The office was quiet in the way expensive places always were.

  Not silent. Just controlled.

  Irving felt it the moment he crossed the threshold. The sound of the city vanished behind thick stone walls and layered doors designed to smother noise as effectively as they repelled intrusion. Even his own footsteps seemed muted, swallowed by plush carpeting that gave just enough resistance to remind a man he was walking on wealth. Everything here existed to make noise optional and mistakes very noticeable.

  Mortimer felt it too, though he would never have put it into words. He rolled one shoulder as they walked, wincing as the movement pulled at bruises earned less than an hour ago. One side of his coat was torn and blackened with soot from the blast at the bank. There was dried blood at his collar that did not belong to him, stiffening the fabric. The two men looked profoundly out of place here, dressed like violence in a space designed to forget it existed.

  A butler waited just inside the entryway.

  He was thin, elderly, and immaculate in the way only people who had never been poor could truly manage. White gloves. Perfect posture. Not a single hair out of place. His eyes flicked over Irving and Mortimer with mild professional concern, cataloging their condition without judgment or curiosity. Whatever he thought of them stayed locked behind a lifetime of trained neutrality.

  “The master will see you now,” the butler said.

  His voice carried no inflection that suggested this was a choice.

  He turned and led them down a short corridor lined with artwork Irving did not recognize but instinctively knew was worth more than most lives. Landscapes from places Irving had never seen. Abstract pieces that made his eyes slide away if he looked too long. A few old banners mounted behind glass, their fabric preserved far beyond what age should have allowed. Each bore symbols that spoke of lineage, conquest, and debts paid in blood rather than coin.

  Mortimer slowed near one of them, squinting. “I remember that one,” he muttered. “Third Ward uprising.”

  The butler did not acknowledge the comment.

  They stopped before a pair of double doors made from dark, richly oiled wood. Carvings along the frame were subtle, visible only when the light struck them just right. Wards hummed faintly beneath the surface, old and powerful, layered one atop another until they blurred together.

  The butler opened the doors and stepped aside.

  The room beyond was an exercise in controlled excess.

  Mahogany dominated the space. The desk alone was massive, its surface polished to a mirror sheen, its edges carved with restrained patterns that caught the light without demanding attention. Shelves behind it held ledgers, bound in real leather, their spines marked with dates rather than titles. Between them sat artifacts that Irving knew better than to stare at directly for too long. Objects that bent the air around them in subtle, unpleasant ways.

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  The man behind the desk was immaculate.

  Perfectly groomed hair, just beginning to grey at the temples. Tailored suit cut to his frame so precisely it might as well have been grown there instead of sewn. His hands rested on the desk, fingers steepled, nails clean and trimmed. Rings adorned two of his fingers, understated bands that radiated quiet power rather than ornamentation.

  Two other men stood against the wall.

  They wore suits as well, but the illusion ended there. Thick necks. Heavy hands. The way they stood gave them away instantly. These were not guards who waited for trouble. They were men who expected it.

  “Boss,” Irving said.

  The man behind the desk smiled faintly, just enough to acknowledge the word.

  “I hear,” he said, voice smooth and refined, “that the attack on Grumplestein’s carriage did not go off perfectly.”

  Sarcasm dripped from every syllable, each one placed with surgical precision.

  Irving swallowed. “Yeah, boss. Sorry. There were… complications.”

  The man’s gaze shifted, settling on Mortimer.

  “Mortimer,” he said. “You told me you hired some of the best thugs in the city to handle this.”

  Mortimer straightened instinctively, as if responding to an officer rather than a crime lord. “I did, boss. Grump had some real tough cookies guardin’ him. In Stormtrooper armor.”

  One of the man’s eyebrows rose, just slightly.

  “And I told you that was a possibility,” he replied calmly. “Didn’t I?”

  Mortimer nodded. “You did, boss. We was ready. Had weapons meant to deal with ’em. Nets, stunners, explosives. But those boys was good. Real good.”

  He hesitated, jaw tightening. “We lost fifteen men.”

  Irving nodded quickly, eager to reinforce the point. “Yeah, boss. They were disciplined. Real coordination. And the carriage itself had some kind of magic dampener on it. I couldn’t even toss a spell. It was like my magic wouldn’t go near them. Wouldn’t even leave me if I directed it close.”

  The man leaned back in his chair, expression thoughtful rather than angry.

  “I see,” he said. “A mobile suppression field. Expensive. Difficult to maintain.”

  He steepled his fingers again. “Well, gentlemen. I suppose I can’t blame you both.”

  Irving let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.

  He did not notice the movement behind them.

  One of the men in suits stepped forward silently. A length of wire glinted briefly in the light.

  Then it was around Mortimer’s neck.

  The garrote bit deep as the man pulled and twisted with practiced ease. Mortimer’s hands flew up instinctively, fingers clawing at the wire, veins bulging in his neck as he fought for air.

  “Boss!” Mortimer croaked.

  The man behind him kicked the back of Mortimer’s knee with brutal precision.

  The big man went down hard, knees slamming into the carpet, hands still scrabbling uselessly at the wire.

  The garrote tightened.

  Mortimer thrashed, strength monstrous even as his body betrayed him. He slammed an elbow back, twisting and bucking. He struck the desk with his shoulder as he fought, scattering papers, and tried to tear the wire away. The man behind him adjusted his stance, leaned his weight, and twisted.

  Seconds later, Mortimer’s movements slowed.

  The wire cut into flesh.

  Mortimer went limp.

  Irving stood frozen, sweat breaking out across his back and brow, heart hammering in his chest.

  The man behind the desk did not look at the body.

  “So,” he said mildly, “I choose to blame him.”

  His eyes returned to Irving.

  “He was just muscle, after all,” the man continued. “Replaceable. You, on the other hand, actually have some value, mage.”

  Irving nodded rapidly, throat dry, legs threatening to give out beneath him.

  “Send a message to my brother,” the man said. “Tell him about Grumplestein’s little Steam Fort. Tell him about the gold. I want it intercepted before it leaves the Empire.”

  Irving swallowed. “Yes, boss.”

  The man smiled, satisfied.

  The butler reappeared at the door, hands clasped behind his back, expression serene as ever.

  Irving did not look at Mortimer as he was escorted out.

  He did not need to.

  Some lessons were unforgettable.