"Enter," answered an old but clear voice, a timbre that vibrated with authority worn by the years.

  They crossed the threshold of Graven's office, a vast room that, to the squadron's surprise, was perfectly ordered and well-kept. A massive desk, carved from almost pearlescent light wood, dominated the space with its imposing size. Its surface disappeared beneath a heap of crumpled parchments with edges yellowed by time, an excellently crafted ore scale, and a collection of raw mineral samples whose sharp edges caught the light like blades. An imposing shelf groaned under the weight of registers with cracked bindings, arranged in alphabetical order, flanked by a row of carefully labeled mineral samples—fire-red pyrol?te, blancfer with metallic reflections, transparent diamant?te, verdel?ne with green tints—each bearing a label written in precise handwriting.

  A padded chair with leather worn by years sat behind the desk, facing two maps pinned to the wall. The first showed Shadow Fort in a network of faded lines that evoked pale veins, while the second revealed the mine's galleries, its tortuous tunnels snaking like the arteries of a black heart. The walls, adorned with a few chosen paintings, exhibited a painting representing the citadel, a solemn portrait of the Graven family with faces frozen in cold dignity, and a leopardys skin with spotted patterns that shone in the light, vestige of an ancient hunt.

  A bronze oil lamp rested near an overturned inkwell, its dried contents forming an ink stain that spread on the wood like a dark wound. The stale air carried the acrid smell of rancid tobacco, and through the ogival window, the wan light revealed the broken roofs below, their slates glittering like scales under the implacable sun.

  Sir Graven stood in the center of the room, leaning elegantly on an ebony cane with a pommel finely chiseled with a miniature hammer. His sparse white hair framed a wrinkled but lively face, while his gray eyes pierced the squadron with the precision of a sharpened blade. His dark tunic, adorned with a mining insignia—a stylized vein embroidered in tarnished silver thread—fell perfectly on his silhouette, defying the ravages of age.

  "Thus, Ardahm's envoys honor our humble dwelling once again with their presence," he declared in a measured voice, a fleeting smile grazing his dry lips. "However, knights, the messenger bird announcing your coming reached us five full days ago. How do you explain this considerable delay? Shadow Fort suffers under the weight of its woes, and each lost chime worsens our situation."

  He inclined his head with courtesy tinged with curiosity, his gaze probing Siegfried with attention.

  The knight straightened his shoulders and responded in a firm voice marked with respect.

  "A critical emergency detained us at Foam Port, Steward. A mission of the highest importance for Solheim. Nevertheless, here we are present and entirely at your disposal to act according to your directives. If you grant me, allow me to present the elements that Captain Ardahm reported to us. Then, if it doesn't bother you much, I would ask you some questions essential to our investigation."

  "Naturally, knight, please do," the Steward acquiesced, raising his cane in a gesture of agreement.

  The Green-Gaze briefly inclined his head and spoke with the authority of his rank.

  "For fifteen days now, your convoys have been vanishing on the northwest road leading to Ashforge. In response to your calls, the capital sent a Golden Lances squadron that also disappeared without leaving traces. Have new elements appeared since your last report? Important details that might have escaped us?"

  After a short pause, Graven opened his mouth to speak but the paladin resumed with a slightly harder tone.

  "Last thing. Although the captain warned us concerning tensions with the population, what we observed exceeds simple hostility. Your city seems gnawed by heresy, Steward."

  The old man indicated with a paternal gesture a row of rough wooden stools against the wall, their scratched feet creaking on the floor.

  "Please, do take a seat so that we may discuss these questions serenely," he proposed in a benevolent voice that sounded almost warm.

  Siegfried politely declined with a slight head movement, preferring to remain standing in a professional but open attitude, while his companions accepted the invitation.

  "Concerning the disappearances, you possess the essential facts, knight. The situation unfortunately remains unchanged since my last letter," Graven began, slowly heading toward his seat. "Our carts leave the mining installations perfectly loaded and disappear before reaching the Great Forge."

  With a weary sigh, he settled into his armchair.

  "The miners, superstitious spirits, whisper that a malevolent presence, an ancient curse, would act in the shadows. But these are only stories of men tired by labor, nothing concrete, I fear."

  "Nothing more, Steward?"

  "Nothing more. However, regarding the heretics... You are right. My city has been infested by Evil."

  "Has been?" asked Siegfried, surprised. "Why then was the captain not kept informed, Steward?"

  "Because I personally supervised the elimination of this gangrene. But let me explain the origin of this scourge, knight. Shadow Fort has suffered famine, thirst, and even the ravages of the Black Breath... Yet, despite the ill fortune that befell our city, Solheim never deigned to bring us aid. It is only thanks to the solidarity of the Bastion, New Earth, and the Refuges that we survived."

  Bitterness suddenly seized his voice.

  "So, inevitably, a group of lost souls began to question the benevolence of our Benefactor and sought refuge in spiritual darkness. But could we blame them?"

  "HERESY!" cried the young archer, abruptly rising from his stool. "No reason is valid to question Solar?s and embrace Nihi..."

  "R?CHARD!" his chief interrupted him, turning toward him with a severe look.

  Head lowered, the boy sat back down.

  "Please excuse my knight's impoliteness, Steward."

  "No need to excuse yourself. Being a valorous faithful at his young age is beautiful to see. But where was I?"

  "The crescent moons, Steward," the paladin helped him.

  "Ah yes. I was saying then that the lunar crescents spread on our walls like a disease, and the contagion propagated rapidly. More and more of our citizens abandoned the cult of Solar?s to open their hearts to Nihibel's dogmas. But the fires of the God of Suns were their punishment."

  The knight, who had grasped the implications of the Steward's account, deliberately placed his left hand on his sword's pommel and looked toward the corridor window where he could glimpse a corpse swaying at the end of a rusted chain.

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  "The hanged?" he said in a voice heavy with implications.

  "Exactly," Graven replied with barely concealed satisfaction, a flash of dark pride briefly crossing his wrinkled features. "I personally ensured to extirpate this spiritual plague before it entirely gnawed my beloved city. Each remains you have contemplated, rotting on the ramparts and littering our arteries, constitutes an eloquent warning for anyone who would nourish the temptation to embrace the darkness..."

  Suddenly, his gaze turned from the knight to rest on Mei with a disturbing intensity, as if a revelation had just imposed itself upon him. His gray eyes narrowed slightly, scrutinizing each feature of the masked face with attention that birthed a palpable unease in the room.

  "If you permit me, young lady... Your eyes... Your appearance... You embody the living reflection of that Noohrikane who led a squadron within these walls. The resemblance is striking. That same silky hair, that same fierce determination that blazes in your gaze like a contained fire. You are her sister, are you not?"

  The Green-Gaze stiffened instantly.

  "Why say living, Steward?" he questioned as icy suspicion infiltrated his thoughts. "No information in our possession allows us to conclude that Sara? is dead. Do you have intelligence that would have escaped us? Speak clearly, or I will begin to seriously doubt your sincerity."

  "Good heavens, knight, what an error!" the old man exclaimed, raising an appeasing hand, his fingers trembling slightly. "That was only an unfortunate turn of phrase, I grant you."

  He respectfully inclined his head toward the masked specter.

  "If my words have caused you pain, my child, I beg you to accept my most sincere apologies."

  A rapid but telling exchange of glances passed between the warrior and her chief. Both had perceived that the patriarch knew more than he was willing to say. However, Siegfried, desiring to test the solidity of his interlocutor's account, kept his cool.

  "It is I who must present apologies, Steward," he declared, accompanying his words with a respectful bow that masked his growing mistrust. "Despite my clumsiness, may I ask you some additional questions that could facilitate our investigation?"

  The old man nodded with a hand movement, inviting him to continue.

  "How frequently do your convoys take the road? Do they always leave from the same place and at the same chime?"

  The Steward brought his free hand to his chin in a pensive attitude, his eyes losing themselves toward the ceiling as if searching his memory.

  "I would say two expeditions per month, perhaps three depending on our miners' yield, but never more."

  Just after responding, he pointed to the wall map with his cane to trace a precise itinerary.

  "Departures are systematically made from the mining installations at the sound of the third chime, well before the start of daily activity. Moreover, just before your arrival, one of my foremen informed me that a convoy should leave as early as tomorrow morning."

  "This information will be precious to us, Steward," he said after turning his gaze to the city's wall map. "And where do the miners gather to rest after their rough days? A tavern?"

  "The Blancfer Tavern, in the heart of our city," Graven replied with a rapidity that betrayed his knowledge of local habits. "That's where they drown their fatigue in bitter beer and delight in unimportant chatter. If any secret circulates in our walls, it's there that it's whispered—or more often, that it's silenced forever. For you see, knight, miners are walking tombs, especially under this sky of fire."

  As one of his locks fell before his eyes, Siegfried pushed it back with his right hand and rested his irises as green as verdel?ne on the old man to make him a final request.

  "If this is possible, we would need a detailed map of your city as well as the mine, Steward. And we will also need your agreement to proceed according to our methods."

  Sir Graven struck the ground with his cane, the sharp clack resonating in the room. His fingers pulled a drawer from his desk to extract parchments that seemed quite recent.

  "Here is what you request, knight, accompanied by my complete blessing to act according to your will," he declared, rising with difficulty from his seat to go plant himself before the canvas representing his citadel and conclude. "However, take care. Shadow Fort doesn't like having its wounds laid bare. Ashes often hide burning embers, and imprudent curious ones burn themselves... Ah, I was forgetting: a room has been reserved for you at the Hollow Well Inn, near the tavern."

  The Vaan Hart saluted the patriarch with measured respect, but his eyes remained cold, marked with growing suspicion.

  "We are grateful to you, Steward. We will keep you informed of our discoveries rapidly."

  While carefully folding the maps to slip them into one of his satchels, the squadron chief signaled to his warriors. They rose from their seats and together they left the office. Guided by the young soldier, they crossed the dark corridors to an interior courtyard near the main entrance, where the pitiless sun struck a stone table covered with soot.

  There, Siegfried chased away the dust with a powerful breath and unfolded the Shadow Fort map given by Sir Graven. The city spread in a perfect diamond shape: the southwest entrance, the northeast fortress, the mining installations extending toward the east with their commercial road joining that of Ashforge, the tavern and inn situated in the center.

  He placed his hands flat on the rough surface, a contained fire illuminating his steel eyes.

  "As we were able to observe, a strange atmosphere hangs over this citadel, and we cannot trust this patriarch's declarations. His words rang false in my ears," he murmured, his gaze sweeping his companions, his voice charged with dark intuition. "Am I the only one with doubts about his sincerity?"

  Without uttering a word, his warriors confirmed with a unanimous nod.

  "Perfect," he said with a smile that stretched his lips, witness to his satisfaction at his squadron's perspicacity. "If we want to pierce the mysteries truly being woven here, we must act as if we knew nothing. Observe with attention. Track relentlessly. Listen in the shadows without ever revealing our presence. And more than anything, remaining vigilant."

  His index finger landed on the mining zone of the map.

  "R?chard. Find yourself an observation post. A height, a tower near the installations, no matter. With Plume, scrutinize everything: convoys, sentinels, suspicious movements. No detail must escape you, understood?"

  "Nothing will pass under our noses, Sieg, you can count on us," he replied in a voice where youthful assurance and mischief mixed, while affectionately stroking the feathers of his best friend perched on his shoulder.

  The paladin turned toward the Noohrikane.

  "Mei. Transform yourself into shadow and infiltrate the underground galleries to find the answers we seek there. You'll be alone, so take no unnecessary risks. That's an order."

  The specter didn't respond. Her eyes, ordinarily calm and calculating, had hardened. A fierce gleam burned there, cold and implacable. Since Graven's words about her sister, something in her had awakened. Something dangerous.

  Siegfried knew her well enough to read the mute promise in that gaze: if Graven was lying, if Sara? was dead, someone would pay.

  Before refolding the precious map, the Vaan Hart exchanged a knowing glance with his brother.

  "The two of us, we'll explore this citadel's streets in search of the slightest clue."

  He pivoted toward his young archer.

  "What chime are we at?"

  "The sixth is approaching rapidly," the latter indicated, consulting his timepiece before replacing it against his chest.

  The Green-Gaze granted him an approving nod and continued.

  "Rendezvous at the seventh chime's bell before the tavern. Let's remain extremely vigilant. This citadel has only hostile intentions toward us. Let's avoid any thoughtless bravery. Understood?"

  The squadron acquiesced in chorus, a resolute silence sealing their agreement. The paladin carefully rolled the map and slipped it into his satchel.

  "Forward," he commanded.

  Siegfried and Juuh'ma plunged into the labyrinth of paved alleys, their silhouettes disappearing between the leprous facades. R?chard and Mei headed toward the northeast exit, Plume gliding above them in a silent beat of wings.

  The black dust fell back on their traces, swallowing their steps as if the city itself sought to erase all proof of their presence.