load creaked like a wagon.

“You planning to hide something?” Ash tried to cover flame.

“Then start with the magic—” The word flickered like candlefire.

“I’ll handle that part; you report the rest,” Mandele said, dividing the river with a line.

“Understood,” the officer nodded, neat as a pendulum.

Mandele watched him dial, mind working to blur the fallout of the magic, smoke over fire. When he confirmed Hedi’s identity, Reynor made it clear: keep it small. Mandele wanted to save the nobles some face, a thin coin of favor.

“Uh…” The officer cupped the mouthpiece, silence hanging like fog. “They’re forwarding me to the Imperial Capital, to speak with the Dark Realm Research Institute’s Director.”

“Got it,” Mandele said, the word a shrug tossed down.

“They said, ‘The Dark Realm is outside police jurisdiction; the Dark Realm Research Institute handles everything,’” the officer reported, a wall like ice between offices.

“Heh. The missing-person case too?” Mandele’s laugh was dry as twigs.

“Only after the Dark Realm’s handled will they touch it,” the officer said, priorities stacked like stones.

“Cowards, the lot!” Mandele spat, spittle bright as rain. “Did it forward?”

The officer bent to the receiver. “Still the recorded message—voice in a tin can.”

“Getting one person on the line is a royal pain, the cord tangled like weeds!”

“Connected! Ah— hello! This is an officer from Naghtown… I’d like the Dark Realm Research Institute’s Director… When is she free? Understood. Please have her call back then.” His voice threw a rope across the void.

Mandele rubbed his nose, patience fraying like thread. “What crap did they say now?”

“Director Clara is in the Royal Council Hall, discussing measures against the Dark Realm, and can’t take calls—doors sealed like brass.”

“A meeting aimed at the Dark Realm?” Spears made of words.

The officer muttered a soft “Mm,” the sound small as a pebble.

“How ironic,” Mandele said, a knife with a grin.

“The radio hinted the Dark Realm’s up a level; Director Clara’s likely knotted in trouble, threads tightening like vines.”

Raging to the brim, Mandele laughed without mirth, glass cracking. “You still have spare empathy for others?”

“Sorry,” the officer said, a word thin as ash.

“When the Dark Realm wakes, you’ll be the first to die,” Mandele hissed, the shadow reaching like a hand.

“Truly sorry,” the officer bowed, reed in the wind.

Mandele eyed the trembling officer, rain in his gaze. “Did they say when the meeting ends?”

“When it ends, Director Clara will call back,” the officer offered, a promise like smoke.

“More of that bullshit brush-off! Damn it!” Words buzzed like flies around meat.

“I can wait here; when the call comes, I’ll tell you,” he said, a dog at the gate.

“First, assign a team to the Sacred Cathedral.” Mandele sized him up, gaze a measuring blade. “If the nuns ask, say it’s for safety; I’ll explain later.”

“Understood,” the reply came, neat as a stamp.

“Now get moving. I’m grabbing an office nap,” Mandele said, sleep calling like a dark tide.