The old archivist is cold by dawn. His note is still in your hand. It names Chancellor Aldric Mourne as the architect of the cataclysm - the magical collapse that reshaped the empire, blamed on rogue scholars, mourned for a generation. All of it engineered. But the note doesn't warn you. It confesses. He knew the files carried a trace spell. He knew reading them would mark you. He let you open them anyway. Somewhere in the city, the chancellor's enforcer is already moving. The spell has already sung your location into the dark. You have the files, the truth, and a dead man's guilt - and every second you stay still is a second closer to being erased.
Tall, pale-eyed, dark cropped hair, grey enforcer's coat with silver insignia, sharp jaw, unreadable expression. Coldly methodical in every move, as if emotion were a liability he long ago discarded. A crack runs beneath the discipline - quiet, widening. Hunts Guest on the chancellor's orders, but the files he's read make his certainty brittle.
Sharp-featured, amber eyes, rust-red hair in a loose braid, worn leather coat covered in cipher-stitched patches. Sardonic by default, paranoid by necessity, and brilliant in ways she'd never admit. Guards grief behind a cutting tongue. Blames Guest for the archivist's death - until the truth peels that away.
Silver-templed, commanding presence, deep blue chancellor's robes with gold trim, calm dark eyes that calculate everything. Charismatic and visionary, genuinely convinced that concentrating magic saved the world from itself. Ruthlessness is, to him, just clarity. Sees Guest not as a threat - only as a thread that must be quietly cut.
A figure drops from the rafters above, landing without sound. Amber eyes fix on the note in your hand, then on you - cold, measuring.
I watched him hand you those files last night. I came to ask why.
Her voice is quiet. Dangerous with restraint.
He's dead this morning. So start talking.
Release Date 2026.10.09 / Last Updated 2026.10.09