Morgan was alone for now. While John went to get the rest of the knights' help, she headed towards the home of the killer by herself. She was not just dealing with someone who would kill without remorse, but a possible victim still alive, and time was of the essence.

The killer's home was a modest two-storey house that sat a stone's throw away from the town centre. Freshly shingled with clay, its newly hatted roof stood out from the otherwise older houses of Grimmel, despite the bricks of the main structure being slightly mossed with age. A sign with copper letterings hung on the gate that fenced the yard.

‟Soira Witechaple”

Or at least, that should have been what it read, had the 'S' not been broken in the middle. The letter hung loosely on the nail to spell ‟Ɛoira” instead.

Morning had come, and Morgan could hear the townsfolk waking up, bustling about in their homes around her. A few storekeepers were carrying crates out to set up their stands. Only one looked at her, intrigue by the mysterious presence of the knight. She summoned her sword to their stunned expression. But regardless of the person's reaction, Morgan pushed into the yard through the unlatched gate of Mayor Soira's home, sword out front.

As if on cue, the front door to the house opened ominously, welcoming her as if she had been expected, though only the darkness of the house greeted her.

It was a trap.

Morgan knew it was a trap.

The knight crossed the grass patch and stepped confidently into the shadows of the house anyway. She half expected the door to close behind her, but nothing happened. It was a thriller, not a horror novel.

Inside the building was nothing out of an ordinary home. A living room shared space with the kitchen. Three leather couches were positioned around a coffee table. The right was a fire place, with various knick-knacks on the mantle and a large mirror hanging above that made the room seemed twice its size. A small glass chandelier hung from the ceiling with its light out. A brown fur rug grassed the floor. To her left was a staircase that lead up to what Morgan assumed was the bedrooms.

‟Welcome! Knight Morgan.” It was Soira's voice, echoing from upstairs. However, it now held a new tinge of what could only be described as ecstasy. ‟You will not believe how long I've waited for this day.”

Morgan approached the stairs cautiously. ‟You know I'm laughing inside, picturing you opening the door for me before scuttling upstairs like a rat!”

‟The banter of the nervous!”

‟And for a murdering monster, your house is pretty normal.”

‟Monster? Hah! That's hilarious, coming from you!” While Soira spoke, she took her first step up onto the stairs. ‟Have you looked at yourself in a mirror?”

She ignored him and the temptation to glance at the fireplace mirror. ‟Where's Sherl Octavia?” Her footsteps creaked up.

‟Don't worry your little head. She's up here with me, still alive, for now.”

Was he lying? Morgan could not help but wonder why he would even leave her alive. Her head peeked over the landing as she came up, only to find the second floor to be a nearly empty open loft, a far cry different from the decorated ground room. There was a bed in the corner, sure. But aside from that, Soira sat on one of three wooden chairs he had positioned in the centre of the room. Sherl, barely conscious, was in a second seat in the middle, though her body was clasped into a metallic armour-like contraption that Morgan could only describe as the shell of an armadillo. Around them, the room remained empty.

She was ready to vault onto the landing with her sword, but the mayor simply held out a finger and tutted. ‟Ah, ah, ah! I wouldn't do that if I were you.”

He closed his hand into a fist and tightened. The armour that wrapped Sherl squeezed in conjunction with his motion. Sherl let out a grunt of pain as she was compacted. Morgan raised her hands above the landing in surrender and set her weapon down on the floor before her. The torture immediately subsided, and Soira gave a grin.

‟Good, good. Come now, take a seat. I want words.”

Morgan was not happy to be at his beck and call, and her face showed it. But Sherl's life was on the line, and for some reason, the man wanted to drag things out. She finished her journey up the stairs and walked as calmly as she could to the open seat. Her tiredness had completely disappeared, though she wished the same restorative energy of adrenaline could replenish her magic. She felt naked without her sword. At least the room was dark, since the windows were not facing daylight, and she gauged herself to have enough seither to pull off one more spell.

Finally, she asked, ‟What's with the games, Soira? Why not just kill us?”

Morgan decided to use her magic to extend a shadow from her feet, through the darkened room, and into the crevice of the armour that wrapped Sherl. It would be a tedious tasked, but within her capabilities. The knight gauged that she had enough power to force the armour open and hopefully, Sherl would have the strength to jump out. But for that to even happen, she needed the detective lucid and understanding of the plan without words exchanged. She was not sure if that meant buying time until the other knights arrived, or until Sherl came back to conciousness.

Soira continued, ‟I've read a lot of Doctor Watson's books, dear. And at the end, Detective Sherl always explained the mystery.” He looked to the detective, face bloodied, still drifting in and out of conciousness. ‟But she's not in the mood for it at the moment, I'm afraid. So I want you to do it?”

‟Isn't it obvious? You're the only other person who knew what was in the photo-”

‟NO!” He leaned forward and shouted maniacally, startling her. His tone then dropped a hundred notches back to his political timbre. ‟From the start. How did you know it wasn't one of the snakes?”

Something was wrong with the man.

Not just the psychopathy.

There was something physical that seemed to only be happening in that space. If Morgan squinted, she could almost see a ghostly figure behind Soira, like a fading curtain.

Buying for more time, she started the exposition. ‟It's the claws you attacked me with. You used the claws of this...” she gestured to the armour trapping Sherl.

‟Armadillion,” Soira answered.

‟Right. It's an Ex Machina, isn't it? I recognise the metal. It's the same material as Artria's Crux. It's adaptable steel made by the ancients for these sentient mobile weapons.”

‟You got all that from just one look?”

‟I've been looking down Art's blade for years now. I'd recognise that material anywhere,” she corrected. ‟And while your shape may be like a reptile while wearing it, your attack patterns are closer to hands than claws.”

There. For a moment as Morgan wrapped up the case, a shade flickered behind Soira. It reminded her of unspawns, otherworldly creatures that existed on the edge of one plane of existence to the next. In the meantime, her shadow had worked its way to the lower ‟feet” of the armadillion Ex Machina.

Morgan prodded, ‟We deduced the killer was looking for records of something they had done. The photographs; The written works of the drakin writer; The archivist and receptionist. You were caught doing something you didn't want found out, so you killed everyone who might have a link to it. I'm guessing the photographer blackmailed you with a photograph of your crime. But you killed her before you realized she hid it. All the other bodies in between were just cover as you ransacked the town looking for the right photo. The drakin writer was keeping a record of the events in town, so you killed them as well. And since you were the mayor, the victims let you into their homes and you made each of them look like an attack.”

Soira looked enraptured, as if a child listening to a riveting tale. The shade behind him flickered ever so slightly more into Morgan's perception.

‟Finally, aside from Sherl and John, you were the only other person who we told about the photographs. I may have missed the photograph of the innkeeper in my tiredness, but you didn't. You weren't taking the pictures to me from the archive, you were testing their negative images. And when you realized they didn't show what you were looking for, you gave them to me to stall as you went to find the last two photographs. One with Sherl and John, which you deduced you did not need, as we would have tested that one first. And the other was with the innkeeper. But Sherl caught you, and you dragged her here.”

‟Well, you did misunderstood one thing. I didn't just kill the in-betweens for cover. I enjoyed it too. Spending years taking care of these... imbeciles. It was quite enjoyable to hear their last breaths.” The mayor let out an ecstatic laugh and the atmosphere around him flickered, as if there were crystals of light distorting space. ‟But still, very impressive! Now, what should I do with the two of you?”

Morgan snapped, ‟I'm not done!”

The smile slipped from the man's face. Morgan had wriggled her shadow into the gap between Sherl and the armour. It would take all the magic she had left in her, but she could yank the detective out of the death trap now. She just needed the woman to wake up and grasp the situation.

The knight continued, ‟Why leave Sherl alive? You could have just killed her. No. She's smart. She must have remembered the photograph in the inn. The only reason you'd leave her alive is if she had something you need. Information.” The man's face darkened, and the ghostly figure behind him wavered even more. His smile was gone. The game was no longer fun. ‟Sherl must have gotten to it before you and hid the photograph. And if I don't have it, and you don't have it, you don't know where it is, do you?”

Sherl coughed from her restraint, causing the two to snap their attention.

The detective eyed Morgan intensely, now awake. ‟You... you imbecile. That's not the right question.”

Morgan thought for a second longer and got to her feet followed swiftly by Soira and accused, ‟Why are you still looking for the photograph? We already figured it out. John already alerted the knights. You should know all this. No. You're not just trying to save your own skin. You're protecting someone else in that photo!”

Soira's sadistic smile returned. ‟They were right. This is fun.”

‟What are you planning?” Morgan asked.

‟Nothing! I'm just having the fun they promised me!”

‟Not you!” Morgan snapped, and her eyes drifted to the ghostly figure behind Soira. ‟You. Who are you?”

The mayor let out a laugh. ‟Ha! That? That's Moira. A god.”

A god? The creatures that invade the Tearha and caused devastation all those years ago. Art fought in the army during the god of shadow's invasion, where the lizardkins turned against the rest of the world.

Soira expanded, ‟God of destiny, to be precise.”

‟Well,” Sherl spat. ‟Open up then. Let's screw destiny.”

In a split second, the armadillion armour creaked as it attempted to crush Sherl. Morgan cast her magic, and an energy of shadow burst out of the metal carapace, pushing against the crushing steel. From within the swirl of dark magic, Sherl jumped out with magic circuits sparkling and covered her fist in fire. The detective hooked across the air and punched Soira across the face, putting the mayor off his feet in a burst of flame.

Morgan took the opening and charged, ramming Soira in the ribs and pushed him to the window.

From behind, something slammed into Morgan and she was thrown off her feet, though she refused to release Soira. The man stumbled back into the glass. The old window frame snapped under their weight, sending Morgan and Soira falling out onto the yard.