Chapter 15: Afterimage
He climbed seven floors and stopped at the stairwell corner on the seventeenth level, pressing himself against the inner wall, holding his breath.
An assistant turned from the corridor below, carrying something in their hands, walking briskly toward this section of stairs.
Cade didn't move, didn't even look in that direction, just waited. The assistant paused at the stairwell entrance, exchanged a few words with another voice, then walked off in the opposite direction.
Cade continued upward.
The sealed door on the twenty-second floor stood at the far end of the corridor—metal, with a recessed pattern for a handle, no keyhole. He crouched before it, lightly placing his fingertips on different areas of the pattern, feeling the subtle temperature differences between them. The first time he pressed the third step, the mechanism snapped back; he reduced the force by twenty percent and tried again. This time it worked.
Inside was dark, a few glowing stones embedded in wall niches providing just enough light to make out shapes. He pulled the door closed behind him, waited ten seconds inside, confirmed no movement in the corridor, then began examining the display cases.
Third row, far left, wooden base, sand grains appearing deep gray in their static state.
He removed the Time-Glass and sat down in the corner at the back of the room.
Setting the Time-Glass was somewhat complicated; he fiddled with the time pointer and coordinates on the base for quite a while.
Once he confirmed the settings were accurate, the image began seeping into the air—dark at first, then slowly taking shape.
He recognized that inn.
The inn's back door, the moon behind clouds, poor lighting. He counted—four figures, their positioning familiar to him.
He recognized the layout of that inn's back entrance.
The moon was behind clouds, lighting poor, but sufficient for him to recognize how the four figures stood.
Bren was at the front, right foot slightly back, weight shifted left. This was the stance Bren adopted when assessing an uncertain situation, a stance Cade had known for nearly twenty years. The first time they'd met, Bren had stood exactly this way; Cade had initially thought he'd injured his leg, only learning later it was just his habit—he said standing that way made it easier to move in any direction within a second.
Terris was to his right rear, both hands crossed over her chest, left thumb pressing against the knuckles of her right hand, repeatedly pressing and releasing, pressing and releasing in that posture. That was her waiting gesture, those hands never completely still, something she herself might not even have been aware of. Cade remembered once when they'd been lying in ambush in the woods, he'd counted that motion—it hadn't stopped for twenty minutes.
Elm and Fen stood side by side on the left, shoulders nearly touching. Elm's hand was tucked into his belt, Fen's hand resting at his side, yet both men's weight was pressed onto the same side's front foot, without having discussed it, just naturally so. Cade had once asked Fen if they'd agreed on this beforehand; the look Fen gave him suggested he'd asked something that didn't need asking, then said: Discuss what?
The buyer opposite wore a black robe with a hood, face in shadow, that patch of darkness deeper than ordinary night, as if magically intensified.
Halfway through the transaction, the buyer said something.
Terris's hand stopped.
Those hands that were never completely still—stopped.
Bren's right hand moved slightly toward his waist, his mouth shape changed, he was saying something—Cade could see the lip movements but couldn't hear the sound. Elm and Fen simultaneously stepped sideways, in different directions, one left one right, that deployment the product of years of coordination. It seemed the deal had fallen through; they were preparing to attack.
The buyer raised a hand.
What happened next was fast.
Cade stared at that image until everything on the ground had stopped moving, then shifted his gaze. He focused on the trajectory of that curse's spread, watching the angle at which it left that person's hand, watching the shape it took as it expanded after striking the first person, watching the color of the residue as it fell to the ground.
Rust-like, deep and dark.
That color—he'd rubbed it between stone crevices, seen it on the undersides of Stoneshade leaves.
He thought of that stall in the food district, that bundle of Stoneshade. When he'd taken the top bunch from the wooden frame and handed it to Mia, the moment his fingers touched the leaf's underside, the color had emerged. Deep and dark, carrying that rust-like quality, the kind of color that only appeared near residue from specific types of curses.
At the time, he'd handed those leaves to Mia, acting as if he'd seen nothing. She, too, seemed unwilling to discuss the matter.
But he'd recognized that color.
Bren hadn't cried out before falling. Not because he hadn't had time, but because after that kind of curse struck, the body would stiffen first, the throat being the first to lose motor function. After he fell, his right hand still rested on the dagger at his waist, fingers curved, but eventually everything turned to black ash.
He placed this image together with that color, confirming it over and over again.
The hourglass's sand stopped, the artifact crumbling in his hand, sand grains and fine wood splinters falling into his palm.
He clenched that pile of debris, glass shards piercing his palm, faint traces of blood appearing.
The clues he'd been pursuing these past months were gradually piecing together; Cade had finally grasped their shape. He stood there for a while, kicked the shattered remnants into the corner with his foot to ensure no one would discover them. Then he stood up, closed the exhibition room door properly, and left the Wizard's Tower without looking back.
The first-floor bar of the inn—the gray-bearded old man was wiping a glass with a cloth. Seeing Cade walk in, something in his eyes sank for a moment, then returned to calm.
"Back again," he said, not continuing further.
"One beer." Cade sat down at the bar, pulling a cloth from his waist to bandage his palm. His face showed less of its usual playfulness, more of a certain resolve.
The old man set that glass aside, produced another to pour his drink. "That girl hasn't come," he paused, "this isn't a good place to wait for people. Generally, when people leave, they don't come back."
The old man set the beer glass down heavily on the table. Cade began drinking in silence at the bar, bitter vapors filling his nostrils.
He knew this inn and this street all too well. This old man had been running the inn here for who knows how many years. Cade's confidence had left him completely unguarded. So that night, when his companions fell and turned to ash, Cade had been snoring on the third floor, hearing nothing at all.
He placed his bandaged hand on the bar and stared at it for a long time. "Another, something strong. No ice."
He leaned against the bar, waiting.
The person he was following now, named Mireiya, carried the same curse that had killed Bren—the handiwork of the same group of dark wizards, part of some larger event whose full outline he couldn't yet see. Following her now was no longer because their directions happened to coincide.
His companions couldn't have died for nothing. Someone had to pay a price.