| The Owl’s gaze

༺ The Fractured City IX ༻

The butler moved with silent precision, his polished shoes gliding over the deep red carpet that stretched down the corridor. Ornate wooden tables lined the walls, each adorned with an intricate vase or a delicately carved sculpture. The air was thick with the scent of aged wood and expensive perfume.

His attire was impeccable—an elegant black tailcoat with silver buttons, crisp white gloves, and a perfectly tied bow tie. Balanced on his tray was a vintage English tea set, the porcelain so fine that the dim light from the chandeliers above passed through it faintly.

At the end of the corridor, a grand double door loomed, flanked by two imposing figures clad in dark greyish armor. A barely visible white Adarga, scarred and worn, was emblazoned on their chests. Their full-face tactical helmets concealed their identities, the reflective visors offering nothing but an abyss of unreadable intent. In their hands, they held HK416 rifles, fingers resting lightly on the trigger guards.

The butler did not falter. He leaned in slightly and whispered a phrase to the nearest guard—inaudible, a mere breath of sound lost in the space between them. Without hesitation, the two soldiers stepped aside and pushed open the doors.

Inside, the room was bathed in the soft glow of daylight streaming through the floor-to-ceiling windows. The skyline of the city stretched out beyond the glass, a steel and glass empire reflecting the afternoon sun. At the center of the room sat a man, relaxed yet commanding, his left hand resting on the polished wooden table before him.

He was dressed in a black suit, tailored to perfection, with a blood-red tie knotted tightly at his throat. His face was obscured by a white-greyish mask, its contours eerily resembling that of an owl—featureless, yet hauntingly expressive.

The butler approached, setting the tray down with practiced ease. The delicate clink of porcelain barely registered in the stillness of the room as he poured a cup of Longjing tea, its fragrant aroma curling into the air. The masked man lifted the cup, his movements deliberate, before finally setting the mask down upon the table.

Only his mouth was visible now. He took a slow sip of tea, savoring the taste, then smiled.

"Sir," the butler spoke smoothly, "there's been an… unexpected development. A powerful figure has entered the battle between us and the rebels."

The man's lips curled slightly, amusement flickering in his unseen eyes. He exhaled, setting the cup back onto its saucer.

"Send him a gift," he said, his voice smooth, almost entertained.

The butler bowed deeply. "Understood, sir."

The air in the dimly lit room was heavy with tension. The Starlights, the newly formed rebellion force, gathered around a large wooden table, maps and documents scattered across its surface. Their leader, a man of sharp eyes and a hardened demeanor, stood at the center, his arms crossed as strategies were debated.

Their goal was clear—topple The Owl. But how?

Before the discussion could advance, the door burst open. An officer, pale and trembling, stumbled inside.

"There's a situation!" he gasped.

The leader's expression darkened. "Bring me to it."

Without hesitation, the officer turned, leading the way down the narrow corridors of the hideout. The Starlights followed, their footsteps heavy with apprehension. When they reached the scene, a cold silence settled over them.

A body lay sprawled across the table, face frozen in an expression of pure terror. Blood splattered the surface, streaked across the wood, pooling on the floor.

At the center of it all sat a small yellow box, wrapped with a red ribbon—resting in the corpse's stiff, lifeless hands.

A note was attached to it.

"For the one who fought with The Howling Gale. —The Owl."

Rowan's breath caught in his throat as his eyes scanned the message. It was meant for him.

The leader's face paled, realization dawning upon him. If The Owl could deliver this here, inside their stronghold, it meant only one thing—he had known the location all along.

For a moment, no one moved. Then, the leader met Rowan's gaze. No words were spoken, but the meaning was clear.

Should I open it? Rowan's expression asked.

The leader gave the faintest nod.

Taking a steady breath, Rowan untied the ribbon and lifted the lid. Inside, nestled against a bed of black silk, was a pocket watch. Its glass was shattered, and beneath the cracks, the hands were moving—but in reverse.

Everyone at the scene stood silent. The weight of the moment pressed down on them, heavier than any strategy or battle they had faced before. This was no ordinary message—it was a statement.

The Starlights had thought they were the ones working in the shadows, but now it was clear—The Owl had been watching them all along.

The leader clenched his fists, his gaze locked onto the shattered pocket watch in Rowan's hands. A warning? A challenge? A clue? No one could say for certain.

The old man, who had been standing at the back, finally stepped forward. His voice, though calm, carried the weight of experience.

"This might represent something," he said, eyes narrowing as he studied the broken timepiece.

Rowan remained silent, his fingers tightening around the cold metal. His mind raced. There had to be something deeper—something hidden in this gift.

Slowly, he turned the watch over, examining every detail. The shattered glass, the backward-moving hands, the slight scratches along its casing—everything meant something.

But what?