“Can I cut to the chase?”

  Facing the gun pointed at him, Burton seemed almost accustomed to the threat, perhaps from Boro’s frequent menacing gestures.

  “That train only stops for fifteen minutes—once unloading is done, it has to leave. I need to go with it, or those guards will catch me sooner or later.”

  Burton had made meticulous preparations before coming here, leaving nothing to chance.

  In theory, his personal visit posed significant risks, but to confirm Eve’s identity with his own eyes, it was worth every danger.

  “Wouldn’t that be ideal? I’ll just escort you to Su Yalan Hall, and the sheriff will believe every word I say.”

  Burton was the instigator of that day’s chaos; when pushed, this detective could be as ruthless as a seasoned veteran.

  “Where’s the intrigue in that?”

  Burton was unconcerned. He was a cautious man—by the time he arrived, he’d already made thorough plans for every contingency.

  “I’m a detective, Miss Eve. Isn’t solving a case with far-reaching implications more appealing than delivering an ambiguous suspect?”

  Staring into his steel-gray eyes, Eve weighed her options. From their first meeting, this detective had exuded a disconcerting calm, as if he held all the cards—a trait that inspired both fear and trust.

  “You have five minutes, Detective.”

  Eve holstered her gun, turning to pace the path, her gaze fixed on the distance. Seeing her cooperation, Burton smiled, picking up the ladder to feign trimming the overhanging branches.

  From a distance, the Phoenix princess appeared to admire the golden path of fallen leaves, accompanied only by a groundskeeper seemingly absorbed in his work—a scene just slightly out of place.

  “Eve Phoenix, born to one of the noblest houses. With your father’s blessing, you’d become the next Phoenix duchess, a title that outshines even Su Yalan Hall or the Royal Guard. Yet here you are, a secret detective.”

  Trimming the twigs, Burton wove together the fragments of Eve’s life as he knew them.

  “Is this for your father? Or the honor of the Phoenix name… Your family’s legacy is etched into the Glorious War, their portraits lining the Hall of Eminence in Platinum Palace. You grew up on their legends—of course you longed to follow in their footsteps.”

  “What are you getting at?”

  Eve’s tone turned sharp, uncomfortable under his scrutiny. She’d noticed his most irritating trait: his eyes were too perceptive, stripping away pretense until she felt bare, her life an open book he’d already read.

  “I propose we collaborate, Miss Eve.”

  “The Glorious War is over. After driving the Gallunarians back to the White Tide Strait, there are no battlefields left to earn glory like your ancestors. Su Yalan Hall was your path, yet they’ve suspended you indefinitely.

  “Your career could end before it begins—but I can offer a way forward. Work with me.”

  Eve stared coldly, her pale fingers resting lightly on the gun’s trigger.

  “How can I trust you?”

  “Start with this.”

  A vivid red glow lit up Eve’s face as Burton held up the lost necklace, its ruby blazing in the sunlight. Only now could one appreciate the gem’s flawless craftsmanship: dozens of facets cut into the stone created a kaleidoscope of light, its brilliance only visible in the sun—a rarity in Old Dunling’s perpetual gloom.

  “The train is leaving. If this gift earns your trust, our partnership starts now.”

  Casually descending the ladder, Burton placed the ruby necklace and a sealed letter in Eve’s hand, then turned and walked away without a backward glance.

  Staring at the gem in her palm, Eve was momentarily stunned. After the rush of joy at reclaiming her necklace, she turned to speak, but Burton was already gone, only the thick steam from the departing train lingering in the air.

  He hadn’t left empty-handed—there was still the letter.

  Glancing around to ensure she was alone, Eve carefully fastened the necklace around her neck, then tucked the letter into the holster strapped to her thigh, alongside a sharp dagger that glinted in the fading light.

  Old Dunling, Lower City.

  Beneath Stone Ruin Castle lay a cavernous space larger than anyone imagined. Before Boro’s rise, it had been a wartime fortress, managed by a long-forgotten count, its vast underground chambers stockpiled with supplies and weaponry.

  The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  During the darkest days of the Glorious War, when Gallunarian fleets conquered Reindona Port, bringing them within striking distance of Old Dunling, this unnamed castle became the final barrier blocking their advance.

  Cannon fire rained down for three straight days, stripping the earth of vegetation, filling the air with sulfur, and leaving charred corpses in its wake.

  The castle held firm, even as its walls crumbled and the moat evaporated from the heat of explosions.

  Believing it conquered, the Gallunarians pressed forward—only to be met by a surprise attack from surviving soldiers and steam-driven machines pouring from the castle’s gates. Outnumbered, the defenders miraculously repelled the enemy, turning the tide of that pivotal battle.

  Days later, the Mechanic Institute refined steam engine technology, igniting the Second Industrial Revolution amid the flames of war. The resulting colossal machines marked Inverweg’s counteroffensive in the Glorious War.

  Though the century-long conflict ended with Inverweg’s victory, the castle was soon forgotten, eventually falling into Boro’s hands. Once a symbol of glory, it remained a place of power—

  Paradise, as the Lower City residents called it, and with good reason: even Inner City nobles slipped in under the cover of night to indulge in its vices.

  It was a place where dreams were chased, where desperate souls gambled their last coins at the tables, fueled by the high of small wins and the air thick with stimulants that erased doubt.

  This scene played out at every table: fortunes multiplied exponentially, money reduced to mere numbers on ledgers. No gambler ever quit—gambling luck was a fragile thing, believed to flee at the first sign of hesitation. Retreat meant defeat, so they shouted and pushed more chips into the center.

  “Wealth and power are the most intoxicating drugs,” Boro said, gesturing to the casino below from their hidden observation room, its frosted glass shielding them from prying eyes.

  “Feel the excitement? The wealth changing hands tonight could fund three Zeppelins. And this is just one night.”

  Boro spoke with pride, as if they sat atop Old Dunling’s very treasury.

  “Your enterprise outshines even the Royal Bank,” remarked the guest, seated on a plush sofa, his interest muted.

  “Naturally—no taxes, no paperwork, no questions asked. Everyone’s welcome here, so everyone keeps me alive.”

  Boro served as the gatekeeper for the elite, laundering their funds with unmatched discretion. It was a role no one else could fill, solidifying his position as Lower City’s unchallenged ruler.

  “Want to understand the truth? Look at those calm tables. Those aren’t gamblers—they’re accountants for the nobility, mechanically shuffling cards to transfer fortunes. For them, this isn’t gambling; it’s bookkeeping.

  “Wealth moves through here as gambling funds, loaded into armed carriages outside—carts stamped with the royal lion, carrying gold out of Old Dunling under the cover of night, from one vault to another.”

  He leaned in, voice low: “Arrest them tomorrow, and you’ll be a hero. The treasury swells, a noble house falls…

  “Or hijack the convoy. I’ll clean up the mess. You’d have enough wealth to secure your family for generations.”

  Boro’s tone was provocative, though he knew the risks. Those who dared cross him often turned up in the Thames, weighted with stones.

  “Arthur would have me killed either way,” the guest interrupted, unphased.

  “Now’s not the time to act, Boro. I know you hate playing host, but that’s not why I’m here.”

  A man of discipline, he remained impervious to temptation.

  Boro dropped the subject, pulling out a file: “I know. Here’s the report. The forensics team called Vohl a ‘genetic deformity,’ but we both know better.”

  He slid Burton’s autopsy report across the table. Though Vohl’s body had been incinerated in the fire, the findings were damning enough.

  “My most reliable detective is on the case. He’s exceptional.”

  Noting the guest’s frown, Boro added, “Boro’s Iron Thorn, the man who survived the Red River Massacre. Remember? He’d be at the bottom of the river if I hadn’t intervened.”

  “Which is why he’s the best, isn’t he… Galahad?”