Narrator: Faurgar

  Lair’s Manor met us with a silence found only in houses that have suddenly lost their souls. It stood slightly apart from the main street, behind wrought-iron gates, looking lost and forlorn, like an abandoned art model. The windows were dark; one on the first floor was shattered—a jagged wound on a clean facade. The front door was unlocked and slightly ajar, inviting in both the draft and a sense of foul foreboding.

  Inside, there was a draft of cold, stagnant dust, and a misplaced, cloying sweetness. It was the scent of expensive wine mixed with cheap incense, forgotten in the heat. On the living room table stood an open bottle, half-finished, with a dried dark drop on the rim. Beside it sat an empty glass, still trembling with the reflection of the sunset.

  "They worked fast," Gellia noted, running a finger through a thin layer of dust on a dresser. "And by the look of it, they weren't afraid of making noise."

  "Or they were damn sure no one would stop them," Flint added. He sat on the windowsill, but I saw him constantly glancing at the empty corners.

  The room looked strange. It was as if it had been put through a giant meat grinder and reassembled without regard for proper lighting or shadow. A cabinet had been forced open, shards of expensive wood scattered across the floor like broken bones. And yet, the jewelry shelf remained untouched: pearl earrings, staring like the eyes of dead fish, and gold rings lay in their places, mockingly glittering in the twilight. The paintings on the walls hung perfectly straight—not a single 'burglar' had brushed against them. Instead, the chairs, the dressers, and even a heavy grandfather clock had vanished.

  Flint stared at the marks the furniture legs had left in the dust—straight, precise grooves. No haste, no panic.

  "They hauled the furniture away," Priorin grunted, stroking the hilt of his axe. "Maybe the thieves didn't like the decor?"

  Or they diverted our eyes, I thought. A classic compositional trick: make the viewer look at the blatant absurdity in the center so they miss the vital detail in the corner.

  I knelt by the wall where the massive dresser had once stood and traced a line on the floor.

  "Look," I called Flint over. "The drawers were pulled... the wrong way."

  "What do you mean 'the wrong way'?" He knelt beside me, his ginger fur nearly brushing my shoulder. He smelled of ozone and deep-seated fear.

  "If you carry furniture out through the door, the grooves lead to the exit. Here, they stretch toward the window. You don't haul heavy goods that way, Flint. It’s inconvenient, stupid, and creates far too much noise."

  "Unless they very much wanted us to think that," Gellia remarked, stepping closer. Her armor gave a soft clank, breaking the silence.

  "Exactly," I nodded. "This is a stage. The furniture is just a loud performance for the neighbors. The real objective is hidden behind this organized chaos."

  Flint snapped his fingers, and a bluish spark flared in his palm. He ran his hand through the air as if probing the invisible fabric of reality.

  "Checking for sorcery..." he muttered. The spark raced along the walls and died out without a trace. "Nothing. No portals, no cloaking charms. They worked the old-fashioned way: with hands and heads. To be honest, that scares me more than any magic."

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  I walked to the broken window. Shards of glass lay inside, on the carpet. That meant it was broken from the outside. I breathed deeply—there it was again, that sweetness, thick and sticky like molasses on the tongue. On the windowsill were thin streaks of dirt, and a lacquered splinter with a tuft of expensive upholstery was wedged in a crack. Outside, on the stone plinth, were brownish streaks—someone had lowered something heavy. It smelled of dampness, sewage, and bitter wood dust.

  "Found it," I said. "The canal. Right under the house. Someone stood here, bracing against the wall—large boot prints, a man’s. That’s how they left."

  Priorin gave a dissatisfied grunt. "Who leaves like that? Out a window and into the filth?"

  "Those who leave light," I replied. "The furniture is a picture for the city guard's report. They themselves slipped down."

  From below, out of the dark cellar opening, came a sound: water lazily slapping against something wooden. Once, twice. Thump. Thump.

  "They knew exactly what they were looking for, where it was, and how to vanish," I straightened up. "This wasn't a robbery. It was a retrieval."

  "An operation," Gellia confirmed.

  I peered into the opening: the murky waters of Caesarca’s sewers swirled below, with fresh scuff marks on the damp stone. A trail of nearly invisible tracks led into the darkness.

  "We go down," I ordered. "Carefully. The canal keeps secrets better than any safe."

  Flint sighed, extinguishing the last of his magic. Priorin gave a wry smirk. "Just once, I’d like to not end the day in the gutters."

  "Get used to it," I replied. "Good deeds in Vellaris rarely smell of roses."

  I moved toward the hatch behind Priorin... and froze. Something about this perfect "exit through the sewers" grated on me. It was too convenient. An entrance, a trail, a cozy descent. If there’s a secret passage, there must be someone covering it. Otherwise, it’s not a professional job; it’s amateur hour. And Trudius’s people—if it was them—don't suffer from amateurism.

  "Wait," I raised a hand. "If they went that way, an observer might still be up top. I’m checking the perimeter."

  I returned to the room. I breathed in. Dust, if you know how to listen, speaks more readily than the living. I stepped out into the alley. The light in Caesarca had grown dimmer—the city was preparing for evening, staining itself in anxious crimson tones.

  I pulled up my hood and slouched, instantly shifting my center of gravity and gait. A few practiced movements: I smeared street grime across my cheek, used wax from my pocket to trace over an eyebrow, breaking the line of the brow ridge, and stuffed a wad of resin behind my cheek. My face shifted; my skin visually darkened, my gaze becoming dull and indifferent. A minute later, the puddle reflected an ordinary city laborer who cared for nothing but an extra copper. To an artist, a face is just clay to be molded into any form.

  I walked along the street, pretending to look for odd jobs. The empty windows of Lair’s Manor stared through me. The chill between my shoulder blades appeared almost instantly. That specific, aimed gaze of a professional.

  I pretended to adjust my boot and scanned the rooftops. The cornice on the left, third section. Between the chimney pots—a dark spot. For a second, a movement flickered, and then all was still. The gaze didn't leave; it just buried itself deeper into the tiles. The watcher was there. He sat motionless as a spider, waiting for the flies to enter the cellar web.

  I straightened and moved on, without changing my pace. Let them watch. The important thing was that they believed in the "fool."

  When I returned to the manor, I restored my face—wiping away the dirt, spitting out the resin, straightening my back. The brief ache in my facial muscles reminded me of the price of the mask.

  "No one," I said calmly, approaching Priorin. "Outside is clear. We can descend."

  A lie must sound as mundane as a weather report; otherwise, it’s of little use in our trade. Inside, everything was ringing. The sensation of the gaze hadn't vanished—it had grown thicker. Whoever had arranged this "inventory" hadn't left yet. He was sitting up there, watching us crawl into his trap. But I needed them to go down. I needed the abscess to burst now, while we were still in Caesarca. The Function demanded clarity, even if the price was the blood of my companions.

  "We’re going down," I repeated. "Gellia, you first. Cover us with your shield. It might be slippery down there."

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