Daron, a detective of

  the Shadow Guard, moved quietly but purposefully through the dark

  corridors of the palace. The murder of Aranthia, one of the most

  powerful Elders, had shaken the balance of power in Elaris. The Elders

  were thought to be immortal—they were the keepers of the dome that

  protected the city. But now, one of them lay dead in her own palace, and

  no one could explain how it had happened. Daron felt the heavy burden

  of the case on his shoulders. The eyes of the city were upon him.

  Aranthia's

  palace in the Aurora District was an impressive structure that

  reflected the splendor and power of its owner. Built from white stone,

  the building glowed even at night, as if it emitted its own light. The

  walls were adorned with intricate reliefs that told tales of ancient

  legends and mysteries. A labyrinthine garden surrounded the palace,

  filled with rare, magical plants that glowed in the moonlight, casting

  an ethereal, mystical light over the area. The palace seemed like a

  place from another world, one that was both enchanting and threatening.

  But

  now, with Aranthia gone, the palace had lost some of its vitality. The

  magical plants appeared less vibrant, their glowing blooms fading as if

  they had lost their luster. It was as if the place itself had reacted to

  the death of its mistress—the air was colder, and the light of the

  dome, usually warm and inviting, now shone in cold, pale tones. Daron

  had seen many crime scenes, but nothing had affected him as much as the

  sight of this empty, radiant room, now nothing more than a shadow of its

  former self.

  Daron

  walked deeper into the palace, past the tall, relief-covered walls. Each

  step echoed faintly, amplified by the oppressive silence that filled

  the place. He could imagine Aranthia sitting here, surrounded by the

  stories of bygone eras. Her presence had given the palace an eerie but

  also fascinating energy. Daron felt that this place was more than just a

  building—it was a manifestation of Aranthia's power and her deep

  connection to the city's secrets.

  He

  remembered that Aranthia was one of the few Elders who openly displayed

  her power. Under her influence, the palace had seemed alive, as if it

  were an extension of her essence. Now, without her, everything felt

  extinguished and cold.

  He

  finally reached a hidden room deep within the palace's heart. This room

  was different from the others—darker, quieter, as if it were a secret

  retreat known only to Aranthia. A faint hum filled the room, an echo of

  the magic that once thrived here. In the center of the room stood a

  throne made of black stone, cold and unyielding, much like its former

  owner. The throne seemed out of place, like a relic from a darker time,

  but here Aranthia had sat to conduct her secret studies, far from the

  prying eyes of the world.

  Daron

  imagined Aranthia sitting here, her unnaturally bright and watchful

  eyes fixed on an ancient book filled with knowledge and mysteries

  understood only by the Elders. The throne was a symbol of her power, a

  place where she felt untouchable. But now the throne was empty, and the

  faint whisper of magic that once filled the room was silent. Daron could

  sense the change, as if the room itself mourned the loss of its

  mistress.

  A soft,

  barely perceptible flicker ran through the walls of the room, as if a

  remnant of the old power was trying to reignite, but it faded instantly.

  The room felt empty, almost too empty, as if an essential part had been

  ripped away.

  The

  crime scene was now guarded by the Iron Guard's golems, sent to secure

  the palace after the murder. These massive, stone creatures stood like

  silent sentinels at the entrance, their eyes dimly glowing as they

  watched every movement. They were now the mute witnesses protecting the

  room—albeit only after the murder had already occurred.

  To

  secure the crime scene, the investigators had employed a range of

  magical and conventional measures. Magical barriers and protective

  spells were erected around the room to prevent unauthorized entry. A

  sealing spell allowed only authorized individuals with a magical

  identifier to enter. Daron could feel the faint vibrations of the

  barriers, like an invisible net surrounding the crime scene—a further

  obstacle to prevent manipulation. The lingering magic in the air caused a

  faint tingling sensation on his skin.

  Circles

  of banishment were drawn on the floor to suppress all magical

  activities within the room. These circles neutralized the effect of

  magic within the crime scene, preventing any further manipulations.

  Anti-magic fields reinforced the protection, dampening the effects of

  active spells, making even the subtlest magical traces visible to

  investigators. Every step through the banishment circle felt heavier, as

  if the very air thickened to suffocate the magic.

  Watcher

  beings, small summoned creatures, scurried between the banishment

  circles. These entities were specialized in detecting magical changes

  and could immediately raise an alarm if anyone tried to breach the

  magical barriers. A network of magical detectors surrounded the room,

  tuned to the slightest changes in magical energy. Any flicker, any

  attempt to circumvent the barriers, would be instantly detected and

  reported.

  Daron knelt

  beside the pool of blood that had spread across the cold stone

  floor—the blood of an Elder. It was a scene that should never have

  happened. The cold, shimmering tiles reflected the pale light of the

  dome, and the room's silence weighed heavily on him. The bloodstains

  told a silent yet unmistakable story of betrayal and death.

  He

  pulled out a magical amulet, a silver artifact designed to help detect

  the last traces of magic. As the amulet began to glow, the air around

  him shimmered, and a cold shiver ran down his spine. Daron felt the

  remnants of a power that had acted here—the last, desperate residues of a

  battle for life and death.

  For

  a moment, he saw fleeting images: Aranthia on her throne, her eyes

  sparkling with knowledge and arrogance, and then—a shadow falling over

  her, a glowing blade appearing from nowhere. The image was fragmented

  and blurry, as if someone had tried to erase it. The magic that had

  acted here was foreign and unnervingly strong. The room still bore the

  traces of this attack, like a wounded animal fearing another blow.

  "Magical

  remnants," Daron murmured, pocketing the amulet again. "But they're

  barely perceptible. It's as if the essence itself fought back but lost."

  Joren,

  a fellow Shadow Guard, stepped up beside him. "The golems were sent

  here after the murder to guard the palace," he explained, as if that was

  the only comfort he could offer. "But they can only stand guard. They

  couldn't prevent what happened here."

  Daron

  glanced at the stone creatures, standing motionless in place. Their

  once vigilant eyes now glowed faintly. "And the guards?" Daron asked,

  his voice calm, but inside, his thoughts were in turmoil. He felt the

  pressure on him, the expectation to find answers where there were none.

  "The

  captain of the guard survived, but he claims he saw or heard nothing,"

  Joren said, shaking his head, his brow furrowed. "None of the guards

  noticed anything—not an attack, not even an unusual sound. It's as if

  Aranthia was simply... erased."

  He

  looked at Daron and added quietly, "Lyssara has taken over the

  interrogation. She won't be gentle. But... she was shaken. She said she

  can no longer sense Aranthia."

  Daron

  paused, letting those words sink in. The Elders were connected through a

  complex web of essences and magic. That Lyssara could no longer sense

  Aranthia raised the question of whether the murder truly marked the end

  of Aranthia's spirit. Was her spirit truly destroyed, or was there a

  possibility it still existed—hidden, concealed, or trapped somewhere?

  Daron

  nodded, casting his gaze once more on the empty throne. It stood as a

  silent witness to what had happened, a relic of Aranthia's power that

  now seemed as lost as the essence of the Elder herself. The crime

  scene's protective measures—the barriers, banishment circles, and

  watchers—could only prevent further desecration of the room, but they

  could not undo the unthinkable. The answers lay deeply hidden, somewhere

  between the magical remnants and the unspoken memories that lingered

  within the walls.

  But one question remained: Was Aranthia truly dead? Or was her spirit somewhere, lurking, ready to rise again?

  Daron

  nodded briskly. "Let's go," he said, and together, they made their way

  to the palace's lower levels, where the interrogation rooms were

  located. The dim hallways were cold and still, lit by faint, flickering

  torches whose light quivered against the damp walls. The crunch of their

  footsteps echoed through the emptiness as if they were walking through

  the belly of a large, sleeping beast. The tension between them was

  palpable; both knew that what they were about to experience would be no

  ordinary interrogation.

  As

  they entered the interrogation room, a suffocating silence enveloped

  them, broken only by the nervous breathing of the captain. The stone

  walls seemed to swallow the flickering light, and the room smelled of

  sweat and fear. Lyssara stood before the captain, her eyes fixed on him

  with relentless coldness. The captain of the guard, surrounded by his

  remaining men, trembled slightly. His face was slick with sweat, and his

  eyes darted nervously back and forth as he tried to hold his ground

  against the leader of the Shadow Guard.

  "I...

  I saw nothing," the captain stammered as he saw Daron and Joren enter,

  desperately trying to maintain his composure, but his hands shook

  slightly.

  Lyssara

  turned briefly to Daron and Joren as if she had just noticed them before

  focusing back on the captain. Her movements were smooth but full of

  tense energy, as if she could strike at any moment. "You were

  responsible for Aranthia's security. And now she's dead. So tell me what

  you saw," she said in a voice as cold as the stones surrounding them.

  Daron

  and Joren stayed in the background, watching the scene with a mix of

  tension and silent unease. The captain backed away, his gaze flickering

  nervously between Lyssara and the other guards, as if desperately

  seeking a way out.

  "It

  was too fast... I... I know nothing!" His voice was fragile, full of

  despair, and his eyes pleaded for mercy that Lyssara was not prepared to

  give.

  "You're

  lying," Lyssara said quietly, her voice as sharp as a blade. She stepped

  forward, grabbed the captain by the collar, and threw him to the ground

  with a flowing, almost elegant movement. The impact echoed through the

  room, a raw, unpleasant sound that tore through the silence. The guards

  watched in horror, their faces pale, but none dared move.

  The

  captain gasped as his body hit the cold tiles. "Please... I know

  nothing!" His hands instinctively reached for his throat as Lyssara

  placed her boot on it with a precision and coldness that left no doubt

  about her determination.

  "You

  had the responsibility," she repeated as the pressure of her boot

  increased. "And you failed." Her voice was flat, almost emotionless, but

  her eyes burned with the anger of his failure.

  The

  guards watched in silence as Lyssara slowly strangled the captain. His

  attempts to break free grew weaker, his movements frantic until he

  finally lay still. Lyssara stepped back, her face expressionless as if

  nothing significant had happened, and turned to Daron and Joren.

  "He

  knew nothing," she said with a coldness that showed she did not take

  such decisions lightly but also had no scruples. "Now we focus on the

  other traces."

  Daron

  glanced up briefly, feeling the weight of the situation, the brutality

  Lyssara had displayed without hesitation. Yet he knew that, for her,

  there was no other choice when it came to the truth.

  "We

  need to find out who created this weapon," Daron said, putting the

  amulet back in his pocket. "And why Aranthia was the target."

  Lyssara

  remained silent for a moment, her eyes gliding over the captain's

  lifeless body before she turned back to Daron and Joren. "There aren't

  many who have the power to kill an Elder. Every trace, every suspicion

  must be followed. This was not just a murder—it was an attack on

  everything we stand for."

  Daron

  nodded, but a sense of unease gnawed at him. Aranthia's death was not

  only a shock for the city; it was a sign that even the untouchable were

  in danger. "And what if we're dealing with a threat we don't yet

  understand?" he asked, looking Lyssara in the eyes.

  Lyssara

  held his gaze and replied with dangerous calm, "Then we must find out

  what we're dealing with all the faster. Because if Aranthia is truly

  dead, then no one is safe."

  She

  turned away, her steps echoing through the room before she stopped

  abruptly and turned back to Daron. "There's a witness," she said coolly.

  "The girl who was nearby when Aranthia died."

  Daron

  felt a slight knot in his stomach. He had only briefly seen the girl—a

  young servant with bright red hair and watchful green eyes. She had been

  like a shadow in the palace, quiet, swift, always nearby but never

  truly present. No one had noticed her until now. She had seen more than

  anyone had believed.

  The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.

  "You

  will interrogate the girl," Lyssara ordered, her voice leaving no room

  for argument. "She's traumatized, but we need to know what she saw. She

  is our only witness."

  Daron

  hesitated for a moment, feeling the weight of responsibility upon him.

  "I will talk to her," he finally said, his voice calm, but inside he

  knew this would not be an easy task. The girl had seen something no one

  should have seen—and now she was caught in a web of secrets and

  intrigue.

  Lyssara looked at him, her eyes cool and calculating. "Good. Let's not waste any time."

  Daron

  nodded and set off, his thoughts already on the girl who was waiting

  somewhere in the palace for answers—or perhaps for questions she could

  not answer. The murder of Aranthia was only the beginning, and Daron

  sensed that they were just scratching the surface. The truth was deeply

  hidden, and it was his task to bring it to light.

  Daron

  left the interrogation room, but the weight of the events still hung

  over him. Lyssara's words echoed in his mind: "She is our only witness."

  The young girl who had been in the palace during the murder was the

  only one who might have seen what had truly happened. Since then,

  however, she had not spoken a word, and her eyes seemed empty, filled

  with a darkness no one could penetrate.

  Daron

  searched for her and finally found her in one of the back rooms of the

  palace, where the shadows were especially dense and the silence felt

  oppressive. The room was sparse, the walls damp and cold, as if they had

  absorbed the icy mood hanging in the air. The light from the dome

  filtering through the small windows was pale, casting long, restless

  shadows that danced across the floor, shrouding the room in an eerie

  half-darkness. The floor was cold under Daron's boots, and every step

  echoed dully as if the room itself could not forget what had happened.

  One

  of the guards standing outside the room nodded briefly at the girl.

  "That's Valara, Aranthia's servant," he said curtly, stepping aside to

  let Daron in. "She was in the palace when it happened."

  Daron

  stepped in quietly and saw Valara sitting on a narrow bench by the

  window. Her delicate figure looked almost fragile in the pale light of

  the dome, which made her seem even paler. Her bright red hair hung

  loosely over her shoulders, dull and lifeless, as if it had lost all its

  shine. Her green eyes stared into the void as if searching for

  something distant and unreachable. She seemed lost, as if trapped in an

  endless nightmare from which she could not free herself.

  Daron

  sat next to her, leaving a respectful distance between them. Valara

  seemed unaware of his presence; she was entirely withdrawn. Her silence

  was heavy and unyielding, like an invisible wall enclosing everything

  she had experienced. Her hands lay still in her lap, but occasionally

  her fingers twitched slightly as if they unconsciously tried to grasp

  something that wasn't there. An occasional flinch, a twitching breath

  that caught—these small movements revealed more about her inner state

  than words ever could.

  Daron

  watched her for a while, trying to find the right words. Her eyes

  seemed to see not just the room but something beyond it—as if they could

  perceive the ghosts of past horrors. He wondered how much she had

  actually seen and if she knew more than she could admit. Was she simply

  in the wrong place at the wrong time, or had she unknowingly played a

  role in the events? These thoughts wouldn't leave Daron alone. Valara

  was a mystery, a key fragment that just didn't seem to fit the rest of

  the puzzle.

  "Valara,"

  Daron said softly, remembering what the guard had told him. The girl

  did not respond; her eyes remained fixed on a point only she could see.

  She seemed as if she was reliving the scenes of the murder over and over

  in her mind. Daron could feel the dread emanating from her, and he

  guessed that the images of the murder were tearing her apart inside.

  But

  it was more than mere terror that had drawn Valara into her silent

  world. Her movements were tense as if she lived in a state of constant

  alertness, always prepared for the nightmare to repeat itself. The

  dome's light seemed to blind her, and every movement near her made her

  flinch slightly as if every shadow harbored a new threat.

  Daron

  felt the pressure to find answers more intensely than ever. He felt the

  weight of responsibility on his shoulders, the expectation that he

  would solve this puzzle—but at that moment, he wondered if he was up to

  the task. Valara's condition reminded him that he was not only seeking

  answers but also a way to help this broken girl. But how was he supposed

  to reach her when he wasn't even sure if he was asking the right

  questions?

  "It's

  okay," he murmured softly, more to himself than to her, as he looked at

  her empty gaze. At that moment, he felt as if he was standing at the

  edge of a deep abyss—unable to reach Valara, but determined to keep

  trying. Was she herself in danger because she knew more than she could

  reveal? Daron couldn't help but wonder if Valara could become the next

  target if the killers knew they had a witness.

  Valara

  remained silent. Her eyes stayed empty and unseeing, and Daron could

  sense that she was fighting within herself. He knew she had

  answers—buried deep inside—but she was too traumatized to bring them

  out. He sighed softly and leaned back, pondering how he could reach her.

  She was a broken puzzle, whose pieces no longer fit together. Daron

  understood that he had to proceed cautiously; one wrong word, and she

  might withdraw even further, unreachable behind a wall of fear and pain.

  He

  stayed beside her for a while longer, his head slightly bowed, as he

  searched for the right words. The truth lay deeply hidden, and Daron was

  determined to bring it to light, no matter how long it would take. He

  knew this would not be an easy task—but he had no other choice.

  After

  finding Valara in one of the palace's back rooms, Daron returned with a

  heavy heart. The palace's cool silence seemed to envelop him, almost

  like a living entity preserving the secrets and horrors of the murder.

  The walls seemed to whisper, a faint echo accompanied by the magical

  lamps whose light flickered like uncertain breaths. Daron felt a strange

  tension in the air, as if the palace itself held the memory of

  Aranthia's death.

  He

  eventually found himself with Lyssara and Joren in one of the gloomy

  corridors. The light from the dome filtering through the windows

  appeared paler here, as if it could sense the loss of the palace's

  former mistress. Lyssara stood before them, an imposing figure whose

  presence only intensified the place's coldness. She was not just the

  leader of the Shadow Guard but also an Elder, one of those who watched

  over the city and supported the dome with their power. Her cold,

  calculating eyes glanced over Daron and Joren like a knife that exposed

  every insecurity.

  "What

  have you found out?" she asked curtly, her tone as sharp as glass. Her

  lips curled into a slight, almost mocking smile, as if she already knew

  there would be no good news.

  Daron

  stepped forward, his head slightly bowed as if asking for forgiveness

  before he spoke. "I tried to talk to her," he said quietly. "But she's

  unresponsive. No words, no looks. She seems completely closed off." His

  voice sounded almost apologetic, as if he didn't want to disappoint

  Lyssara. As he spoke, he wondered if he was really up to the task. He

  felt the pressure of Lyssara's gaze and knew he could not respond with

  empty promises.

  Lyssara

  watched him with a cold, unyielding gaze. "That is unacceptable," she

  said, her voice cutting through the oppressive silence like a blade.

  "She is our only witness. We need answers, and we need them quickly."

  Her determination was palpable, and everyone nearby could feel how

  Lyssara's power dominated the room.

  Joren

  glanced briefly at Daron, as if he wanted to support him, but he also

  dared not question Lyssara's words. The atmosphere was oppressive, and

  the Elder's presence left no room for doubt or hesitation.

  "We

  cannot afford weakness," Lyssara continued, her eyes flashing coldly.

  "Aranthia's murder was not just an attack on one of us but an attack on

  the city's power structure. If we don't find out what she knows, we lose

  more than just an Elder." Her words betrayed a hint of her own

  affectedness, which she immediately suppressed. For Lyssara, weakness

  was not an option, not even before her closest confidants.

  Daron

  felt torn. He respected Lyssara and understood the urgency in her

  words, but he could not ignore Valara's condition. "The palace is not

  the right place for her," he said cautiously, as if each word needed

  careful weighing. "It's too cold here, too heavy with the events. It

  could cause her to retreat even further."

  Lyssara

  fixed her gaze on Daron, with both skepticism and the clear expectation

  that he would offer a solution. "And what do you suggest?" she asked,

  as if every moment of silence was a lost opportunity.

  Daron

  took a deep breath while weighing her reaction. "I want to take her

  with me," he finally said. "My apartment is inconspicuous and far enough

  from the palace. Perhaps I can reach her in a quieter environment. I

  want to try to protect her and at the same time find the answers we

  need."

  Joren gave

  Daron a fleeting look, unsure if this was the right decision, but he

  also knew they had few alternatives. "Do you really think it will help?"

  he asked quietly, as if he himself had doubts about Daron's suggestion.

  Lyssara

  raised her hand to stop Joren, and her eyes remained fixed on Daron.

  "Perhaps," she said slowly, as if she were carefully weighing each of

  his proposals. "But that does not mean we can relax. You take her, but

  you must make her talk. The city is waiting for answers, and we have no

  time to waste." A hint of concern was in her voice, a rare concession

  she immediately hid behind a mask-like expression.

  Daron

  nodded, but his thoughts were racing. He knew this task would not be

  easy and that Valara was more than just a witness. There was something

  threatening in her silence, something that perhaps contained more

  secrets than she herself understood. Was she in danger because she knew

  too much? Or was she part of a mystery no one had yet seen through?

  Lyssara

  studied Daron one last time, then took a step back, letting the tension

  between them linger a moment longer. "This is not a game, Daron. Find

  the answers. No matter what it costs." Her words were like an unspoken

  oath, cold and final.

  Joren

  placed a hand on Daron's shoulder as Lyssara walked away, her steps

  echoing softly through the empty corridors. "This won't be easy," he

  said quietly. "But if anyone can make her talk, it's you."

  Daron

  returned to Valara, who was still sitting in the cool, dark room. Her

  gaze was vacant, her movements tentative and uncertain. Without saying a

  word, he helped her to her feet, and together they made their way

  through the silent hallways steeped in the place's history and magic.

  The faint crackling of the magical lamps lighting the corridor seemed to

  intensify the tension in the air as if the palace itself could not

  forget the injustice of the murder.

  Outside

  the palace, one of the city's technomagical carriages awaited—a sleek

  blend of old craftsmanship and modern magic. These carriages were the

  backbone of public transportation in Elaris, powered by a combination of

  steam-driven machines and magical crystals that served as energy

  sources. Their wheels hovered just inches above the cobblestones,

  gliding almost silently, accompanied by a soft, continuous hum that kept

  the magic within moving. Occasionally, a wisp of steam rose from the

  edges of the carriage, while magical glyphs glowed softly in blue and

  violet, shifting with each pulse like breathing entities.

  Daron

  helped Valara into the carriage, and they sat on the velvet-upholstered

  seats, which were soft and inviting, though the atmosphere inside the

  carriage was cool. The windows were framed by delicate, glowing patterns

  that constantly changed as if reflecting the dome's energy. With a

  gentle jolt, the carriage set in motion, floating through the streets of

  Elaris and following the invisible paths of the city's technomagical

  transit network that wove through the city like a living web.

  As

  the carriage glided through the streets, Daron let his gaze wander

  outside. The dome that towered over the city looked like a giant,

  breathing entity that protected Elaris from the harsh world beyond its

  boundaries. Fine, pulsating lines ran across its surface like the veins

  of a giant heart that kept the city alive. But in recent days, Daron had

  begun to see the dome differently. Was it truly a shield, or was it a

  cage that trapped the people in an illusion of safety? The pulsating

  energies reminded him that the dome not only protected but also

  destroyed the world outside, a barrier between the city and an untamed

  wilderness.

  Daron

  felt the weight of these thoughts heavily on his shoulders. What if

  Aranthia's death was only the beginning? Could the threat that killed

  her also endanger Valara? His gaze wandered to the girl beside him.

  Valara's hands lay still in her lap, but occasionally her fingers

  twitched slightly as if trying to grasp something invisible. Her eyes

  flickered restlessly, and she seemed constantly on guard as if expecting

  a danger only she could sense.

  Suddenly,

  they were distracted by a tremor. The carriage swayed slightly as a

  deep, organic rumble echoed through the air, accompanied by a dull quake

  that made the ground beneath them vibrate. Daron raised his head and

  listened, his eyes searching for the source of the sound, but from their

  position, they could only hear the oppressive echo. Outside the dome, a

  battle raged—the Iron Guard, the golems, and elite fighters, engaged in

  one of their countless battles against the demons that continually

  tried to approach the barrier. But today, it sounded different, more

  ominous, almost like the distant heartbeat of an unknown threat.

  Valara

  flinched slightly as a particularly loud crash sounded, and Daron

  placed a reassuring hand on her shoulder. "Nothing serious," he

  muttered, trying to radiate calm, but inside, the question tormented him

  whether this was more than just another attack. Was it a coincidence

  that the demons attacked right now, or was there a connection to the

  murder? His thoughts revolved around the possibility that Aranthia's

  death was more than just a brutal act—perhaps it was part of a larger

  plan they had yet to understand.

  The

  carriage continued, and slowly the sounds of battle faded. The world

  outside the dome remained a constant threat, an untamable land full of

  desperate creatures searching for a way to rebel against the shimmering

  city. Elaris was like a radiant oasis in a sea of chaos and decay, but

  the protection the dome offered suddenly seemed more fragile, more

  uncertain.

  The

  carriage finally stopped in front of Daron's apartment, an inconspicuous

  building in a quiet transition area between Industria and Old Elaris.

  It was a district that united the city's contrasts—the bustling activity

  of Industria and the dilapidated, impoverished houses of Old Elaris,

  where life was tougher. Daron helped Valara out of the carriage, and

  together they climbed the creaking stairs to his apartment above the

  bar.

  Minora, the

  bartender, stood behind the counter, her movements calm and assured. She

  looked up as Daron and Valara entered, and her sharp eyes took in the

  scene immediately. A knowing smile flitted across her face as she placed

  a glass in front of Daron. "Rough day?" she asked, glancing at Valara

  with a mix of curiosity and compassion that only someone who knew the

  city and its secrets better than most could have.

  "I've

  got something strong for you. And for the young lady?" she asked,

  observing Valara, who sat silently beside Daron. Her eyes flitted

  briefly around the room as if searching for something that might comfort

  her, but nothing seemed to truly catch her gaze.

  "Just

  a glass of milk," Daron answered curtly. Minora placed a glass of milk

  and a small plate of warm semolina porridge before Valara, drizzled with

  honey and garnished with delicate fruit pieces that shimmered in the

  light. Minora leaned slightly towards Valara, gently stroked her

  shoulder, and said softly, "You're safe here." Her voice was warm, and

  for a moment, she seemed more than just a bartender—she was a silent

  guardian who took the weak into her care.

  Valara

  took the glass in her hand, but her fingers trembled, and a bit of milk

  spilled over the rim. She barely seemed to notice the care, her gaze

  remained empty and turned inward. Minora watched her attentively, her

  expression worried but also knowing, as if she sensed that this girl had

  seen and experienced more than she could bear.

  Daron

  looked at Minora and nodded gratefully. The bar was more than just a

  place of solace; it was an unassuming refuge in a city full of dangers, a

  place where secrets were safe and well hidden. He knew that Valara

  needed time, but eventually, she would have to speak. She was the only

  witness to the murder, and deep in her silence lay the answers Daron

  sought. The pressure to find those answers grew with every moment, but

  he knew he had to give Valara the time she needed. Only then could he

  hope to uncover the truth behind Aranthia's death and the growing

  unrest.