Chapter 9

Valentine Fontaine moved through Blackmire's streets like a man who owned the city but had misplaced the deed.

The sharp tap of his polished shoes against the cobblestones set a lazy rhythm, his freshly tailored suit making him look far too elegant for the rotting underbelly he was about to descend into.

Information was a game.

And in Blackmire, you didn't just ask questions—you danced.

You slipped words between drinks, you traded rumors like currency, and when all else failed, you knew exactly who to squeeze until something useful spilled out.

Valentine, for all his charm, had no issue doing the squeezing.

But first—he needed a name.

Or rather, a supplier of names.

The first stop on his impromptu orphan-rescue investigation was a small, unimpressive pawnshop tucked between a gambling den and a brothel—the kind of place where you could trade a wedding ring for a knife, or a knife for a favor.

And more importantly, where you could buy secrets.

The door jingled as he stepped inside, and a voice dripping with skepticism greeted him.

"Oh, hell no."

Valentine smiled.

Behind the counter sat Malcolm 'Mal' Greaves, a pale, wiry man who always looked two drinks away from collapsing and three words away from starting a fight.

He was also, unfortunately, one of the best sources of information in Blackmire.

Mal's eyes flicked up from his ledger, locking onto Valentine with the weariness of a man who had lived through too many of his schemes.

"You need to leave," Mal said immediately.

Valentine placed a hand over his heart, feigning offense. "Is that any way to greet an old friend?"

"We're not friends."

"Business partners, then."

"I don't do business with people who get my shop raided."

"That was one time."

Mal scoffed. "Three times."

Valentine waved a hand dismissively. "Details."

Mal exhaled slowly, rubbing his temples. "What do you want, Fontaine?"

Valentine leaned on the counter, smile sharpening.

"Children are going missing."

Mal didn't react immediately.

But Valentine caught it—the way his fingers stilled against the ledger, the way his jaw tensed just slightly.

Mal knew something.

Valentine's smile widened.

"Start talking."

Mal didn't answer right away.

Instead, he reached under the counter, pulled out a bottle of something dark and unlabeled, and poured himself a glass.

Then, without a word, he poured Valentine one too.

Valentine eyed the drink.

"I don't drink," he reminded him.

"You're going to want to."

That was never a good sign.

Still, Valentine took the glass—if only to look polite—and watched as Mal downed his own in one go.

Then, finally, Mal spoke.

"There's been whispers," he said, voice lower now. "Not just about orphans. About collectors."

Valentine raised an eyebrow. "Collectors?"

Mal nodded. "People who take. People who don't just snatch up kids from the streets, but go through the trouble of infiltrating orphanages, adopting under fake names, moving children like stolen goods."

Valentine's grip on the glass tightened.

That was organized.

That was bad.

"Where are they going?" he asked.

Mal shook his head. "No one knows. But I'll tell you this—it's bigger than just Blackmire."

That was even worse.

Valentine exhaled, tapping the rim of his untouched drink.

"Alright," he said. "Who do I talk to next?"

Mal hesitated.

Then, finally, he said a name.

"Gregor the Hound."

Valentine blinked.

Then sighed.

Because, of course, it was Gregor.

Gregor the Hound was not a subtle man.

He was, however, a very violent one. The man who ran a goddamn bakery and spoke in sweet tongue to honest citizens, was in fact, the adviser of the Crimson Banter.

And if Gregor was involved, that meant whatever was happening wasn't just a business deal—it was a slaughterhouse waiting to happen.

Valentine pushed off the counter, dusting off his sleeves.

"Well," he said, flashing Mal a sharp, foxlike grin. "Guess I'll pay the Hound a visit."

Mal gave him a long, tired look.

"Try not to get mauled."

"No promises."

And with that, Valentine walked out of the pawnshop—into the ever-churning belly of Blackmire—on the scent of a hunt that would only get darker.

***

Blackmire was a city of contradictions.

For example: Gregor "The Hound" Marsetti was a baker.

A damn good one, too.

His shop, The Golden Crust, smelled of warm dough, cinnamon, and the faintest hint of impending violence.

It was a cozy little place, always filled with customers who had no idea that the man kneading their morning bread had once dislocated a man's jaw with a rolling pin.

Gregor had a reputation.

Not for kindness. Not for cruelty. But for efficiency.

And efficiency meant Valentine Fontaine had to wait.

He sighed, leaning against the counter, watching Gregor handle a particularly stubborn lump of dough in the open kitchen.

Behind them, customers bustled in and out. A grandmother ordered a fresh loaf of rye. A dockworker grabbed a bag of warm rolls. A child pointed excitedly at a display of sugar-dusted pastries.

Normal. Mundane.

And yet—

The second Gregor finished his work, he wiped his hands on his apron, tilted his head toward the back, and Valentine followed.

To the Back Room.

The air shifted the moment the kitchen door shut behind them.

Gone was the scent of fresh bread.

Here, in the dimly lit back room of The Golden Crust, the smell was something colder. Sharper.

The last time he was here, they had a simple conversation. But it stopped at the edge of something important. Something that had been hidden. And he wasn't just here for information on missing children. That was one of the reasons. 

He wanted information on Blackmire itself.

Valentine leaned back. "How did it start?"

Gregor raised an eyebrow. "You already know."

"I know the parts that were written in blood. I want the parts that were whispered in alleys."

Gregor exhaled.

Then, slowly, he spoke.

"Blackmire was built to fail."

A pause.

Then—a bitter chuckle.

"No—scratch that. It was built to be used."

Valentine listened, not interrupting.

"The city was meant to be a haven for trade," Gregor continued, eyes flickering with something unreadable. "A bridge between old money and new ambitions. Ports, markets, industry... It should have been a beacon."

A smirk—cold, dry. "Instead, it became a tomb."

Valentine took another sip. "Because power doesn't like to share."

"Exactly." Gregor tapped his glass against the table. "The merchants wanted profit. The nobles wanted control. The workers wanted rights. And the crime lords?" He chuckled. "They wanted it all."

He shook his head.

"Everyone thought they could mold the city in their image. But Blackmire isn't clay, Fontaine. It's a beast. And when you pull too hard, it bites."

Valentine tilted his head.

"So it was a war?"

Gregor's gaze darkened. "It was worse."

Valentine chuckled. "So who won?"

Gregor scoffed.

"Nobody. That's the thing about Blackmire, Fontaine. No one wins."

Valentine leaned forward, resting his chin on one hand. "Someone must be holding the leash."

Gregor's lips twitched. "You think that because you're used to stories with endings. Blackmire doesn't end. It just... shifts."

A beat.

Then, Gregor took another drink and leaned forward.

"You ever hear about the old Blackmire Flood?"

Valentine raised an eyebrow. "Should I have?"

Gregor smirked. "No one does anymore. Because people like me make sure history disappears when it's inconvenient."

Valentine's smirk faltered. "Go on."

Gregor tapped his fingers against the table.

"Years ago, when the city's veins were clogged with greed, the merchants got greedy with the water lines. Expanded too fast. Cut corners. The reservoirs cracked."

He exhaled.

"The flood should have been fixable. But then—the bodies started showing up."

Valentine's smirk was gone now.

Gregor met his gaze.

"The city drowned, Fontaine. Not just in water."

Valentine drummed his fingers on the table.

"So what you're saying is," he drawled, "Blackmire isn't just corrupt—it's haunted."

Gregor's grin didn't reach his eyes. "In a way."

Valentine leaned back, considering. "Alright. Say I believe you. That Blackmire is a beast that eats its own. That it's all built on buried sins and forgotten dead."

He swirled the liquor in his glass.

"Where does that leave us?"

Gregor didn't hesitate.

"As parasites."

Valentine laughed.

But Gregor didn't.

"We survive because we know how to take without being taken," he murmured. "Because we understand how this city breathes."

A pause.

Then—Valentine grinned.

"Speak for yourself, Hound. I intend to be more than a parasite."

Gregor studied him.

Then, with the smallest of smirks—

"I know."

Then he clapped his hands together.

"So anyway, enough about that. What were you here for?"

"Oh, I gotta help some chil—" he was just about to finish. But Gregor turned to face him, arms crossed over his flour-dusted chest.

"Fontaine."

Valentine smiled. "Gregor."

Gregor said nothing. Only sighed. Before finally he opened his mouth.

"Don't say words like 'saving', 'help', 'shield'. I have never seen a good ending when these words leave your mouth."

Then...silence. As Gregor merely poured himself a drink and took a sip.

Valentine, as always, filled the silence.

"You know," he mused, adjusting his cufflinks, "it's very difficult to imagine you strangling a man when you're covered in flour."

Gregor stared.

Then, very deliberately, wiped a bit of dough from his knuckles.

"Well if you can tell me your reasons, other than lying and critiquing my outfit, I would like to get back to my flour?." Gregor sighed and continued. "What do you want, Fontaine?"

Valentine's smile didn't falter, but his eyes darkened.

"I really need information. About children. Missing ones."

Gregor's expression barely flickered.

For a long moment, he was silent.

Then:

"We both know you don't care about missing children."

Valentine tilted his head. "How rude. Maybe I've developed a soft heart."

Gregor snorted. "If that were the case, you wouldn't be here. You'd be at the orphanage. Helping."

Valentine tsked. "And yet, here I am. With you. A much more interesting conversationalist than a room full of orphans."

Gregor's gaze sharpened.

"Don't mess with me. Who are you looking for exactly?"

Valentine exhaled, running a hand through his hair.

"A boy named Light."

Gregor's face gave nothing away.

But his fingers twitched.

And that? That was interesting.

Valentine leaned in.

"You know something."

Gregor didn't deny it.

Instead, he turned, grabbed a worn leather ledger from the shelf, and flipped through its pages.

"Kids go missing all the time, Fontaine," he said, voice gruff. "Blackmire eats the small and the weak. Nobody comes looking. Not really."

Valentine watched as Gregor traced a name on the page.

Slowly, the baker looked up.

"But you? You're looking."

A pause.

Then, finally—

"Why?"

Valentine's smile dimmed.

And for a single, rare moment, he answered honestly.

"Because if I don't, no one else will."

Gregor studied him.

Then, with a slow, reluctant exhale, he turned the ledger toward him.

Valentine's eyes scanned the page.

Names. Dates. Locations.

Orphans. Street kids. Vanishing.

And beneath one entry—written in sharp, deliberate script—a single word stood out.

"MARKOV." A name that had been occurring repeatedly on his investigation. He tried to leave it at that to not complicate things but it didn't seem to be too optimal anymore.

Valentine stilled.

Then, softly:

"Well, well."

He snapped the ledger shut.

Smirked.

"Looks like I'll be paying an old friend a visit."