The drab interior of the modest washroom was scantily illuminated by a flickering candle, casting long, eerie shadows along the damp walls. In this humble corner of her home, Lars prepared for her bath, her motions mechanical and detached as if moving through a dense fog of thoughts and dismal reveries.
Victorian homes in the slums rarely boasted the luxuries of plumbed showersâ€"a bath was often a laborious affair involving the heating of water kettle by kettle. Lars had filled the sturdy, freestanding tub earlier, and now, only the mellow warmth remained, the steam lightly dancing above the water's surface. The tub itself, an enameled relic, showed signs of wear, its white surface speckled with rust patches that told of better times long passed.
She undressed slowly, her movements languid as if each piece of clothing weighed more than it should. Her blood-stained garments fell to the plank wood flooring with a soft thud, as if they, too, were exhausted by the day's heavy toll. Stepping into the tub, Lars sank into the warm water, the heat enveloping her shivering frame, coaxing her muscles to relax in spite of the storm swirling in her mind.
As she settled into the tub, dark memories from the tragic incident at the Empire exams lurched forward, unbidden. Every blink of her eyes brought flashes images of chaos, the sharp glint of weapons, screams that pierced through the thick curtain of fear. She saw faces contorted by rage and desperation, each one engraved into her memory with unforgiving clarity.
With a deep breath, Lars dipped her head under the water, attempting to cleanse not just her body, but perhaps to wash away the haunting visuals that stalked the corners of her mind. She resurfaced, her hair clinging to her face, drops of water catching the candlelight like tiny stars lost in her dark tresses.
Her hands trembled as she reached for the soap, a simple, homemade bar lacking the fragrant allure of finer toiletries but appreciated for its plain efficaciousness. The suds gathered in her palms as she worked the soap, the white bubbles stark against the deep complexity of her thoughts. Each stroke of her arms as she scrubbed her skin felt like she was trying to rid herself of the day's horrors, each layer of dirt and blood metaphorically stripped away, yet the visceral memory of dread lingered.
The deeper she cleaned, the more pronounced the pulse of those terrifying images beating through her mind. The choking smell of smoke, the stark red of blood spattering against a backdrop of cold, unfeeling stoneâ€"each detail punctured the routine serenity of bathing.
In a rigorous motion, Lars scrubbed her arms, wincing slightly as the rough texture grazed over tender skin. The water around her turned a light pink, tainted by the very ordeal she wished to forget. She paused, her eyes closing tightly in a fleeting bid for respite, her face contorted in pain not entirely physical.
Overwhelmed, she dipped under the water once again, holding her breath as if she could drown the memories themselves. The silence underwater was a small solace, the muffled beat of her heart in her ears a reminder of her enduring spirit.
Eventually, she emerged, gasping for breath, her face slick and newly washed, but her eyes, those windows to the battered soul, were red-rimmed and weary. One last time, she poured water over herself, rinsed, and resolved to step out, leaving the water and its temporary solace behind.
Shivering as she emerged from the tub, Lars wrapped a threadbare towel around herself, the fabric rough against her skin, a stark reminder of reality waiting just outside the washroom door. She glanced once more at the tub, the dirty water a tangible testament to the day's ordeal.
The flickering candlelight played one last dance along her somber silhouette as she left the washroom, each step weighed down by the dread of dreams yet to come, yet every breath a silent vow to face whatever the morrow would bring.
Lars and Timmy sat opposite each other at a small, wobbly table in the cramped, dimly lit kitchen of their humble abode. The table was set simply with mismatched plates and a couple of tarnished forks. Steam rose from the heap of mashed potatoes and some thinly sliced meat, an aroma filling the small space, basic yet comforting.
Timmy was shoveling food into his mouth with a gusto that only a growing boy would have, his eyes bright and unaware of the weight in the room. Lars, on the other hand, mechanically pushed her food around her plate, barely taking a bite, her thoughts a million miles away.
"Why aren't you eating?" Timmy asked between mouthfuls, his words slightly muffled by the food in his cheeks. He paused to eye Lars with a mixture of concern and curiosity.
Lars looked up from her plate, forcing a smile. "Oh, I'm already full," she lied smoothly, trying not to let her lack of appetite betray the turmoil inside her.
Timmy shrugged and turned his attention back to his meal, but Lars's response didn't quite convince him. He knew his sister well enough to recognize when she was off her usual self. However, deciding to give her some space, he didn't press further.
To shift the focus from herself, Lars cleared her throat lightly and asked, "So, how was your day, Timmy?"
Timmy's face brightened immediately. "It was great! I helped Mr. Jacobs at the store today. He said I was a quick learner and even gave me an extra penny!" His enthusiasm was infectious, and Lars couldn't help but let a genuine smile slip through her mask of calm.
"That sounds wonderful, Timmy," Lars remarked, the warmth in her voice genuine. She was truly glad at least one of them had a good day.
"Yeah, and after that, I played cricket with the other kids. I hit the ball so hard; it almost went into Mrs. Higgins' garden!" Timmy chuckled, clearly proud of his sporting prowess.
Lars laughed softly, "Just be careful around Mrs. Higgins' garden. You know how she is about her flowers."
Timmy nodded, still grinning, then his expression turned teasing. "So, sis, met any interesting boys at the exams? You know, maybe a boyfriend?" he wiggled his eyebrows comically.
Lars blushed slightly, her demeanor turning nervously anxious. "Oh, no, nothing like that," she stammered, trying to dismiss his teasing. "It was all very serious and, um, focused on the exams."
"Sure, sure, but there's always time for a little romance, isn't there?" Timmy nudged, not missing a beat.
Lars shook her head, her voice tinged with a mix of amusement and exasperation. "Really, Timmy, it was just exams. No time for... that sort of thing."
Timmy laughed, seeing the slight discomfort he'd triggered in Lars. "Alright, alright, no boyfriends. Got it."
Attempting to regain composure, Lars asked, "What about you? Any new friends?"
"Loads!" Timmy exclaimed. "There's Alfie, Ben, and Sam. We're all going to the park tomorrow again. Maybe you could join us sometime?"
"I'd like that," Lars replied, her spirits lifted slightly by the normalcy of the conversation. "Maybe this weekend, if I'm not working I guess, haha."
"Yeah, and you can see how good I've gotten with the cricket bat!" Timmy beamed, proud and hopeful.
Lars nodded, a soft sigh escaping her lips as the weight of her own secrets pressed inward. But she maintained her smile for Timmy's sake, ensuring a semblance of normalcy at least in this moment.
The dinner slowly drew to a close with Timmy chatting more about his day, oblivious to Lars's internal struggles. As they cleared the table together, Lars was grateful for the distraction, yet the echoes of her earlier experiences lingered, a contrast to the simple, cherished scene she was living right now.
"Lars," Timmy started, with a more subdued tone as they finished up, "if something's wrong, you can tell me, you know?"
Lars paused, her heart tugging at Timmy's sincere concern. She ruffled his hair affectionately. "I know, Timmy. And I promise, if there's anything you need to know, I'll tell you."
Timmy nodded, somewhat reassured, and with a final pat on the back from Lars, they moved on to their evening routine, each lost in their own thoughts, yet connected by the unspoken bond of family and love.
A sudden, loud knock sound echoed through the cramped space of the kitchen, interrupting the gentle clatter of dishes and causing Timmy to jump, his eyes wide with surprise. Lars, though startled, quickly composed herself, standing up from the flimsy chair, her heartbeat quickening.
After what had transpired at the Empire exams, every unexpected noise seemed to carry a shadow of dread. With a steadying breath, Lars walked cautiously toward the door, her mind racing with possibilities of who it could be at this hour.
The wooden floorboards creaked under her tentative steps, each moan of the old wood mirroring the tension knotting in her stomach. She reached for the heavy brass handle, its cold metal chilling her already trembling hand. Slowly, very slowly, she pulled open the door.
On the dimly lit threshold stood a man, his appearance strikingly out of the ordinary. He was a delivery carrier man, dressed in a uniform that seemed a trifle too tight across his broad, yet oddly emaciated frame. The uniform, a deep navy blue, was meticulously kept, with not a crease out of place, and his cap was perched just so atop his thin, slicked-back hair.
His face, though, was what caught and held Lars's attention. It was sharply angular with high cheekbones that made his sunken cheeks even more pronounced. His skin was pale, almost translucent under the flickering light from the streetlamp nearby, giving him an ethereal quality. However, it was his eyes that were most disconcerting, large and round, they bore into hers without blinking, a chilling steadiness in their gaze that seemed almost malicious.
The man's lips, thin and straight, split into what could only loosely be described as a smile as he extended a single letter towards her. His fingers were long and ended in well-manicured nails, the white tips stark against the dark fabric of his gloves.
"Miss Lars," he uttered in a voice that was both soft and steely, "a delivery for you."
His name, according to the small, brass name tag pinned neatly on his chest, was Mr. Cravenfield.
Lars thought, 'Mr. Cravenfield. He's strange. What's this sinister aura on him?'
Swallowing her unease, Lars reached out with a hesitant hand and took the letter. It was heavier than she expected, sealed with red wax that bore an unfamiliar insignia. Distracted by the seal, she momentarily diverted her eyes from Mr. Cravenfield.
When she looked up again, the doorway was empty. The man had vanished without a sound, as if swallowed up by the night itself. Timmy peeked from behind her, his expression one of confused concern.
"Who was it, Lars?" he asked, his voice low.
Lars turned to him, her mind a whirl of anxiety and confusion. "Just a letter," she replied, trying to mask her alarm. Holding the enigmatic missive in her hands, she closed the door with a soft click, a sense of foreboding settling like a cloak around her shoulders.
As she turned back to face the interior of their home, the letter felt like a portent, its contents unknown but undeniably significant. With Timmy at her side, her resolve hardened; whatever news the letter brought, they would face it together. But deep down, the eerie encounter with Mr. Cravenfield lingered, a troubling puzzle with pieces missing, and Lars couldn't shake the feeling that something sinister was at play.
Lars hesitated before carefully opening the seal on the letter, breaking the red wax carefully to preserve as much of the intricate insignia as possible. It depicted a scale balanced on a sword, a symbol of justice and supremacy that implied the gravity of the contents. The paper itself was thick and slightly creamy, a testament to its importance, edged with finely embossed patterns that reminded Lars of the meticulous decorum of the Empire's bureaucracy.
She unfolded the letter with trembling hands, revealing the flowing script that was penned with a precise hand. The ink was dark, almost black, but upon closer inspection, it bore a hint of deep greenâ€"a color reputedly favored for its use in official imperial correspondence. Each word seemed carefully chosen, written with an unwavering hand, and the language was formal, reflecting the severity and dignity of its sender.
Lars's eyes moved slowly over the words, absorbing the heavy weight of their meaning:
---
**Imperial Commission for Public Executions**
**The Empire**
**Official Correspondence**
Dear Miss Lars,
We trust this letter finds you in good health and commend your resilience in times of great trials. We are writing on behalf of the Imperial Commission for Public Executions with a matter of utmost importance that requires your attention.
Be it known that the commission, under the stewardship of the esteemed Rai, Public Affairs Liaison, oversees the delicate balance of justice dispensed in public view, ensuring that the Empire's moral fabric is unblemished. Mistress Rai has been instrumental in liaising between the Imperial Commission and the press, ensuring that the sanctity and solemn dignity of the law are maintained and that the actions of this Commission are transparent and justly represented.
It has come to our notice that your presence is required for a private discourse regarding matters pertinent to the aforementioned commission's interests and the ongoing relationship between the public's perception and the judicious execution of law. Mistress Rai hereby extends an invitation to you, to be held at her estate at your earliest convenience. It is in your best interests to comply with this request with the urgency it warrants.
Kindly acknowledge receipt of this message and confirm your availability. A carriage will be provided for your transportation to ensure your prompt and secure arrival.
We expect your cooperation and thank you in advance for your compliance.
With regards,
**[Signature]**
**Mistress Rai**
**Public Affairs Liaison**
**Imperial Commission for Public Executions**
**For the Empire**
---
Lars felt a chill run down her spine as she read the closing salutations. The letter was not only a summons but carried an undercurrent of a thinly veiled threat in its polite diction. The mention of "your best interests" and "compliance" underscored that this meeting was not optional but a veiled command.
With her mind racing at the potential implications, Lars knew that she would need to prepare herself mentally and strategically for what was to come. This meeting could very well alter the course of her future, intertwined as it was with the formidable Imperial Commission.
'Why would someone in that field want to meet me? Based on the tone of the letter, it seems if I refuse, they'll get mad. I have to go.'
Timmy exclaimed, "Lars! What happened? Are you okay?"
"H-Hey. Yeah I'm fine. I have to step out for a while. It won't take long, I promise."
"Mmm. Promise?"
"Yes, I promise."
"You better!"
'Why..? Why did I promise him that? Knowing how the Empire is, who knows if I'll come back home? I can't refuse. The fear of refusing…it's like I'm in a cage and I can't escape. And if I try to run..it's over.'
As Lars stepped into the high-wheeled, black carriage, she was surprised to see Mr. Cravenfield handling the reins. His countenance, just as stoic and unreadable as during their brief and unsettling encounter earlier, offered no words of greeting, only a curt nod to acknowledge her presence before securing the door and setting the horses into motion.
As the carriage started and rumbled down the cobblestone streets of Thornville, Lars peered through the small, curtained window, intrigued and apprehensive about the world outside. The afternoon light cast long shadows over the city, and the air buzzed with the everyday chaos of Thornville citizens moving about their duties.
The streets of Thornville were bustling with activity. Pedestrians of all classes navigated the thoroughfares, ladies in crinolines and bustles brushed past laborers with soot-stained faces, and street vendors called loudly over the din. The sound of horse-drawn carriages blended with the footsteps of the passing crowd.
Town criers stood prominently at busy corners. Their voices rose above the humming of conversation, proclaiming the latest successes of the Empire. "Victory in the northern provinces!" a voice bellowed. "Watchworks extend the empire's protection!" Another crier boasted of technological advancements!"
As Lars's carriage made its way through the bustling streets of Thornville, several other proclamations by the town criers caught her attention, each shedding light on different aspects of the world she inhabited:
"Hear ye, hear ye! The Emperor decrees an expansion of the Imperial Railway to the Southern Marches! Commerce and connectivity to bolster the empire's vast territories, ensuring prosperity reaches every corner of our domain!"
"Attention all able-bodied men and women! The Imperial Guard seeks brave souls to defend our glorious empire. Enlist today and serve directly under the Emperor's command! Benefits include a stipend, housing, and the honor of upholding the empire's might."
*"Great news from the Capital's Watchmaker Guild! A new chronometer has been unveiled, capable of precise timekeeping regardless of weather or pressure! Venture into any of Thornville's fine shops to witness the marvels of mechanical precision!"
"Mark your calendars for the forthcoming Harvest Festival! Scheduled at the month's end, come enjoy the bounties of the Empire with festivities, food, and family fun. Celebrations to be held across Thornville, proudly sponsored by the Emperor's Office of Culture and Public Affairs."
"Beware the change of seasons! The Imperial Office of Health reminds citizens to visit local health automatons for a seasonal tonic, ensuring your wellbeing as we transition into the cooler months. Prevention is the duty of every loyal citizen!"
"By order of the Imperial Security Bureau, recent dissident activities have been thwarted. Let this serve as a reminder: loyalty to the Emperor is paramount. Report any suspicious activities. Remember, surveillance is safety!"
"Opportunity for the youth of Thornville! The Imperial Academy announces scholarships for distinguished students. Excel in your studies and contribute to the Empire's intellectual legacy. Applications now accepted at the Ministry of Education."
The automatons were indeed a commonplace sight. Large, brass-and-steel contraptions, they moved with a mechanical grace. Some directed traffic, their arms swinging in precise, angular motions, while others assisted at construction sites, lifting heavy materials into place. Yet more disturbing were those programmed for law enforcement; these machines walked in steady patrols, occasionally stopping to resolve skirmishes or to apprehend petty criminals with their unyielding metal grips.
Thornville had grown both in awe and in surveillance. Slogans such as "Unity and Conformity under the Empire's Watchful Eyes" were emblazoned beneath stoic, imperial portraits. Smaller notices advertised public speeches or recruitment for the imperial services, and yet others warned against dissent or disobedience, reminders of the watchful gaze under which they all lived.
As the carriage wound through a less frequented part of Thornville, the shadowed lanes hemmed by high brick walls, Lars noticed a discernible shift in the atmosphere. The carefully tended gardens and well-lit boulevards of the more secure district gave way to neglected patches of urban sprawl. Even the sun seemed reluctant to shine down these narrow alleys that bore the scars of poverty and neglect.
The presence of constables and automatons, a common sight in the wealthier parts of Thornville, was markedly absent here. In their stead, shadows seemed to move with sinister intent. Lars's heart began to race, a premonition of dread settling over her as the carriage slowed, navigating a particularly sharp bend.
Suddenly, without warning, a group of ragged figures emerged from the shadowy recess of a narrow alleyway. Their movements were desperate and swift, surrounding the carriage with an alarming quickness. One of them, a large brutish man with a scar across his face, banged on the side of the carriage, his voice gruff and menacing. "Out! Out and leave your valuables!"
Lars's breath hitched in her throat. The air grew thick with tension, heart pounding ferociously against her ribs. But before she could react further, Mr. Cravenfield had calmly opened the carriage door and stepped out, his expression unreadably serene in the face of danger.
The bandits paused, seemingly taken aback by his calm demeanor. Undeterred, the scar-faced leader stepped forward, brandishing a rusty dagger. "Last warning, old man," he snarled.
Mr. Cravenfield, however, seemed unperturbed. With surprising agility for a man of his build and composure, he moved. His first step was merely a feint, but it was enough to draw the dagger-man forward. In a flash, his hand shot out, gripping the wrist of the assailant, twisting it sharply. The sound of snapping tendons was followed by a scream of agony as the blade clattered to the ground.
Another attacker lunged from the side, wielding a club. With an almost leisurely tilt of his head, Mr. Cravenfield dodged the blow, his own fist shooting out like a cannonball, catching the man in the chest. The impact sounded unnaturally loud, a crack of breaking ribs audibly clear, as the man flew backwards, landing several feet away, unmoving.
The other bandits hesitated, their initial confidence faltering before this unexpectedly formidable foe. Their hesitation cost them dearly. Mr. Cravenfield advanced, his movements a blend of brutal efficiency and startling violence. He grabbed the next nearest assailant by the hair, jerking his head down as he brought his knee up with crushing force. There was a sickening crunch, and then a limp body slumped to the ground.
More screams filled the air, not from the attackers, but from Lars, witnessing the carnage from her vantage within the carriage. The scene unfolding before her was like a tableau of hellish fury: Mr. Cravenfield, a figure of relentless destruction, moved among the would-be robbers with a dancer's grace and a butcher's ruthlessness.
One particularly brave or foolish thug charged at Mr. Cravenfield with a rasp of fury. The response was swift and decisive; a straight punch to the throat collapsed the man's windpipe with an audible crush. He fell, gasping and clawing at his crushed neck, eyes bulging in silent horror.
Not yet done, Mr. Cravenfield turned to the last standing attacker, who, terror-stricken, was attempting to flee. A few long strides brought Mr. Cravenfield within reach, and with a powerful grasp, he hoisted the man by his collar, throwing him against the brick wall with such force that it seemed to shake the very air. The sound of the impact echoed, a dull, meaty thump, and then nothing.
Surveying the scene, Mr. Cravenfield's breaths came out measured and calm, as if the outburst of lethal violence had merely been an exertion no more taxing than a stroll through the park. His clothes bore the dark stains of others' blood, but there was no sign of distress in his demeanor.
He walked back towards the carriage with a methodical calm that belied the chaos he had just unleashed. Opening the door, he glanced inside, his face returning to that impassive mask, revealing nothing of the storm that had just passed. "We should proceed," he stated simply, as if such violent defenses were nothing out of the ordinary in the life of a carriage driver.
Shaken, Lars could only nod, her own hands trembling as she wrestled with the reality of what she had just witnessed. As the carriage resumed its journey, the clatter of the wheels seemed to pound in rhythmic cadence with her racing heartbeat, threading through the now silent streets of Thornville, leaving behind the echoes of violence and the stain of blood-soaked cobblestones.
'He's not human..he can't be! What was that?! Everyone in the Empire is insane! What's this guys deal?'
As the carriage maneuvered through the affluent districts, the scenery shifted. The buildings grew taller and more imposing, the streets cleaner and better maintained, and the presence of the automatons more pronounced, their gleaming gears reflecting the sunlight sharply. The wealth of the Empire was evident in these quarters, with ornate fountains and lushly landscaped parks dotting the way.
The further they traveled, the more secluded the route became. The bustling city sounds diminished, replaced by the rhythmic clopping of horses' hooves and the occasional distant call of a mechanical hawker. Turning a sharp corner, the carriage entered a dimly lit tunnel, the clattering echo surrounding them as they passed under the city's heart.
Emerging on the other side, the view opened up to reveal the outskirts of Thornville. Here the landscape was quite different; expansive properties with sprawling estates replaced the tightly packed urban structures. Each mansion they passed was grander than the last, enclosed behind ornate iron gates and guarded by automatons customized with more polished and intricate designs.
Finally, the carriage slowed before a particularly impressive gate, which swung open silently as they approached. The estate beyond was vast, its grounds manicured meticulously. A winding drive led up to a stately home that looked more like a palace, with sweeping marble staircases, pristine gardens, and sparkling water features.
Mr. Cravenfield brought the carriage to a halt in front of the steps leading to the main entrance of the estate. He climbed down from his perch and opened the carriage door for Lars, his eerie, unblinking eyes avoiding hers. As Lars stepped out, the enormity of the situation settled upon her shoulders like a leaden cloak.
She ascended the stairs, each step echoing ominously. The front doors opened even before she reached them, as if anticipating her arrivalâ€"or as if her movements were being watched.
Standing in the entryway was none other than Mistress Rai herself, her presence formidable as she welcomed Lars with a polite, yet cold smile. The doors closed silently behind Lars, sealing her within the heart of power she was yet to fully comprehend.
Mistress Rai stood imposingly in the grand entryway, her appearance as striking as the massive, ornate doors that slowly swung closed behind Lars. She was dressed entirely in black, her gown crafted in the height of Victorian fashion with a tightly cinched waist and layers of dark ruffles cascading to the floor. The fabric seemed to absorb the light around her, velvet and lace intermingling to create a texture as complex as the woman herself. Atop her head sat a small, elegant hat, adorned with a veil that subtly obscured her eyes, adding an air of mystery.
But what truly drew Lars's gaze were the intricate tattoos that adorned Rai's face. Starting at her temples and coiling like tendrils down her cheeks, the ink was a deep blue, almost black. The patterns were reminiscent of delicate lace, yet there was something undeniably fierce about them, like thorns amongst flowers. Rai's eyes, one eye green and the other eye dark pink, sharp and calculating, flickered with an unspoken understanding, as if she could see right through to the core of those she surveyed.
"Miss Lars, welcome to my humble abode," Rai's voice was smooth, each word enunciated with precision, a slight smile playing on her lips as she extended a gloved hand in greeting. The touch was brief, her fingers cold and firm.
A wave of an uneasy feeling hit Lars, Lars looked the other way, fear almost clinging to her.
'What is that feeling?! Like something is hunting me…?!'
"Please, follow me. There is much to discuss, and I find the gardens provide a perfect backdrop for conversations of a delicate nature," Rai turned on her heel fluidly, leading Lars through a series of ornately decorated hallways. The walls were adorned with portraits of dignitaries and exquisite tapestries depicting historical battles and imperial triumphs.
They continued, there were many unique malicious-looking rogue automatons wandering around, some talking to each other, or cleaning their weapons, all of them peered at Lars.
Lars thought, 'Automaton guards. These aren't like the other ones in the Empire. These seem more human like.'
As they walked, Rai began to speak of her role within the Imperial Commission with a tone of pride lacing her words. "As you are aware, I serve as the Public Affairs Liaison. It is a position of utmost importance, where one must balance the scales of public perception with the stark realities of justice. We ensure that each execution is not merely an act to deter but a ceremony of justice, witnessed by the public eye under the most dignified conditions."
The gardens were a stark contrast to the dark interior of the estate. Lush and vibrant, rows of meticulously kept hedges and blooms flourished under the care of hidden gardeners. Rai continued, her voice never faltering as they stepped along the neat gravel paths.
"In my role, I interface closely with members of the press and the public, ensuring they understand the context and necessity of each decision the Commission makes. Transparency, Miss Lars, is crucial. It turns the wheels of trust and maintains the stability of our Empire."
Turning a corner, they approached a small, secluded gazebo, furnished with an ornate wrought iron table and chairs. Rai gestured for Lars to take a seat before continuing. "However, not everyone upholds their duties with the integrity required of their position. We recently suffered a great betrayal."
The air around them seemed to chill as Rai's expression darkened slightly. "You may have heard, Gunn, known as the plague doctor, has taken it upon himself to disrupt the balance. Ivann, a distinguished member of our Commission, fell victim to Gunn's misguided quest. A most grievous affair."
Lars absorbed this information with a growing sense of unease. Rai's gaze held Lars, as though measuring her response.
"As the new magistrate appointed by the Empire, your role becomes intertwined with the Commission more than ever. Gunn's actions threaten the very fabric of our society. We cannot allow his chaos to spread further."
A small, cunning smile played at the corners of Rai's lips, her eyes narrowing slightly. "We will require your assistance, Miss Lars. Your unique position grants you certain... leverage that we find most advantageous."
Unspoken words hung heavily between them, the gentle rustling of the leaves the only sound that dared to disturb the moment. Rai leaned forward, her voice lowering to just above a whisper. "You have the power to influence from within. With your help, we can restore order and ensure that such disruptions do not recur."
The conversation paused as a servant silently appeared, providing tea for the table, the clink of china momentarily breaking the intensity. Rai served herself with precise movements, her every action deliberate.
Lars thought, 'She's strange too. They give off a nice attitude, but in reality, something is dark.'
Rai smiled, "Your father wouldn't like that you think like that."
Lars gasped, and she immediately dropped her tea, but before it could hit the floor, Mr.Cravenfield dashed towards and caught it, yelling, "I CAUGHT THE CUP, RAI!"
Rai smiled, "Nice work!"
…
(Marshy's shop)
Gunn, Marshy, and Torch were at the table underground in the rooms, and Gunn was choking Torch, yelling, "YOU BASTARD! WHY THE HELL DID YOU TAKE SO LONG?! WE HAVE NO TIME TO WASTE!"
Torch replied, "DAMN YOU BRAT! QUALITY OVER QUANTITY!"
"I oughta cook and eat you…"
"YOU CANNIBAL! Give it your best shot!"
"HOW?! YOU'RE A DAMN CAT!"
"I'M STILL A HUMAN!"
Marshy sat off to the side, smoking a cigarette, "Don't kill each other."
Gunn and Torch looked at Marshy, "I refuse."
Torch said, "Tch. I brought what we were looking for, the address to the next Imperial Commissioner."
Gunn asked, "Who's next?"
"Imperial Commissioner Rai. There were many letters going back and forth about you, Gunn."
"What did they say?"
"You can't read?"
"Don't feel like it."
"LAZY BRAT!"
"DAMN YOU!"
Marshy said, "They kinda bullied you. But it was mostly because of your execution. When you killed your first Constable, the order of execution was immediately placed on you."
Torch added, "It's strange, really. Most criminals who committed murder here were granted public execution after their 7th kill."
"That means someone knows more about you than the others. Rai might be the one to know more than we know ourselves."
Gunn stood up, "Good. We will kill her now."
"Hold up, beat."
"What?"
"We don't just go in guns blazing. We need to devise a plan."
"We can't have a plan if we never even scouted the place out yet."
"It's possible. The plan doesn't have to revolve around just barging in. We'll all go together, and Torch will be used as a decoy. His ability to be able to go from kitten to a cat humanoid is impressive, really."
Torch replied with an arrogant grin, "I'm so badass."
Gunn said to him, "You're a mutt."
"Your jealousy is loud."
Marshy continued, "Torch will inspect the estate, and once he does, then we can make a move."
Gunn asked, "WE?"
"I'm going too."
'To make sure you don't die.' Marshy thought.
Gunn commented, "You specifically said yourself that you didn't want to get too involved. Which is why I'm still surprised you interfered back at the memorial."
"I can do whatever I want. I'm an adult."
"Me too. And That's not good enough."
"It doesn't matter. My shadow cloak hides my appearance. You saw it yourself."
Gunn thought, 'That's true. Mortimor didn't know who she was when she came to save me. I don't need her dying, she's the main one I craft shit from.'
"Fine. Do what you want. I won't stop you."
Marshy sneered with a grin, "Awww, we're you worried about me?"
"NO! Go die!"
Torch tackled Gunn, "Don't talk to her like that!"
"I'll kill you!"
Marshy chuckled, as she grabbed Gunn by the head, saying, "Trust me, I'm not going anywhere, and you aren't either."
Gunn squirmed, "AGH! Let me go!"
"Nope. We're leaving now."
Torch smirked, "Let's do this."
Gunn thought, 'We're coming from you, Rai!'