As always after every storm, the sun rose the next morning beneath a perfectly clear, blue sky. The air turned cold and pure, carrying the scent of damp earth, wet leaves, and the faint smoke drifting from hearths. It seemed the townspeople had decided, as usual, to completely forget the previous night, as if it had been nothing more than a fleeting collective nightmare they had chosen to erase, resuming their daily routines with fabricated smiles.

  I sat behind my heavy wooden desk on the upper floor of the ancient stone building that overlooked the river, its water flowing slowly beneath the old bridge. Golden sunlight pierced the high arched windows and reflected across the desk’s surface, illuminating the stacks of papers before me: monthly production reports printed in neat lines, detailed financial ledgers filled with columns of numbers, and documents from the early years after I took over the mine, some spotted with old ink, others yellowed by time.

  There was no longer enough space to keep everything; newer files piled up without pause. I began sifting through the old records, discarding what was worthless and keeping what mattered, a routine motion I had grown accustomed to over the years. My mind was partially adrift when my hand suddenly stopped over a particular page. I scanned the lines again, once, then again, still unsure what had unsettled me.

  Something was not right.

  At first, I tried to convince myself it was merely an optical illusion or fatigue after a long day. Perhaps I had misread the numbers, Such things happened, and I knew that well after years of dealing with records.

  But when I reviewed the pages again, more deliberately this time, I realized the problem wasn’t a hidden error; it was its absence. Not a single fluctuation in prices, not even a minor loss, no trace of any expected irregularity in the mine’s operations. No shipping delays, no labor strikes, no sudden rise in costs. Everything was unnervingly stable, precise, perfect in a way that invited suspicion. Profits were consistently high beyond reason, costs were improbably low, and production ran like clockwork with no deviation. It was as if someone had meticulously designed these numbers to read this way.

  I pulled out a fresh sheet of white paper and began recalculating to see if I might uncover a mistake. Once. Then a second time. Then a third. The results never changed.

  No mathematical error.

  The real problem was that the signature at the bottom of every page was unmistakably my own.

  If any of this had truly happened, I would have remembered it. I was not careless in that period, nor naive to such an extent. I had reviewed every detail myself.

  And yet, my memory was utterly silent. Absolute emptiness. As if those three years had been erased, wiped clean.

  I pressed my eyelids shut, squeezing every corner of my memory until my temples throbbed, trying to conjure even a single scene, a fragment of sound, a moment from those three vanished years.

  Taking over the mine, that moment which should have been the pinnacle of my life. Why couldn’t I recall it?

  The cold pressing at my chest spread into a slight tremor in my hands, causing the paper to quiver between my fingers. I turned my gaze to the medals on the wall, gleaming beneath the slanted sunlight, arranged in neat rows, each bearing a precise engraving and ribbon of distinct color. When had I earned those first medals? I knew the dates, I knew the official reasons, but there was no feeling attached. No pride, no tension, no warmth that should have stayed with me.

  I was on the verge of collapse under the weight of this terrifying void, my head spinning as the room suddenly felt far too narrow, when a sudden knock came at the heavy wooden door.

  “Sir?”

  “Come in,” I replied.

  The young assistant entered with measured steps, holding an envelope sealed with glossy black wax that caught the light like a dark eye.

  “You have a message, sir… from the Valerian imperial family.”

  “Place it here,” I interrupted.

  He set the envelope on the desk, bowed slightly, and departed.

  I stared at the seal, the emblem of the Valerian Imperium. A summons that could not be ignored, and certainly not sent lightly.

  The letter was written in elegant formal script on thick paper edged with gold, bearing a raised black seal at the bottom displaying the sigil of the Valerian Imperium, a double-headed eagle clutching a sword and scepter.

  It began with a formal greeting:

  > In the name of Emperor Julius I, Guardian of the Realm and the Land, and by the authority granted to me by the Council of the Valerian Imperium, I, Marcus Junius Brutus, summon you, Director of the Mine and Bearer of Honors of the Imperium, to an emergency council at the Palace of the Valerian Imperium on the fifth day of the first month, Year 446 of the Imperium.

  Subject: Revelation of the secrets of the Storm, based on confidential records to be disclosed exclusively at the council.

  Attendance is mandatory, and you are required to bring any documents relevant to the history of the mine.

  In case of delay, guards of the Imperium will be dispatched to escort you.

  Signed: Elius Valerian, Scribe of the Imperium.

  The secrets of the Storm? Were they serious? Did they truly dare to make such claims?

  I checked the date written at the bottom. The fifth, in only three days. I looked again at the financial papers before me, my strange signature staring back. Should I take them with me? Should I present evidence of my lost three years before the Council? Should I confess that a part of my life was gone, perhaps filled with things I could not remember?

  In the end, I decided to place the papers in my bag and ordered the assistant to prepare the carriage immediately.

  I left the office, descending the cold stone stairs. The medals on the walls no longer looked like achievements, just hollow echoes of memories I no longer possessed. I was fleeing the office, yet I carried it with me.

  I reached home and stood before the large wooden door for a few seconds, steadying my composure. I straightened my attire and brushed my face with my hand as if to wipe away the weight I had carried throughout the journey. I breathed in deeply and pushed thoughts of the mine, the documents, and that strange signature to the farthest corners of my mind. For this moment, I resolved to be isimud they all knew.

  The door opened, and my daughter’s voice broke the tension.

  “Papa!”

  It was not merely a greeting, it was a command to begin. Rather than collapsing into a habitual embrace, her small hands gripped my waist and pushed me forward into the house with surprising force, a strength I had never grown accustomed to despite all these years. She propelled me onward as if I were nothing more than a feather in the wind. Her wide blue eyes sparkled with that familiar gleam, the one reserved for candy.

  Once my feet were inside the house, Abigail slipped from my grasp to begin her usual raid. She wasn’t rummaging aimlessly; rather, she was searching my pockets and bag with the precision of a hunter stalking its prey, until a triumphant cry rang out as she pulled out a small rolled-up paper. It was her beloved Barley Sugar, that twisted golden candy she adored, which released the scent of caramelized sugar and lemon the moment its wrapper was opened.

  The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

  Celine approached just then, her steps confident and purposeful.

  She was a striking woman: tall, strong in build, her long red hair flowing like living flame. Her dark brown eyes held a sharpness capable of piercing through pretense and doubt. She handed me a cup of water, then sat beside me on the sofa, her features beautiful yet laced with a concern she had not yet voiced.

  “You’re home early today,” she said softly, her voice calm yet observant as she noticed my irregular breathing.

  “Is something wrong?”

  I did not answer immediately. Instead, I reached into my coat pocket and presented her with the letter sealed in black wax.

  As Celine read the document carefully, I found myself lost in Abigail’s world. I held her round cheeks gently in my hands, watching her chew on her barley-sugar candy with childlike delight.

  “Did they really discover the secret?” Celine asked suddenly, without taking her eyes off the letter.

  “I don’t know,” I replied, my voice uncertain. “But I think I have to go.”

  Celine gripped the paper tightly, nearly creasing it with her concern.

  “What exactly do they want from you? Your expertise as a former investigator? Or is there something about the mine involved?”

  I was still distracted, my fingers moving on their own, toying with Abigail’s cheeks, pressing them gently, releasing them, then returning without conscious thought.

  “Papa, stop…”

  She said it softly, still chewing her candy, her tone barely cutting through the noise in my mind.

  “Papa, stop…”

  Her voice was firmer this time.

  But my hand did not stop. And then, tiny teeth clamped down on my finger in a light yet sharp bite.

  I looked at her in surprise.

  She stared back with furrowed brows, the candy still in her mouth.

  “I told you to stop, but you didn’t listen.”

  “Sorry… I wasn’t.”

  Celine managed a faint smile, though worry lingered in her eyes.

  “When will you leave?”

  “Now,” I answered.

  She hesitated. “Shall I come with you?”

  “No… I don’t think I need a personal guard right now."

  Celine nodded, attempting to hide the worry, and perhaps the pain, that surged beneath her composed exterior.

  “Very well. But make sure you write the moment you arrive. And if anything feels off…” she paused, “just tell me. I’ll come immediately.”

  “Of course.”

  I placed Abigail gently on the floor and prepared my luggage. I went to the bedroom and gathered my formal clothes, select important papers from the desk, and essential personal items such as a small concealed dagger and a pouch containing money and maps. The luggage was light, but each piece weighed heavily with the significance of the journey ahead.

  When I finished, I took the bag outside to where the carriage waited and placed it in the back with the help of the driver.

  I returned inside for one final farewell. I hugged Abigail and kissed her forehead as she cried softly, asking for more candy when I returned. Then I turned to Celine, who stood strong yet silent. I embraced her tightly and whispered in her ear:

  “I’ll be back soon.”

  And then I stepped out, climbing into the carriage, my heart tightening with each step away from the home I cherished.

  As the carriage approached the city’s main railway station, a sense of unease settled over me. The journey to the Valerian Imperium would not be easy, not because of the distance, but because of everything that lay behind and ahead.

  I decided to take the train to save time; the mountain roads at this time of year were perilous and winding. I boarded the rear carriage, where the seats were nearly empty except for a few isolated passengers. I found my seat by the window, an old habit I never quite outgrew, as the view always brought some small comfort.

  As the train lurched forward and I watched the familiar landscape fade behind me, I was deep in thought about the letter, the financial papers, and that strange signature. Then a voice broke through my reverie, familiar and mocking:

  “Why did they put us in this carriage of all places?!”

  I looked up.

  Two seats away stood a woman with long white hair that flowed like silk beneath the dim lights. Her crimson eyes gleamed like blood rubies in shadow. She wore black gloves that covered her hands completely, and her elegant black attire suggested noble descent. Beside her stood a sturdy man with a neatly trimmed beard and a leather coat that rustled softly with each movement. His eyes scanned the carriage warily, as if he were guarding unseen threats.

  “Rona?” I called her, almost in disbelief.

  Her head turned toward me, and surprise bloomed into a wide smile.

  “isimud!"

  She approached with quick, familiar steps, Baldur following close behind, offering a friendly smile while his eyes remained alert.

  We sat together and began exchanging old memories quickly, as though no time had passed at all.

  Then I asked the question that mattered most.

  “What brings you two here?”

  Rona glanced at Baldur quickly, a look full of mutual understanding, then turned back to me.

  “We received an official summons… to the same meeting at the Imperial Palace, isimud. You too?”

  “Yes, I received the same summons as well,” I said in a calm voice, trying to hide the tension that was raging inside me: “But what do you think? Do you truly believe the Imperium has uncovered the secret of the Storm? Or is this just political muscle?flexing to assert their dominance over neighboring states?”

  Rona laughed lightly as she leaned back in her seat, her crimson eyes gleaming with sharp intelligence : “You’re always the skeptic, isimud. But I agree with you. I think it’s more like an imperial show of cleverness. Imagine it: they gather the best minds like us, drop some vague hints about a ‘great discovery,’ then proclaim that the Storm is merely a natural phenomenon. That’s how they prove their scientific and military superiority to their rivals without revealing anything real or of value.”

  Baldur looked at her with a faint admiration, then said:“I agree with Rona. If they really had discovered the secret, they would broadcast it to the world to demonstrate their power. But if it’s extremely dangerous… maybe they want to hide it, or use it as a weapon or bargaining chip. Think about it: storms that swallow people without a trace. If they can prevent them for themselves, the other nations would bow to them in order to stop the storms too. They could control everyone without a single battle.”

  Rona paused for a moment, staring out the window:“That’s true, Baldur. But if the secret is dangerous and they won’t publicize it for their own benefit, what do we do? Do we keep it with them, or do we reveal it to the world? Personally, I think if it threatens the lives of innocents, like those storms do, perhaps it’s better not to spread it.”.

  Rona glanced at Baldur with a look of mutual understanding before answering

  “And what about you, isimud?” Baldur asked, leaning forward:“If they have truly uncovered the Storm’s secret, what would you do?”

  I did not hesitate:“I would tell my wife first. Celine deserves to know the truth before anyone.”

  Baldur regarded me with curiosity.

  “your wife? Why her?” he asked. “In matters like this, most would think twice before revealing such things.”

  I leaned closer and told them the story, Celine’s story.

  Celine had lost her younger brother thirteen years ago to a storm unlike any before it. Alex was not chosen by the Storm he had simply been beside her, watching the selected ones walk into the heart of the tempest.

  But after the final blinding flash, when the storm had begun to fade, Alex vanished without a trace. No scream, no resistance, no trace at all.

  Celine searched everywhere that night, calling his name until her throat was raw. She found nothing. No body. No whisper. Nothing.

  This event shook her family and the entire village. The storms always followed rules. They chose their victims, took them, and then vanished. But that night, the rules were broken. Two children disappeared that year, and one of them had not been chosen? This was unprecedented. Something must have gone wrong that year.

  As I finished relating the story, I saw their faces change. The shock was unmistakable. Rona’s ruby eyes widened for a moment before narrowing in focus.

  "I've heard rumors of that story before, but I thought it was just a legend, something people whispered to frighten each other. Storms haven’t taken children in ages. Someone unselected? That’s completely unprecedented. Something must have gone wrong that year.”

  Baldur nodded slowly.

  “Yes,” he said, “Rona’s right. If it’s true, this changes everything.”

  Trying to lighten the tension, I turned to Rona.

  “So what about you?” I asked. “I heard you became a scientist, working on source stones. And are those gloves part of your work?”

  Rona smiled mysteriously, lightly touching her black gloves. “Yes, I became a scientist in the laboratories. Anyway, the burns are minor, or something like that. I don’t want to worry anyone, but those source stones… they remain strangely fascinating despite our ongoing experiments on them. You know that, after all, you are the largest supplier of those stones.”

  “And you, Baldur?” I asked, as though I didn’t already have an idea.

  Baldur’s expression turned serious.

  “Jack the Ripper has returned after all these years,” he said quietly. “I’ve been tasked with capturing him, but it’s proving more difficult than anticipated.”

  “Jack the Ripper?” I echoed, surprise tightening my voice. “Didn’t he disappear 4 years ago? How do you know he’s back?”

  “The killing style is the same,” Baldur explained. “Bodies torn apart, wounds that rot within minutes of death. And there’s evidence he’s using source stones. But the quantity he’s using, that’s illogical.”

  “How many grams?” Rona asked, curiosity piqued.

  “Perhaps a blade of no less than 150 to 200 grams,” Baldur replied. “Even at that weight, it would cost 300 to 400 gold coins.”

  “That’s completely unreasonable,” Rona murmured.

  “Even the wealthiest in the capital struggle to obtain that much,” I said, calculating in my mind. “That means Jack the Ripper isn’t just a mad killer. He has access to enormous

  resources, or a direct source of those stones.”

  I looked down at my hands, worry coiling in my chest.

  And a chilling thought crossed my mind.

  Was I the one supplying Jack with those massive quantities during the three lost years of my life?