Raen

  While speaking with Lizzie’s sister, Raen kept a watchful eye on Alice. Her movements were precise, professional—textbook Academy of Arcane Forensics. Her hands trembled slightly, and the way she looked at Lisbeth's body carried a weight of quiet sorrow. She’d likely never dealt with the death of someone so young, let alone a pregnant woman. Yet, despite her nerves, Alice held herself together, even mentioning some specialized method from her thesis project. Impressive.

  Still, a question gnawed at him—why hadn’t Albert warned him about Alice?

  Noland was the only person Raen had ever confided in about the old case. He was the one who had urged Raen to let it go, to bury the past and move forward. Officially, everything had lined up—the suspect died in his cell, the death ruled natural. Maybe it was true. Maybe the weight of guilt had been too much, and the man’s heart had simply given out.

  But that persistent itch at the back of Raen’s mind never went away. There had been something wrong, something that slipped through the cracks.

  His former superior hadn’t wanted to see it. He’d been more interested in closing the case quickly and polishing his record than in chasing Raen’s unease. When Raen had asked questions, his reward had been a quiet threat—keep pushing, and he’d find himself out of a job. And Raen had stopped.

  Not because of fear, but because of necessity. His sister’s fragile health tethered him to the Enclave’s medical network. The best vitalists, the kind of care she needed, were only available to the families of active investigators. One wrong move, and she’d lose that safety net.

  Helping Alice’s father had been beyond him. But his sister—her life depended on his choices. So Raen had done nothing. He had let the case close. He had told himself it was the only choice he could make.

  But the truth had a way of lingering. Guilt burrowed under his skin, sharp and unyielding. Especially when it involved a promise broken.

  Raen moved through the apartment, his thoughts a tangled web of regrets and possibilities. Lisbeth Vemund had clearly built a good life for herself—if Ariana’s claims about Lizzie’s independence held true. The apartment’s elegant yet understated décor suggested taste, perhaps even modest success. But success often came with shadows.

  Was Ariana right about Lizzie’s independence, or had there been someone in the background, a lover who helped sustain this lifestyle? A wealthy patron, perhaps—someone who might not have taken kindly to the idea of Olaf in her life. Or had it been the other way around? Could Olaf have seen his place threatened by someone older, richer, more established?

  The questions pressed in on him, each possibility a door leading to more uncertainty. And yet, beneath it all lingered the question Raen couldn’t shake: Was this a murder? Or had death come on its own, slipping in quietly under the guise of an ordinary night?

  The apartment was spacious and tastefully furnished, a careful blend of comfort and quiet sophistication. Beyond the living room lay a large bedroom, where an oversized bed took center stage, draped in soft, genuine silk bedding. The room exuded a gentle elegance—nothing flashy, but undeniably intentional.

  Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

  Against the wall stood a wardrobe, its woodwork a testament to elven craftsmanship. The delicate carvings seemed to whisper of tradition and refinement, each curve and flourish a reminder of hands that valued patience over haste.

  Raen slid the wardrobe doors open, his movements measured and quiet. Inside, rows of neatly hung business attire greeted him—tailored dresses, crisp blouses, structured jackets. The collection aligned with Ariana’s account of Lizzie’s independence, each piece suggesting a life led with purpose, perhaps even ambition. There was no hint of indulgence, no gaudy gifts that might signal a secret benefactor.

  Yet, amid the polished wardrobe, a few items stood apart. Simple men’s trousers and light shirts, folded with care and set to one side. Olaf’s, most likely. His presence lingered in the room, a soft echo of a life half-unpacked, a relationship that had teetered somewhere between permanence and transience.

  Raen closed the wardrobe gently. His mind worked through the details, shifting possibilities like puzzle pieces. A large arcanegraph hung on the wall, capturing the image of a copper-haired, green-eyed beauty who held the hand of a simple, fair-haired young man with clear blue eyes. They both smiled—Lizzie with an air of carefree assurance, as if certain her future held only happiness, while Olaf’s smile was softer, almost hesitant, as though he couldn’t quite believe good things could happen to him.

  Raen lingered on the arcanegraph, then stepped out of the bedroom and continued his search through the apartment. In the dining room, Tyler approached him with a quiet report:

  "Boss, the vamps are still questioning the neighbors. As for my part, the strongest scents in the apartment are from the victim herself. There’s another male scent, the same one as on the men’s clothes in the wardrobe. Likely the dead girl’s partner. Human. There’s also the sister’s scent, but it’s much fainter. And then there’s a third male scent, most noticeable here in the kitchen, the entryway, and the living room. Barely a trace of it in the bedroom. Also human, but much weaker than the first scent. And, of course, the entryway is a whole bouquet of random scents—probably just the neighbors. That’s all I’ve got so far. What did the sister say?"

  "The victim had a fiancé, a man named Olaf. He lived here with her. That’s likely our male scent number one," Raen concluded, then continued. "On Friday, they had a big fight—bad enough that he left and took some of his things. The girl was pregnant, told him, but he wasn’t thrilled. So, we’ve got a motive and a suspect, but no confirmed evidence of murder yet."

  Tyler’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. "Alice said we need the lab to confirm anything," Raen added. "I’ll give you Olaf’s details—he’s a student at the Concordia Institute of Healing. Find him and keep an eye on him. But don’t make contact. If this is a murder, we don’t want to spook him."

  Tyler nodded as Raen pulled out his notepad, flipping to the page with Ariana’s notes. Just as he was about to read out Olaf’s information, his gaze landed on Lizzie’s listed workplace, and Raen froze.

  Goldspire. Lisbeth was a personal assistant to the owner of Goldspire.

  By the wyverns' fangs... Alice doesn’t know this. Or does she? Could she have known the victim and just kept it to herself?

  And this death—murder or not—what in the demon’s backside is going on?

  "Boss? You still with me?" Tyler’s voice cut through Raen’s daze. "You’re staring off like you’ve seen a ghost."

  Snapping back to the present, Raen dictated Olaf’s information to the shapeshifter.

  "I’m fine. Sorry, got lost in thought. Let’s keep moving. Finish up here, and we’ll go over everything back at the Enclave this evening."

  "Got it. I’m on it."

  Tyler slipped out of the room, leaving Raen alone—surrounded by whispers of silk sheets, unspoken history, and a name that should have stayed buried.

  Goldspire.

  What were the chances? And what, in the demon’s backside, did this death have to do with Alice?

  Or was this just some twisted coincidence?