CHAPTER 1: ASHES ON THE WIND

The first pale rays of morning cut across Silverbarrow’s bright façades, shimmering in the dew that clung to the cobblestones and windowboxes. The Civic Day pennants above the active plaza hung limp after the night’s storm, their faded reds and golds in stark contrast to the charred blackness that clung to the forest beyond. At the edge of the timberline, smoke drifted lazily above a scorched patch where the bramble and undergrowth had been consumed by fire. Detective Mira Lorne parked the battered SCU van just beyond the cordon set up by the Highlands Civil Guard, the official maroon-and-cream tape fluttering in the breeze. She stepped out, the familiar weight of her dark coat brushing her knees, her sharp green eyes scanning the crowd of uniformed officers, local volunteers, and a news crew from The Highlands Record. The air smelled of burned wood, wet earth, and something metallic, something wrong. Marshal Reeve Donlan, the Civil Guard’s stoic chief, waved her over. His face bore the lines of a man who’d stood watch through more than one long, anxious night. “Glad you made it, Lorne,” he said, voice low. “It’s bad. You’ll want your whole team for this.” Mira nodded, her mind already mapping out the scene. Yara Novik, field investigator and her unflappable counterpart, was already ahead, striding through the brush in military boots, directing guards as they tried to keep the crowds back. Elias Vann, hoodie zipped high against the chill, was lugging a drone case toward the perimeter, muttering to himself about signal interference and the province’s spotty uplinks. Dr. Ivo Grell, the pathologist, was bent over a body near the forest’s edge, gloves already dusted with ash. Celeste Arbour arrived last, drifting through the crowd in her long coat and scarf like a wraith, already leafing through a stack of color-coded notecards. She barely nodded in greeting, eyes fixed on the burned path ahead. The victim had been a friend to many here—Retired Officer Bram Corrin, the town’s former watch sergeant, remembered for the quiet dignity with which he’d handled drunks, lost hikers, and the rare fistfight at festival time. Now he lay sprawled at an odd angle, face turned toward the last flickers of the fire, his uniform jacket—always worn with pride, even in retirement—partially burned. “Locals found him just after dawn,” Donlan murmured, voice thick. “We had a storm last night, but this—this wasn’t lightning. And Bram—he deserved better.” Mira crouched beside Grell, who grunted a greeting. “Not your typical burn,” he said, voice gravelly. “He was dead before the fire reached him. See this?” He gestured to a faint puncture wound at the base of Corrin’s neck, just visible beneath the soot. “Injection mark. Something fast-acting. Tox screens will tell us more.” Yara knelt by Mira’s side, eyes flinty. “Who’d want Bram dead? He was a fixture. Helped out at the last Lantern Festival. Saved a kid from wandering off the ridge path, what, two months ago?” Mira didn’t answer. Her mind whirled, noting the tracks leading away from the body—several sets, some hasty, one set of heavy boots running deeper into the woods, another lighter set, careful, doubling back toward town. “We have to consider every angle. Yara, work the perimeter. Elias, get the drone up—map the burn pattern and check for any tech residue. Celeste, start on Bram’s history. Anything off, any enemies, any cold cases he might’ve stirred up?” Celeste nodded, eyes flickering with something Mira couldn’t read. “Bram oversaw the old ‘Highland Arson’ file before retirement,” she murmured. “Never solved. I’ll pull the records.” The bell atop Silvertop Tower began to chime, its clear tones cutting through the smoky air—a sound that, by local folklore, only rang when justice was near. Mira shivered, unsure if she believed the old stories, but certain of one thing: Silverbarrow’s secrets burned hotter than any forest fire, and today, the Serious Crimes Unit would have to walk straight through the flames. —

CHAPTER 2: THE GHOSTS OF CORRIN

By mid-morning, the plaza buzzed with speculation. Townsfolk gathered in knots around the bakery and the stonewell, murmuring about Bram Corrin’s death. The SCU’s presence drew only solemn nods—here in Silverbarrow, the unit was respected, even revered, not eyed with suspicion as in so many other corners of Verrowind. Inside the mobile command tent pitched just beyond the cordon, Mira Lorne conducted the first briefing. The air inside was thick with the scent of burnt paper and disinfectant. Yara stood by the whiteboard, scribbling in block letters: SCENE, MOTIVE, METHOD. Elias hunched over his tablet, pulling up drone footage—a lattice of blackened bramble, concentric arcs of fire, and, most telling, a narrow corridor where the flames had burned hottest, almost as if tracing a path. “See this?” he said, tapping the screen. “The ignition point is here, about five meters up the path from Bram’s body. The rest is spread outward. Looks like someone used an accelerant, but only after… whatever killed him.” Grell set out his preliminary findings: “Needle injection, recent. Based on lividity and body temp, time of death is between 1 and 2 a.m.—hours before the storm hit. Cause of death looks to be cardiac arrest, likely induced by a paralytic agent. Burn damage is postmortem.” Celeste, standing apart, flicked through her notes. “Bram Corrin’s last few months were busy. He’d been helping the local council with festival security, but also—” She hesitated, voice softening. “He’d filed a public records request about a missing persons case from 1996. Disappeared hiker. Never solved. No immediate connection, but—” Yara raised a brow. “You think this is about an old case?” Celeste shrugged, wrapping her scarf tighter. “Maybe. Or maybe someone thought he was looking into something best left buried.” Mira turned to Donlan, who’d joined them for the briefing. “Who’s been in and out of these woods lately?” “Plenty,” Donlan replied, ticking off names. “Kids from the night hiking club. Marcy Halloran—she forages every week. Bram himself was seen heading out late, said he was ‘checking on something.’ And then there’s the maintenance crew—fixing the remote path markers after last week’s landslide.” Yara jotted names on the board. “That’s six initial persons of interest. We’ll need to track their movements, interview each.” Elias added, “I also found a fragment of something in the mud—looks like a smart-injector casing. Not local stock, higher-end. Could have a serial. I’ll run it.” Celeste’s eyes narrowed, fingers dancing through her card stack. “Bram’s files mention a break-in at his cottage two weeks ago. Tools missing. A set of medical syringes, among them.” Donlan swore softly. “We thought it was just kids. Maybe it wasn’t.” Mira drew a deep breath. “We have injection, arson, and a possible link to a cold case. And a killer who, perhaps, wanted to send a message with fire.” Yara cracked her knuckles. “Or cover their tracks.” The team split: Yara to canvass the maintenance crew and hikers, Elias to trace the injector, Celeste to Bram’s cottage for a deeper dive into his records, Grell back to Greyhaven for urgent toxicology. Mira herself would start with Marcy Halloran, the local forager, whose name kept coming up—a woman known for her sharp tongue and tendency to cross paths with anyone out on the forest paths at odd hours. As she stepped back out, the tower bell sounded once more—three slow peals. Justice, Mira thought grimly, always came late in these hills. And sometimes, it came on a wind of ashes. —

CHAPTER 3: THE FORAGER AND THE FUSE

Marcy Halloran’s cottage stood at the edge of Silverbarrow’s high path, surrounded by tangled herb beds and sagging laundry lines. The garden was alive with the scent of lemonbark and wild sage; the windows, though, were shuttered tight. Mira knocked softly. After a moment, Marcy opened the door—a wiry woman in her fifties, streaks of silver in her hair, eyes wary but not afraid. She wore a patched vest and boots spattered with mud. “I know why you’re here, Detective,” she said, voice sharp as a plucked string. “And I can tell you, I didn’t kill Bram Corrin. I made him tea not three days ago, same as always.” Mira regarded her in silence, letting the tension settle. “No one’s accusing you, Marcy. But you were in the woods last night.” Marcy sniffed, folding her arms. “That I was. Storm was coming, wanted to harvest before the rain ruined the roots. Saw Bram’s lamp up the ridge around midnight, heading toward the old watchtower path. He looked tense. Didn’t stop to talk—just nodded.” “Anyone else out there?” Mira pressed. Marcy’s eyes darted left, then right. “Heard voices. Two, maybe three. Could’ve been hikers, could’ve been… I don’t know. There was laughter, then arguing. Didn’t recognize the words, too far off. After the rain started, I hurried home. Smelled smoke hours later, thought it was just lightning strike.” Mira studied her, searching for cracks in the story. Marcy’s hands trembled faintly, but her eyes remained steady. “Did Bram mention anything unusual? Enemies? Old grudges?” Marcy’s face softened. “Bram was stubborn, but kind. Kept to himself since retirement. Only thing that riled him lately was that business with Officer Breen—” She stopped, lips pressed together. “Officer Breen?” Mira prompted, pen tapping her chin. Marcy hesitated. “Breen’s not local. Transferred in from Greyhaven, two years ago. They butted heads about patrol routes, how to handle festival security. Nothing serious, I thought. But then, a week ago, Breen showed up at Bram’s door, looking flustered. They argued in the street. Thought it was about old files, council politics. Maybe more.” Mira filed it away—another name, another thread. She thanked Marcy, promising to follow up. As she walked back to the plaza, Mira’s thoughts churned. Breen: a possible suspect, or just a convenient scapegoat? Marcy’s tale felt honest, but in Verrowind, even honesty could be wielded as a weapon. She dialed Yara. “Put Breen at the top of the list. And pull his transfer file. I want to know what he left behind in Greyhaven.” In the distance, blackbirds circled above the burned clearing, their cries thin and mournful. The case was growing, branching—a forest of hidden paths, each one dark and tangled. —

CHAPTER 4: DEAD ENDS AND OLD FILES

The SCU’s temporary base in the town council’s records room was a riot of folders, maps, and the hum of Elias’s forensic equipment. Yara and Celeste sat across from Officer Breen—a compact man in his late thirties, hair slicked back, hands folded in his lap. His uniform was impeccable, but his eyes darted, restless. Yara led the questioning, her voice as blunt as a hammer. “Where were you last night between midnight and two a.m.?” Breen swallowed. “Patrolling the lower plaza. There was a break-in at Harker’s Bakery—nothing major, just a smashed window. I logged it with dispatch.” He slid a form across the table—time-stamped, signed by Donlan. Celeste, circling, asked, “Did you have any disagreements with Bram Corrin in the last month?” Breen’s mouth tightened. “We disagreed on methods. He thought I was too ‘by the book,’ I thought he was too informal. But that’s all. I respected him.” Yara’s knuckles cracked. “Locals say you argued in the street.” Breen’s face colored. “He—he’d accused me of covering up a missing evidence file. He was wrong. I tried to explain, but he wouldn’t let it go.” Celeste watched, unreadable. “Which file?” Breen hesitated, then shook his head. “Old arson case. The ‘Highland Blaze’—from the late nineties. Bram thought it was linked to a string of missing hikers, that someone in the Guard covered it up. I told him he was chasing ghosts.” Yara pressed harder, but Breen’s story held. His alibi for the night was solid—two other officers saw him at the bakery scene, and the patrol logs matched. A dead end. Meanwhile, Elias worked through the injector fragment in his makeshift lab. “High-end smart-injector, model not common in Verrowind,” he muttered, consulting his database. “Purchased recently, registered to—” He frowned, tapping at his screen. “Odd. Sold through an online auction, buyer anonymous. But the firmware logs show it was last synced with a local device at the Silverbarrow Library. Someone here has the tech to use it, and maybe enough to cover their tracks.” Mira, reviewing the patrol logs, found little. “No one unaccounted for. No unexplained vehicles. Whoever did this either knew the woods or was led there.” Celeste, reading through Bram’s private notes, found a single cryptic entry: “Ask Halloran about the Bell. Breen says it never rings for the guilty.” She paused, thoughtful. “He was chasing something. But maybe it chased him first.” That night, Mira sat in her borrowed room, thumbing the edges of her battered notebook, plagued by the sense that the past was reaching out, trying to finish a story left undone. —

CHAPTER 5: CINDERS AND CIRCLES

Morning in Silverbarrow was a symphony of color and sound: market stalls opening, bakers hawking stonebread and orchard jam, children chasing pigeons across the bright plaza. The surface was calm, but Mira knew by now that beneath it ran layers of old loyalty and deeper resentments. She called a team meeting in the small café on Lantern Street, the owner hushing customers and sending out endless cups of bitter black tea. Around the table, tension sizzled. Elias reported, “Library logs show that someone accessed the injector documentation from a public terminal at 11:43 p.m. night of the murder. User was careful, wiped the browser. But CCTV outside the library shows a figure in a dark hooded jacket, short—could be male or female.” Yara frowned. “Time matches several of our persons of interest. Marcy, the maintenance crew, even Bram—if he went out after stopping at the library.” Celeste slid a new file onto the table. “I dug deeper into the cold case Bram was chasing. The missing hiker—Jory Nald—was rumored to have gotten into a fight with local teens near the Bell Tower in ‘96. The same night as the original ‘Highland Blaze’ arson, which burned a small section of the woods. The same woods where Bram was found.” Mira’s pen tapped her chin. “So, is this a copycat? Or someone settling an old score?” Yara shook her head. “Or someone trying to stop Bram before he found something he shouldn’t.” They debated suspects: – **Marcy Halloran:** Knew the woods, was nearby, had a history with Bram—though one of friendship, not enmity. – **Officer Breen:** Old disagreements, but solid alibi. – **The Maintenance Crew:** Some had criminal records—nothing violent, but one, Darrin Ulm, had been fined for illegal burning a decade ago. – **A local youth, Kye Dollen:** Known for tech skills, was briefly questioned in a previous cyber-vandalism case. No record of violent crime. Celeste mused, “Jory Nald’s disappearance was never solved. The Bell Tower’s folklore says it rings for justice, but also for penance.” Mira concluded, “We need to push harder. Someone here is hiding something. Let’s shake the tree and see what falls.” The team split—Yara to re-interview the maintenance crew, Elias to track down library user logs and devices, Celeste to dig for connections between the old and new arsons, Mira herself to visit the infamous Silvertop Bell Tower. As she climbed the winding path, clouds rolling in from the Cloudstep Peaks, Mira wondered if today justice would finally ring true—or if the bell would toll for her as well. —

CHAPTER 6: SHADOWS AT THE TOWER

The Silvertop Bell Tower was older than the town itself, its stones worn smooth by wind and rain. It loomed above Silverbarrow, sentinel and judge, casting a long shadow across the burned forest edge. Mira ascended the steps, the clang of her boots echoing in the chill air. Near the top she found Marcy Halloran, standing silently before the great bronze bell, eyes closed. Mira paused, unsure whether to intrude. Marcy spoke without turning. “Bram always said the bell was haunted. That sometimes, when he climbed up here at night, he’d hear it ring just before something terrible happened.” Mira stepped forward, watching Marcy’s reflection in the polished metal. “Why did Bram ask you about the Bell?” Marcy inhaled deeply, voice trembling. “Because the night Jory Nald disappeared, the bell rang. No one was supposed to be here—not at that hour, not in the storm. But Bram found fresh footprints in the mud. He never let it go, even after so many years.” “Were you here that night?” Mira’s question was a scalpel, sharp and unflinching. Marcy shook her head. “No. I heard the bell, from my cottage. I ran up, but by the time I arrived, the place was empty. Just rain, and smoke on the wind.” Mira watched, searching for the flicker of guilt, the quiver of a lie. Instead, she found only sorrow. “Did you see anyone in the woods last night?” Mira pressed. Marcy turned, her eyes haunted. “I saw movement. A flashlight. But when I called out, no one answered. I went home. I’m sorry, Detective—I wish I’d done more.” The wind rose, swirling ashes from the trees below. Mira looked out over the town, the burned forest, the gathering storm clouds. Silverbarrow was a place of deep communal memory, but memory can be a curse—binding the innocent and the guilty alike. Below, the plaza grew smaller, the sounds of life a distant murmur. Mira’s phone buzzed—a message from Elias. The injector’s firmware, he said, had one final clue. The device had synced to a phone belonging to Darrin Ulm, the maintenance worker with an arson record. A new suspect. A new path. But something in Marcy’s story gnawed at Mira as she descended the tower steps—something about the way she’d spoken of the past, grief teetering on the edge of confession. —

CHAPTER 7: THE MAINTENANCE MAN

Darrin Ulm’s quarters were tucked behind the municipal workshop—a squat, cluttered space that smelled of oil, old coffee, and cigarette smoke. Yara waited by the door, arms folded across her chest, boots planted wide. Inside, Darrin sat at a battered table, his face stubbled, eyes red-rimmed. He flinched as Yara entered, his hands trembling as he stubbed out a cigarette. “I told you, I was nowhere near those woods last night,” he muttered. “You have a record for burning scrap,” Yara replied, her tone level. “And your work logs show you were repairing markers on the remote path at sunset.” Darrin shrugged, sullen. “That was hours before. I went home, watched the Lantern Festival coverage, drank a couple beers. No one saw me, but I didn’t kill Bram Corrin.” Yara pressed. “Your phone synced with a smart-injector found at the scene. Explain that.” Darrin’s head jerked up, panic in his eyes. “I—I sold some tools last week, including an old phone and a kit—needed the cash. Kid named Kye Dollen bought them. Tech whiz. Maybe he’s your guy.” Yara frowned. The shifting blame was too practiced, too easy. Still, the timeline fit: Darrin had opportunity, but not a clear motive. Back at the command tent, Elias confirmed Darrin’s story: the device logs showed a transfer to a new user ID the day before the murder. The digital trail led to Kye Dollen, the local youth. Red herring, Yara thought with frustration. Every answer opened another door, every suspect had an alibi or a scapegoat. Mira, joining the debrief, sighed. “We’re being led in circles. Someone is counting on us chasing our tails.” Celeste, pale but focused, spoke up. “There’s a pattern here—layers of misdirection. The real killer isn’t just hiding, they’re manipulating.” Yara nodded grimly. “Then let’s see what happens when we push back.” —

CHAPTER 8: THE YOUTH AND THE FLAME

Kye Dollen sat outside the old mill, legs swinging, tapping on his cracked phone. When Elias and Mira approached, he glanced up, feigning indifference. “You here to pin this on me?” he scoffed, a flicker of fear behind his bravado. “We’re here to talk,” Mira replied, voice gentle but firm. “You bought tools from Darrin Ulm last week. Why?” Kye shrugged. “Needed parts for a drone project. Old tech, nothing special.” Elias pulled out the injector casing. “This synced with your device. You accessed the library terminal the night of Bram’s death. What were you searching for?” Kye’s cheeks flushed. “Just… looking up first aid manuals. I volunteer at the Civic Day events, sometimes folks get stung or faint.” Mira watched him, patient. “Did you see anything in the woods?” Kye hesitated. “There was a fire, yeah. I was up on the ridge, testing my drone. Saw—” He stopped, eyes flickering. “Saw what?” Elias pressed. Kye’s hands shook. “A figure. Hooded, moving fast. I thought it was a deer at first, but then I saw the flashlight. They dropped something shiny—a syringe, I think—and ran. I didn’t go closer, I was scared.” Mira nodded, eyes softening. “Why not tell us sooner?” Kye looked away. “Who’d believe me? I’m just the weird kid with gadgets. Everyone blames me when something goes wrong.” Mira let out a slow breath. Kye’s fear was real, but he’d never left the periphery of the scene. Another dead end—or another clever misdirection? Back at the command tent, Elias confirmed Kye’s drone footage. It showed a blurry, indistinct figure running through the woods, but nothing definitive. The fire’s glow distorted everything, masking identities. “We’re chasing shadows,” Yara grumbled. “Every lead doubles back.” Celeste murmured, almost to herself, “Unless the killer wants us here—for a reason.” Mira closed her notebook. “We need to revisit the beginning. Not who had the means, but who had the most to lose if Bram uncovered the truth.” That night, the bell on Silvertop Tower rang again, echoing through the darkness. Mira listened to the peals, warning or promise, and resolved to bring the guilty into the light. —

CHAPTER 9: PATTERNS OF THE PAST

As dawn broke, Mira lingered by the memorial wall near the plaza, reading the names etched in stone. Bram Corrin’s name stood out, newly stenciled, the paint still tacky. The town’s grief was palpable, woven into every conversation, every sidelong glance. Celeste joined her, breath visible in the chilly air. “You’re close, you know,” she said softly. “You’re circling the truth.” Mira smiled wryly. “I feel like I’m circling a drain.” Celeste pulled a card from her stack, handing it over. “I found something in Bram’s notes. He’d been meeting someone in secret—someone who worked night shifts, someone with access to medical supplies.” Mira frowned. “Who?” Celeste hesitated. “Willow Corrin. Bram’s niece. Volunteer medic, helped with festival first aid. She was at the woods last night, tending to a twisted ankle—called in by a hiker, according to dispatch logs.” Mira’s pulse quickened. “She’s not on our suspect list.” Celeste nodded. “She stayed out of sight, kept her head down. But the logs show she left the scene around the same time as the fire started. No one followed up.” Mira’s mind raced. Willow fit the physical profile—a slight woman often mistaken for a youth, moved with purpose, knew how to use an injector. And she had motive: family ties, perhaps a secret to keep, or a wound to mend. “We need to talk to her,” Mira said quietly. Celeste’s eyes met hers, grave and knowing. “She was close to Jory Nald before he disappeared. Maybe too close.” A double motive, Mira realized. If Willow feared Bram would reveal an old family secret, or if she’d acted to protect herself—or another—from something only Bram knew, the tragedy became inevitable. The past was not dead in Silverbarrow. It walked these paths, wearing new faces and carrying old grief. —

CHAPTER 10: THE INTERVIEW

Willow Corrin sat in the council chambers, hands folded tightly in her lap. Her dark hair was pulled back, her medic’s jacket folded carefully beside her. Mira, Yara, and Celeste sat across from her, the silence thick as velvet. Mira began, voice low. “Willow, we know you were in the woods last night. We know you had access to medical supplies. And we know Bram was looking into Jory Nald’s disappearance—the case you always insisted was an accident, not foul play.” Willow’s eyes widened, fear flickering across her face. “I—I didn’t kill my uncle. He was my only family left.” Yara leaned forward, blunt and unwavering. “Why did you leave the scene before the fire? Why not call for help?” Willow’s hands shook. “He—he confronted me. Said he’d found proof Jory hadn’t just vanished. That someone in the family knew more, that I should tell the truth. I panicked. I—I tried to calm him, but he got so angry, started shouting. He threatened to go to the Civil Guard.” Celeste’s voice was gentle but piercing. “Did you inject him to protect yourself, Willow?” Tears welled up in Willow’s eyes. “He grabbed my arm. I thought—he’s old, but strong. I had a sedative injector from my kit, for emergencies. I didn’t mean—” She broke off, sobbing. “I just wanted him to stop. But he collapsed. I tried to revive him, but nothing worked. The fire—” She shuddered. “I set it, hoping to cover it up. I wasn’t thinking. I was so scared.” Mira let the confession settle. The pieces clicked into place—a tragedy of fear, old secrets, and a desperate act of self-defense gone wrong. But Celeste leaned in, voice soft. “And Jory Nald? What really happened?” Willow’s shoulders slumped. “It was an accident—a fall during a storm. Bram wouldn’t let it go, said someone pushed him. He thought I knew more, but I didn’t. I swear.” Yara scribbled notes, jaw clenched. “We’ll need a full statement. And the court will decide.” As Willow was led away, Mira watched the storm clouds gathering above the tower. Justice had come, but not in the way anyone wanted. The past could not be burned away. It clung to the hills, to the memory of every lost soul. —

CHAPTER 11: THE TWIST

That evening, as the team prepared to close the case, Elias discovered an anomaly in the smart-injector’s tech logs. There was a hidden firmware update—one that had been initiated not by Willow, but remotely, two hours after Bram’s death. He called Mira urgently. “Someone tampered with the injector logs. The real killer might not be Willow after all.” Mira’s heart thudded. “Who had the skills?” Elias traced the digital footprint. “The library terminal, again. But this time, the user ID matches Marcy Halloran.” Mira confronted Marcy in her cottage. The old woman broke down, tears streaming down her face. “I found Bram after he collapsed. Willow ran off, panicked. I tried to help—I used the injector to administer a stimulant, but—I only made it worse. When I saw what had happened, I altered the logs, hoping to protect Willow. Bram was a good man. I couldn’t let the town tear her apart.” Mira sat in silence, the weight of the truth settling over her. Two motives: Willow’s desperate act of self-defense, and Marcy’s attempt to shield a beloved niece from ruin. The case had been twisted by love, fear, and the unrelenting pressure of communal memory. When the news broke, Silverbarrow mourned anew. The town’s faith in justice endured, but its innocence was gone. The SCU left quietly, their faces drawn, carrying more questions than answers. As Mira walked the plaza one last time, the bell atop Silvertop Tower rang out, clear and mournful. In the end, even justice could not tell the living from the dead—the past from the present. It could only ring, and hope that someone, somewhere, was listening. —

CHAPTER 12: ASHES AND AFTERMATH

Back in Greyhaven, the SCU gathered in their cramped office, the smell of rain and city grime mingling with the dull ache of exhaustion. Yara filed her notes, jaw set. Elias typed up the last of his digital forensic reports, hands shaking slightly. Celeste organized her cards, eyes distant, already sifting for patterns in the next cold case. Dr. Grell entered, setting a final toxicology report on Mira’s desk. “Willow’s sedative was fast-acting, but what killed Bram was his heart. Pre-existing condition. The fire didn’t touch him.” Mira nodded, grateful for the clarity. “So many lives ruined by secrets.” Celeste murmured, “Memory is both shield and weapon.” Yara cracked her knuckles, voice blunt. “We did what we could. It’s more than most.” Elias added, “The province will remember Bram. And Willow. And Marcy. Maybe the next time the bell rings, it’ll be for something brighter.” Mira stood, looking out over the rain-soaked city. She pulled out her faded notebook and pinned a new photo to the back cover: Bram Corrin, standing beneath the Silvertop Bell, smiling into the mist. The case was closed, but Silverbarrow’s wounds would take longer to heal. In Verrowind, justice was never simple—it was layered, complex, and fragile as ash. The bell, they said, only rang when justice was near. But in the end, it rang for those who dared to seek the truth, no matter the cost. —