The blacksmith’s house was small, square, and rather clean for a tradesman who worked with slag and oil. The small living room smelled faintly of ash and boiled onions; a single window was shuttered against the evening gloom, and a hearth crackled as it kept out the chill. The man of the house stood behind his table, his trembling hands gripping an expensive looking sword.

  “Whoever you are,” he said, voice wavering, “I am warning you to get out of my house. I have friends in the guard, so you better leave while I’m feeling generous.”

  Investigator Ophis closed the small leather-bound journal in his hand and set it beside the untouched cup of tea on the table. He had been sitting there for some time already, half-hidden in the shadow by the hearth, his coat draped neatly over the back of the chair. The firelight caught the faint silver of the insignia pinned to his collar, a three-headed hound with its jaws shut.

  “Hello Johnathan, you can call me Investigator Ophis.” The man said. He raised his hands placatingly. “Don’t worry, I’m not here to hurt you, merely to ask some questions.”

  “And you couldn’t have asked them while I was working?” The man tightened his grip on the sword. “A likely story. You won’t find anything worth stealing here. Leave.”

  The investigator sighed. “I am not here to rob you, Johnathan. Nor am I interested in your ledgers, your valuables, or the secret stash of gold you have under that floorboard. I am not even interested in why you are in possession of several Supernatural tier weapons without a permit.”

  “I don’t—”

  “I am only interested in one transaction. A dagger you bought from some travellers. You managed to sell it on surprisingly quickly, and for a tidy profit if that bag of gold is any indication. I need you to tell me everything you know about these travellers and where they went.”

  The blacksmith took a step forward and opened his mouth to defend himself, but was interrupted.

  Ophis raised a hand. The room’s air seemed to tighten as he drew a fingertip through nothing, leaving behind a thread of dull, smoke-coloured light that hung for an instant before knitting itself into a small, angular circle. The circle rotated once, then moved forward through the spae between them. When it reached the smith, it spread like oil and vanished into his chest.

  The blacksmith flinched. He jumped back and started inspecting himself. “What did you—”

  “Truth-binding,” The investigator said. “A simple, non-invasive spell. You will not be harmed. You also won’t be able to say something you know to be false. If you try, nothing will come out.” He tilted his head a fraction. “It will also hurt a lot.”

  The man opened his mouth and promptly doubled over in pain, dropping his sword to the ground.

  “I told you.”

  “You broke into my house without a warrant,” The smith ground out, gasping from pain. “You can’t just—”

  “I can, actually,” Ophis tapped the insignia on his collar. “The Cerberus Division. We have jurisdiction over any magical anomaly, individual, or artifact within the borders of the Theocracy of Orenthia.” He let the words settle for a moment before continuing, voice soft but razor-sharp. “Now, answer my question. The travellers. Who were they?”

  Johnathan’s lips trembled. The truth-binding spell pulsed faintly inside his chest, an invisible weight tightening with every second he hesitated. “I— I didn’t get a name. He came by maybe a week ago. An old man, looking to sell off an enchanted dagger.”

  “Descriptions.”

  “Well…” The man hesitated, his eyes flicking around the room. “There’s not really much to tell. He was an old man, a bit below average height, with short-ish grey hair. He had a slight slouch to his posture, I think?” The man shrugged.

  ‘That description is pointless; people that match it are a copper a dozen.’ Ophis frowned, studying the blacksmith. ‘It’s a good thing that I already know about all its companions, or this would have been a massive waste of time. So, the shopkeeper came in alone, huh? I guess they found out about the warning. A shame.’

  Ophis refocused on the conversation. “And he sold you a dagger?”

  “Yes,” the blacksmith said quickly. “Beautiful make, surprisingly so. I assumed it was noble work, so I was a bit hesitant to buy it. Judging by this situation, I should have said no. Serves me right for being greedy.”

  “Where was he headed?”

  Johnathan grimaced. “He didn’t say. I asked, but the old man ignored me. He left my shop towards the north entrance, that’s all I know.”

  “North...” Ophis repeated the words slowly, as if tasting them. “And you’re sure it was only a week ago?”

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  “Six, seven days ago.”

  The investigator’s expression didn’t change as he tapped his fingers against the arm rest.

  “Very well.” He stood, picking up his journal and scribbling something inside. “You’ve been helpful.”

  The blacksmith sagged in relief, clutching the edge of the table as his knees trembled. “So I’m free to go?”

  “No.” Ophis cut him off, his voice as calm as ever. “Not quite.” He raised his hand again, the same faint thread of smoke-light coalescing between his fingers. “You’ll forget that I was ever here.”

  Johnathan’s eyes widened. “Wait—”

  The circle flared once, the light illuminating the room for a second. The blacksmith froze mid-protest, his mouth still open, his eyes unfocused for half a heartbeat before clarity returned. Ophis watched the shift dispassionately, then stepped past him toward the door.

  “Sleep well, Johnathan.”

  He slipped out into the night.

  The rain had slowed to a light drizzle, the air thick with the smell of wet dirt and cold iron. Ophis pulled his coat tighter as he stepped onto the narrow street. Lanterns flickered behind shuttered windows, their faint glow painting the puddles orange and red.

  Hillcrest. A town barely large enough to deserve the name. With a population of around ten thousand, the most notable thing about this place was its proximity to Crebes, a mere few days of travel away on foot.

  He reached into his coat pocket, withdrew a small metal disc etched with shifting runes, and brushed his thumb across its surface. The runes flared blue, then white. Thin, spiderlike strands of light spread outward from the device, crawling along the ground and walls, searching for traces of passage, magical or otherwise.

  The threads fanned across the street as he walked. They, touched doors, gutters, even the rain itself, before fading one by one.

  “Too long,” Ophis murmured, pocketing the disc. “The trail’s gone cold.”

  His expression didn’t change. A week was more than enough for wind and rain to erase most traces of movement. He looked like he had expected as much.

  As he moved through the town, his mind sifted through the information he had gathered so far, assembling and discarding theories in silence.

  It had been an exercise in frustration, trying to get any useful information out of the people involved. Oh, he had plenty about the creature’s combat strength and abilities, but for that to be useful, he had to catch the thing in the first place.

  He’d spoken with the Miganos family head first, as they were the primary victims of the incident. The old noble had been less cooperative than he’d hoped—too proud to admit weakness, too powerful for most of his tools to work on her. Still, it hadn’t taken much reading between the lines to see the truth.

  The Miganos were floundering. Word of the whole incident had spread, in no small part thanks to their efforts in inviting half the city to watch its conclusion. They’d also lost most of their private enforcers, leaving them considerably weaker than the other big families. On top of that, the marriage with the Levoris family had fallen through completely, owing to the fact that the bride-to-be was dead.

  Ophis had almost felt pity. Almost.

  It didn’t matter whether the noble family rose or fell. What mattered was that their loss had left gaps in the social web of Crebes, and those gaps had a tendency to birth problems that needed to be fixed.

  He’d moved on to others after that. The guard captain, his right-hand man, several of the other nobles in attendance, and many others. Each knew only a fragment of the situation, but together they’d formed a rough outline of what had happened in their city.

  For a monster to be this intelligent yet this weak… it was a blessing in disguise they’d discovered it now, instead of ten years down the line. Using other intelligent monsters as a comparison, Ophis was sure that given a few more years, it would grow into a threat very few people could handle.

  By the time he reached the edge of Hillcrest, the drizzle had thinned to mist. He crossed the road and entered the narrow side alley where the small inn he’d rented for the night waited—a weathered two-storey building that smelled faintly of mold and wet straw.

  The innkeeper had long since gone to sleep. Ophis moved silently through the hall, climbed the creaking stairs, and unlocked the door to his room. It was small but functional: a bed, a desk, and a small table.

  He hung his coat on the chair, sat, and withdrew a small black crystal from an inner pocket. Its surface glowed faintly as he brushed his thumb across the etched runes.

  “Investigator Ophis, reporting,” he said, tone as even as ever. “Current location: Hillcrest. Continued pursuit of the Crebes monster.”

  The crystal pulsed once, signaling a live connection. A flat, modulated voice responded. “Proceed.”

  Ophis leaned back slightly in the chair. “Confirmed passage of one of the target’s known associates—the elderly man named Grenil. He arrived in Hillcrest six or seven days ago, sold a dagger previously documented to have been in the target’s possession, then departed towards the northern part of town. No further sightings.”

  He paused, letting the words settle before continuing. “Given his established connection to the target, and the timeline of events, it is reasonable to assume they’re travelling together. The northern exit aligns with other reports suggesting movement away from Crebes.”

  “Based on terrain and geography, northeast remains the most logical route. West, south and southeast all lead toward the coast. Northeast is rural and sparsely populated—ideal for avoiding attention.”

  The crystal pulsed again, and a faint hum carried the reply. “Acknowledged. Continue pursuit. Reinforcements will be dispatched along the projected path. Maintain surveillance, but do not engage until confirmation from HQ.”

  “Understood,” Ophis said.

  The light from the crystal dimmed, the connection fading with a soft click. He put it back into his inner pocket, making sure it was secured. The room fell quiet again, the only sound the muffled patter of rain against the window shutters.

  He sat there for a long moment, staring at the droplets sliding down the windowpane. Then, he took out his journal, flipped to a fresh page, and wrote in his meticulous script:

  Confirmed Grenil sighting. Hillcrest. Likely travelling with target. Direction: northeast. Trail age: one week.

  He closed the journal, put it in the same pocket as the crystal, and leaned back in his chair.

  He was neither satisfied nor frustrated by the day’s events—they were just a step forward in a process he had already completed a hundred times before. The target would surface again, whether by chance or mistake. They always did.

  Tomorrow, he would continue north-east.

  ‘I wonder how that new recruit is doing.’ He mused as he turned in for the night. ‘She seemed pretty promising from what I could tell.’