The carriage moved at a steady pace through streets that no longer looked familiar, even to those who had walked them all their lives.
Its wheels struck the cobblestones with a muted rhythm, iron rims dulled by use rather than neglect. The body of the carriage was painted black, carefully maintained but undecorated. No crest marked its doors. No emblem announced its owner. It was the sort of carriage meant to exist without being remembered.
Fog filled the city.
It did not drift so much as settle, thick and heavy, pressing against buildings and curling around lampposts as though testing their resolve. Gas lamps burned, but their light was weak, reduced to trembling circles that barely reached beyond the glass. Rows of Victorian houses appeared only as outlines, their windows dark, their details erased.
Inside the carriage, silence prevailed.
Oz sat upright, hands resting loosely on his knees, his posture unchanged despite the uneven road. Black hair framed his face neatly, untouched by disorder. His expression was calm, practiced, the sort of stillness that came not from peace but from familiarity. His eyes were red. Not strikingly so at first glance, but unmistakable once noticed. They reflected the lantern light faintly, like embers that had learned restraint.
He did not look outside.
Across from him sat Lady Henrietta Whitcombe.
Her pale blue dress was simple but well tailored, chosen with care rather than vanity. Gloved hands rested in her lap, fingers folded neatly. A modest bonnet shadowed her blonde hair, though a few loose strands had escaped, softening her otherwise composed appearance. Her blue eyes moved often, though not restlessly. She observed what little the fog allowed and paid careful attention to what it did not.
She was listening.
The carriage jolted as cobblestone gave way to gravel. The sound beneath them changed, the sharp rhythm replaced by a dull, grinding hush. The city thinned around them. Iron fences and stone walls faded into indistinct shapes. Mansions gave way to smaller homes, then to bare trees and low stone boundaries.
They followed the river.
It ran beside the road, dark and smooth, its surface unnaturally still. No ripples disturbed it. No reflection broke its skin. Fog hovered above it but never touched it. Oz noticed this without turning his head.
The village emerged slowly, as though reluctant to be seen.
Cottages clustered close together, their walls pressed inward, their windows dark despite the hour. Chimneys stood cold. Doors were shut tight, latched with care that spoke of habit rather than sudden fear. This was not a village unaccustomed to quiet. This was a village waiting.
At the far edge stood a house that did not belong among the others.
It was larger, built of brick rather than timber, two stories tall with shuttered windows and a pitched roof. It lacked ornamentation but possessed presence. A house meant for administration rather than comfort. Authority given form.
The carriage came to a stop.
Oz stepped down first. Gravel crunched beneath his boots. Fog curled around his legs, lingering just long enough to be noticed. Henrietta followed, lifting her skirts slightly, her movements practiced and unhurried. Her eyes swept the surroundings once. Then again.
They were expected.
Two figures waited at the front steps.
One stood straight backed despite his years, wrapped in a dark overcoat fastened too tightly at the collar. His hair was streaked with gray, his expression set by long habit rather than emotion. Authority clung to him naturally, as though it had grown there.
Lord Baron Halbrecht.
Beside him stood a woman whose presence seemed tentative, as if she feared she might be dismissed if she drew too much attention. Her dress was plain. Her shawl was pulled close. Her eyes were hollow, shadowed by exhaustion rather than tears.
"Greetings, Lord Baron," Henrietta said, her voice steady and clear. "We received your letter."
She turned slightly.
"This is Investigator Oz."
Oz inclined his head in a polite nod.
The Baron returned the gesture, though his gaze lingered on Oz a fraction longer than courtesy required.
"You are welcome," the Baron said. "Please, come inside."
The house was warm.
Deliberately so.
A fire burned in the hearth, logs arranged neatly, flames steady and controlled. The furniture was solid oak, worn by years of use but carefully maintained. Family portraits lined the walls, their frames dusted, their subjects stiff and formal. Generations stared outward with expressions shaped more by duty than affection.
Oz's eyes moved slowly.
No mirrors hung on the walls.
No religious symbols adorned the space.
The curtains were drawn tight despite the remaining daylight.
The air carried the faint scent of herbs. Lavender. Rosemary. And beneath them, something bitter and sharp, used sparingly but with intention.
They were led into a sitting room. Tea had already been poured, steam rising gently from the cups.
The woman remained standing near the wall.
"This is Martha," the Baron said. "She has lost her son."
"I'm sorry," Henrietta said.
Martha nodded once. Her lips pressed together. "They all say that."
Oz took a seat. His movements were quiet.
The Baron did not drink his tea.
"As Lady Whitcombe has explained," the Baron began, "we have experienced a series of… unfortunate events. Ten villagers have died within the past week."
"How," Oz asked, "were they found?"
The Baron paused.
"In their homes," he said. "In their beds."
"As if sleeping," Henrietta added.
"Yes."
Oz inclined his head slightly. "Their eyes?"
Martha spoke before the Baron could stop her. "Open."
Silence followed.
Henrietta wrote.
"Time of death?" she asked.
"After midnight," the Baron replied.
The answer came quickly. Too quickly.
Henrietta looked up. Just briefly. At Oz.
"Any signs of struggle?" she continued.
"No."
"Any sounds?" she asked. "Voices. Cries."
"No one heard anything," the Baron said. "That is what troubles us most."
Oz leaned back slightly.
"Were the bodies disturbed?" he asked.
The Baron stiffened.
"No," he said. "They were buried properly."
"How soon?" Henrietta asked.
"Before sunrise."
Her pen stopped.
"You buried them too quickly," Oz said.
The room grew still.
"That is an accusation," the Baron said sharply.
"It is an observation," Oz replied.
"You suggest we acted improperly?"
"I suggest," Oz said calmly, "that whatever caused their deaths had not finished with them."
Martha made a small sound, quickly swallowed.
The Baron rose from his chair. "You were invited here to investigate, not to judge our customs."
Henrietta spoke gently. "My lord, may I ask… were these burials conducted because of long standing tradition, or because someone advised haste?"
The Baron froze.
Not visibly. Internally.
Henrietta felt it. The hesitation. The fracture between belief and recollection.
She did not write.
"You were told," she said softly.
The Baron did not answer.
Oz turned his gaze toward the window.
"Something has been watching since we arrived," he said. "It does not blink."
Outside, the fog pressed close to the glass.
The river beyond remained silent.
And somewhere between waking and sleep, something listened.