The Eye of Eltmoor

The train rattled over the iron tracks, cutting through fields glazed with early frost. Inside, silence stretched between the two men like a taut string, humming with things unsaid.

Torren shifted in his seat, finally breaking it.

"Um… Ragnar," he said softly,

"That promise you mentioned—of mother's… what was it?"

Ragnar leaned back, his gaze distant, following the snow-dappled countryside through the window.

"Years ago, Mother was headed to Jensurt to give a lecture on battlefield manoeuvre theory," he began.

"As soon as she stepped onto the platform, a thief ran off with her suitcase."

Torren blinked.

"She chased him?"

Ragnar huffed a quiet laugh.

"No. It was snowing heavily—blizzard level. She was stranded, shaking, coat torn at the sleeve. An old woman saw her and offered her shelter. Took her in, gave her soup, let her sleep beside the hearth."

His fingers drummed on the window ledge.

"The husband was deployed. A soldier, fighting in the Ardenmark war."

Torren's brow arched.

"So she promised to repay them?"

Ragnar nodded.

"But at the time, the Beaumont holdings were falling apart. We were barely scraping by. She told herself she'd repay them properly once we recovered. And when we recovered, they had shifted somewhere else. Years passed… she found them again only recently. But by then—"

His voice caught.

"She was too sick to travel."

Torren looked down, then said, rough but soft,

"Understood."

A beat passed.

Then Ragnar added, voice low,

"They live near the Sombravian foothills now. A place called Eltmoor. We'll go there first."

Torren nodded once. He didn't ask anything more. Just leaned his head back and closed his eyes, the rhythm of the train pulsing beneath them like a quiet promise.

The wind skittered through the alleys of Eltmoor like a ghost that wouldn't settle. Gaslamps hissed against the dusk. Snow, not yet fallen, hung heavy in the air. The town had gone quiet.

A line of yellow tape flapped around the blood-darkened cobbles of a narrow street.

"Officer! Please—please let me see my child once again!"

The scream was hoarse. It came from a woman crumpled at the feet of a grey-collared constable, her voice scraping at the chill dusk.

The officer looked down at her with a face scrubbed clean of emotion.

"Ma'am," he said stiffly.

"Your daughter's body is… not in one piece. It's not advisable."

The woman folded against his boots, trembling, her face streaked with tears.

"Please, sir," she whispered.

"Just her face. Let me see her face…"

STEP.

Footsteps clicked against stone.

A figure approached the taped boundary, coat collar turned up, a gloved hand resting atop an obsidian cane.

His gait was slow. Methodical. Not hesitant, but purposeful—like a man taking measurements with every step.

TAP.

A young officer blocked his path, one hand raised.

"Sir, these are restricted grounds."

CLICK.

The man reached into his coat and withdrew a small case. He snapped it open to reveal a polished emblem—black and silver, etched with the Ouroboros seal of the Forensic Academy of Sombravia.

The officer's face shifted.

"Apologies, Sir Vergil. This way, please."

Vergil Duskrane gave the young man a single nod and crossed into the scene.

His pale eyes scanned the cobbled path—blood pooled beside a row of crushed flower pots. Officers stood in a tight huddle around something beneath a canvas sheet.

Then his gaze fell on the woman.

He paused.

"Who is she?"

He asked, voice even, almost soft.

One of the officers scratched at the back of his neck.

"The victim's mother. Mary Floris. She found about the body from a neighbour at seven. She hasn't left since."

Vergil looked at her for a long moment—at her bent spine, the way her hands trembled in her lap.

He approached.

"Mrs. Floris?"

She looked up, eyes swollen and raw.

He bent slightly, offering a gloved hand.

"Please, stand."

She reached for him like a drowning woman might reach for shore. He steadied her with quiet grace.

"I understand this is unbearable,"

Vergil said, his voice a low current.

"But if you'll allow me five minutes, I may be able to arrange something."

Her lip quivered. "I… I just want to see Chloe's face. Just her face…"

He gave a slow, deliberate nod, then walked her gently to a nearby bench under the eaves of an old chapel.

"I'll return shortly," he said, voice lower now, spoken as a promise.

Then he turned toward the covered body.

His eyes darkened—not with horror, but calculation.

Something about this scene… didn't feel right.

Vergil stood over the tarp-covered corpse, his shadow pooling across the blood-slick stone.

He didn't kneel. He didn't flinch. He simply observed.

Then, quietly—his voice like a scalpel:

"Where is her left eye?"

The inspector shifted uncomfortably beside him. His coat was too tight at the neck; his nerves were worse.

"We recovered everything… save for that," he admitted.

"Perhaps an animal got to it. A rat, maybe. The alley's full of them."

Vergil didn't respond immediately. He let the silence spool out. Then, slowly, he turned his head, his gaze sweeping the narrow lane like a tide.

His eyes locked onto the rusted cluster of trashcans at the alley's end—sitting too neatly in the shadows. Flies clung to the metal like ornaments. A cat scurried past, uninterested.

"How many such clusters are there in the vicinity?"

The inspector blinked, caught off guard.

"C-Clusters?"

"Yes. Trash deposits. Refuse heaps. Places where something small and wet could be hidden, intentionally or otherwise."

The inspector licked his lips.

"I—I'm not sure. Half a dozen, maybe more. This block isn't monitored well."

Vergil's jaw tensed. He stood upright, eyes narrowing slightly, like shutters narrowing to focus light.

"There have been eight victims whose bodies have been mutilated," he said coldly,

"Over the past six months. All female. All in early-twenties. All killed within thirty kilometres of each other."

He stepped toward the inspector.

"And all missing their left eye."

The officer opened his mouth, but no words came.

Vergil continued, his voice low but sharp:

"The first body turned up in the Eltmoor river. The second, dumped in a derelict chapel burial ground. The third—found mutilated in the pine wilderness behind Greymoor Hill. The fourth, left atop the northern rail tracks… two kilometres from this very alley."

He paused. A single breath. Then:

"This is not the work of rats."

The inspector swallowed.

Vergil turned back to the body, folding his gloved hands behind his back.

"This is surgical. Ritualistic. Purposeful."

His eyes flicked to the bench where Mary Floris sat, hunched and trembling in her coat.

"She was chosen."

Then he glanced at the canvas tarp again, his voice dropping to a whisper.

"And I intend to know why."

Vergil turned slowly to the senior inspector, his tone measured but edged with urgency.

"All of the victims," he said, "appear to fall within a specific age bracket—young women, most likely between eighteen and twenty-five."

He clicked his fountain pen open and began scribbling in a small, leather-bound notebook he retrieved from his coat pocket.

"Chances are, they were either enrolled in university or associated with academic institutions. I want this list cross-checked."

He tore the slip cleanly and held it out to the officer, eyes fixed on him.

"These names. I want their full records—addresses, colleges, social clubs, routines, lodgings. Any pattern. Even the mundane."

The inspector took the note, nodding solemnly.

Vergil wasn't finished.

"And one more thing—"

He looked away from the alley and toward the northern horizon, as if mentally tracing routes and timelines.

"Check if any institution—be it a university, private college, or recreational club—arranged a trip to the Greymoor Hills around the 22nd of Rosevale."

The inspector raised an eyebrow.

Vergil's gaze sharpened.

"Also, identify any all-male dormitories within a thirty-kilometre radius. I want names, supervisors, guest registries, employment records—everything."

The inspector tucked the note into his coat and gave a respectful nod.

"Understood. We'll begin immediately. Thank you for your assistance, Mr. Duskrane."

Vergil didn't respond right away. His eyes had wandered back to the grieving woman on the bench; her body slumped under the weight of sorrow.

He finally spoke, quiet but firm.

"Send it to me at Sombravia University. If it's at all possible," he said,

"Cover the girl's body with a cloth—something clean. Let the mother see her child's face."

He glanced at the inspector.

"Just the face. Nothing more."

Then he turned and walked into the mist-veiled street beyond, the echo of his cane fading into the fog.

KNOCK!

Ragnar knocked gently against the weatherworn door. The wood creaked open, revealing a young girl barely into her teens. Her eyes were wide, fearful—shadows under them spoke of sleepless nights and too much adulthood too soon.

"Girl," Torren's voice rumbled low, "Is Mrs. Mary Floris at home?"

The girl recoiled at the sound, as if struck. Her fingers tightened around the edge of the door.

"I—I'm sorry! We'll pay by next week, I swear it!"

SLAM.

She tried to shut the door, but Torren caught it mid-swing with one large hand.

"We're not here for money," he said.

The girl trembled where she stood. Torren's towering figure, all broad shoulders and battlefield presence, loomed like something out of a nightmare. Her breath hitched.

"Please don't hurt me…"

Torren's expression shifted. The fierce lines of his brow softened.

"Hurt you?" he echoed, confused.

"Why would I—?"

Ragnar stepped forward, placing a firm hand on his brother's shoulder.

"You're scaring her."

He gently nudged Torren aside and crouched slightly to meet the girl at eye level.

"Little miss," he said, voice low, steady, and kind,

 "We're not here to take anything. These brothers are here to help."

The girl's eyes flicked to Ragnar's arms—scarred, worn, brutal in their history. Her fear deepened.

"I-I'm sorry… but Gangster Uncle, we don't have anything! Please have mercy!"

Torren froze. Then—

"Pft—!"

He clutched his stomach, a wheeze escaping him before he broke into a full-bodied laugh.

"Gangster Uncle!?"

He slapped Ragnar's shoulder, barely able to speak.

"UNCLE! Bwahaha—!"

Ragnar's eye twitched.

"Torren."

"Oh my—! Gangster Uncle is so scary! Don't break my legs, Uncle!"

The girl blinked—then, without meaning to, let out a sudden, bright laugh.

Then she clapped both hands over her mouth, as if laughter were something dangerous.

Ragnar crouched lower and offered her a gentle smile.

"It's alright," he said softly. "You're safe now."

SWISH!

A glass bottle came hurtling through the air.

SHATTER!

It exploded on the porch, shards skidding across the wooden floor like angry sparks.

Three men swaggered out from the shadows—stomachs bloated with drink, beards slick with grime, and chains hanging from their necks like makeshift crowns.

One of them, bald and furious, pointed a thick finger at the house.

"FLORIS!" he bellowed.

"Where's the damn money?! You think you can hide forever?"

The little girl flinched at the sound of his voice. Her shoulders curled inward.

Ragnar's expression hardened.

"Torren."

Torren didn't need more than the tone. He rolled his shoulders with a satisfying crack.

"We need to beat up these bad uncles," he said, flashing a toothy grin at the girl.

"Isn't that right, little fairy?"

She managed the tiniest nod, still hiding half her face behind Ragnar's coat.

Ragnar exhaled slowly and palmed his forehead.

"Just pay them, Torren."

Torren blinked.

"Pay? Why would I pay them? Beating them up is cheaper and way more satisfying."

"They won't bother the Floris family if there's no debt," Ragnar said calmly.

"Resolve the root problem."

"But I don't want to resolve anything. I want to throw them into the compost pile behind the butchers,"

Torren grumbled.

A tug at Ragnar's coat interrupted them. The girl looked up, voice quiet but composed.

"It's alright, Uncle… Mother's coming soon. Please just call the constables."

Ragnar smiled, ruffling her hair.

"What a clever little cookie."

He turned to Torren.

"I don't have any money on me."

Torren raised a brow.

"Neither do I."

FLAP.

Ragnar handed him a thin, leather-bound book.

Torren's eyes narrowed as he saw the gold-embossed lettering on the front: WESBANK—Account Holder: Torren A. Etskald.

"My checkbook?" he muttered.

"I checked your balance," Ragnar said mildly.

"You've got a shit-ton of cash sitting pretty. Use it."

Torren gawked at him.

"You... you violated my bank account?!"

"It's for mother,"

Ragnar replied coolly, already turning toward the porch steps.

"And for the girl who just called me Gangster Uncle. You'll live."

Torren groaned.

"I should've just punched them."

Torren stepped off the porch, coat billowing slightly in the evening wind. He strode toward the men with casual menace, every step echoing on the stone.

"Gentlemen," he said, almost politely,

"How much is the debt?"

The one with the patchy bald spot scoffed, lifting his chin.

"Fifty thousand!" he sneered.

"What now, bitch?"

Torren's smile twitched at the corner—thin, forced, and dangerous.

"Fifty thousand?" he repeated softly.

A voice rang from behind him—shrill and fierce.

"Liar!" the little girl shouted from the porch.

"It's only ten thousand!"

Torren froze. Slowly, he turned his gaze back to the three men, shaking his head in mock disappointment.

"Now, now... good sirs. That's not just debt—that's dishonesty."

The third one, the only one with hair left, slurred through a drunken breath.

"You little shit! You think you can stand there all pretty and talk manners to us?!"

The bald one stepped forward, his grin spreading like oil over water.

"Give us the fifty thousand…" he said, voice low.

A glint of metal caught the dim light as he pulled a rusted pocket knife from his coat.

"And the girl."

He chuckled, high-pitched and cracked.

"Or else... heh."

Torren blinked once. Then twice. Calmly, he slipped the checkbook back into his coat.

Ragnar, still on the porch, muttered under his breath,

"Oh no."

The air shifted.

Torren rolled his neck until it popped, then glanced back at the girl.

"Close your eyes, little fairy," he said gently.

"This might get loud."

The girl obeyed.

Torren's smile vanished.

When he turned back to the men, his eyes had gone cold. All the warmth drained out of him like sand through a broken glass.

"You brought a knife," he said, voice like flint.

"Cute."

Then, like a thunderclap—

CRACK!

Torren's fist shot forward, smashing into the bald man's nose. Blood burst like a popped blister as the man flew backward and landed in a heap.

The second man lunged, but Torren grabbed him mid-swing, spun him, and slammed his face into the wall.

THUD.

The last man tried to run.

Bad choice.

Torren caught him by the back of his collar and flung him across the yard like a sack of flour.

WHUMP.

Silence followed—save for the groaning heap of bodies.

Torren dusted off his hands, walked over to the nearest one, and crouched.

"You come back here again," he whispered,

"And I'll make you eat that little knife of yours."

He stood, turning to Ragnar.

"Debt's cleared."

Ragnar blinked once.

"You didn't write a check."

Torren smiled wide.

"Didn't need to."