The street culminated in a large square plaza of white stone opposite two immense buildings; the High Council, where the local government met and where the queen resided when she was in the city. It resembled a large castle made of crystal and gold, which Sherry personally found garish, but most thought of as the literal crown jewel of the city. 

And on the opposite end was the Headquarters for the Royal Knights, a more classic type of building, made fancier by the gigantic golden dome placed at the top. This had been a requirement by the Chief of the Knights, and the rest of it was enhanced accordingly later to match it. Not to mention the golden-armored elves walking in and out of it all day. A line of parked knight cars was parked outside, gleaming clean with their white and green colors.

Sherry had always been grimly amused that both buildings were opposite each other, as the council made sure the protectors of the government were stationed right next to them. In the center, they erected a white marble statue of their fallen king, who died during the Great War with the humans centuries ago. For Sherry and those of the Royal houses who knew what his death had meant, it felt less like a way to honor him, and more like a painful reminder of what it had cost them all.

Not as painful as the one she had to feel every morning on her way to work though, as her eye always caught the armor and swords shop where Orras’ own used to be. Another dwarf from a different clan had bought the space after Orras left and set up his version of it. Sherry had only gone in once since then and sadly found the quality of his craft was nowhere near as good as Orras'. Now she always took care of her armor as best she could, so she’d never need a replacement of lesser quality. Still, it brought a fresh pang of sorrow to be reminded of him.

“You know, kind of amazed the dwarves surrendered so easily,” said Mort, breaking Sherry from her thoughts. “They’re usually so devoted to the whole fight to the death for honor thing.”

“They usually can afford to fight another day,” said Sherry.

“Normally, yes, but these are all exiled dwarves, none of their former clans would pay any gold for their release. Even for shooting at us,” he added.

“We have few enough of them in the cells; they are usually smart enough not to get caught, unlike the houseless elves.”

“They're desperate if they’ve sunk low enough to want human weapons,” said Mort, and she understood the tone of contempt in his voice.

“You saw that one last night, he could barely muster enough magic to light a tiny ember. Most cannot even do that,” said Sherry as she opened the front door to the headquarters. “They feel powerless.”

“Still, it feels low for any elf to use a gun,” he stopped himself as he realized what he said, “I just meant…”

“I know. We are all a bit lower than we were five centuries ago,” said Sherry sharply as they entered the bullpen.

It was barely before noon, so most knights were still here getting their assignments for the day. And like every other day, many fell quiet and stared openly at Sherry Mort with open disgust or disapproval. Sherry didn’t care, and she was long used to it, but it weighed on her own that Mort should suffer that indignity for her selfishness.

“She still has the nerve to parade him about even in the day,” Sherry heard one of the female knights mutter to her friend in the corner as they walked past them. Sherry ignored them, and Mort continued to smile indifferently; that’s how they managed every day.

Thankfully, the room was busy, with most of the other knights processing suspects or filing paperwork, an especially loud Orc was complaining about the theft of his vintage television set, which drowned out any further comments. Nobody else paid them much mind after their entrance; they were old news, just an unpleasant reminder. They made their way to the second floor, which was entirely the chief’s office.

The sight of that enormous set of black doors made of obsidian stone with gold edges always made Sherry feel small, they were practically the size of a house, but she reminded herself it was only the Chief behind them, who was still the only one in the entire building who didn’t hate her. She also always forgot the tiny desk next to the doors, where his assistant sat. A different knight was assigned each month to the post instead of keeping a regular one. The chief said that that way he could get to know everyone well enough, but privately, Sherry thought he simply didn’t trust anyone to gain his confidence and access to the room and its…contents.

“Oh, it’s you, Rull,” said the knight, one of House Yarde. She was not friendly, but at least not rude enough to comment about Mort. She simply avoided looking at him altogether. “Yeah, he’s expecting you. Go ahead,” and she snapped her fingers, summing the magic for the doors to open slowly.

Sherry barely nodded back before going in and immediately got blinded by the shining brilliance at the center of the room, which was easily the size of a palace or temple, with the golden dome above them as the roof, and a large mountain of gold in the middle of it all, and resting above it, was an enormous black dragon.

“Sherr’Yand’Rull, Mort’Eand’Thril…welcome both,” said the dragon, his voice soft and rich, but booming and echoing through the room.

Since moving to the city, Sherry had seen her fair share of dragons, but the Chief was still the most regal and imposing of them all. Taller than a ship, with sleek leathery black scales like onyx stones gleaming with the golden light beneath him. He had been a general during the war, older by far than Sherry’s five hundred years, and one of the most trusted members of the High Council. His name was known to a few, but everyone just called him by his title now.

“Hello Chief,” said Sherry, bowing her head slightly in respect, even though they were both past such things.

“Still using the full names, Chief?” said Mort more casually. “No need to be so formal with us, I think you’re the only one who still does that around here.”

“Some of us still cling to the old ways,” said the Chief with amusement as he returned the head bow to Sherry.  They were very much kindred spirits in that sense, and Sherry loved him for being the only one in the building who would acknowledge and talk back to Mort like a person. His eyes were dark stones, kind and full of wisdom; Sherry always found them comforting.

“Some people cannot, so they cling to whatever is available…even if it kills them,” said Sherry morbidly. She didn’t mean to darken the mood but there was no getting around the grimness of their meeting.

“Yes, I heard you had another shootout last night. Good job on taking most of them alive, as well as the weapons.”

“About that Chief,” said Mort, pulling out one of the guns they had confiscated last night. “We have a serious problem with these.”

“We destroyed most of them after the war, my boy. Whatever dregs move around the black market will eventually run out.”

“These are not remnants of the old war,” said Sherry, stepping forward and grabbing the gun from Mort’s hand, flipping it over to show the bottom of it.

“You know I can’t see that from up here,” said the Chief.

“Then bend down and look for yourself. It’s the crest of  Orras the Warlock, they all have it,” said Sherry, looking with distaste at the brand burned under it. The circle with the hammer and staff crossed, with his name like a signature.

“The houseless elves aren't buying old weapons left from five hundred years ago, they’re getting brand new ones forged by Orras and his exiled dwarves,” said Mort.

“That is truly disgraceful,” said the Chief, snarling slightly at the gun.

“You cannot live centuries with something and then not miss it when it’s taken away,” said Sherry sharply. 

The chief knew what she was referring to, which was a subject as taboo as what she had to Mort, and any other knight would have been reprimanded for it. But the Chief only looked down, seeing the justice in her words. She knew he agreed, even if he couldn’t say it.

“Sherr’Yand’Rull, this is an old debate, you know the Queen had no choice after the king-”

“I’m just saying,” interrupted Sherry impatiently, and probably a bit rude. “We cut them off from the magic, from their long life and status, and now we are shocked they are resorting to guns in their desperation to feel some measure of the power they lost.”

“…you are not wrong,” conceded the Chief. “However, that is not our job. Your duty as a member of the Royal Knights is to secure the peace of the realm from those who would disturb it; regardless of why, and could you please not touch my treasure!” He added with a heavy roar that rang through the room.

Sherry turned to see that Mort had picked up a golden cup from among the mounting of golden objects that formed the Chief’s hoard. These were sacred to a dragon; they guarded their treasure above all, to them it was their home acquired through a lifetime or left to by their parents. It was no joke when the Chief demanded the Royal Knight Headquarters be built to accommodate him and act as his residence when he was appointed to the role.

Mort smiled nervously and dropped the cup, clinking softly as it fell back into the pile. Friends as they were, even they weren’t allowed to touch any of it at all times. Mort knew better and Sherry looked at him with “the look” until he looked properly abashed. “…sorry Chief,  I wasn’t touching it, it just kind of fell and I grabbed it.”

“You were clearly touching it!” said the chief jealousy, eyeing Mort with very dangerous eyes.

“Sir!” said Sherry loudly, calling his attention back to the matter at hand. “I will do my job as required, but I am simply stating that things will only escalate from this point.”

She expected the Chief to argue further, but instead, he fell quiet, which seemed strange. “I’m afraid it already has.”

The Chief dipped his head down to be obeyed level with her and Mort as if this made what he was about to say more private but his voice carried all the same. “The real reason I called you here was not to hear about the guns but…something far worse. We only received word this morning that…you see, the Queen has asked that…”

He seemed unable to find the words, and he kept eyeing Mort nervously. “Oh, hell with it, there was a murder at House Thril last night…it was the head of the house, Var’Arian’Thril.”

Mort’s eyes went wide, and Sherry suppressed a gasp herself. She reached out to grab Mort by the shoulder, trying to reassure him. Even though the man had been one of the first to condemn Sherry for bringing Mort back into this state with magic, breaking all contact with them, she knew they had a long history together, both being from the same house. And especially since he was the father of Mort’s former…

“How?” asked Mort, closing his eyes.

“We only just had an initial report back before you arrived, but it seems the final cause of death was a bullet to the head.”

Sherry looked down at the gun she was holding with all the hatred she felt, “With a gun like this?”

“The weapon was not found at the scene but, given what you have told me…it is possible,” admitted the Chief.

Even after everything, she did not need another reason to hate Orras, but it seemed he was determined to give her more. She turned her attention to something the chief said that seemed odd, “what did you mean by the final cause of death?”

“You will see when you get there, I’m afraid it is quite gruesome. The Queen has asked that you take the case.”

Sherry looked at him, startled. “Me? No, that must be a mistake. I’m the last person they want to see in that house.”

“I know, and I suspect this is on purpose to help you finally deal with…your situation,” he said, looking directly at Mort.

“The Queen has no right to…!” began Sherry angrily, but got immediately silenced by a heavy growl from the Chief.

“The Queen has every right!” roared the Chief, stretching his long neck to round up on Sherry, who refused to meet his eyes. “And may even have a point when it comes to you, Sherr’Yand’Rull.”

His voice softened when he addressed Mort, however. “I know this is especially painful for you, my old friend. If you prefer, I can even order her not to bring you along for this.”

Sherry winced, she knew he could order her to cancel the spell that kept Mort’s soul artificially anchored to his body. The only thing keeping him as a shadow of his former self on the mortal plane. Everyone had demanded it of him and the Queen, calling it an abomination. The kind of taboo magic that had gotten her family expelled from the High Borns millennia ago in the first place. It was only the Queen’s word allowing it that forced everyone to tolerate it, however offensive they found it.

“No,” said Mort, simply. His voice was steady as he looked at Sherry directly. “If I wanted her to release me, I would just have to ask. I will see this through with her, Chief.”

The chief looked between the two of them from above his mountain of gold, perhaps disappointed, but accepting all the same. “So be it.”