In the dim holding cell, Fionntan was struck by a pair of wild, golden eyes. Only a sliver of light pierced through from the corridor, but it was enough to illuminate those iris' with an unsettling flicker.

The woman — an accused murderer who'd been interrogated for hours — did not exude fear or resignation; she radiated fury. Though she sat huddled against the wall, her posture tensed like a coiled spring, ready to strike.

Fionntan’s gaze traveled over her mud-caked feet and her frayed, stained dress, then up to her fiery hair that was spilling from a braid. Every detail corroborated her tale, yet an instinctual part of him resisted this narrative of being an innocent girl who simply happened to be witness to something horrible.

Something about her was…wrong.

‘How peculiar.’

The claustrophobic room was scarred with age and graffiti. On one side, a metal bench with a flimsy and stainted mattress offered meager comfort, but she seemed content with ignoring it.

A crimson line on the floor marked the limit of her shackled reach. Breaching the saftey of that boundary, Fionntan placed his briefcase down and knelt, leveling their gazes.

It was only then her gaze lowered; slowly sliding down as if recalling the role she was meant to be playing. Her eyes fixated on the raindrops dripping from his coat, pooling on the stone floor, spreading like encroaching shadows.

"Hello, Ms. Holt," he began, voice steady. "I'm Fionntan Ward. I'm here to interview you."

“I've been through this already," she murmured, her voice soft but laced with simmering anger. "Multiple times, by several people. Can't you just read their notes?"

Fionntan tilted his shoulder towards her to reveal an embroidered patch on his jacket. Black and gold threads depicted hands cupping a flame. Below, another emblem showed a red ribbon winding around a gold symbol with a storm cloud. "I'm with the Lapis Order," he explained. "Our procedures differ from the police."

Recognition sparked in Ellamae's eyes, but it lacked the typical fear Fionntan encountered. Then again, her brother — though low leveled — was also a Flicker. Perhaps that alone was enough for her to not see his kind as an immediate danger.

“Well, go on then,” Ellamae said irritatingly.

Smiling gently, Fionntan extracted a stack of photos from a pocket on the inside of his jacket. He laid them before her, revealing the grotesque images of Dugan Miles, a man whose imposing stature contrasted sharply with Ellamae's slight frame. 

In the photos, he was suspended by a knotwork of ghastly roots that had wrapped around him before piercing his skin like knives. It had not killed him, though. Dungan Miles had died slowly; bleeding out before rescuers could free him.

Ellamae flinched, retracting her bare foot slightly as one of the photos edged too close as if it would burn her.

“You know what you're seeing,” Fionntan said, his tone matter-of-fact. “These photographs capture the crime scene where you were arrested, so I will save you the details. What I want to know is your version of events.”

“I didn’t kill him.”

“I never said you did. Tell me what happened.”

“I was almost home when I saw him. I had finished early from work, so I was walking back when—”

“You were coming home from work?” Fionntan interjected, his eyebrows raising in surprise. “The reports say this happened before dawn.”

“I clean up for a butcher,” Ellamae explained. "They get their meat deliveries early. I clean as he prepares the cuts. Everything has to be ready by the time the shop opens."

“Seems like an uncomfortable task.”

“It's work and it pays.”

Obviously not well — considering her slight build — but given her past, options were likely limited. “So, after you left the butcher’s, then what happened?”

“I heard a noise — a cry of pain — from an alleyway. Even though I know alleys are dangerous even in the day, I had to go. I just…had a feeling that it was important to not ignore it. That's when I saw him,” Ellamae's eyes darted to the photo, “attacking my brother with a cudgel. Aldwin was bloodied, defenseless, and curled up on the ground, but the man did not stop. I thought he might kill him.”

Aldwin Holt: her last known surviving family, her protector. Fionntan could only imagine the shock she felt seeing him so vulnerable.

“Was Dugan Miles someone you knew?” He asked.

“No, but I've seen him before. Every night for about a week now, he has been lurking outside our flat, yelling about some debt Aldwin owed. The ruckus always woke the neighbors.”

‘Potential witnesses?’ A detail glaringly absent from earlier reports.

“And what was this debt about?”

Ellamae shifted uncomfortably. “He… never told me. Aldwin always tries to keep me from worrying over things. He says I should just focus on myself, and he will handle the rest.”

“But if you had to guess...?”

“We’ve always been... tight on funds,” she admitted.

‘Well, what do you know? There is something about his case that actually matches the reports.’ 

Aldwin Holt was of such a low power class that even The Lapis Order — the local branch of forceably enlisted Flickers  — hadn't recruited him. With how much society hated and feared Flickers, that pretty well only left the powercell factory for employment, where both pay and working conditions were lacking.

The siblings were not living beyond their means, but were still barely surviving. Fionntan had witnessed it firsthand: a dank, windowless boiler room where people rented floor space instead of beds or rooms. Some had pallets, but most were sprawled directly on the damp ground.

“Let's piece this together," Fionntan said. "Your brother owes a debt which is probably due to money loaned, but intimidations to pay that debt didn't work. So, they sent a bagman to give Aldwin a beating. You stumble upon this, then what? Did you try to intervene? Did you kill the man hurting your brother?"

“No!” Her head shook violently; sending fiery orange strands of hair in every direction. “I did hit him; I hit him with a stick, but that was it, and it was not enough to kill him.”

"And yet," Fionntan pointed at the photos, "he's unmistakably dead."

She didn't respond, so he continued; "This looks like Flicker magic. But the only Flicker at the scene was your brother, a mere Type D. He is not strong enough for this."

“Well, it wasn’t me either.” Ellamae Holt said firmly. “The way he turned towards me...it was like I never hit him at all. He made as if to hit me with the cudgel too, but the ground shook violently. I fell to the ground, and when I righted myself, he… he was like that.”

“If it was not you, if it was not your brother, then who? Who did it? Who else was there?”

For a moment, a hint of realization flashed in her eyes, but it was quickly consumed by palpable terror. Ellamae Holt clenched her lips shut, seemingly struggling with some inner turmoil.

 “Really? Nothing? Ms. Holt, that might have worked with the others, but it will not work on me. You were about to say something. What were you going to say? What do you know?”

A heavy silence enveloped the room. 

Fionntan exhaled, pushing wet strands of white hair from his face. "You might not know this, but your life hangs by a thread, that's it; just a single thread that is fraying by the second. This isn't about courtroom theatrics or jail-time. If you're shielding someone—"

“It’s not that! I swear it’s not that! I would tell you if I could, but I… I’m not allowed to say what I am thinking. She forbid me.”

“Not allowed to? Says who?”

"Doctor Compton, from the asylum," Ellamae said, then her voice dulled the emotion; as if she was reading from a script. "I stolen as a child. To cope, my mind... invented things. Speaking of those delusions might solidify them, so the doctor warned me never to talk about them. The doctor was very clear that if I did…I would have to go back.” She shuddered. “I cant go back. I cant.”

Fionntan frowned deeply. He liked to consider himself talented at reading others, and nothing in her told him she was lying, but they had hit some sort of wall. There was more to this, but the path was blocked.

‘Try a different angle.’

“That man who was murdered — Dugan Miles — was tied to very influential people. That alone put’s you at risk, but that is not even the worst of the dangers you are facing. Just days ago, there was a death very similar to what happened to Mr. Miles, only that time it was the daughter of a judge. From what I can gather, both he and some others are blaming you for both murders, and are using their connections to quietly have you executed. 

It will happen tonight, and to be perfectly honest, it is unlikely anyone will be punished for it. You are a dock-dweller, Ms. Holt, and to many, that makes you disposable.  If word gets out about a ‘mistake’ leading to your execution, no one would care. Your telling me what you believe is the truth — the whole of it — could be your only lifeline.”

The golden gaze flitted around, as though half-expecting asylum wardens to spring from some hidden corner. When Ellamae saw only bare walls, she relented in a near whisper. “In my... stories, I befriended someone. I didn't see him today, but he could do things like that.”

“Like control roots?”

She nodded.

“He was Flicker?”

Her lips pressed into a tight line, clearly indicating her reluctance to share more. Whatever had happened at the asylum seemed just as dreadful to her as the looming threat of execution.

“Very well. How about we do a trial jar test?” Retrieving his briefcase, he opened it, revealing a jar filled with a liquid that looked almost metallic in the right lighting, despite keeping its translucency. For regular people, there would be no reaction when touching the jar, but for Flickers, the solution would react would send glowing orbs dancing like fireflies.

 “Do we have to?”

“I am afraid we do.”

Her chin trembled, but Ellamae repositioned herself and reached forward. The chain clinked as trembling fingers reached out.

It was then Fionntan noticed her bloodied bandages.

"Stop!" He shouted. He moved to pull the case away.

But it was too late; her finger tapped the glass, and the liquid sensed her magic.

 

Once-lazy orbs jittered erratically. 

The jar shook violently.

And then, with a deafening blast, it shattered.

 

Terms:

• Bagman: an agent who collects or distributes the proceeds of illicit activities.
•