New Hadeppe was said to have once been the sacred dwelling of the Gods—a land where divine feet once touched the earth, and miracles bloomed from the soil. Now, a city of towering spires and sun-washed marble sat atop the ancient ruins, built in the belief that sanctity might seep up through the stone and into the hearts of those who ruled from it.
But for all its grandeur, New Hadeppe had long since traded holiness for hubris.
Hailey arrived beneath a low, cloudy sky, her footsteps swallowed by the noise of the capital. She came not as a pilgrim, but a thief. Her target was the Annihilation Theorem—a forbidden book of apocalyptic power, its contents whispered to be able to erase cities from memory and unmake the minds of those who read it.
The book had surfaced just days ago, and the city still reeled from the scandal.
"Infamous treason! A nobody by the name of Holgum Lambert found with the Annihilation Theorem in his possession!"
"Sentenced to hang at dawn!"
Hailey wasn't convinced by the official version of events. The man had been no scholar, no warlock—just a recluse. She suspected the book hadn't been in his possession for long, or if it had, he hadn't known what he was holding. Either way, the Theorem had almost certainly been confiscated after his arrest. And there was only one place in New Hadeppe with the power, secrecy, and security to hold something so dangerous: the Royal Courthouse Treasury.
Which is why Hailey now found herself at the bar table of the infamous Broom & Beer—a crooked, half-rotten tavern that clung to the side of a steep street like a drunk too stubborn to fall. It doubled as a guest house, though most of its patrons would be better off sleeping in the gutter.
She sat alone at a table near the hearth, sipping a cold glass of water and picking at a local specialty called a "warp"—a flaky pastry folded around steaming pockets of spiced tuber and salted meat. Her cloak was still dusted with road grit, and her boots ached from walking, but she wasn't here to relax.
Her crew was late.
They were supposed to meet here to go over the plan. Breaking into the Courthouse Treasury wasn't a job for amateurs, and even with a good team, it would be close to suicide. Still, Hailey had a hunch the timing was right. The chaos of Holgum's execution, the bureaucracy around the trial, and the paranoia swirling in the upper courts might just work to their advantage.
High above the cobbled streets and slanting rooftops of the city, Lord Mcqu Douglas stood on the domed rooftop of the gargantuan courthouse, staring out over the golden-brown countryside. Winter was beginning to settle in, and the trees across the rolling meadows glowed like dying embers—brilliant with color but on the verge of ash.
The cold wind tugged at his silk coat, but he didn't move. In his gloved hand, he held a brown leather-bound book. Its spine and cover were scorched with infernal red lettering, the kind that seemed to twitch just slightly when looked at too long.
The Annihilation Theorem.
He hadn't opened it. Not yet. He didn't want to. Some part of him feared it—rightly so.
Lord Mcqu had been appointed to oversee Holgum Lambert's case, though it hardly qualified as a trial. The outcome was already decided. All that was needed were two witnesses to swear they'd seen the book in Holgum's home. Two simple statements, and Mcqu could sign the writ of execution.
But nothing was ever simple with this book.
Witnesses were unreliable. The last case he'd overseen involving forbidden texts had ended with one witness admitting not only to reading the book in question, but to having stolen it and failed to turn it over to the authorities. He was hanged alongside the accused.
Mcqu knew the risks. If either of the witnesses in Holgum's case failed to appear, or if their testimonies proved flawed, the matter would become dangerously complex. The High Council might then demand an inquisition—a formal review, the opening of the book, and gods forbid, a reading.
He clenched the leather tighter, watching his breath curl into the sky.
There were eyes on him. There always were.
And somewhere down below, in a grimy tavern among crooks and cutthroats, someone was already planning to take the book from him.
The Duke was hungry. And he had no intention of presiding over a high-profile treason case on an empty stomach.
With a dramatic swish of his cloak, he stepped off the domed rooftop and floated effortlessly down the six hundred feet to the courthouse plaza below. His descent was slow and steady, as though the wind itself honored his rank. The enchanted soles of his boots touched down with a soft thud at the grand marble entrance, drawing curious glances from a few early-morning staffers.
Without missing a beat, he strode down the wide marble steps and headed into the heart of the city, toward his favorite deli. Despite the crisp morning chill, a line had already formed outside the shop's glass-paned doors, the scent of sizzling meats and fresh bread wafting out into the street.
He was in high spirits. The Annihilation Theorem was locked away, the execution was inevitable, and all that stood between him and duty was breakfast.
He joined the queue with a contented sigh, folding his arms as if he had all the time in the world.
Back at the Broom & Beer, the tavern's warped old door creaked open as a stout gnomish man strutted inside, his heavy boots thudding across the splintered floorboards. Not far behind him came a towering orcish woman, her broad frame filling the doorway and her tusks catching the light from the flickering hearth. The scent of the road clung to them both—damp leather, dust, and pine.
They made their way toward a round wooden table near the back—just behind where Hailey sat. The gnome climbed onto a chair with a grunt, while the orc settled down with the creak of worn wood under her weight.
Hailey glanced back, instantly recognizing them. A sly, mischievous smile tugged at her lips. About time.
She rose from her seat at the bar, scooped up her half-finished drink, and sauntered over to their table. With a friendly thump, she slapped the tabletop and dropped into the seat between them.
"Well damn, did it take you two long enough?" she scoffed, still smiling.
The gnome threw his arms up dramatically, already waving down the bartender. "We were traveling by foot, missy!" he barked, loud enough to make a few heads turn. "You try crossing the Windgutter Hills with a broken cart wheel and a sleep-deprived orc for company."
The orc rolled her eyes. "And someone refused to ask for directions. Again."
"I have a natural sense of direction," the gnome muttered. "It's the hills that were crooked."
Hailey chuckled and leaned forward on her elbows. "Alright, alright, Payhaer—I won't hassle you about being late," she said, shooting the gnome a wink. "So... did the two of you bring disguises?"
The orc frowned. "Disguises? Seriously, how were we supposed to know who we were disguising ourselves as?"
Hailey blinked. "Wait, I thought you both got the letter from Galifried?"
"What letter?" the orc said flatly, furrowing her brow.
Payhaer groaned. "Don't tell me the blasted ravens lost it again."
As the group bickered, the tavern door creaked open once more. This time, the hush that followed came almost instantly.
Standing in the entrance was a tall, well-groomed high elf man. His silver hair was tied back into a ponytail, and his forest-green cloak looked untouched by road dust. His sharp eyes scanned the room with the calm precision of someone who already knew exactly who he was here to see.
Hailey spotted him and raised an eyebrow, then casually gestured toward the door with her chin.
"Well, there's your answer," she said dryly. "Galifried can explain the plan."
She waved him over with a lazy flick of her fingers, that same mischievous smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth.
The elf's gaze met hers, and without a word, he began making his way across the tavern floor—boots silent, eyes watchful.
The Duke sat by the tall glass windows of the deli, one leg crossed over the other, his crimson cloak draped neatly over the back of his chair. Morning light poured in, casting long golden beams across the tiled floor as he waited patiently for the waiter to approach.
The young man who eventually arrived was an Aasimar—barely in his twenties, with silver-tinged eyes and a calm that seemed carefully rehearsed. Lord Mcqu Douglas could tell his nerves were taut as harp strings, though this visit should hardly have come as a surprise. After all, the Duke had made a ritual of coming here every Friday morning, always ordering the same thing: a ham and cheese sandwich, a slice of apple pie, and a cappuccino.
Today, however, was not a normal Friday. The execution had stirred the town into a hushed frenzy, and Mcqu could feel the tension like a low hum beneath the surface.
The young waiter placed a tray gently on the table—sandwich, pie, cappuccino, perfectly arranged.
"My Lordship—your order, as usual," the boy said, voice trembling just slightly.
Mcqu raised an eyebrow, genuinely caught off guard. "But you didn't even ask me what I wanted. How would you have known?"
Outside, the streets were thick with murmuring voices. A restless crowd had gathered in Courthouse Square, faces turned toward the makeshift pulpit erected at its center. Atop it stood the Archdeacon, robed in white and gold, his voice carrying over the cobblestones like the chiming of a slow, mournful bell.
He recited an old prayer, hands raised toward the heavens:
"O sovereign Lord, allow these Thy servants to be sheltered by Your protection.
Allow these Thy servants to seek Your grace.
Grant them every good which they were born without,
And every evil that they may possess—
May it be cast into hell, may it be cast away henceforth,
So that these Thy servants may be sanctified and devout,
That they may be guided toward Thee,
Detached from futile and perishable clay."
It was a prayer first penned by Bishop Orbon, meant to bless the first crusaders of the Colonial Wars. Time had not dulled its weight. The crowd fell silent beneath its invocation.
When the final words faded into the cold morning air, the Archdeacon cleared his throat and began to speak again, this time with the heavy cadence of a man addressing a frightened flock:
"O believers, it has come to my attention that many among us have been... stirred by recent events. I have heard from many reverend fathers that there is a great disturbance among the people of Vistor, especially in light of the recent arrest of Holgum Lambert."
Murmurs rippled through the crowd.
"There are theories," the Archdeacon continued, "dangerous ones, that suggest Lambert is a follower of Antithicud—what the old heretics called Parestroika. Some claim this connects him to Tom Arlo, who, they say, dabbled in the occult, having apprenticed under his father, Pluto. And from there they draw lines—false ones—suggesting Pluto was not sent by the Sacred Court, but by Antithicud himself, acting as a Cultivator of forbidden, ancient weapons."
He raised a hand, silencing the whispers.
"This theory is wrong."
His voice turned firm, almost harsh now.
"I have been assured, by a close friend of mine—the retired Emperor himself—that no ancient weapon was ever found in Nercomaton. As for Tom Arlo, there is no proof of his involvement with the occult. These are nothing more than wives' tales, remnants of the Dark Ages of Radzik. We must cast aside superstition and move forward in truth."
Across the square, watching from the comfort of the deli, the Duke raised his cup of cappuccino with a faint, amused smirk. He knew damn well the Archdeacon's speech was a lie—every word of it carefully measured, every phrase a polished shield to hide the truth. Still, it wasn't the lies that bothered him.
It was the mystery.
Who was this Holgum Lambert? What could a man like that possibly want with the Annihilation Theorem?
The interrogation had been a failure—Lambert barely spoke, and when he did, it was in riddles. Attempts to read his mind led nowhere. One of the Sorceri-Exaltists—the spellbound cultists who served the Church's arcane arm—had found a block in Lambert's mind so powerful it generated a psychic backlash. The poor fool's brain boiled in his skull before he even got a glimpse of what lay behind the mental wall.
Now that was disturbing.
The Duke tapped his finger idly on the edge of his plate, staring once more out the window toward the towering courthouse. The sky above it was beginning to darken—not with clouds, but with something far more uncertain.
Back at the Broom & Beer, the nobleman Galifiried had finally taken his seat at the round table with Hailey and her crew.
"I apologize for the delay," he said smoothly, brushing back a loose strand of his silver hair. "I had to ensure my departure from the palace went unnoticed."
With a quick snap of his fingers, the tavern doors slammed shut behind him, and the blinds rolled down with a mechanical clatter, plunging the room into a dim, secluded glow.
"Well, Mr. Galifiried," Payhaer grinned, raising an eyebrow, "good thing you made it when you did—'cause we were about to start drinking without ya."
"It's real nice having the whole tavern rented out like this," the orcish woman—Fabra—added, arms folded across her chest. "Quiet's good for planning... and drinking."
Hailey chuckled. "Fabra's a fan of peace and pints. But alright, boys, let's not dawdle. We've got business to attend to."
Galifiried's eyes darted toward the covered windows, his voice low and taut. "Yes, quite. I'd prefer to keep this meeting brief."
"Oh?" Hailey leaned back in her chair, plucking a chunk of meat from between her teeth with a toothpick. "You don't feel like you owe us a proper explanation, seeing as you're the one pulling the strings?"
Galifiried gave a nervous laugh. "Yes, well... I'm something of a history enthusiast. A collector of rare knowledge. The Annihilation Theorem—it's a piece of forbidden lore I've long dreamed of reading. I'm not asking to keep it, of course. Just a chance to make a copy before you disappear with the real thing."
Payhaer leaned forward. "Right. And what exactly is your role in all this, besides hiring us to do the dirty work?"
Galifiried adjusted his collar. "Simple. To get you inside the courthouse, you'll disguise yourselves as the two key witnesses in the trial against Holgum Lambert. I can arrange this—because I am one of them."
"You're what?" Fabra blinked.
"The other witness," Galifiried continued, "is a close friend of mine who's agreed to stay out of sight... allowing one of you to take her place under disguise. It's the only way to get past security without raising suspicion."
"Holy fuck!" Payhaer slapped the table, erupting with laughter. "The witnesses are sabotaging the whole case! Bwahahaha!"
Galifiried winced but tried to maintain composure. "Yes, well... it may seem absurd, but how else could we plan something like this in advance?"
Hailey gave him a sly smirk. "You nobles really do live in your own little operas, don't you?"
Doctor Haussel's office was intolerably crowded today. Madam Dutchess Kadrila, Doctor Septis, Duke Douglas, and Her Majesty herself were all standing—or in Septis's case, slumped—around his desk like vultures circling a dying beast. Haussel despised every single one of them. But as the Crown's Director of Internal Investigations, he was duty-bound to endure their presence, however wretched it made him feel.
He adjusted the stiff collar of his court robes, his gold-accented biretta perched precisely atop his head like a crown of reluctant authority.
"Do we kill Holgum today," Haussel muttered dryly, pressing the tip of his pen to his temple, "or continue interrogating, Your Majesty?"
He turned his head with languid disinterest to glance up from his desk, eyes flicking to the Queen.
"I am curious," Her Majesty said evenly, "to hear what the rest of the room has to say."
'Wow. What a diplomat. Fucking waste of time,' Haussel thought acidly.
"As_of_now," Doctor Septis droned from the velvet sofa, voice distorted through the broken consonants of his mechanical larynx, "interrogations_are_at_a_dead_end."
"You could really do nothing else to figure Holgum out?" Kadrila asked, arching a brow. "That's so unlike you," she added, voice dripping with performative mockery.
"Do_you_want_him_dead_before_execution?" Septis rasped, his voice now a bit sharper, metallic fingers tightening slightly on the armrest.
"I would imagine the news of Holgum dying before a formal execution would only deepen the public's suspicions," Duke Douglas interjected calmly, brushing a speck of dust from his lapel.
"What if Holgum is part of something bigger?" Kadrila shot back. "We kill him now, and we might lose our only thread."
"Canceling Holgum's public execution would throw the entire judicial process into a ditch," Haussel said, sighing deeply. "The public would never forget it. It'd be scandal piled on scandal."
"We've already performed a thorough background check," Douglas insisted, stepping forward. "We know how he got the book. Our bases are covered. If we execute him now, we avoid escalation."
"Correction:_We_do_not_in_fact_know_for_certain," Septis stated, his mechanical tone laced with something approximating contempt.
Douglas turned his head. "What are you implying, Doctor?"
Septis leaned forward slightly, gripping his cane tightly between his augmented hands. The polished steel fingers glinted under the chandelier light.
"Douglas_was_the_one_who_claimed_to_be_approached_by_the_witnesses. Likewise, he_is_presiding_over_the_case. All_of_my_sorceri_have_reported_their_findings_to_him_directly. Has_anyone_else_actually_seen_the_book?"
The words hung in the air like a noose.
Haussel furrowed his brow. "Are you suggesting we put McQu under examination?"
"Yes," Septis said plainly.
Kadrila scoffed, her jeweled fingers flicking in disbelief. "That's outrageous. You'd threaten a nobleman's career over a half-baked conspiracy theory?"
"His_career_is_not_the_greatest_thing_at_stake_here," Septis replied, eyes unblinking.
The room went still. All eyes drifted, inevitably, to Douglas.
Douglas let out a low chuckle and then smiled, wide and unshaken. "I welcome this examination," he said, spreading his arms slightly. "I would never obstruct justice, not when the safety of the realm is at risk."
"A public examination would require court approval," Haussel said, his voice like grinding stone. "We can't just approve it behind closed doors without invoking emergency powers."
"I could grant emergency powers to you, Haussel, if you're willing to oversee the investigation personally," the Queen said, her tone carefully measured—half offer, half challenge.
Haussel's brow furrowed. He let the silence hang just long enough for the weight of it to land on everyone in the room.
"No," he said at last, shaking his head with a tired smile. "It's not worth the trouble. Investigating Douglas would be like trying to bribe Her Majesty's guard dogs with a salad."
He turned his gaze slowly toward Douglas, and for a flicker of a moment, his scowl softened into something almost nostalgic.
They'd known each other since boyhood—well, Haussel had been a boy, and Douglas already a man of stature. A general of the brigade in the twilight years of the colonial wars, Douglas had been larger than life. At thirteen, Haussel remembered poring over newspapers filled with stories of his valor: the man who took the Hill of Mondgondy with only fifty soldiers, who held back the Fleet titan at the south brigade, who earned his fifth medallion by carrying his wounded lieutenant across a battlefield with a shattered arm.
Hailey stood before the mirror in her rented room on the tavern's second floor, dabbing pale clay across her cheeks and brow. She worked with precision, thinning the layer just enough to approximate Galifiried's lighter skin tone. On the counter beside her lay a pair of scissors, their blades gleaming under the low amber light. She'd use them soon—carefully, surgically—to refine the last edges of her disguise.
Galifiried was young, with soft, unremarkable features. If Hailey could blur the sharper lines of her own face, make herself vague enough, indistinct in the right way, she could pass for him—at least to the average guardsman. The finishing touches would be a set of illusionary charms, layered to muddle the senses and distort perception. Enough, she hoped, to fool even a Royal inspector.
She knew she had it easier than Fabra.
With her mostly human features, Hailey didn't have to fight against her own appearance nearly as hard. Fabra, on the other hand, had to cake on layer after layer of clay just to mask the green hue of her skin. Worse, she had to choke down a shrinking potion—an excruciating concoction that twisted her bones and drew her frame inward. But the cruelest part of the transformation was the most permanent: Fabra had been forced to cut her lower fangs out.
Hailey paused, staring at her reflection. She wondered, not for the first time, how far they'd all end up going just to make it out of this alive.
The crew departed at noon, exactly one hour before Holgum's execution.
In the courthouse's subterranean prison, Holgum's emaciated body lay still on the operating table, his skin pallid under the sterile lights. Around him moved the white-robed Sorceri-Exalti, their bionic eyes glowing red in the dimness like embers in a dying hearth. In their midst stood Director Charlie Devovel, indistinguishable in uniform from the others—save for the steady, deft hands stitching the final incisions she had made during the probe implantation.
The psionic probes were grotesque constructs: large, kidney-shaped steel sacs studded with erratic graphite rods. They pulsed faintly, slick with blood. There wasn't a single inch of Devovel's arms that remained clean—her gloves and sleeves soaked crimson. One of the Exalti priests had once offered to coat her uniform in hydrophobic wax to spare her the mess, but she refused. Even the slightest smear from such a coating could compromise the readings. And that, she said, would make the data useless to the Doctor.
Behind the mirrored glass, Pshy Haussel watched in silence.
He had been the one to recruit her from the Guildmaster's College—years ago now, before the burden of genius had begun to fracture her sleep and steal her rest. He watched her work with the reverence of a craftsman observing the apprentice who had surpassed him. It disturbed him, though, seeing her in this state: manic, precise, consumed. The pressure was unbearable. No doubt Septis's perfectionist expectations were wearing her down to the marrow. But she remained the Queen's chosen, and her photographic memory had proven far more useful in Septis's hands than his.
"Remembering_something,_Doctor_Haussel?"
Septis's voice creaked through the dark behind him—like rusted hinges on a cathedral door.
Haussel didn't turn at first. "Ah, Claud. I see you're still trying your hand at trivial conversation. I thought you'd excised the last remnants of humanity from yourself, just like the rest of your wizard-cult."
"I_maintained_enough_humanity_to_disrupt_my_predictability. A_tactical_advantage," Septis responded coolly.
Haussel turned now, offering a crooked grin. "Oh, you jest, my dear Doctor Dubious. Or perhaps—given your newfound morality—I should call you Nurse Claudia, beacon of virtue and wellspring of affirmation. Surely even the Goddess of Providence would smile upon you."
"Sarcasm_is_not_beyond_me,_Doctor. Nor_is_the_fact_that_your_position_was_granted_by_the_Queen_only_out_of_necessity._Had_Her_Majesty_not_tasked_you_with_the_examination,_I_would_have_initiated_it_myself—and_with_it_unveiled_your_underhanded_dealings_with_Lord_Douglas's_father._Your_consistently_insubordinate_behavior_and_willful_disregard_for_command_would_have_had_no_place_under_a_department_of_my_design."
"You never had a place in its design," Haussel snapped. "All your authority rests on the Queen's explicit favor. Without it, you'd be no more than a babbling street sorcerer—an immigrant from Lizrogan, preaching to stone-faced Senators who wouldn't give you the time of day."
Septis's voice, though mechanical, managed to sound almost wistful. "I_have_always_known_you_hated_me,_Doctor_Haussel._But_I_am_surprised_by_how_pedestrian_your_resentment_turns_out_to_be._I_once_thought_you_more_complex."
The sting of that line silenced the room for a beat.
"You're no different from the rest of them," Haussel muttered, voice lowering. "Fitzkineman, Arlo, Zurcoth, Hogar, Zurconi—every last one of those monsters. Rapists. Butchers. Megalomaniacs. And yet they were the heroes of our age. Magic progressed on the backs of murderers. You wonder why the world remembers them as legends? Because they weren't afraid to drown it in blood."
Septis tilted his head, the servos in his neck clicking softly. "You're_concerned_about_Lab_Director_Devovel,_aren't_you? She_still_sees_you_as_a_father."
The words hung heavy in the air.
"…Does she still talk about me?" Haussel asked, quietly—fragile in a way he never allowed himself to sound.
"She_says_you're_a_clever_old_badger—one_that_hides_behind_those_grand_scars_to_mask_the_fact_that_he_has_a_bleeding_heart_for_dandelions,_butterflies,_and_hummingbirds."