The pitch-black carriage rolled to a gradual halt before a grand estate. From within, Lloyd gazed through the window as refined opulence unfolded before his eyes like a carefully staged illusion.

  After meticulous selection, he had fixed his attention upon a certain baron—Abel by name. Fortune, inherited from a merchant father, had granted the man a life of enviable extravagance in Old Dunling. Though by all accounts incompetent, he continued to wallow in luxury as though the world itself conspired to indulge him.

  Lloyd’s interest in Abel did not stem merely from rumor. The baron’s private life was notoriously dissolute. Several wives had come and gone; as for lovers, they were too numerous to tally. Yet that alone proved nothing. What truly drew Lloyd’s scrutiny were the wives themselves.

  According to intelligence provided by Shrike, Baron Abel had maintained repeated contact with Hughes. At suspiciously low cost, he had hired numerous refugees from the southern remnants of Gaul Nalo. Contrary to the expected disdain, some among those displaced women had even become his wives. Most, however, did not live long.

  Several wives. Countless lovers.

  In an instant, Lloyd’s mind spun a tale that could have filled volumes.

  If the demon truly sought vengeance, then perhaps the pattern was painfully simple.

  A poor girl, driven by survival, arrives in Old Dunling. Under the crushing weight of a baron’s indulgence, she perishes. And somewhere, a man who loved her abandons his humanity, embracing monstrosity to chase revenge across cities and shadows.

  A trite love story.

  And yet, disturbingly plausible.

  “Baron Abel’s finances have been declining for years,” Shrike said evenly, though there was reluctance in his tone. “He refuses to relinquish his extravagant lifestyle, yet he cannot afford proper wages. So he turns to refugees. It is common enough. They are vulnerable. In certain hands, they are no different from slaves centuries ago.”

  He did not elaborate further. This was one of Inglvig’s darker truths—even he found it suffocating.

  “He’s not the only one employing refugees, is he?” Lloyd asked.

  “No,” Shrike replied. “But more importantly, the baron’s latest wife died recently. If the demon’s motives are as mundane as you suggest… then her death would be the catalyst.”

  “The woman he adored dying without explanation…” Lloyd murmured. “That alone could drive a man to become something else entirely. Still, before we confirm anything, we should have a conversation with the baron.”

  He pushed open the carriage door and stepped out. Behind the Purging Authority stood all of Inglvig. Entering a baron’s residence was hardly a challenge.

  Shrike walked ahead. This time, he wore no mask. Ironically, the mask was what people remembered—the symbol of the Lower District’s sovereign. Without it, he was unremarkable, a face that would dissolve into any crowd. No one would suspect that this quiet man governed the undercity.

  Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

  Joey followed behind them as the trio pushed open the iron gates.

  As Shrike’s intelligence had suggested, the baron’s fortunes were visibly waning. The courtyard felt hollow. Servants were scarce. Weeds crept through stone cracks. It seemed Abel had funneled every remaining coin into indulgence.

  “Do you think he’ll cooperate?” Lloyd asked abruptly as they advanced.

  He had not yet met Abel, yet already an odious caricature had formed in his mind. While he spoke casually, his hand had tightened around the Winchester at his side.

  Throughout his career—neither brief nor especially long—Lloyd had encountered all kinds of people: virtuous and vile, adults and children, men in skirts, women in bow ties, and countless oddities in between.

  There was an old saying: a hundred faces, a hundred dispositions.

  But Lloyd believed that beneath all distinctions—language, temperament, morality—there was one universal constant shared by all living things.

  Fear.

  The fear of death was a language understood everywhere.

  Perhaps sensing the edge in Lloyd’s thoughts—though even if the suspicion proved false and Abel innocent of demon dealings—his conduct alone was enough to earn Lloyd’s contempt. The detective was not always inclined to hide his disdain.

  “He will cooperate,” Shrike replied with quiet confidence. “If necessary, half the nobility of Old Dunling would obey us without hesitation.”

  Under Lloyd’s skeptical gaze, Shrike did not waver.

  Though he was called the master of the Lower District, he was but a figurehead. True authority belonged to the Purging Authority—and to the Queen seated within the Platinum Palace.

  Countless nobles had ventured into the Lower District. Every action they took was meticulously recorded by Shrike. When required, those records became leverage. Evidence. Judgment.

  “If Baron Abel wishes to keep his precious title,” Shrike added with a faint smile that carried a chill, “he would do well to tell the truth.”

  On the surface, the nobles ruled Old Dunling. In reality, power rested firmly in the Queen’s grasp.

  Lloyd cast Shrike a sidelong glance, thinking—as he often did—that politicians possessed hearts steeped in grime. Yet he also felt his understanding of the machine called “nation” deepen.

  Behind the Purging Authority stood all of Inglvig—an empire boasting the most advanced industrial might in the world. What Lloyd saw now was but the surface. In the darkness beyond, greater dangers stirred, waiting for their appointed hour.

  They pushed through another set of doors. No one attempted to bar their way.

  The scent of wine and indulgence surged outward. The air itself seemed saturated with wealth—thick, cloying, almost nauseating.

  “It appears the baron is even more decadent than we imagined,” Lloyd remarked, his tone hovering somewhere between envy and scorn.

  Across carpets and couches sprawled pale bodies, half-covered, limbs draped in careless abandon.

  Shrike shot him a sideways glance and coughed sharply.

  The fireplace had long gone cold; only embers whispered faint warmth. Old Dunling’s winters were merciless, and these figures had clearly slept through the night. How much they had drunk was anyone’s guess—none had even stirred from the chill.

  Shrike’s coughing failed to rouse them.

  With a sigh of impatience, Lloyd raised his Winchester. Before Shrike could stop him, he pulled the trigger.

  The thunderous crack shattered the room.

  The women jolted awake, scrambling for blankets, eyes clouded with confusion—until they saw the black-clad figures at the doorway, grim as reapers. Screams tore through the chamber as they fled, wrapped in fabric and panic.

  “What in blazes—?”

  A man crawled up from behind a sofa, cursing groggily. But the cold press of steel against his forehead silenced him. His half-lidded eyes slowly widened.

  And clarity struck.

  The Winchester rested squarely against his brow.

  Lloyd regarded him with open disgust.

  “Baron Abel?”

  Abel nodded frantically—so frantically he scarcely had time to pull up his trousers.