[Inspector Aerel's POV]
Once she'd taken control of the scene, Inspector Perona Aerel gave the room a once over.
A small, rough bed and closet were shoved up against the wall while ripped pages and scattered documents littered the floor. Some of them were charred black while others had been deliberately scratched out.
She continued to pace. A table drew Aerel's attention. A singular page of paper sat on the desk, and she squinted to read it. As soon as she did, her blood ran cold.
"Fuck," Aerel tapped her inspector's cane on the ground. "Appeler."
She drew on her mana as a cold feeling welled up in her chest.
A small white sigil appeared next to her ear. In response to the communication spell, the voice of her contact at the Archmage constabulary HQ filled her mind, seemingly surprised.
"Inspector? What's up—"
"Relay this up." Aerel snapped, glancing at the paper on the table. Her eyes gleamed in the dark. "The Tainted Witches now know that the archmage is dead."
There was stunned silence on the other end. "Are you sure—"
This was horrible news. The archmage was the pinnacle mage of the era, the highest possible honour for a mage.
Their power and prestige alone held the magical world together. They were gone, yes. That alone was a secret that had been secretly guarded in fear of situations just like these.
The Tainted Witches were a secret society of mages who were antagonistic to society and unimaginably powerful. They had always been a huge threat, and unlike terrorist groups, the only thing holding them back was the presence of the archmage.
If they now knew the archmage was dead, then...
Aerel shook her head.
"Yes," Aerel cut them off. "…And they're looking for someone named SN. Looks like they're somewhere in the port city of Vaulnere."
Perona squinted her eyes again at the tiny handwriting. The pair of initials were printed on the page.
"Send me Casey and notify all available officers to begin a search immediately. And please do a damage assessement. We cannot allow the news to get out."
"Of course."
The line then clicked dead. Somewhere out there, someone had just become incredibly important for both the government and the threats to modern society
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Meanwhile, many cities away, across kilometers of rail and river and stone, a girl named Rien de la Fontaine was sleeping peacefully—though that was quickly about to change.
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[Rien's POV]
*Knock knock knock*
I jolted awake, my heart jumping to my throat.
*Tick, tick, tick, tick…*
It was pitch-dark. Rain hammered on the roof, clattering against the slate tiles and rattling the gutters. It was paired with the incessant ticking of the clock across the room.
For a second I wondered if I'd dreamed the knocking.
I snapped my fingers.
An activation sigil sparked on my enchanted bedside lamp as it ignited, hissing softly, its gas-fed flame blooming behind frosted glass. The small dim bundle of light illuminated my room.
I glanced at the clock, hanging just above the door with my nameplate underneath. It read 12 o'clock. My stomach dropped.
I faintly heard the bells of a tower ringing off in the distance.
Then I heard it again downstairs.
*Knock knock knock*
My heart jumped higher into my throat. Who knocks on someone's door at midnight? I snapped my fingers again and the enchanted drawer of my bedside table clicked and slid open on its own.
Inside was my mother's revolver.
My hands shook when I grabbed the cold metal. I cocked the hammer like she'd taught me, even though my fingers felt stiff and clumsy.
I caught a glimpse of myself in my mirror as I tiptoed past.
My skin looked paler than usual, and I was only dressed in a thin, white nightgown. It slipped past my shoulders—which I'd probably get scolded for being so indecent—but looking down at my chest… Well, I didn't have much of a chest to cover anyways. (My collarbone's nice, though, if that's something you get off to. Pervert.)
My short, tousled brown hair tickled my slim, bare shoulders, and my grey eyes flickered in the light. My room and house keys dangled on a thin leather cord around my neck.
I opened my bedroom door as quietly as I could. Luckily, the hinges didn't feel like screaming today. The house felt huge and empty without my parents...
Each step down the hallway felt too loud.
Walking past the hallway, I made it to the narrow, creaking staircase that led down to the front door. I stopped at the top.
Okay. Okay. Rien, you can do this. You're fine. You're totally fine.
…Except I wasn't. I wasn't an alpha. I was just a beta. Betas weren't supposed to do stuff like this. Betas weren't brave. They were neutral. The sensible person, if you will.
Hey, say what you will about being cowardly but I have no reason to run down that door when I have a fucking gun.
I raised the revolver anyway, aiming down the stairs.
*Knock knock knock*
Someone was knocking again. I didn't move an inch as my heart rattled against the cage of my ribs like a desperate animal. I couldn't see anything in the dark.
*Knock knock knock*
*Knock knock knock*
*Knock knock knock*
*Knock knock knock knock knock knock knock knock knock knock knock *
I didn't move. I don't think I even blinked. It was a while before the knocking stopped and there was a metallic clatter as the letterbox snapped open. Something heavy slid through and hit the floor with a dull thud.
I stayed frozen for a long moment.
Then I heard footsteps retreating and fading into the rain.
Only then did my legs unfreeze and start working again. I quietly crept down the stairs and picked up the letter. It was heavier than it looked. I took it straight back upstairs, locking my door behind me before plopping back down on my bed.
In the lamplight, I could see it clearly. The envelope was yellowed and stiff, sealed shut with wax stamped into the shape of a bright flower.
I tore it open.
"Chrysanthemum Academy," I read aloud. "For the daughter of the de la Fontaines, Rien de la Fontaine. We are pleased to inform you that you have been selected to attend our academy under a merit scholarship."
I stared at the page.
What the fuck?
I should have been excited.
Chrysanthemum Academy was the academy, the number one post-atelier institution in the world.
Every famous mage in society—every important one, at least—had gone there to one of the three houses: Alpha, Beta, or Omega. There were even subhouses, and my parents had gone there too.
However…
My lip quivered as I continued reading the letter. I hadn't really done anything at all for them to provide me with a scholarship—was this some political move?
…And since when did they deliver their letters in the middle of the night?