Chapter 2: Echoes of the Bureau

The Borderton dungeon swallowed sound, its damp stone walls muffling even the faint drip of water into a dull, oppressive hush. Alan Grey leaned against the rusted bars, the cold iron biting through his tattered tunic, the straw beneath him a sodden mess that reeked of rot. The bell had just tolled again, its deep clang vibrating through the cell, marking midday on his first day—half of it already bled away under the faint sun creeping through the high, fist-sized windows. He rubbed his scarred cheek, a profiler's tic from late-night case marathons, and muttered, "Time's slipping fast. No squad, no clock—just a medieval death sentence ticking down." A dry smirk tugged his lips, the kind he'd flashed at perps who thought they'd outrun the Bureau.

His mind churned, sifting the scraps from Pete's first visit. Greenvale's blue flames—fifty feet high, per Old Tom's tavern tale—too staged for nature, too precise for dragons. Sheriff Henry, pinning it with Church backing, no hard evidence beyond a drunk's word. "Frame job," he grunted, tracing the knife wound on his thigh, the ache a nagging clue. "Someone's got a script, and I'm the patsy. But who's directing?" Ten years in the FBI had drilled one truth into him: every crime had a thread, and he'd find it—even in this fantasy hellhole.

He closed his eyes, and the past flared up like a flare in the dark. A storm-soaked night, rain hammering a crumbling warehouse, the crack of gunfire splitting the air. He'd been thirty-five, a decade deep in the Bureau, hunting a serial killer who'd carved runes into seven bodies—each a grisly puzzle he'd cracked step by step. Alan had tracked him there, Glock steady, heart pounding. "FBI! Drop it!" he'd barked, voice cutting through the tempest. The perp spun, knife gleaming, eyes feral. Then the shot—hot pain ripping his chest, the world fading to black. "Last case I'll ever close," he murmured, eyes snapping open to the dungeon's grim stone. "Or so I thought. Guess fate's got a twist ending."

He exhaled, shaking off the memory like a bad briefing. "No use chasing ghosts—focus on now." Those old instincts didn't fit here—not fully. New memories pressed in, jagged and foreign, slotting into place. Alan Grey, Borderton sheriff's assistant. Five silver coins a month, a sack of grain. Parents dead—father gutted in a border clash, mother taken by fever. Sister, Alice, all I've got. Three days ago, patrolling Greenvale… fire roaring, blue tongues licking the trees… then nothing. He frowned, replaying that last frame like a crime scene tape. "Blue fire, fifty feet—chemical burn, not wildfire," he muttered, tracing the bruises on his wrists. "Ambush—knife, blunt force. Someone wanted me out of the picture."

His profiler brain kicked into gear, sketching profiles. "Greenvale's elven turf—timber-rich, strategic. Fire clears it, I take the fall. Land grab? Revenge?" He snorted, a faint grin breaking through. "Or some mage playing arsonist? Ten years hunting psychos didn't prep me for that." He'd faced killers who thought they were gods—runes carved in blood—but this was different. "No forensics here—no lab to test that blue flame. Still, a case is a case. Motive's the key—who's cashing in?" The thought steadied him, grounding the chaos in something he knew: investigation.

Footsteps thudded down the corridor—heavy, familiar, Pete's boots scuffing stone. The iron door creaked open, and the jailer lumbered in, grizzled beard catching midday torchlight. His tray held the usual—rock-hard bread, a jug of murky water sloshing at his hip. "Back for round two?" Alan quipped, catching the bread mid-air as Pete tossed it. "You're spoiling me—thought I'd get one lump a day." Pete grunted, slamming the jug down with a clang. "Shut it, torch-man. Henry says you eat till the fire's lit—two days left now."

Alan leaned against the bars, bread in hand, voice dropping to the low, probing tone he'd used on cagey suspects. "Henry's keeping you busy, huh? What's he got on you to play delivery boy?" Pete's eyes flicked sideways, a tell Alan clocked—nerves, not just gruffness. "Mind your own, Grey," he growled, hand hovering near his club. "Henry's the law—says you torched Greenvale. Church don't need more'n Old Tom's word from the tavern last night." Alan's profiler ears perked—last night, a fresh detail. "Henry's leaning on drunks," he noted silently. "Weak foundation."

"Old Tom, huh?" Alan said, tilting his head. "Saw blue flames fifty feet high, right? Funny—last I checked Greenvale, no dragons swooped in. You see any scales, Pete?" The jailer shifted, boots scraping, his scowl tightening. "Tom swears he saw it—blue fire roaring over the trees after sundown. Henry met some cloaked woman at the chapel last night, then called it dragon fire. That's all I know." Alan's smirk sharpened—new thread: cloaked woman, chapel, post-fire meeting. "Bingo," he thought. "Henry's not flying solo."

He pressed, voice steady and cutting. "Cloaked woman, huh? Sounds like Henry's got a shadow boss. What'd she look like—robes, hood, anything?" Pete's hand twitched, a muscle jumping in his jaw. "Didn't see her—just heard Henry muttering after. Church backs him, Grey—that's bigger than you." Alan's profiler brain lit up—Pete's dodge, the chapel link. "He's scared," he noted. "Church is muscle, but this woman's the brain."

"Church doesn't care about forests," Alan said, leaning closer. "Who's she answering to?" Pete's eyes darted away, voice dropping. "You're digging deep, torch-man—too deep. Fire'll bury you either way." He turned to go, boots heavy. "Pete," Alan called, voice sharp now, the edge that cracked liars. "Alice—my sister. She's at that chapel. Tell me she's still breathing." Pete paused, half-turning, his scowl softening a crack. "Saw her praying this morning—coughing like a storm's brewing in her lungs. Sickly kid—won't last long without you."

The words hit like a gut shot. Alan's grip on the bread tightened, crust biting his palm. A memory flared—not the graveside this time, but a quiet dusk, wind rattling their shack's thin walls. Alice, hunched by a flickering fire, her small hands stitching his cloak, coughing through a grin. "For when you're out there," she'd rasped, stubborn pride in her fever-bright eyes. He'd taken it, throat tight, knowing it was her way of fighting—for him, for them. "FBI didn't teach me how to lose her," he murmured, chest burning with a raw ache no bullet ever matched. "She's tougher than steel," he growled. "I'll get out—for her."

Pete shrugged, trudging off. "Fire don't bend for tough, Grey. See you at dusk." The door slammed, leaving Alan with the echoes. He sank back, bread clutched, staring at the claw marks on the floor—desperate ghosts. "Two days left—fifty-some hours," he calculated, FBI precision locking in. "Day one's half gone—sun's high." He bit the bread, nearly cracking a tooth, and spat it out. "Could club a perp with this—medieval slop's a crime."

He paced, chains clinking, mind racing. "No panic—reconstruct it. Greenvale's staged—blue fire's the trick. Henry's dirty, cloaked woman's the lead." His smirk returned, profiler sharp. "Alice is at that chapel—smart, stubborn. She's my eyes out there—file's the key." The bell's echo faded, midday sun climbing. "Two days to bust a fantasy rap. Beats bleeding out in a sting."