"Are you done with the measurements?"

Arthur turned to face his grandfather. He stood tall, his posture rigid, his gaze expectant.

"Yes, Grandfather."

"Hm. Then follow me."

With a sharp pivot, he turned on his heel, the hem of his long coat trailing behind him.

Arthur followed without question, though unease settled in his chest.

After all, Arthur was given no explanation, no hint of their destination.

'I have no idea where he's taking me.'

Demetrius could sense his uneasiness and thus spoke up to ease him a little.

"Don't trouble yourself with unnecessary worries. I wouldn't harm the only heir of my son."

It was a reassurance, but devoid of warmth. The words bore the cold precision of a statement rather than a sentiment.

"I understand."

They reached the carriage, a dark lacquered frame against the fading light, its presence commanding yet strangely ominous.

Without hesitation, Demetrius stepped inside, not sparing a glance back.

Arthur followed shortly after.

The door shut behind them, sealing them in a space thick with silence.

The carriage lurched forward, the rhythmic clatter of wheels against cobblestone filling the void where conversation should have been.

Outside, the city of Westmere stretched before him, its streets lined with grand facades, towering structures of wealth and power. The gas lamps flickered to life, casting elongated shadows over the bustling thoroughfares.

Merchants called out their wares to passing noblemen, their voices practiced and keen, rising above the din of horse hooves and hurried footsteps.

The scent of freshly baked bread mingled with the sharper notes of oil and smoke, creating an aroma uniquely belonging to a city at its peak.

And yet, he barely registered the world outside the carriage window.

The silence inside weighed heavier than the noise beyond.

Demetrius remained as he always was, a monolith untouched by time or sentiment. His eyes, sharp and unreadable, were fixed upon some distant thought, one that Arthur was not privy to.

***

Arthur found himself standing in the cemetery, gazing at a certain grave in front of him. His eyes rested on the name engraved into the stone.

"You should greet your father."

Arthur turned his gaze away from the grave and looked at his grandfather.

"We don't even know if he's dead or alive, and you want me to greet an empty grave?"

Arthur looked at the rambling dark sky, covered with clouds of the same color.

"Tsk. Why now, of all times?"

Demetrius let out a slow sigh.

"Haah... If we’re going to act anyway, then why not act as if our lives depend on it? Have you ever heard the saying: To fool everyone else, you must first fool yourself?"

He gazed at the grave and added:

"If we want our enemies to believe we’ve given up searching for clues, then we must show them that we've accepted the fact."

Arthur looked at Demetrius with a questioning gaze.

"But who are we trying to fool? Who is the enemy?"

"Everyone is the enemy."

"What?!"

Before Demetrius could answer him, the raindrops started to fall from the sky.

The servants approached them with umbrellas and shielded them from the rain.

After a brief silence, Demetrius spoke up:

"We shall take our leave now."

Arthur had a contemplated look on his face as he said:

"I... I want to stay for a moment longer."

"Alright."

Demetrius then turned and strode towards the carriage.

'Sigh... Why is this happening to me?'

Arthur was confused by the earlier conversation with his grandfather. He still couldn't understand why his grandfather was so sure that everyone was the enemy, and not that his own son might have committed the crime.

'I don't know who we're fighting and why?'

Arthur's head was filled with hundreds of questions, but there weren’t many answers to most of them.

He gazed at the wet grave for a while before placing the flowers on it.

"Haa... I will be taking my leave because of the sudden downpour. I shall visit you again sometime later, Father."

Arthur turned around, stepping on the damp ground, the rain falling around him as he looked up at the dark clouds.

'I don't think the rain will stop anytime soon.'

Arthur stepped inside the carriage and sat opposite his grandfather, who shouted:

"Let us depart!"

The carriage then moved forward as Arthur looked outside the window, his right hand supporting his face, chin resting atop the back of his hand.

'I should look for more clues soon.'

***

The carriage stood at their next destination, and Arthur gazed outside the window.

'Huh? I thought we would be going to a restaurant or something, but this…'

It was not the kind of place Arthur had expected.

Before them stood a modest establishment named Brew & Barrel. Its sign was unassuming, white lettering against darkened glass, a place tucked away from Westmere's grand avenues, its presence subtle, almost forgettable.

However, Arthur knew about this place.

Because he had read about it in the novel.

To the ordinary passerby, it was nothing more than a quiet cafe by day and a bar by night, known for its fine coffee and well-aged liquor. 

But beneath that facade lay something far more insidious.

This was a front for The Obsidian Quill — a guild of information brokers whose reach extended far beyond the capital. A place where whispered transactions determined the fate of nobles and commoners alike.

Here, secrets were bought and sold over dark-roasted coffee. Deals were sealed with the clink of glasses, and orders were placed with words disguised in the banal exchange of pleasantries.

By morning, answers arrived, tucked within the folds of special-edition newspapers that only the right people knew how to read.

Arthur stepped out of the carriage, his boots meeting the dampened cobblestone. A faint chill lingered in the evening air due to the heavy downpour.

Demetrius moved forward without hesitation, and Arthur followed a step behind.

The dim lighting cast a warm, golden glow over the wooden interior. Shelves lined with bottles loomed behind the counter, their amber contents catching the flickering candlelight. The scent of aged whiskey and polished oak hung in the air.

"Welcome."

A lone man stood behind the counter.

His wavy, dark-blue hair fell loosely around his face, partially obscuring his features. The strands of it framed his sharp eyes, which carried the exhaustion of long hours, yet remained keen.

He was dressed in a fitted vest over a white button-up shirt, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, lending him a relaxed but professional air.

He held a wine glass in his right hand, idly wiping it clean with practiced ease.

Demetrius strode toward the counter, and Arthur followed, taking a seat beside him on one of the polished stools.

Demetrius spoke up to the bartender.

"Whiskey."

He was certain that he would be served without question.

Another bartender, an older man with a neatly trimmed mustache, acknowledged the order with a nod.

"Understood, Sir."

The moment Demetrius' voice cut through the low hum of the bar, Arthur knew the true conversation had begun.

"How much time will it take to get my drink?"

It was a simple question, one that could have meant nothing more than idle impatience. But Arthur knew better.

The man behind the counter paused for only a fraction of a second, his fingers stilling over the wine glass he had been polishing.

It was subtle, barely perceptible, but in a place like this, where words held double meanings and silence was a language of its own, even the smallest hesitation spoke volumes.

He resumed his work, his movements smooth and unhurried.

"It'll be done in two minutes."

It was a response that meant far more than it seemed.

Arthur kept his expression neutral, his fingers resting lightly on the counter.

If he hadn’t known any better, he might have let the exchange pass as nothing more than a mundane interaction.

But here, beneath the dim glow of oil lamps and the scent of aged whiskey, the air was thick with the weight of secrets.

The man’s gaze flickered toward Arthur for the first time.

"Which drink shall I serve this young man?"

The words were casual, but Arthur could hear the true question woven beneath them.

Demetrius' expression did not waver.

"A new drink, perhaps?"

It was a declaration.

The man's expression didn’t shift, but something in his posture did, a subtle realignment, as though re-evaluating his approach. His fingers trailed along the rim of the glass he was holding before he finally responded.

"I understand. But we don’t have any new drinks. How about an old wine?"

Demetrius inclined his head slightly.

"Sure."

Without another word, the man reached for a wine glass and settled it down in front of Arthur.