Investigations

The streets narrow as we move away from the merchant square, the noise of haggling and bartering fading behind us. The roads here are uneven, the buildings leaning closer together, casting deeper shadows in the midday light. It’s like stepping into a different part of the city entirely—less polished, more lived-in.

We keep the bell tower in sight, navigating by it like a lighthouse in a sea of unfamiliar streets. The grid layout is logical, but without a map, it’s easy to lose track of where one square ends and another begins.

"Are you hearing that?" Io asks suddenly.

I strain my ears. Bells. Deep, resonant chimes rolling across the city, filling the air with their steady rhythm. I glance up at the sky, trying to judge the time. The sun, barely visible between the slanted rooftops, is just past its peak.

"I think we’re getting closer," I say.

"Do you think it's a call for prayer or just timekeeping?" Io continues.

"Could be either," I admit. "But let's not stand around guessing."

We press on, and I start noticing the subtle shifts around us. The people here aren’t like the ones at the merchant square. Less silk, more patched linen. Less jewelry, more hollowed-out cheeks. There’s a roughness to their movements, a tension in their eyes as they glance toward the towering cathedral.

This must be the poorer district. It makes sense, really—if food is being given away, it’s probably not to the rich merchants flaunting their fortunes in the marketplace.

Finally, we round a corner and emerge into another open square. The cathedral dominates the space, a massive stone structure with thick columns and towering spires. It’s grand, but in a different way from the noble estates I expected. No golden accents, no excessive ornamentation—just sheer, imposing weight. The bell tower rises from the center, the very thing that guided us here.

And yet… something feels off.

I don’t see any crosses, no crescent moons, no religious symbols I recognize. Just stone, weathered by time, with faint carvings too distant to make out.

I shift uneasily. "Doesn't look like any cathedral I’ve seen before."

Io hums in agreement. "No icons, no banners either. Strange."

We should’ve read up on the faith here before coming. Then again, it’s not like we had easy access to scripture. Maybe they don’t display their symbols openly? That seems weird, considering how dominant the church is supposed to be.

Later. I’ll figure this out later.

Io gestures toward the far side of the square. "If they're handing out food, there should be a line somewhere. Let's check the other side."

She strides ahead before I can reply, weaving through the loose groups of people scattered across the square.

As we get closer, the murmur of voices grows, low and tense, like a quiet undercurrent of desperation. The crowd isn't packed tightly, but there's a sense of controlled order—people shifting on their feet, clutching bags and baskets as they wait for their turn.

I rub my arm absently. It’s itching again. Right arm this time. Not the usual creeping sensation of sweat or discomfort, but something deeper, sharper.

I shake it off. Probably stress.

"Let’s start at the end of the line," I suggest, keeping my voice even.

Io nods and leads the way, steering us toward the last person in line—a woman clutching a wicker basket against her hip.

She looks older, maybe late forties, her face lined with exhaustion rather than age. Her clothes are plain, but clean, the sleeves carefully mended. She keeps her gaze fixed ahead, lips pressed in a thin line, waiting.

Now, how am I supposed to start this? I’m not good at idle chit-chat.

I clear my throat. "Excuse me, ma’am, is this the line for food?"

She gives me a quick, appraising glance before nodding. "Aye. They started giving out grain this morning. Still got a ways to go."

Her voice is calm, but there's something guarded in it, like she’s used to strangers asking questions for the wrong reasons.

"Does it take long?" Io asks, stepping in smoothly.

The woman exhales, shifting her basket. "Depends. Some days they run out faster than others. If you're at the front, you might get more. At the back…" She trails off, shrugging.

"Is there enough for everyone?" I ask, already guessing the answer.

Another shrug. "Depends on the shipment. Some days, the sacks look fuller than others."

That seems important. "Fuller how?"

She frowns, hesitant now. "Weight’s been off lately. Some folks say the grain doesn’t feel right. Lighter, almost."

Lighter? That’s not a good sign.

"Have you eaten any of it?" Io asks, her voice measured.

The woman hesitates, glancing at the people ahead of her before lowering her voice. "...Tastes fine. But some folk been getting sick after eating the bread made from it."

Sick.

I glance at Io. This just got a whole lot more serious.

How should we approach this? Should I make notes? Probably, but maybe later—don’t want to make us look suspicious. People already seem wary enough, and the last thing we need is to stand out more than we already do.

Something’s off with the grain. People get sick after eating bread.

"You know, bakers have good wheat kept for themselves. But we? We have to make do with what we’re given," the woman mutters, her voice carrying a sharp edge beneath the casual words.

Then, as if realizing how bitter she sounds, her face shifts, guilt creeping into her expression. She hesitates, then speaks again, quieter this time.

"I shouldn’t complain… The priests say we should be grateful for what we have. ‘A gift from the Lord,’ they call it." She forces a smile, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. "But a gift shouldn’t make folk sick, should it?"

The woman exhales sharply and shakes her head. "I’m sorry, I’ve been rambling."

"No, no, that’s alright," Io says, her voice unusually gentle.

Maybe she just needed to vent. Everyone in this city is struggling, and with no real way to change things, maybe talking to strangers is the only relief she can get.

I straighten up. "Thank you for humoring us. Have a good day."

The woman gives a dry chuckle. "Ohh, no problem. It’s not every day I get to talk to the fancy folk."

Fancy? Us?

I blink. Did we overdo it with the clothes? We styled them after what the merchants that came to the village wore, but now I have to wonder—were they flexing on us this whole time?

I glance at Io, and by the look on her face, she’s just as baffled as I am. She shrugs, a silent what can you do gesture, then starts moving, scanning the crowd like she’s looking for something.

Huh. Why did she turn like that?

And why does my leg itch now? First my arm, now my leg—this is getting absurd.

Then I feel it. A sudden impact against my leg, not strong enough to knock me over, but enough to make me stumble.

I catch myself, turning sharply to see what—who—hit me.

A kid.

She stands frozen, wide blue eyes locked onto mine. Small hands grip the strap of a satchel slung across her chest. She looks about five, maybe. Blonde hair, dirt smudged across her cheeks. Her clothes are worn but clean—someone is looking after her, at least.

But she doesn’t say a word.

Io steps closer, her head tilting slightly. "Hey, are you—"

Before she can finish, the girl turns and bolts, vanishing into the crowd without so much as a sound.

Io clicks her tongue, hands on her hips. "What was that about?"

I exhale slowly, shaking out my fingers, trying to rid myself of the strange tingling sensation still crawling over my skin. "I don’t know."

But even as I say it, something about her lingers.

Something about this whole moment feels… off.

###

The sky has shifted to a deeper shade of blue, the last golden streaks of sunlight stretching over the rooftops as we step away from the church square. The voices of the gathered crowd still hum behind us, a restless energy hanging in the air like static before a storm.

I let out a sigh, rolling my shoulders. The whole food situation is bad—not just for the people waiting in that line, but for us. If the city is on edge about food, it means everything here is more fragile than we expected.

Io falls into step beside me, ledger in hand, flipping to a fresh page.

“So, how did it go?” she asks.

We had split up to talk to different people—cover more ground, get a wider range of opinions. I wish I had better results to show for it, but… maybe I’m just bad at talking to strangers.

“Mostly nothing. A couple of grunts, a lot of paranoia,” I admit. “Some say the priests are hiding the good grain for themselves.”

Io hums in acknowledgment. “Heard that too. Also, some people think there might be a riot soon.”

That makes me pause. “A riot?”

“Wouldn’t be surprising. No wheat in the markets, the only food source is controlled by the church, and people are saying the grain they’re getting is bad. That’s the perfect recipe for things to go up in flames.”

She’s right. I think back to the woman I spoke to earlier—how she hesitated before admitting people were getting sick. If something is wrong with the grain, then this isn’t just a supply issue. It’s something bigger.

“So, all we know is that there’s no wheat for sale, and the one given by the church isn’t very good,” I summarize.

Io taps the edge of her ledger. “And it’s all being provided by Lord R.”

I smirk at that. Guess my shorthand stuck.

“What do you think?” I ask. “Coincidence? Or is he behind this?”

She exhales sharply. “I don’t like guessing without facts. But if his grain is making people sick while his food shipments keep flowing, I’d say he’s doing just fine while the rest of the city starves.”

A city on the verge of riots, food shortages, and a noble at the center of it all. This is a mess.

My stomach suddenly reminds me that I haven’t eaten since morning. Not great timing.

I hesitate for a moment before admitting, “It might be a little insensitive, given where we just came from… but I’m getting hungry.”

Io raises an eyebrow at me but then sighs, rubbing her own stomach. “Me too.”

“Should we head back to the inn?” I ask.

She tilts her head, considering. “We could. But… we should probably try some local food while we’re here.”

I smirk. “Indulging a bit after selling that wool?”

She shrugs. “Why not? Think of it as… intelligence gathering. If we’re going to be here for a while, we should know where the good food is.”

It’s not a bad excuse. And honestly, I’d rather eat something warm now than pick at cold bread back at the inn.

As we move across the square, we pass the front of the cathedral again, the towering stone entrance casting an imposing shadow.

Then, I see her.

“Hey, look! That’s the kid!”

I point without thinking, drawing Io’s attention toward the cathedral steps.

The little blonde girl from earlier stands by the entrance, small and quiet as she hands a satchel to a priest. The man pats her head before turning and disappearing into the dimly lit doorway.

Io folds her arms. “Was she on an errand?”

“I guess… but why for a priest?” I mutter. “It’s not like she’s family or anything.”

Io gives me a sidelong glance. “Do you even know how priesthood works here?”

“…Fair point.” I really don’t.

The girl suddenly moves, darting down the stairs and across the square with startling speed. She weaves between groups of people, her feet light and sure, before vanishing behind a wooden door set into one of the buildings surrounding the cathedral.

“Whoa. She’s fast,” Io notes. “That’s probably why she crashed into your leg earlier.”

I watch the door for a moment before shaking my head. “I hope she’s doing alright.”

Io exhales, rubbing her arm absently. “Yeah… me too.”

For a second, I think about following after her. Not that I have a reason to—just… something about her feels off. But I push the thought away.

Right now, we have more pressing concerns.

“Come on,” I say, nodding toward the streets ahead. “Let’s find something to eat.”

We slip back into the winding roads, leaving the cathedral and its mysteries behind.

For now.

###

The scent of warm milk lingers in the air as I stir my spoon through the oddly pale soup in front of me. It’s different, that’s for sure. Not bad, but definitely different. I’m used to food having some… color.

Across from me, Io slowly finishes her meal, chewing in an almost mechanical way, her mind clearly elsewhere. I wonder if she’s thinking about our leads, or if she’s just as distracted by the unfamiliar flavors as I am.

“You keep poking at that like it’s going to move,” she finally says, nodding toward my soup.

“Just… thinking,” I reply.

Io raises an eyebrow. “About what? The meaning of life?”

“More like the meaning of milk. I don’t think I’ve seen a single cow here. Where does it come from?”

She smirks. “You’re assuming it’s from cows.”

I stop mid-sip. I don’t like that. I don’t like that at all.

Before I can interrogate her further, a sudden call from across the room shifts the atmosphere.

"Viktor! Right on time!"

The innkeeper beams as a man strides in, moving through the maze of tables with an easy confidence. His presence shifts the mood instantly—conversations quiet, heads turn. On his back, he carries some kind of stringed instrument, longer than a lute, curved like a mandolin. It’s familiar, but not quite right, like seeing a distant cousin of something I should know.

Io follows my gaze. “You ever seen one of those?”

I shake my head. “Not exactly. Looks like a weird cross between a guitar and a mandolin.”

Viktor, apparently, doesn’t believe in subtle entrances. With a practiced motion, he swings his instrument forward and hops onto the counter, standing tall above the crowd. His boots land solid against the wood, not a single stumble. He’s done this before.

“Wow, everyone just got so quiet,” Io whispers.

She’s right. The hum of conversation that filled the inn moments ago has died down to an expectant hush. It’s not the uncomfortable silence of tension—it’s the quiet before something good.

Viktor strikes a chord. The sound is rich, vibrating through the wooden floors, filling the space like something alive. The patrons clap in rhythm, perfectly in sync, like this is something they do often. Then he begins to sing.

I blink. I recognize the syllables. It’s the same language we’ve been speaking since we got here. But the way he’s singing? I can’t understand a damn thing.

He holds the notes long, stretching words into something almost fluid, his voice shifting tones in ways that throw off the implant’s usual precision. It’s poetry, metaphor, or something even more abstract. The words blur, half-recognizable, like trying to read cursive handwriting when I’ve only ever seen block letters.

“He’s always so great,” someone murmurs from another table.

“Oh, that’s the one about Calvessa. Haven’t heard that in a while,” another patron adds.

I lean toward Io. “Are you getting this?”

She frowns slightly. “Not really. I catch some words, but the meaning’s a mess.”

At least it’s not just me. Maybe it’s the phrasing, the artistic liberties he’s taking. Maybe the implant isn’t built for processing lyrical speech. Or maybe I’m just not fluent enough.

But whatever he’s singing about, it’s captivating. There’s no repeating chorus, no simple hooks—just a continuous thread of melody, pulling the listeners along like a story.

I find myself tapping my foot in time with the rhythm. When was the last time I did that?

Back home, music was everywhere. Earbuds, radios, concerts, streaming playlists… I never had to think about it. Now, sitting here, hearing the warmth of live music filling the room, I realize how much I miss it. It’s like I lost a whole dimension of life without noticing.

I glance at Viktor’s hands, moving effortlessly along the strings. What would he do with an electric guitar?

Io nudges me, pulling me out of my thoughts. The song is slowing, Viktor’s voice lowering to a final, lingering note. With a flourish, he pulls off his hat and hops down from the counter.

Applause. A few cheers. People go back to eating, their moods noticeably lifted. The routine seems clear—he plays, collects what he can, and moves on.

Viktor weaves through the tables, stopping briefly at each one. Patrons toss him coins, murmur thanks, some exchanging a quick word before he moves along. When he gets to us, Io nudges my arm.

I sigh, digging into my coin pouch. The guy did put on a good show. When he reaches our table, I drop a few bronzes into his open palm.

He nods, tipping his hat slightly. “May the echoes find you again.”

Uh. I’ll pretend I know what that means.

He moves on, and just like that, it’s over. The inn is livelier, conversation bubbling back up, the weight of the evening settling comfortably around us.

Io swirls the last of her drink in her cup. “That was different.”

“Yeah,” I say, running my thumb over the rim of my own cup. “I think I liked it.”