“Do you know who drops off the nyghtmare?” Orabas asked the gaunt man in the cell.

“Nyghtmare! Do you have some?” The gaunt man pushed his face in between the bars. His eyes were bloodshot and wide with excitement.

Orabas grabbed a pouch filled with flour from his belt and dangled it in front of the man. “Yes, but only if you answer my questions.”

The gaunt man eyed the pouch eagerly like a dog eyed fresh meat, though his eyes were more feral than any beast Orabas had seen. “I’ll answer whatever you want, Sir!”

“Do you know who drops off the nyghtmare?” Orabas asked again.

“No.” The gaunt man shook his head furiously. “I drop off my coin in a Blackstreet alley, and within the day or the day after, my nyghtmare will be there for me.”

“Which alley?”

“Any Blackstreet alley will do. My nyghtmare will always be there for me.”

The same as the others.

“When did you start using nyghtmare?”

“When? When?” The gaunt man repeated confused. “Last year, two years ago, I don’t know. Only the keepers of time that keep time for all know when.” He said as if he was saying something wise.

Though Orabas knew it was unlikely that he would hear anything that could of use, he still asked his last question. “Why did you start using nyghtmare?”

“The dreams, the dreams, they were so sweet.” The gaunt man said wistfully. “Not so much now, but sometimes I get lucky, and they’re sweeter than they’ve ever been!” His mouth morphed into a mad grin, and his eyes glazed over, losing himself in those dreams he spoke of.

Orabas had heard and seen enough. The gaunt man was too far gone, he would be of no help to anyone. Orabas turned on his heel and began making his way out of the dungeon, but the gaunt man's wail stopped him. He turned around and watched as the gaunt man tried to squeeze his head through the iron bar of his cell.

“My nyghtmare! You promised! You promised!”

Orabas may have pitied him if he didn’t know the gaunt man murdered his wife and children in a fit of madness. Orabas took off his thick brown leather gloves and hung them on his belt as he approached the gaunt man. Then he grabbed and placed a flour pouch atop his naked palm and stretched it out towards the gaunt man. He eagerly stretched out an arm, but before he could touch the pouch, Orabas made use of his blessing and ignited his hand. The flour pouch burned instantly and became a dancing flame in his hand.

“Ahhhh!” The gaunt man screamed as the flames licked his fingers.

He fell to his knees and began cradling his now blistered fingers as Orabas cooled his hand and made a fist, vanquishing the flame. There was a quiet hiss that echoed thought out the dungeon when Orabas put his thick leather glove back on, but it was drowned out by the gaunt man’s continued wailing. Once again Orabas turned on his heel to leave the dungeon. The prisoners retreated to the furthest corner of their cells when Orabas passed them by. Orabas paid them no mind as he walked up the stairway that led to the Bastion Knights' barracks proper and made a short prayer to the Unseen that his unit had better fortune than he did.

Orabas had long learned to master his emotions, but it was becoming increasingly difficult to do so the more he worked on this case. It had been two years since King Bell or rather, Lord Dantalian assigned Orabas and his unit which had been dubbed the Drug Breaking Unit the task of finding the mastermind behind the drug trade that infested Mefleiad. However, they were no closer to finding the mastermind than they were at the beginning. All the addicts and thugs they had detained knew very little or nothing at all.

“Sir Orabas!”

His musings were interrupted when a heaving Sir Chance called out to him. Orabas waited for him to catch his breath. “Sir Chance, report.”

Sir Chance nodded and took one last breath before speaking. “A blacksmith, A Master Rickert is believed to have committed suicide. His apprentice, a Journeyman named Jace reported his death.” He paused looking unsure of himself.

“Continue,” Orabas commanded. Sir Chance was one of the most reliable men in his unit, he wouldn’t come to Orabas with such urgency for a common suicide.

“Sir Orabas,” Sir Chance said observing the barracks. “Perhaps we should have this conversation inside your apartment.”

Though all the other Bastion Knights were preoccupied with their own duties they were in hearing distance. It seemed that whatever Sir Chance had to say he wanted it to be kept secret. “Very well. Let us go.”

Orabas made his way to his apartment, Sir Chance following behind him. He opened the door, entered, waited for Sir Chance to enter as well, then slid the bolt on the door locking it. Orabas went to his simple oak desk and sat down on a cushioned chair. “Tell me what you have to report.”

“The blacksmith left a suicide letter, and the contents of it are conspirational,” Sir Chance said in a hushed voice. He pulled out a letter from inside a knapsack at his waist. He unfurled it and handed it to Orabas. “Sir Chase, Sir Damien, and Sir Lance have detained the apprentice at the Anvil and Hammer, Master Rickert’s smithy and shop. We have already questioned him and some witnesses that were close by. I’ll tell you what we found after you finish reading the letter, though I know you’ll want to question the apprentice yourself.”

Orabas nodded and began reading the letter.

To whom it may concern,

I write this letter in confession of my wrongdoings and crimes. My name is Rickert or Master Rickert as I am most commonly known. I am a Master Blacksmith, and for the past five years, I have also been storing and delivering drugs, most notably nyghtmare, in Mefleiad.

This all began when I was approached by a man named Solas, and he threatened me into working for him. I refused at first, but when he showed me the nature of his threat I felt I had no choice but to obey him because he was no common man, he was Solas of House Owlking, and with just his words he could condemn me and my apprentice to death. For who would believe the word of a blacksmith over the word of the son of a noble house.

And so, I began working for him. My job was simple, I was to cache drugs in my shop, and when instructed I would drop them off at specific locations usually in Blackstreet and sometimes the Craftsmen District. For about two years this became routine for me, and I seldom gave it any more thought. Until one day, my curiosity got the better of me, and to my shame, I tried nyghtmare. I could not tell you why I did it, perhaps the temptation of having it in my shop just grew too great or I wanted to feel the euphoria that is said that the drug induces. So, from that moment on I became addicted to the substance. Now, I can’t even go four days without it and I have very few moments of clarity. As you may have assessed, writing this letter is one of those moments.

In those moments of clarity, I ponder the decision I have made, and what my future holds, and I see nothing but torment and loneliness ahead of me. So, I have decided that I will take my own life. I am no longer the man I once was, and the dreams have become too horrifying to bear. My apprentice Jace knows that I am addicted to nyghtmare, but he does not know that I was also involved in the drug trade. Please cast no blame on him.

My last request is for my name to not be dragged through the mud. I want everyone to remember me as Master Rickert, the finest blacksmith in Mefleiad, not Rickert the nyghtmare addict and criminal. Think of the information I provided in this letter as my offering to you to honor my request.

Master Rickert

Orabas folded the letter neatly and looked up to a hopeful Sir Chance. “To the Anvil and Hammer,” Orabas said standing up.

This could be nothing but a madman’s ramblings, but if not, we may have just discovered the identity of the mastermind behind the drug trade in Mefleiad.

*****

“Sir Orabas, Sir Chance!” Sir Chase, and Sir Damien, greeted outside the Anvil and Hammer.

Orabas got off of his horse and grabbed her reigns, directing her towards the shop. “Sir Chase, make sure she is well taken care of.” He said, handing the reigns over. “Sir Damien, continue keeping watch here with Sir Chase and make note of all who pass by. Sir Chance, with me.”

“Yes, Sir!” Orabas heard Sir Damien say as he made his way to the shop.

Orabas opened the shop door and was greeted by the familiar scent of death. He stepped into the shop and took a moment to observe the room. Master Rickert was slumped over a chair, dead. His bowels emptied below him and a bloody dagger on the stone floor close by. On the stone floor was an empty pouch, its’s content spilled across the floor, the fine purple nyghtmare powder. Mixed with the purple powder was a trail of dry blood leading from Master Rickert to a small room. Orabas approached Master Rickert's body taking care to avoid stepping on the nyghtmare and dried blood.

“Sir Orabas,” Sir Chance gagged. “May I join Sir Lance in the kitchen with the apprentice?”

“You may.” Orabas allowed.

Sir Chance’s hurried footsteps grew quiet as Orabas investigated Master Rickert's body. First, he opened Master Rickert’s eyelids and was greeted by bloodshot eyes. He nudged the nose a bit and small clumps of purple powder fell out. He checked Master Rickerts face for anything else that was unusual but could find nothing else. He saw no injuries on the arms or upper body so he moved down to the legs. Orabas unsheathed his dagger and cut off some of the fabric around Master Rickert's right thigh to get a better look at the killing wound. It was one long vertical cut that was deep enough to kill if not treated quickly, and it looked like the cut started from the bottom to the top. Orabas sheathed his dagger and retrieved the dagger that presumably did the deed from the floor. It was a fine double-edged piece with a curved hilt, it was dyed red due to the blood, but Orabas could recognize Master Rickert's mark on the blade. He approached Master Rickert’s body from behind, dagger in hand, and leveled his right arm next to Master Rickert’s. Orabas traced the cut on the thigh lightly starting from the bottom to the top. He moved the dagger to his left hand and did the same thing. Orabas found that the cut was possible to self-inflict from both angles. He placed the bloody dagger back on the floor where he found it and made a prayer to the Unseen for Master Rickert's soul, then he moved on to investigate the blood trail.

Orabas kept his eyes on the blood on the floor and followed the blood trail that led to a storage room. When he reached the end of the trail inside the storage room he found a crate of nyghtmare and other drugs, he walked back from the room to Master Rickert's body and tried to come up with an answer to explain the strangeness of the blood trail.

In the storage room near the crate of drugs is where Master Rickert or whoever killed him cut his thigh judging by the amount and pattern of the blood. From the crate to the door at the end of the storage room, the blood trail is consistent, but a few steps outside the room and the blood trail suddenly stops with a few drops of blood. Then there is no blood trail from the blood drops to the chair Master Rickert died on, the blood all pooled up beneath the chair along with his bowels. How?

Orabas investigated Master Rickert's body once more, he opened stiff Master Rickert’s stiff hands, and found no blood on them, so Master Rickert didn’t try to stop the bleeding with his hands. If he used a piece of cloth to stop the bleeding then his hands would contain some traces of blood, and there would still be some blood spilled, so he didn’t try to do that either. Orabas took one last look at the shop searching for anything that might help him solve the mystery but found nothing of note. He walked back to the storage room and searched for clues there, but again found nothing of note, except for the cache of drugs that is.

Perhaps the apprentice will have the answers I seek.

Finished with his investigation, Orabas made his way down a narrow hall and arrived at what appeared to be a kitchen. The apprentice was sitting on a chair his hands flat atop an impressive wooden table. He was a young man with the build of a blacksmith, broad shoulders, and thick arms. He looked to be in his early twenties with shaggy brown hair, a scruffy beard, and hazel eyes that looked tired at the moment. Behind him was Sir Lance looking nonchalant, and Sir Chance with the documents in hand that he picked up from the Blacksmith Guild. Orabas took a seat across from the apprentice and gave Sir Chance an appreciative nod for setting his steel teapot and teacups on the table. He took off his thick brown leather gloves, set them on the table, placed his palms on the teapot, then looked at the apprentice ready to begin.

“When did you discover Master Rickert was dead?” Asked Orabas.

“A little after the morning.” The apprentice said groggily. “I was working outside forging a longsword for one Sir Vance when I decided to take a break and went inside to discover Master Rickert dead on his favorite chair.”

Sir Chance had informed Orabas that the apprentice went to the Bastion Knights drunk to report what happened. Whether he killed his teacher or he discovered his teacher had committed suicide, Orabas believed both to be a situation where it was appropriate to drink, so he didn’t begrudge the apprentice his drunkenness. The apprentice being drunk may even prove to be a boon, so long as he could answer coherently.

Orabas made use of his blessing and ignited his palms. “We confirmed with Sir Vance that he did indeed commission a longsword from the Anvil and Hammer. Now, tell me about the boy. Who is he and why was he here?”

“Boy?” The apprentice asked confused.

Orabas heated his palms further bringing the hissing tea to a boiling point. “The boy. We have witnesses that say hey saw a boy with a necklace that marked him as an apprentice blacksmith going to the Anvil and Hammer early in the morning.”

“Ahhh, the boy,” The apprentices shook his head. “A Sister of Leporah convinced Master Rickert to take him in as an apprentice. I scared him off when he arrived, I told him to look elsewhere to apprentice. He didn’t even meet Master Rickert.”

An orphan is it.

Orabas cooled his palms. “Why did you scare him off?”

The apprenticed favored Orabas with a dejected attempt of a smile. “You read Master Rickert's letter. He was not fit to take on such a young boy as an apprentice. I saved that boy’s life. Master Rickert may have killed him along with himself.”

A believable explanation.

Satisfied, Orabas removed his now cool palms from the teapot and grabbed the teacups. “Master Rickert died a little after the morning you said, so why did you not report his death till midday?”

Orabas poured himself a cup of tea, as the apprentice looked at all the empty wineskins on the table and the ground, then back to Orabas. “I was… busy.”

“Busy,” Orabas repeated dryly.

The apprentice had the grace to blush but said nothing else. So, Orabas filled another cup of tea. “Master Rickert's death is strange.” He placed the teacup in front of the apprentice.

“Strange how?” The apprentice asked not taking the teacup.

Orabas took a sip of the tea and savored the bitterness before responding. “I have concluded that Master Rickert was cut on the thigh in the storage room near a crate of drugs, he left a trail of blood in the room, then when he left the room he stopped bleeding and didn’t start bleeding again until he sat on his chair… strange is it not?”

The apprentice looked down averting Orabas’s questioning gaze. Orabas didn’t mind, he took another sip of tea, waiting.

“I wasn’t there, so I don’t know if this explains it.” The apprentice said after half a dozen heartbeats or so. “But Master Rickert was like you.”

“He was blessed?” Orabas blinked, not able to hide his surprise.

The apprentice nodded. “He was able to make parts of his body steel.”

“And his curse?”

The apprentice scratched his shaggy beard, unsure. “Master Rickert didn’t use his blessing much, so I don’t know if even he knew, but he used to complain about stiff joints a lot.”

Orabas pondered what the apprentice told him for a moment.

That could explain how Master Rickert stopped the bleeding. If he turned his thigh into steel then that would stop the bleeding, but why would he do that if he was committing suicide? Second thoughts? There are no signs Master Rickert struggled or that his body was moved from where he died, so he decided to follow through in the end… or someone convinced him it was better to die.

Orabas took another sip of tea and gestured for Sir Chance. He quickly approached and handed Orabas the documents. “Who else knows that Master Rickert was blessed?” Orabas asked as he flipped through Master Rickert’s will once more.

“Master Rickert didn’t use or talk about his blessing much. I’m a blacksmith, not a soldier he used to say.” The apprentice said wistfully. “I think I may be the only one he’s told… but he has some acquaintances in the Blacksmith Guild that may also know.”

Orabas nodded and looked back up to the apprentice. “We’ll talk with them again. How was your relationship with Master Rickert?”

The apprentice was quiet for a long moment before he spoke. “He took me in as an apprentice when I was thirteen years old, and he taught me everything there is to know about being a blacksmith. I was at his side for eight years. He… he was like a father to me.” He said shakily. “I loved him, and then hated him for what he became.”

Orabas watched closely as the apprentice held back tears, and offered him Master Rickert's will. “Master Rickert wrote a will two years ago, he left it was the Blacksmith Guild.” The apprentice took the will and began reading it. “It seems he was preparing for his death. He left the Anvil and Hammer, all his smithing equipment, a modest home in the Craftsmans District, all his gold, and all his silver to you.” The apprentice could no longer hold back his tears as they flowed freely. “Did you know?” Orabas asked.

“No.” The apprentice whispered tearfully.

Watching him, Orabas saw the truth in his statement. Jace didn’t kill his teacher.

If Jace didn’t kill him, then Master Rickert committing suicide is likely, but I can’t rule out that he was murdered by someone else yet either.

Orabas pulled out Master Rickert's suicide letter from a pocket in his uniform and unfurled it on the table. He waited for Jace to compose himself before speaking again. “Master Rickert wrote that though you knew he was addicted to nyghtmare you didn’t know he was involved in the drug trade. Is that true?”

Jace chuckled weakly and shook his head. “Sir…” He probed.

Orabas took a sip of tea and didn’t respond.

“Sir,” Jace cleared his throat. “You don’t strike me a fool, so I won’t treat you like one. I didn’t know Master Rickert was involved in the drug trade at first, but when I noticed that Master Rickert was using drugs it didn’t take me long to figure out he was also hiding and delivering them.”

It would be incredibly unlikely that Jace failed to notice that for the past five years his teacher had been involved in the drug trade, especially since the drugs were cached somewhere Jace had easy access to. It seemed Master Rickert was trying to protect his apprentice with that lie in his letter.

“Why did you not report that Master Rickert was using and delivering drugs when you found out?”

Jace shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “As I said, Master Rickert was like a father to me I couldn’t do that to him. Instead… I tried to help him.”

Orabas narrowed his eyes. “How so?”

Jace gulped and licked his lips. “I-I took over delivering the drugs for Master Rickert two years ago. By that point, Master Rickert had become too addicted to nyghtmare to do proper smithing much less going out and making deliveries. I did this with the hope that Master Rickert would let me meet the people who supplied him the drugs or at the very least tell me who was supplying them. When I found out who was supplying them I would have let you, the Bastion Knights know, and then I would have fled the city with Master Rickert.”

I thought it impossible that Master Rickert was able to do those drug deliveries as a nyghtmare addict, and it seems I was right. Master Rickert may have written some lies in his suicide letter, but it seems there was also some truth.

“Did you ever find out who was supplying the drugs?” Orabas leaned forward, and grabbed the teacup Jace refused.

“No. Master Rickert never told me, and he was the one who always met the people supplying the drugs until the end.”

Orabas dipped his right pinky into the tea. “Do you believe there is any truth in Master Rickert's accusations that Solas of House Owlking was the one supplying the drugs?”

Jace seemed to contemplate it for a moment. “Around five years ago Master Rickert told me, out of the blue, to not associate with anyone from the Alchemist Guild especially those of House Owlking. At the time, I didn’t give it much thought, I just assumed there was a rivalry between the blacksmiths and alchemists, and Master Rickert didn’t want me to get involved. But now… after reading his letter… I don’t think it a coincidence that he told me to avoid those of House Owlking at the same time he got involved in the drug trade.”

The tea had cooled somewhat, so Orabas made use of his blessing and ignited his pinky. “I don’t think it a coincidence either. Now, I understand why you decided to help Master Rickert instead of coming to us, but the law is the law, and you broke it.” Steam rose from the tea as Orabas pulled out his glowing red pinky and cooled it.

“For crimes of your magnitude the punishment is death,” Orabas placed the teacup in front of Jace again, he appeared nervous. “but I believe that the law should be applied on a case by case basis and should at times be flexible. In this case… I don’t believe your crimes warrant death.”

Jace let out the breath he had been holding and took a sip of the tea, relieved. “What then?” He asked cautiously.

“I believe Master Rickert's suicide letter. I believe that Solas of House Owlking is the one who’s been infesting Mefleiad with drugs. However, the word of a dead nyghtmare addict and his apprentice doesn’t hold much weight especially against a son of a noble house.” Orabas stood up. “Thus, your punishment will be this.” He made use of his blessing and ignited the mark of the Unseen tattooed on his right palm. “You will put your life on the line to help us expose Solas and whoever else is involved for the villains they are. Now, take my hand, Jace.” He extended his glowing red right hand.

Jace stood up hesitantly and extended his right hand as well. He was slow to do so, but eventually, he gripped the hand Orabas offered him.

“S-Sir.” Jace winced as his hand burned and hissed.

“Sir Orabas, the Inquisitor of the Sun. For I hold the sun in my hands.”