When the car ground to a stop, Garreth surveyed his surroundings.

  It was eerily noiseless, save for the soft lapping of water against the moss-mottled quayside. The man sensed no presence of magi in the area. Given his heightened sensitivity to magicks, he figured he'd detect at least some trace, but it was strangely barren. Despite this, he rested his palm on the hilt of his blade as he slowly exited the vehicle. His half-elf partner practised the same caution, tying the pouch of bolts to her waistband and alighting from the car.

  To their left lay the River Themris, the commercial waterway that flowed through Southern Alondis and, by extension, Wenton, like lifeblood. By day, its surface appeared inky and diseased, a consequence of the raw sewage that was dumped in daily and leaky gasworks. By night, however, it reflected the murky lights of the city's skyline, scattered like fireflies. Here, the odour of brine and tar was strong, paired with the acrid sting of industrial runoff.

  Overhead, the moon broke momentarily through the clouds, illuminating the desolate, unlit harbour in a ghostly cerulean glow and highlighting the misty outline of enormous, gable-roofed brick structures that fronted the river. Past silhouettes of towering cranes, swaying boats moored to piers, and stacks of crates, the agents crept over stagnant puddles and approached the warehouse nearest to them.

  Its side door was chained shut, a heart-shaped padlock securing them. Garreth hunched over and examined the cast-iron deterrent, running his fingers over its rusted surface. "Looks old," he muttered, "but not unused. Someone's been in and out recently."

  "Should we ask the guard for a key?" Lynn naively proposed.

  "So, he can shake us down for more money? My pockets don't run that deep, kid. No, I got a better solution." Swiftly, the man brought out a lockpick from his pocket and went to work, the scrape of metal on metal blending with the ambience of the dockyard. Then, with a satisfying click, the lock yielded, and steel links fell onto the gravelly ground with a resounding crunch. Before prising the door open, Garreth shot his partner a half-lidded glance.

  "W... what?"

  "Not going to scold me for breaking in?"

  "Y-you didn't damage the lock, so it's still fine... I think..."

  "I swear, your moral compass is all over the place, kid."

  When they set foot inside, the moonlight spilt in through the open doorway, casting their lengthy shadows onto dusty floorboards. They found themselves in a spacious building with no windows and big slatted doors situated opposite one another. Identical rows of protruding shapes, draped in canvas and about seven feet in height, filled the length of the room. Silently, the man motioned for his partner to stay close.

  Venturing deeper into the warehouse, beneath unlit ceiling lamps, they were unable to shake the feeling of being watched. Through the gloom, Garreth spotted a staircase that led up to an observation deck. "Investigate this floor, kid. I'll check the upstairs," he whispered to the half-elf.

  "Understood." She loaded a mithril bolt into her weapon and split up with her partner.

  As the man proceeded toward his ascent, the half-elf carefully navigated the procession of shrouded objects, each one vaguely humanoid in form. While she searched the space for any evidence of the orc's involvement in the factory incident, the limb of her crossbow caught on the corner of one of the coverings. And Lynn let out a yelp as the fabric slipped off, revealing what lay beneath. Alerted by her cry, Garreth wielded his sabre and rushed to her aid.

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  And arriving at the scene, he was met with his partner holding her weapon up, zeroing in on a shadowy figure. Upon further inspection, it was a realistic terracotta sculpture of an orcish man—the detail unsettlingly lifelike, from the rough texture of its painted green skin to the veins bulging on its hands. Its glassy eyes vaguely glimmered as though hosting some semblance of soul within it.

  "Are these... statues?" Still wary, the man inched toward the clay orc and tapped its head with the end of his blade; he then sheathed his sword and took out a cylindrical lighter, sparking a small flame to examine the figure better. "Pretty tasteless for an art piece, don't you think? There has to be more than a hundred of them stored in this warehouse alone."

  "G... Garreth..." Lynn lowered her crossbow and ears, lips quivering. "This is one of the orcish overseers. I'd recognise that face anywhere."

  Recalling the half-elf's extraordinary sense of perception, the man raised an eyebrow and took her claim seriously. "Are you certain, kid? You're confident it's him?"

  "There's no doubt in my mind," she replied instantly, uncharacteristically resolute.

  "That confirms it, then. There's a high probability we're up against a geomancer specialising in clay. It'd explain how he manipulated the pot shard in the boy's hands and why the zone rapidly deteriorated the way it did. Controlling multiple puppets like that takes a powerful spell."

  "So, does that mean..."

  "But it's not enough. We still need concrete evidence that Holstein used these in the incident. Something that proves once and for all that he was behind the steel plant explosion, and my gut tells me it's up on that viewing platform."

  "By the way, did you always have a lighter?"

  "Oh, I bought one a few days ago. It's a pain having to use a match to light my pipe every time. Don't worry, I sensed no magicks when we got here. It's not going to blow up anytime soon."

  "Ah... okay."

  "What? Is smoking a crime now?"

  "N... no..."

  "You ought to try it some time, kid. It'd take some of the edge off."

  "I-I'll keep that in mind...

  Lynn planted herself at the base of the stairs, standing guard while Garreth climbed the creaky steps once more. This time, he made it to the observation deck without incident and sidled up to the desk by the smudged glass of the large window. It was cluttered with ledgers, loose papers, and tools—a smattering of mundane items. And with his steadily burning lighter in one hand, the man rifled through the documents.

  Most of it seemed routine—inventory logs, shipping manifests, and invoices. Yet one peculiar sheet stuck out to Garreth: an open envelope, hastily folded and tucked into a leather-bound journal on the corner. Sliding it out from between the pages, the man held it close to his good eye to examine the letters. The envelope was addressed to Holstein himself and signed by someone with the initials G.V.

  It bore a bizarre violet seal, and inside was a message containing but a single symbol.

  "A... dragon?"

  And to the man's alarm, his lighter's flame flickered into an unnatural shade of lime green. Simultaneously, the lamps hanging off the steel girders did the same, bathing the warehouse in a pulsating green glow. "G-Garreth!" In a panicked voice, the half-elf yelled for him.

  Whipping around, Garreth pocketed the journal and its contents and dashed down the stairs, where a horrific sight awaited him. Below, Lynn was backing away from a terracotta figure, now animate and shambling toward her—a golem. Its movements were unnervingly fluid for something made of hardened clay. Incandescent rivulets of violet peeked through the cracks in its shell as though its body were coursing with magicks.