Two weeks had passed since that day. But to Arin, it felt like no time had passed at all. Ardalis felt colder now. The sun stayed in the sky, pale and distant. It lit the streets, but there was no warmth.

The city moved on. Vendors called out. Patrols passed. People hurried by. Everything looked as it should. But nothing felt the same to Arin.

Something had broken inside him the moment he walked out of that house, perhaps his faith or even his very foundation. Since then, every move, every word had been automatic. He had closed the case. Kael wrote the report. Even conducted a preliminary review on a new assignment. He had done it, all of it. But it felt like someone else had. Arin only watched himself from afar.

His mind was still trapped in that day, in that house. The spiral still seemed to vibrate in his palm.

The mother’s hollow gaze was burned into his thoughts; it held neither pain nor hope, just a vast emptiness. Since that day, he and Kael had barely exchanged a word.

And honestly, he hadn’t wanted to. Maybe it was fear. Kael’s words still echoed in his mind:

“Our mission was to understand what happened to the children, not save them.”

No matter how often he repeated that sentence to himself, it brought no comfort. What good was understanding, anyway? Understanding wouldn’t bring the children back. It wouldn’t save the victims.

Maybe it was just a polite, clinical way of saying: "We did what we could."

But had he really? He still hadn’t figured out what had taken hold of that woman. He didn’t even know what that thing truly was. And was the spiral really what they thought, or meant for something else entirely? Why had it taken Azimushan so long to realize she had been possessed?

Azimushan...

He had gone quiet too. He no longer spoke the way he used to. He gave short answers to his questions; sometimes he avoided them altogether. Arin could sense his unease in the things he didn’t say. Whatever this was, it had scared even him.

And Arin knew: anything that could frighten a jinn was powerful enough to tear a human apart.

***

Kael stepped through the massive gates of the Central Enforcement Bureau to deliver his report. This place stood as a symbol of the Empire’s rebirth after the civil war: towering structures of steel and glass with sharp, severe lines, an intricate network of colossal pipes and industrial machinery. Metallic coldness and shades of gray radiated an air of modernity and strict discipline.

Holographic maps and streams of data moved constantly across the walls, while orders and reports were transmitted instantly through digital channels. Here, man and machine worked in seamless tandem; everything was methodical, structured, and designed with a purpose. This was the new face of the Empire, risen from the wreckage of civil war: a system armed with technology, maintained through surveillance, and held together by absolute control.

Kael had been instructed to deliver his report directly, by hand, to the highest-ranking officer, the Chief himself. He was fully aware of how unusual that was. For a first assignment as an Observer, making contact with upper management this swiftly and this directly felt… strange.

Seated at a desk before a broad window overlooking the city, the Chief reviewed Kael’s data report with a cold, detached expression, scanning the display swiftly before giving a curt nod of acknowledgment.

The Chief was clearly aging, but nothing about him felt weak. His gold and purple uniform made him look almost ceremonial. Medals shined across his chest. Kael noticed the black pin at his collar. It looked out of place, too polished, too quiet.

He watched the Chief stroke his mustache while keeping his eyes fixed on him. Kael couldn’t help but fidget. That look was more than a glance, it was an assessment.

The Chief didn’t say anything at first. Just leaned back. Then his voice came, sharp and measured.

“Is there anything you wish to add to your report, Mr. Corwin?”

Kael hesitated briefly. Then, drawing a slow breath and steadying his voice, he replied:

“Yes, sir. In this case, there is a pattern that does not match the characteristic possession methods of the jinn we have encountered before. Remarkably, Arin adapted quickly to these unusual circumstances. It’s rare to see someone remain that calm under such unusual circumstances. Despite the difficulties of the situation, it speaks to his strength of character.”

The Chief didn’t answer right away. He simply nodded once, eyes sharp. When he spoke again, his voice was cold as ice.

“The Ravenscar family’s conduct during the civil war remains fresh in the Empire’s memory. Individuals may be judged on their own merits, but a bloodline still bears its shame.”

He paused for a moment, then continued:

“You will keep him under observation. Close observation. This is not merely a suggestion; it is a necessary part of your assignment, and one we will not overlook.”

Kael remained standing, waiting for the man to say more. But the Chief said nothing further. His holographic projection flickered in front of him and then vanished.

Kael gave a slight nod in the empty chamber, a gesture more of formality than respect, and stepped outside.

His footsteps echoed along the steel floors of the Central Enforcement Bureau’s long, gray corridors.

Kael moved forward with steady purpose, returning to his duty. The orders were clear: Observe. Record. Report.

And in the back of his mind, the Chief’s words lingered:

A bloodline still bears its shame.

***

The old man looked long and hard at the faded photograph on the wall; perhaps for the tenth time today. The last picture of them standing side by side as a family… His lifelong love, his son and daughter-in-law, both laid to rest at a young age. His gaze lingered on little Arvin, cradled in his daughter-in-law’s arms. He had grown now and had long awaited the call from the Magical Oversight Council, yet still, the old man felt uneasy. He sighed deeply. The fear of having sent his only grandson to Ardalis knotted his throat once more. That city… was not the heart of Aethelgard, but a nest of vipers. Power struggles, endless games where friend and foe blurred indistinguishably… How could Arvin survive in the midst of such chaos, unaware of it all?

They had been exiled after the civil war, forced to live in a quiet, incomplete life on the border, hidden from everyone. He had raised Arvin with love, but utterly alone.He couldn’t talk about it. Not the past, not what they’d been through.

His grandson didn’t need that kind of truth.

Still, the silence was heavy. After all these years, it pressed down on him.

He reached into his coat and unfolded the letter. Each line hit him harder than the last.

Carefully, the old man pulled the letter from his pocket and reread each line slowly, as if the words might wound him.

“I have received my provisional certificate,” Arvin had written. “But now I am only allowed to summon my jinn under supervision. Otherwise, I will be considered an enemy of the Empire.”

The first time he read those words, his heart had clenched. This time, his brow furrowed deeply. This was definitely not normal. He had never heard of such a restriction before. For someone as talented as Arin, to be suddenly and strangely limited outside the usual rules was incomprehensible.

Each time he read the letter, the words felt more careful. Measured. As if his grandson had chosen them one by one. He placed the letter on the table and lowered his head. Somewhere in his mind, his son’s voice returned. Words from years ago, still clear: “No matter what happens, protect him. If we go, only you will be left.”

Elion Ravenscar stared out the window, his gaze stretching far, far beyond.