It had been some time since Lloyde had last crossed paths with Shrike.

  Yet here he was—very much alive, brisk in his movements, the wounds he had suffered during the Ende Town operation seemingly mended to near perfection. He stood as he always did: iron-cold expression, black garments wrapped in a darker scarf, as though he had stepped out from the shadow of a cathedral bell tower to announce someone’s final hour.

  And in truth, that was not far from what he was.

  Shrike was the Watcher and Administrator the Purge Mechanism had embedded in the Lower District. Publicly, he was the mysterious overlord of that quarter of Old Dunling. Men trembled at the mere sight of him. Most days he nested beneath his opulent casino like a spider at the center of its web. If he ever emerged above ground, it meant some unfortunate soul had earned his displeasure.

  “Let’s begin,” Shrike said. “What exactly is going on with Hughes? I suspect he smuggled something—something that drew the fiends’ vengeance.”

  “A suspicion?” Lloyde’s tone was level.

  “What else would you call reasoning?” Shrike replied lightly. “None of us can see the future. All we can do is make our best conjectures.”

  “Then I would hope yours are accurate.”

  Shrike stepped into the carriage as he spoke. Winter in Old Dunling was a damp and biting thing; he had no interest in letting the wind gnaw at his bones.

  “Hughes. A man out of the Port of Rendona. After we dealt with the Green Shark, he seized the opportunity to swallow Sabo’s holdings and expand at an alarming pace.”

  “I know all that,” Lloyde said, shaking his head. “I need what isn’t written in the files. The things that never make it onto paper. The kind of whispers only someone at your level might hear.”

  Every man possessed a concealed face—an unspeakable corner of himself that could only be glimpsed in fleeting moments of human exchange. That sliver was what Lloyde sought. That was the part of the truth that mattered.

  According to the records, Hughes had many allies in Rendona, the largest port in all of Inglvig. Goods from foreign nations were smuggled through its docks, then handed off to gangs for resale, sustaining the gray arteries of the underworld economy. The contraband spread across the kingdom, and Hughes was the one responsible for managing the Old Dunling branch of that trade.

  “…There is one thing,” Shrike said after a pause.

  Smuggling had long been suppressed, yet it had grown roots deep enough to span all of Inglvig. Ironically, such gray industries made it easier for the Purge Mechanism to operate; for now, they remained under broad control.

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  Lloyde inclined his head, signaling for him to continue.

  “They’ve found something new of late,” Shrike said.

  “What?”

  “I’m not certain. Only rumors. The source traces back to Hughes himself. Whatever it is—it likely involves him.”

  Shrike swallowed, as if weighing how best to frame what followed.

  “After the Radiant War ended, the Gaulnaro withdrew entirely from Inglvig. But during that century of bloodshed, many of them had settled in the Southern Theater. Children were born there—Gaulnaro by blood, yet raised upon Inglvig soil. In time, they blended into our way of life.”

  Lloyde lifted his gaze. He already sensed the direction of the tale.

  “Their descendants,” he murmured. “They belong nowhere.”

  “Precisely. Neither accepted by Gaulnaro nor embraced by Inglvig. Most remain in the South. Because of their origins, they endure discrimination—worse treatment, fewer rights. And despite the war’s end, suspicion lingers. They are not permitted into the interior.”

  Shrike continued evenly.

  “Recently, there have been cases of people being smuggled north. Those despised in the South become cheap labor elsewhere. Being of Gaulnaro descent, they cost far less than ordinary workers. Many factories are eager to employ them.”

  “So Hughes has been trafficking them?” Lloyde’s disbelief sharpened his voice. It sounded perilously close to slavery. His gaze hardened, as if he were staring at refuse.

  Shrike only smiled faintly. “Don’t look at me like that. Stability requires compromise. Our task is to preserve the broader order—even if it means containing chaos in smaller pockets.”

  A theory born from clever politicians.

  Lloyde fell silent. The bitter truth of it left little room for argument.

  “It seems likely,” he said at last, “that Hughes transported someone he should not have. Can you obtain his client list? We’ll need to investigate each name.”

  “It will take time,” Shrike replied. “These matters are buried deep.”

  Lloyde leaned back, thoughts racing. If the fiends’ vengeance was tied to the smuggling of people, then everything began with one individual—a person from the South who had arrived in Old Dunling.

  If that was the thread, then what of Rovi and Doren? And the Aide couple? What roles did they play in this tapestry?

  “Wait,” Lloyde said suddenly. “When they move people from the South to Old Dunling, do they travel directly? Or are there intermediary stops?”

  During the Radiant War, the Southern Theater had been the Gaulnaro landing ground. Between it and Old Dunling lay several cities. No smuggling route would pass through without pause.

  Shrike nodded. “Naturally. Why?”

  A faint smile touched Lloyde’s lips.

  “Then I believe I see part of the connection. Rovi and Doren both come from Bohans. They have ties to the gangs. On the map, Bohans lies between the South and Old Dunling. It’s likely a transfer point—where the cargo changes hands before the final journey.”

  The detective’s voice carried a rare flicker of excitement.

  “That would explain it. If the fiends killed him, it was because he was moving people.”

  “You’re certain?”

  “Not certain,” Lloyde corrected. “But it is the most probable hypothesis.”

  His thoughts surged onward. Their identities as factory workers would serve as perfect camouflage for their criminal ties. But what had transpired between them? What had ignited such fury?

  “What,” Lloyde asked suddenly, “drives a man to vengeance like that?”

  His gray-blue eyes were calm as the surface of a winter sea—yet beneath them lay depths unfathomable.

  From the beginning, he had neglected one crucial question: not the act of revenge itself, but the cause of it.

  A far more daring notion now took shape in his mind.

  What if the man had become a fiend for the sake of revenge?

  And what kind of hatred could twist a human soul into something so violent?