Garreth and his partner stepped out into the narrow, flea-infested streets of Wenton's West End—a fairly sordid ward famed for its rows of terraced houses, brick chimneys, and unsavoury characters. Cockroaches skittered about, rubbish littered the pavement, and alleys were piled with refuse. While the smell of coal and pollution was not as pervasive in the working-class neighbourhood, the stink of horse manure and rotting rat carcasses still tainted the air.

  And the chilly night breeze hit them immediately, a biting contrast to the stuffy warmth of the dwarves' workshop. With her free hand, Lynn adjusted the scarf around her neck as they crossed the filthy road, their boots tapping lightly against the uneven cobblestones toward their automobile, which had been lopsidedly parked on the curb. "T-they seem nice," the half-elf said to her partner with a smile, somewhat used to the stench that surrounded her.

  "They did? They were more annoying than they normally are if anything."

  "Have you known them for long?"

  And the man, ever the picture of composed disinterest, strolled a step ahead, his coattail rippling with each stride. "Well, they have been working with the Bureau since its founding, which is about when I joined. So, I've known those two for almost twenty years now?"

  "T... twenty years?"

  In unison with his partner, Garreth entered the car and slammed the door shut. Promptly, he turned the ignition key, and after a few strained whirs, the vehicle rumbled awake—exhaust spewing out puffs of smoke as it sped off. Eyes fixed on the thoroughfare ahead, the man steered the automobile with a steady, practised hand. "Is it that shocking, kid? Our branch is the first to have been established following the Bureau's formation."

  "Still... twenty years is a long time..."

  "You can only say that because you're a kid. When you get on in years like me, you'll discover just how fleeting time is. Though, that's probably the human in me talking. Since you have elf blood, I'd expect you to live for, what, half a millennia? Which practically makes you a mere infant compared to your kindred. Your golden years will only start when I'm long dead."

  "Huh..."

  "You just haven't experienced life enough, kid, that's all I'll say. When every day of your existence is full to the brim with danger and adrenaline, you'll realise how short it all is. For instance, uh, when I met those two dwarves, they weren't even married, let alone dating yet."

  "They weren't?!"

  "Yep, I remember the days Baldwin would invite me out for drinks and weep over that woman. He'd spend half the night swearing she'd never give him the time of day, then the other half singing about how he was going to win her heart. This routine went on for ten years before they got together, mind you."

  "S-seriously..."

  "You didn't hear it from me, though."

  Lynn gazed out the window, her fingers brushing over the crossbow strapped to her arm. Nights in Wenton revealed an austere stillness, as though the city itself had to catch its breath from the bustle of daytime. Streets lay barren, their usual tide of carriages, automobiles, and hurrying feet replaced by a silence that felt almost deliberate, broken only by distant plodding clops or the occasional groan of a wooden signboard above a shuttered shop.

  "So, where are we going?"

  "Ah, my bad. I guess I forgot to brief you fully on what we're doing tonight," the man said, resting his palm on the steering wheel. "To start with, our target goes by the name of Isaac Holstein, AKA the four-eyed orcish overseer back at the factory. From what I could gather, he's a well-connected tycoon who deals in the quarry business. Don't you find it strange a high-profile figure like him just so happened to be visiting the factory on the day it was being raided?"

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

  "What about the other orcish overseers? Didn't the little boy tell us they were involved too?"

  "That's the thing. I looked into all of them and came up empty. I checked ledgers and the citizen registry, asked around, and even followed up on rumours. Nothing. No paper trails and no proof of residence. Either they came here illegally and are keeping a low profile or—"

  "—never existed at all," Lynn finished quietly, reaching the same conclusion.

  "That's a possibility, but let's not jump to conclusions. If it's the former, it's outside our jurisdiction. What is within our jurisdiction is investigating potential bluebloods who are threats to society. And while digging into Holstein, I found something interesting."

  "Proof that he's a magus?"

  "Not just that—proof he's been covering it up. Holstein's record is spotless. Upper-class orcish immigrant family, uneventful upbringing, interned at multiple mining sites, started his own business at twenty-five. Sounds legitimate, doesn't it?"

  "So... he has an alibi?"

  "Sure—if you believe it. But there was a discrepancy I found. Records say Holstein was interning at a mining site when he was fifteen, but when I sent an inquiry to the company in question, they told me he only started when he was twenty. That's five years unaccounted for."

  "How did he..."

  "Friends in high places, I can imagine. My point is that's when I had a hunch. I searched the Academy for the Magickally-Gifted for answers, sifted through the archives and cross-referenced it with his period of inactivity—and lo and behold, there he was, under an alias: Iskander Holt."

  "H-he has the Gift, then..."

  "Exactly, which makes him a prime suspect in the terrorist attack. So right now, we're headed to a waterfront property of his: a private dockyard. Rumour has it he frequented this place in the days leading up to the incident. Good starting place to check out, don't you think?"

  "Y-yeah..."

  Tightly packed tenements gave way to looming warehouses and smokestacks as their journey took them from the West End into Wenton's fog-laden harbour district. Eventually, the car pulled up to locked wrought-iron bars, where a notice upfront read 'RESTRICTED ACCESS'. Gas lamps flanked the entry, their glass clouded with soot. Suspended from splintered timber posts, they cast a dim, flickering glow that fought to pierce the mist creeping inland from the dock.

  An elderly man with a scraggly white beard hobbled out from a small brick guardpost and up to the side of their automobile, equipped with a lantern and a cranky disposition.

  "Oi, this place is private property!" He huffed, lifting the light to better see through the car's tinted glass. "State your business or turn back and leave!"

  Rolling down his window, Garreth showed him his badge. "We're with the Bureau of Magickal Affairs. We have reason to believe these premises are connected with illicit magus activity."

  "The Bureau, eh?" His attention drifted toward the half-elf girl shuffling uneasily in her seat. "Do you have a warrant to conduct your search, government man? Or are you here to go fishin'? And I don't mean for fish."

  Without a second thought, the Bureau agent reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a gold coin. He then flitted it between his fingers and flashed it to the old man. "Is this warrant enough for you?"

  Catching the glint through the haze, the old security guard paused and eyed him up before swiping the gold from his hand and grumbling. "You get an hour inside. Don't break nothin'."

  And he unlocked the gate and let the automobile through. Stunned by what she had just witnessed, Lynn stared at her partner. "D-did you just..?"

  "Bribe him? Yeah."

  "Isn't that... illegal?"

  "You know, I tend to forget you're a former cop. Listen, we're doing this to save lives. Who cares if we break a few rules? It's part of being an agent of the state. Think of the greater good here."

  "I know, but..."

  "If laws and such still hold you back, then you really haven't experienced life enough, kid."