The moment he handed in the Vale report, Perry felt the room shift behind him.
Not from anything dramatic. Just the way tension moves when something ends. Papers shuffled faster. Quills scraped. A few passing glances tried—and failed—not to linger.
The submission clerk reviewed the file with that habitual mechanical nod, as if she wasn't reading so much as verifying that it existed. Perry waited, arms folded behind his back, gaze fixed on the plaque above the desk:
"Truth exists. Precision proves it."
A bit optimistic.
After two signatures, one sealing stamp, and a muttered "Thank you," she slid the file into the lock drawer behind her.
"Theatre case is now sealed. Confirmation of submission logged at six bells, twenty-third day."
Perry nodded. "If it unseals itself, I'd like to not be blamed."
"You won't," she said, without blinking. "Your name's all over it."
He turned, coat swaying behind him, and walked out without another word.
Captain Rourke intercepted him on the second stair landing, one boot on the railing, posture slouched like a sack of bricks that had learned to curse.
"You could've sent a heads-up before you weaponized a noble's reputation on stage," he grunted.
"I didn't weaponize anything," Perry said. "He confessed. Eventually."
"After you blocked the exits, dropped a truth-lock, and called an audience."
"I didn't call anyone. They were already there."
Rourke gave him a look.
Perry returned it with perfect neutrality.
Finally, Rourke sighed, rubbing his eyes.
"You're a pain, Perry."
"Yes," Perry agreed. "But a useful one."
He barely made it ten steps toward the mess wing before a runner found him—barely seventeen, mud on one pant leg and a Bureau scroll clutched like it might vanish.
"Detective Perry?"
He nodded.
"Filed message. Marked urgent."
Perry took the scroll, inspecting the seal: genuine, unbroken, pressed with the Denvrin house emblem.
He cracked it open with a thumbnail. Just five lines of text:
Incident Report – Filed This Morning
Name: Lord Elian Denvrin
Event: Public hanging in Central Plaza at sunrise
Witnesses: Multiple
Status: Body vanished on rope descent
Filed by: Edric Denvrin, adopted heir
Request: Recovery of remains
He re-read the last line twice.
Recovery.
Not murder. Not sabotage. Just… remains.
The runner shifted. "They said no spell traces were detected. Crowd thought it was performance magic."
"Did the steward give the report?"
"Yes, sir. Young man. Didn't say much."
"The heir?"
"Filed it himself. Calm as ink."
Perry rolled the scroll back up.
Calm as ink, when your father's body vanishes on a rope.
Either Edric Denvrin had no soul… or no surprise.
"Go home," he said. "You've got blood on your socks."
The boy blinked down at his shoes—clean. When he looked up again, Perry was already gone.
The Bureau's archives carried a particular kind of silence. Not fearful, not reverent. Just… sedimented.
Perry stood in front of the noble registry shelf, drawing a single volume marked Southcrest Holdings. He flipped to the Denvrin page.
Lord Elian Denvrin
—Age: 62
—Estate: Southern Crest
—No spouse on record
—No biological children
—Adoption filed: Edric Denvrin, Age 21
—Estate rights: Fully transferred two weeks prior to date of death
He raised an eyebrow. Fast.
Another note:
Prior steward: Althrin, deceased (illness), 2 years prior
Two years.
He snapped the book shut.
Not yet. No theory. No speculation.
Only what was filed.
The steps to the Central Plaza bell tower were roped off with a single faded sash of Bureau red. No guards. No public notice. Yet as Perry approached, merchants along the fringe quieted.
One woman whispered to her stall partner. "That's the one who uncovered the Vale arcana fraud."
"The one who locked in a noble's son, mid-show?"
"I heard he's not even Ranked."
Perry passed them without comment.
The stairs creaked underfoot. At the top: a small wooden platform. Too thin to be theatrical. Just large enough to hang a man.
No rope remained.
Just two faint grooves dug into the railing post—fibers had pulled hard under tension.
He knelt, running a hand along the grain. Someone had cleaned here, but not recently. The wood was still darker in the shape of the noose loop.
He stood again.
Looked down at the plaza. At the crowd that would've seen it all.
Then turned around.
No blood. No ash. No residue.
No anything.
He let the silence stretch, like the air might speak if given enough time.
It didn't.
No shimmer. No flash. No arcane pulse.
Whatever magic had been used—it didn't want to be seen.
Finally, he murmured:
"Why would he hang himself in front of a crowd?"
Back at the Bureau, he dropped the scroll on Rourke's desk.
"You're taking it?"
"I've read it."
"Same thing, apparently," Rourke said, not looking up from his mess of half-open files. "Anything strike you?"
"Witnesses say he smiled before he jumped."
"I heard he even bowed."
Perry said nothing.
Rourke sipped from his mug. "What gets me is the cleanup. You'd think if someone wanted to fake a hanging, they'd leave a decoy. A glamour. Blood. Something."
"They didn't," Perry said. "They left silence."
Rourke nodded grimly. "That silence is already echoing in every noble circle from here to Goldrest."
"The Bureau's concern?"
"Just the remains. The heir was specific. No suspicions. No claims of foul play."
"Convenient."
"He's the only one who seems calm about it."
Perry didn't answer.
He returned to his own quarters only long enough to mark a fresh slip:
Case: Missing Body – Lord Elian Denvrin
Filed: Morning, 24th
Status: Active – Search and Confirmation
Assigned: S.D. Perry
Remarks: Public suicide – body vanished at time of death
Initial Action: Scene inspection complete. Awaiting further instruction.
No conclusions.
No names circled.
Just ink.
He set the paper beside his glove case and let it sit.
That night, the Bureau halls dimmed to their usual glowstone hush.
Perry passed two junior officers whispering by the records office. One of them glanced up as he approached.
"He's the one," she whispered.
"Who?"
"The detective who stared down a noble and didn't blink."
He kept walking.
The records chamber was closed, but his clearance allowed quiet entry. He didn't search. Just checked if anyone else had logged into the Denvrin file.
No one had.
He returned to his quarters, sat at his desk, and stared at the scroll again.
Just one question kept returning to him like a miswritten glyph:
Not why vanish.
Not why die.
But—
Why make it a show?