One Month Before Elphonse Flint Ritch Became a Conjurer


    For a full month, Aldric and the woman who had introduced herself only as Philia, with no mention of a noble house, scoured the outer lands beyond the imposing city walls. Their search led them along the winding trails of the Sleeping Woods, a vast and ancient forest that stretched southward of the city, its dense canopy shrouding unknown depths in the realm of south, Dripping Heart.


    The investigation focused on the borders of Sector One, mainly just around the borders that were exposed to the city. The outermost northern portion of the Sleeping Woods. This sector encompassed the land between Empty Rose, the Old City nestled in open grasslands—ancestral seat of the Ritch family—and Strig, the New City, where the Anvil now stood.


    Sector One stretched as far as the Fourth Scout Hand of the Anvil, a network of small forts used for reconnaissance and defense against bandits, monsters, and other dangers lurking in the dark. The forest itself curved around Empty Rose in a great U-shape, enclosing the Old City from the north, south, and west. Only the east remained open, a stretch of bare grasslands that led further into the heart of the empire.


    The Perwinkle River, opening from the south of Empty Rose and pouring into the Lake Fin in south east of The Old City in the open grassland, it split the forest in two, and in the south laid Sector Two—a far more treacherous expanse of unknown depths, where neither bandits nor men dared establish footholds. The dangers that lurked there had never been fully cataloged, and as a result, only one Scout Hand of the Anvil, the fifth and the last, operated in its vicinity. Few ever ventured that deep, and fewer still returned.


    But Sector One? That was territory well-mapped and patrolled, secured through a strict three-day rotation enforced by the Scout Hands. Any movement along its borders—especially one large enough to smuggle children—should have been noticed.


    Should have.


    Yet for an entire week, Aldric, Philia, and her hundred-strong squadron combed the southern border of Strig without finding so much as an unnatural broken twig.


    Not a single footprint. No disturbed soil. No sign of caravans having passed.


    Nothing.


    Philia stood among the trees, her breath coming in measured pulls, sweat clinging to her brow despite the cool morning air. "This is… worthless," she muttered, frustration seeping into her usually measured tone.


    Aldric exhaled, tilting his head back to gaze at the towering trees. "A shame, indeed."


    He had hoped—if only for convenience''s sake—that they would find something here. A track, a clue—some indication of movement. Anything that could point toward an answer.


    But there was nothing.


    If the missing children had been taken through these woods, then whoever was responsible was meticulous beyond belief.


    With the Sleeping Woods yielding no answers, their only option was to turn to Strig itself.


    —


    Strig, the New City


    A full sweep of the city would draw too much attention. If panic took hold, their task would become even more difficult. So, they did as any careful investigator would—they changed their approach.


    Philia and her soldiers shed their formal uniforms, dressing instead as travelers, traders, and wandering mercenaries. Their investigation began in the heart of the city''s commerce—the Fish Eye Market.


    Unlike the old markets, which had grown chaotically with the city''s expansion, the Fish Eye was planned from its very foundation, a new better market, a costly market. Seen from above, its circular structure was unmistakable, a great ring of commerce lying just beyond the city''s northern gates, the very same gates that opened toward the Capital.


    The market''s buildings were well-constructed—two-story timber and stone structures, with shops occupying the lower levels and living quarters built above them. The streets were paved with cobblestone, not dirt, a rare luxury outside the Capital. The market stalls, though temporary, were arranged in meticulous symmetry, following a radial pattern that led to the great central plaza, where merchants gathered to auction their finest wares.


    Everything about the Fish Eye spoke of order and wealth. It had been designed to attract traders, to make Strig a hub for commerce. And unlike the Old City''s narrow, winding streets, here every road led precisely where it was meant to go.


    But to the right of the Fish Eye, just beyond the last row of prosperous storefronts, lay a different sight altogether.


    The Old Residential District.


    Here, the roads were no longer cobblestone, but charred clay, hardened over time and reinforced with scattered stones to prevent erosion. The houses—if they could be called that—were hastily constructed, built more for function than form.


    Unlike the Fish Eye''s permanent structures, these wooden dwellings had an air of impermanence about them. They were homes to workers, laborers, and common folk—those who had settled in Strig after the city''s rise but had never been given proper placement within its grander design.


    At a glance, many of the houses looked the same—single-story structures made from cheap timber, their roofs often patched with whatever materials could be salvaged. Some bore signs of recent repairs, others were already leaning, weakened by the passage of time and neglect.


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    But their most defining feature?


    They could be destroyed at any moment.


    The entire Old Residential District existed in a state of uncertainty, its fate dictated by the whims of the nobility. If a lord decided that the layout of the city should change, that the roads should be expanded, or that a new estate should be built—then these homes would be the first to go.


    It was not a place to plant roots.


    But it was, perhaps, a place to disappear.


    As Philia''s men began their discreet questioning, Aldric lingered at the edges of the district, hands tucked into the folds of his coat. His sharp gaze wandered over the buildings, taking in every detail.


    A city as new as Strig should not have had this many cracks in its foundation.


    And yet, cracks were all he could see.


    The Old Residential District never stopped.


    It was a place of movement, of labor, of survival. No man stood idle, no woman wasted time in chatter, and even the children were set to task from dawn till dusk. These people had no luxury for leisure, no patience for a stranger''s questions.


    Aldric stood at the heart of it, watching.


    The buildings, though simple and cheaply made, had been constructed with purpose. The timber was old, weathered by time, yet sturdy—designed not to last, but to be rebuilt with ease. The walls were held together with both knots and nails, ensuring that entire sections could be dismantled and reassembled without wasting material. Now it made sense why their homes always looked aged, even when they remained structurally sound.


    They were never meant to be permanent.


    He shrugged off his coat, hanging it loosely over a rope where freshly washed clothes dried in the open air. No one would steal it. Not here. Not in a place where time was currency, and no man had the luxury to covet another''s belongings.


    He moved through the district at an even pace, knocking on doors.


    Most were answered by wives and children.


    When a child opened the door, Aldric simply asked for an adult. If there was none, he left. He had no interest in wasting time with idle prattle.


    With the housewives, his approach was more direct. He asked about rumors—whispers of missing children, unfamiliar faces lurking where they did not belong.


    By the end of the day, he had his answer.


    Nothing.


    Not a single lead. No missing children. No foreign threats. Nothing but exhausted men, hard-working women, and children who would inherit the same burdens as their parents.


    Retrieving his coat—still exactly where he had left it—Aldric turned and left.


    —


    The bar was exactly as one would expect—crowded, loud, and thick with the scent of sweat and ale.


    Behind the counter, the bartender wiped down a mug, speaking in low tones to Philia, who sat at the bar. A simple chair, no back to lean against. Her fingers curled loosely around a mug of ale, her posture rigid despite the drink in her hands.


    Behind her, men ate in weary silence, swallowing whatever food was set before them. Others sang with the bards, drowning themselves in drink and song. Some played cards, their coin purses growing lighter with each round.


    No fights.


    That, more than anything, surprised Aldric.


    He moved to the bar, taking the seat beside Philia. She cast him a brief glance before returning to her drink.


    The bartender turned his gaze to Aldric. "What can I get you?"


    "Sweet ale," Aldric said simply.


    A nod. A moment later, the bartender retrieved a bottle, dust-covered and aged. He poured the ale into a mug, placing it before Aldric with a slow, deliberate push.


    Aldric took the mug but did not drink immediately. "I''d like a moment of your time—"


    "No use," Philia interrupted.


    She finished the last of her ale in a single motion, slamming the empty mug onto the counter.


    "I''ve asked. I''ve paid. There is nothing here but workers who spend their days breaking their backs and their nights trying to forget it." Her voice carried no frustration, only certainty.


    The bartender glanced at her briefly, then resumed washing the next mug.


    Aldric exhaled, tilting his head slightly. "Then I take it the Fish Eye was a waste, too?"


    Philia gave a short nod.


    "Then the Old Market will yield the same result," Aldric concluded, taking a deep pull from his ale, leaving half the mug untouched.


    For a long moment, neither of them spoke.


    Then Philia''s voice cut through the air—quieter than before, but not without weight.


    "I really tried to look the other way," she admitted.


    Aldric turned his head slightly, watching as her expression tightened.


    "I really hoped," she continued, "that after what happened two decades ago—after the purge of the Blood Swamp and the nobles—" She exhaled, shaking her head. "A quarter of us died for that cause. We thought we had learned something. But time, it seems, is a flat circle."


    She reached into her coat, retrieving a yellowed parchment and sliding it across the counter.


    Aldric caught it between two fingers, noting the broken wax seal—a duck with a crown, a blade, and a shield.


    The sigil of House Ritch.


    He turned the parchment over with mild curiosity, using one hand to unfold it while the other still held his mug.


    It was a simple letter.


    A request for the evaluation of their third son, Elphonse Flint Ritch, for placement in the Capital''s institutions—knighthood, conjuration, or bureaucracy.


    Aldric read it twice. Then shrugged.


    "Do unravel the mystery for me, will you?"


    He had his own theories, but he wanted to hear hers.


    Philia''s fingers tapped against the wooden counter, slow and measured.


    "Elphonse Flint Ritch was a nepo-child," she stated. "Sent to the Capital to study, only to return a failure—no promise in knighthood, no gift in conjuration. He stayed hidden in his family''s estate for a year, and now, suddenly, they request a reevaluation—and in the field of conjuration too."


    She let the words settle.


    "House Ritch has never produced a Conjurer before," she added, her voice quieter. "That alone makes me suspect them."


    Aldric understood her thought process.


    "Alchemy..." He muttered.


    Philia''s gaze sharpened.


    "You believe that House Ritch has been kidnapping missing children, using them as components for alchemical processes meant to unlock their third son''s conjuration?" Aldric tilted his head toward her slightly.


    It was not an absurd theory.


    Two decades ago, it might have been. But now? Now, everyone knew what the nobles of the Capital had done. What they had practiced.


    Philia nodded.


    "We cannot simply interrogate them, I know," she admitted. "We have no proof. But Aldric,"—she caught herself—"Sir Aldric, I know something is wrong with them. I just need to check. Once. Just to be sure."


    Aldric hummed, swirling the ale in his mug.


    "Yes," he mused, "we cannot interrogate them without proper cause. A conjecture is not evidence."


    But as the words left his lips, something clicked.


    Aldric smiled.


    He had the answer.


    "But what if I were the evaluating officer?"


    Philia blinked, caught off-guard. "How would that even work? We don''t know who the evaluating officer will be—it could be a knight, or a Conjurer—"


    "It will work."


    He tipped his mug back, draining the rest of the ale in one gulp before setting it down with calculated force.


    "You leave it to me," Aldric said, standing from his seat. "I believe I need to have a small chat with the Queen''s councillor."


    Without another word, he placed a gold coin on the counter—far too much for a single mug of cheap ale—and strode out of the bar.