Chapter One: The Shattering of Morning

The sun had only just peaked over the Cloudstep Peaks, laying gold on the bright stucco façades of Silverbarrow’s main street, when the call came in. Mira Lorne’s phone vibrated against her thigh, rattling the mug on her desk. She reached for it, eyes gritty, heart thumping in that familiar rhythm reserved only for tragedy. “Lorne,” she answered, her voice a slow exhalation. In the background, a crow called from her apartment’s narrow window in Greyhaven. A voice, highland-accented and urgent: “Detective. Marshal Donlan, Silverbarrow Highlands Civil Guard. I’m afraid there’s been a death. Suspected break-in, possible homicide—local press. Name’s Tessa Dray. Councilwoman Vale requested you directly.” Mira closed her eyes, letting the words settle. Tessa Dray—she knew the name. An investigative journalist, outspoken but beloved, her columns always flavored with the sort of courage people in Verrowind claimed to have but seldom exercised. The urge to reach for her file, to recall the last piece Dray penned about the municipal water board’s sabotage scandal, was overwhelming. “We’ll be there within the hour,” Mira replied, already scanning the wall where unsolved faces peered back in the weak morning light. Her phone buzzed again. Elias Vann, the youngest on the Serious Crimes Unit, was always first to the digital forensics punch. “Saw the alert,” he texted. “Loading up the mobile lab van. Want the full kit?” “Bring everything,” she replied, tapping her pen to her chin. Yara Novik’s voice, clipped and sleep-rough, came through next. “I’m driving. Lorne, you ride shotgun. Grell and Arbour are already en route.” As she shrugged on her coat, Mira felt the thrum of anticipation and dread, familiar as a scar. Silverbarrow was one of the few places where the SCU was welcomed with open arms. Today, they were arriving to find someone missing. — The drive from Greyhaven to Silverbarrow along Hillway B7 was a journey through a province’s memory—abandoned factories overgrown with misty wildflowers, meadows where children’s festivals had faded into echo, and finally, the ascent into the highland air. Yara kept her eyes on the curving road, knuckles white on the wheel. Mira watched the countryside, the golden light sharpening the contrast between hope and rot. Elias sat in the back, muttering lines of code, prepping drones, and running facial recognition checks on recent visitors to the town. “Tessa Dray had three open investigations,” he volunteered. “Corruption in Clearbrook’s council, a piece about local folklore, and…something called the Order of Returning Light.” He shot a glance at Mira. “Sound cultish. Sound familiar?” Celeste Arbour, ever the cryptic, spoke from behind a thick scarf. “The Order’s always been rumor. Ritual pageantry, old highland superstitions. But Tessa’s notes—she was onto something. She called me last night.” Celeste’s eyes flicked away, voice growing softer. “Wanted an introduction to my archivist in Elmspire.” Yara’s gaze in the rearview was sharp. “Why didn’t you mention that before?” Celeste shrugged, circling her notebook’s edges with a colored pen. “It was late. I thought she’d be fine.” Mira’s silence spoke volumes. In Verrowind, nothing was ever just a coincidence. The farmhouse came into view—a two-story structure, whitewashed and neat, overlooking orchards bathed in dew. The Highlands Civil Guard’s cars were parked in the lane, their lights silent but urgent. Townsfolk gathered in muted knots beyond the orchard fence, their faces drawn with worry and something else—fear, perhaps, or the knowledge that Silverbarrow’s innocence had just been breached. Mira stepped out first, the air cool and tinged with the scent of damp grass and distant smoke. She paused, feeling the weight of the townspeople’s eyes, and then led the team toward the farmhouse, ready to confront whatever waited within. —

Chapter Two: The Fallen Advocate

The farmhouse’s main entry was already cordoned off by blue tape, Highlands Civil Guard officers stationed at respectful intervals. Marshal Reeve Donlan, a solid man with a square jaw and the kind of authority that brooked no disrespect, met Mira at the gate. “Detective Lorne. Thank you for coming so quickly.” His handshake was firm, eyes dark with fatigue. “We secured the scene as soon as we found her. There’s no sign of forced entry downstairs—just the window upstairs…” He trailed off, gesturing toward the front steps. Yara moved to flank him, scanning the perimeter, her presence reassuring to the gathered locals. The interior of the house was bright and meticulously kept—old rugs, polished banisters, shelves lined with books. The silence was absolute, broken only by the muffled sounds of the forensic team upstairs. Mira led the team up the narrow staircase, each creak another reminder of the life lived here. The victim’s study was at the end of the hall, a sunny room with wide windows opening onto the sloping orchard below. The far window was shattered, glass glittering on the rug, the sash open to the morning air. Dr. Ivo Grell knelt beside the window, gloved hands already dusted with residue. He nodded at Mira, face grave. “Tessa Dray fell—or was pushed—from here,” he murmured, voice gravelly. “Landed below, on the stone path. Instant death—cervical fracture, severe cranial trauma. But take a look here.” He pointed to a smear on the sill—a faint, bloody handprint, the outline sharp. “Doesn’t match Dray’s wounds. And see this—” He held up a small scrap, caught on the window’s latch. “Fiber. Black, synthetic. Not from her clothes.” Elias was already unpacking his kit, setting up a portable scanner by the desk. “No forced entry on the doors. But her laptop’s missing. Ethernet cable unplugged, not torn. Whoever did this had time.” Yara, her notebook out, began charting the room. “Any sign of struggle?” Grell shook his head. “No overturned furniture. But look at her desk.” Among the notepads and pens, a candle—burnt down, wax pooled on a saucer—sat beside a small circle drawn in black marker. Scrawled inside: two interlocking triangles, a symbol Mira didn’t recognize. Celeste’s eyes widened almost imperceptibly. “That’s the mark of the Order of Returning Light. Or so the stories say. It’s rare to see it outside folk art.” She reached for her phone, scrolling through her digital archive. “It’s been linked to ritual gatherings—mostly harmless. But Dray was convinced it was something more.” Mira knelt by the circle, pen tapping her chin. The air was charged, a heaviness that felt almost ritualistic. “This isn’t just a burglary. Someone wanted us to think it was.” Elias was by the window now, drone poised for launch. “Let’s get an aerial scan of the grounds. Yara, check the outbuildings. I’ll pull any network logs from the router.” He paused, his voice dropping. “Was Dray working on anything that would piss off the Order?” Celeste hesitated. “She mentioned a source—someone inside the Order, willing to talk. Didn’t name them.” Outside, the bell in the Silvertop Tower tolled. Once, twice, echoing over the hills—a sound that, by tradition, marked moments of justice or drastic change. Yara looked up, eyes narrowing. “Locals say the bell only rings when justice is near. Let’s see if we can live up to that.” —

Chapter Three: Echoes in the Orchard

Below the study window, the orchard grass was trampled, dew flattened in a ragged path leading toward the stone walkway. Dr. Grell had already marked the landing site, flags denoting the trajectory of Tessa Dray’s fatal fall. The body had been removed, but the impression where she landed was still distinct, a silent accusation pressed into the earth. Marshal Donlan stood nearby, conferring with a pair of Civil Guard officers. “No footprints except Dray’s and what looks like one other person—heavy boot treads, size eleven. We’re casting them now. No tire tracks in the lane, but neighbors said they heard a car engine after midnight.” Elias knelt beside a crushed patch of wildflowers. “Black fibers matching what Grell found upstairs. I’ll run a chemical analysis in the lab van. Also, the router logs show a device connecting to her Wi-Fi at 12:37 AM. MAC address spoofed, but the connection only lasted six minutes. Someone came for her files.” Celeste drifted along the edge of the orchard, scarf trailing. She stopped by a gnarled old apple tree, fingers tracing a patch of bark carved with the same interlocking triangles. “They left a calling card—more occult than ritual, but it’s meant to unsettle us. To make us look in the wrong direction.” Yara joined Mira by the stone path, flipping through her all-caps notes. “Victim was last seen at the Lantern Festival—came home alone at 11:15 PM, according to neighbors. No sign of forced entry, but the back door’s lock is old. Easy to pick.” Mira’s pen tapped rhythmically. “We need to talk to the locals—neighbors, friends, anyone who saw or heard anything. And we need to find out what Dray knew that made someone desperate enough to kill.” As the team fanned out, Mira lingered by the window, staring at the horizon. A memory surfaced—Tessa Dray’s voice, laughing, proud, on a panel they shared years ago about corruption in Verrowind’s justice system. “This isn’t just a break-in,” Mira murmured to herself. “Someone made an example of her.” She turned as Celeste touched her arm, eyes haunted. “You knew her.” It wasn’t a question. Mira nodded, the admission heavy. “We weren’t close. But she trusted me once. I owe her.” Celeste’s expression was unreadable, her fingers drumming an anxious rhythm. “Then we can’t afford mistakes.” The orchard’s silence deepened, as if the land itself was holding its breath. —

Chapter Four: The Watchers and the Watched

The Silverbarrow town square was alive with the midday bustle, market stalls hawking orchard jams and honey-glazed root roast, children darting among the fountains. But beneath the surface, the air was tense—a community on edge, not yet ready to voice its fears. The Highlands Record’s office sat on the corner, its window plastered with headlines celebrating civic pride. Mira and Yara stepped inside, met at once by the editor-in-chief, Mira Dollen—a wiry woman with ink-stained cuffs and a practiced smile. “Detectives. You’re here about Tessa.” Her voice was low, eyes flicking to the staffers clustered at their desks. “We’re all gutted. She was fearless. Too fearless, maybe.” Mira kept her tone gentle. “When was the last time you saw her?” “Yesterday afternoon. She dropped off notes for the next column—something about the Order, and complaints about local council interference. She said she was close to a breakthrough, but wouldn’t tell me what.” Dollen’s hand trembled as she passed over a notebook. “Here. Tessa’s field notes. She made a copy for safekeeping.” Yara opened the notebook, scanning the pages. “You’re listed as a contact. Any threats, strange calls, visitors?” Dollen hesitated. “A man came by last week—tall, dark coat, said he was from the Order of Returning Light. Wanted to ‘set the record straight.’ Tessa sent him away, but she looked shaken.” Mira’s gaze sharpened. “Name?” “Only gave ‘Brother Sindric.’ No surname.” Outside, Elias called Mira’s phone. “Digital forensics update: Dray’s laptop pinged on a public Wi-Fi near Clearbrook train station at 2:23 AM. Someone took it, dumped it, or boarded the Silver Spur Line. I’m pulling CCTV now.” Inside, Celeste wandered the Record’s hallway, eyes tracing the framed photos—Tessa at rallies, interviewing mayors, standing beside Mira at a crime scene years ago. Yara’s voice was gruff but kind. “Any enemies? Anyone angry enough to want her silenced?” Dollen shook her head. “She ruffled feathers, sure. But she was careful. Except with one thing—the Order. She said she’d dug up something that would ‘change everything.’” Mira pocketed the notebook. “We’ll need to speak to anyone with ties to the Order. And if this ‘Brother Sindric’ contacts you again, call me—immediately.” Dollen’s voice broke. “Find who did this. For her. For all of us.” As they left, Yara muttered, “Order of Returning Light, ritual symbols, missing laptop, and now a timeline that doesn’t fit. We’re being led in circles.” Mira’s eyes were distant. “That’s what makes it dangerous.” —

Chapter Five: The Ritual and the Red Herring

The farmhouse crime scene yielded few new clues, but the Order’s symbol—now spotted in not one but three locations, including the orchard and the victim’s study—begged for deeper scrutiny. Celeste, her scarf tighter than before, gathered the team in the farmhouse’s kitchen. “Historically, the Order’s rituals were more about theater than violence,” she explained, circling the scarred oak table. “Night vigils, symbolic offerings, candle processions. But in the last year, their gatherings have become more secretive. Three disappearances linked to members—never proven, but rumors persist.” Elias frowned, busy typing code into his laptop. “The MAC address at Dray’s house matches an unknown device that pinged two other crime scenes last month—one a break-in at a Clearbrook councilor’s home, the other a data theft at the Elmspire observatory. Both places Tessa was investigating.” Yara, scribbling in her blocky script, grunted. “So was she targeted because of her investigation, or because she uncovered something else?” Dr. Grell, cigarette unlit between his fingers, chimed in. “The handprint at the window—it’s not Dray’s. Larger, male, left-handed. But the angle suggests the person was helping her out the window—or forcing her.” Celeste’s gaze flitted from face to face. “There’s a local—Jonas Fenn—former Order member. He’s been trying to reform them from within. Tessa interviewed him last month. If there’s anyone who’d know what’s changed, it’s him.” Mira nodded. “He’s our next stop. But first—Elias, run the fiber and DNA trace. Grell, see if you can pull prints from that candle or anywhere else in the study.” Yara’s jaw tensed. “We’re missing something. If the Order wanted her dead, why make it look like a break-in? Why the symbol?” Celeste’s voice was almost inaudible. “Sometimes symbols are meant to mislead. Or to warn off others.” Outside, the crowd had thinned, but one figure lingered near the orchard gate—a young woman, pale and shivering, eyes fixed on the farmhouse. Mira stepped outside, approaching gently. “You knew Tessa?” The woman nodded, voice trembling. “I’m Mara. I…I saw someone last night. Tall man, black coat, by her window. I thought it was her cousin, Finn. He visits sometimes, helps her with research.” “Did you see his face?” A shake of the head. “No. But he dropped something by the old apple tree.” Mira followed her back to the tree. There, half-buried in the grass—a silver locket with an engraving. Inside, a faded photo of Tessa and Finn Dray, arms thrown around each other, smiling. The first red herring, Mira thought grimly. Family always complicates the truth. —

Chapter Six: The False Confession

Finn Dray, Tessa’s cousin, was easy to find. He worked at the Silverbarrow artisan bakery, turning out loaves of stonebread and delivering them to the festival stalls. He arrived at the Civil Guard station with red-rimmed eyes and flour-dusted hands. Yara ran the interview, her presence filling the cramped interrogation room. Mira sat in the corner, pen tapping, eyes unblinking. Finn’s voice was rough with grief. “I heard—about Tessa. I can’t believe she’s gone. She was the best of us.” Yara’s tone was soft but insistent. “You were seen near her house last night. Care to explain?” “I was supposed to meet her. She called me—said she was scared. I brought my old army jacket, the black one, in case she wanted to borrow it for the festival. But when I got there, her lights were off. I waited outside, but no one answered. I left the jacket by the apple tree.” He wiped his eyes. “I swear, I never went inside.” Mira leaned forward. “Your locket was found there as well.” Finn’s hands trembled. “She always wore it for luck. I must have dropped it. I’m sorry. I…I wanted to protect her.” Suddenly, Finn’s shoulders sagged. He pressed his palms flat on the table. “It’s my fault. I should have stayed. If I’d gone in, maybe she’d still be alive.” Yara’s eyes narrowed. “Are you confessing to the crime?” Finn shook his head, tears streaming. “No—I mean, yes. Maybe. I failed her. If you need me to take the blame, I will. She was too good for this place.” Mira reached across the table, her touch gentle. “Finn, we need the truth, not penance. Did you kill Tessa?” He buried his face in his hands. “No. But I let her die. Isn’t that the same?” The team watched, silent, as Finn dissolved into sobs—a false confession born of grief and guilt, but not of murder. —

Chapter Seven: The Archivist’s Secret

As evening fell, the SCU gathered in the mobile lab van, the air thick with exhaustion and frustration. Elias had the fiber analysis results, eyes bright with anticipation. “The black synthetic fiber from the window matches a standard-issue tactical glove—brand sold at two shops in Silverbarrow, three in Greyhaven. But the DNA trace—it’s not Finn Dray’s. It’s a partial match to someone in the provincial database. I’m running the cross-check.” Celeste, arms wrapped tight around her body, paced in tight circles. “We’re missing the timeline. Finn left at 11:30. The laptop was logged onto Wi-Fi in Clearbrook at 2:23 AM. The connection at Tessa’s house was at 12:37. There’s a window of nearly two hours unaccounted for.” Yara drummed her fingers. “Multiple suspects. Anyone with access to tactical gear. Anyone with a grudge against Tessa—or the Order.” Dr. Grell emerged from the farmhouse, a plastic evidence bag in hand. “Prints on the candle: partials, not enough for a match. But there’s a residue—spiced berry-wine tea and…salt. Ritualistic, or just supper?” Celeste stopped pacing, eyes wide. “The ritual. In old Order lore, salt and berry tea are used to ‘purify’ and ‘open’ a circle. If someone was performing a ritual, it was either staged…or a warning.” Elias’s computer pinged. “DNA trace just finished. Match to a local: Marshal Reeve Donlan.” The team stared in stunned silence. Mira was the first to recover. “The Marshal? He was first on scene. Highly respected. And a friend of Tessa Dray.” Yara’s fists clenched. “We need to bring him in. Now.” But Mira shook her head. “Not yet. This feels off. Why leave DNA? Why frame himself?” Celeste’s voice was a whisper. “Because someone wants to destroy more than just Tessa Dray. They want to ruin everyone who believed in her.” The sound of the Silvertop Bell echoed again—softer, this time. The team prepared for a confrontation that would shake Silverbarrow to its core. —

Chapter Eight: The Confrontation

The Highlands Civil Guard station was quiet, the weight of suspicion hanging over the old stone building. Marshal Donlan awaited them in his office, the lines on his face deeper than ever. Mira entered first, closing the door behind her. “Marshal, we need to talk.” Donlan looked up, eyes sharp. “I know why you’re here. The lab called me. DNA match at the scene. But I swear to you—I didn’t kill Tessa.” Yara stood guard by the door, arms crossed. Elias set up his recorder, silent and pale. Mira’s voice was low, deliberate. “Can you explain how your DNA ended up on the window?” Donlan exhaled slowly. “I was here three nights ago—Tessa called me. She’d been threatened. Asked for advice on security. I leaned on that window to check the latch. I left my glove behind. I didn’t realize until the next day.” Elias checked his notes. “Was the Order involved?” Donlan’s face darkened. “They’re everywhere, Detective. They feed on fear and tradition—use it to control. Tessa wanted to expose them. I told her to be careful.” Mira’s pen tapped. “Did you see anyone suspicious last night?” Donlan hesitated. “A car in the lane, silver sedan. Out-of-town plates. I couldn’t get a look at the driver. But I think—whoever it was, they knew Tessa. She let them in.” Yara’s voice was steel. “We’ll need your gloves, Marshal. And a list of everyone with access to tactical gear.” Donlan nodded, shoulders heavy. “Anything to help. I want justice for Tessa. She deserved the truth.” The team left, the sense of unease growing. Mira lingered in the corridor, watching as Donlan bowed his head in silent grief. “He’s telling the truth,” she whispered to Yara. “But someone wants him to burn for this.” Yara’s eyes were hard. “Then we find out who.” —

Chapter Nine: The Twist in the Timeline

Elias and Celeste spent the night poring over digital records, CCTV logs, and transport data. At dawn, Elias burst into the farmhouse kitchen, face alight with discovery. “I found the timeline twist,” he announced. “The laptop wasn’t just at Clearbrook station. It was accessed remotely—someone used Dray’s credentials to log in from Elmspire. But security cameras show no one matching her description boarding the train.” Celeste’s voice was soft, but urgent. “Whoever took the laptop wanted us to believe it left town. But it never did. It’s still here—hidden in Silverbarrow.” Yara’s jaw set. “So we’ve been chasing a ghost. All this movement, all these clues—meant to distract us.” Celeste’s eyes narrowed. “The only person who could orchestrate this—who knew the rituals, the Order’s symbols, the layout of the house—would have to be close. Very close.” Mira’s heart pounded, a memory surfacing—Tessa, on the phone, voice low: “If anything happens to me, check my backup files. Only Celeste knows where to find them.” All eyes turned to Celeste. Her cheeks paled, eyes wide. “No. I helped her with research, yes. I archived her files. But I would never—” Mira’s gaze was gentle, but unyielding. “Celeste, where is the laptop?” Celeste swallowed, voice trembling. “I hid it. After the break-in. I found it in my car this morning, seat soaked in berry-wine tea. There was a note: ‘For Silverbarrow’s justice.’ I thought it was from Tessa.” Yara’s voice was icy. “But it wasn’t. Someone set you up.” Celeste’s hands shook. “I’m sorry. I thought I was protecting her work.” Mira nodded, the pieces snapping into place. “So the killer knew about your connection. Knew you’d hide the evidence. Which means—” Elias finished, voice grim. “The only one with access to both Tessa and Celeste, who could move freely between houses and had a reason to want the Order exposed—and protected—” A name hung unspoken in the air. —

Chapter Ten: The Unmasking

The breaking point came at dusk, the orchard bathed in the last golden light. Mira led the team through the winding lanes to the home of Councilwoman Teresa Vale, head of Silverbarrow’s town council and a tireless advocate for civic justice. She greeted them on the porch, smile brittle. “Detectives. I’ve been expecting you.” Yara wasted no time. “May we come in?” Vale led them inside, her manner calm, almost resigned. “You’ve figured it out, then.” Mira’s voice was quiet. “You orchestrated the break-in. You pushed Tessa Dray from that window.” Vale poured herself a cup of berry-wine tea, hands steady. “She was going to destroy everything we’ve built here. The Order is a cancer, yes, but if it unravels, so does Silverbarrow’s unity. Tessa wanted to expose them, but she didn’t understand—some secrets protect more than they harm.” Elias stared in disbelief. “You killed her for ideology?” Vale nodded, eyes shining with unshed tears. “I believed in her. But she refused to see reason. The Order threatened my family. If her story ran, they’d come for us all.” Dr. Grell stepped forward. “You used tactical gloves. Left the symbol as misdirection. Pushed her from the window to make it look like a break-in gone wrong.” Vale’s voice broke. “I begged her to stop. She refused. In the end, she forced my hand.” Mira’s pen tapped, slow and mournful. “You loved her, didn’t you?” Vale’s composure cracked at last. “She was my friend. My partner in all but name. I would have died for her, once. But the town—Silverbarrow—needed protection.” Yara read her rights as the sun set over the orchard, the Silvertop Bell ringing in the distance—its ancient call for justice echoing over a community forever changed. —

Chapter Eleven: The Shadows of Motive

The arrest of Councilwoman Vale sent shockwaves through Silverbarrow. The town’s faith in its leaders and in the ideals of justice was shaken, but not destroyed. The Highlands Record ran a cautious headline, “TRUTH, LOSS, AND THE PRICE OF UNITY,” while Mira Dollen struggled to balance heartfelt mourning with the duty of an editor. The press, sensing the wound, pressed hard—some demonizing Vale, others lionizing Tessa Dray, all of them circling for a narrative that could define, or destroy, Silverbarrow’s civic pride. Elias worked late into the night, piecing together the digital evidence, his muttered code laced with anger and sadness. “It was all there—the remote logins, the staged timeline, the DNA planted at the scene. Vale planned everything. Even the occult symbols—she researched them in the library archives last week.” Celeste, wracked with guilt, refused to leave her room for hours. Mira found her at last, sitting on the farmhouse porch, scarf drawn tight, eyes red. “I should have seen it,” Celeste whispered. “I led her right to the evidence she needed.” Mira’s voice was gentle. “You trusted a friend. That’s not a crime.” Celeste’s reply was almost inaudible. “Sometimes it’s the worst mistake.” Yara, ever the anchor, gathered the team in the farmhouse kitchen. “We did what we came to do—found the truth. It’s ugly, but it’s real.” Dr. Grell, lighting a rare cigarette, nodded. “Justice isn’t about happy endings. It’s about facing the rot, no matter where it hides.” As the team packed up, Mira lingered by the window, watching the last light fade from the hills. “Silverbarrow will heal,” she said, mostly to herself. “Or it won’t. But Tessa Dray’s story will be told.” In the distance, the Silvertop Bell tolled—one last time. —

Chapter Twelve: A Community Mourns, and Moves Forward

The aftermath unfolded in slow, painful waves. Councilwoman Vale’s confession was front-page news across Verrowind, the SCU lauded by some, lamented by others for the pain their investigation had exposed. The Order of Returning Light retreated further into shadow, their rituals now the subject of even greater scrutiny, but also a measure of silent defiance. Marshal Donlan’s name was cleared—officially. At the Civic Day Parade, he spoke of justice and sorrow, his words carrying the weight of a town’s grief. Finn Dray returned to his bakery, forever changed but determined to honour his cousin’s legacy by organizing a scholarship in her name for aspiring journalists. Celeste Arbour took a leave of absence, haunted by her proximity to tragedy but quietly archiving every document, every scrap of evidence, so that the full story would never be lost. Elias Vann’s anonymous blog published a searing account of the investigation—encrypted, pseudonymous, but read by every insider in Verrowind. Dr. Grell returned to his herb garden, classical records echoing through the evening air. And Mira Lorne—alone in her Greyhaven apartment, pinning Tessa Dray’s photo beside those of other lost souls—found herself reflecting on the price of truth. In the silence, she thought of Vale’s last words—“Some secrets protect more than they harm”—and wondered which secrets she herself still harbored. Outside her window, the city of Greyhaven hummed with uneasy possibility. The Serious Crimes Unit, bruised but unbroken, awaited the next call. And in Silverbarrow, the bell of Silvertop stood ready—silent, for now, but always listening, always waiting to ring when justice came near. —