Serpent of Desire

06

I stand there for a moment after the door slams, the silence deafening. My heart is still racing from the confrontation, the adrenaline making my limbs feel heavy. Hawke's words echo in my mind, the accusation, the venom. It's not the first time someone's assumed the worst of me, but the way he says it, like I'm nothing more than a walking curse, hits harder than it should. Maybe because there was a time where I thought the same and it took centuries to reverse that damage.

I shake the thought away and focus on getting dressed, yanking on my clothes with more force than necessary. I don't have time to indulge in Hawke's hatred or my own insecurities. Lycus is dead, and I'm being blamed for it. If I don't find the real killer, I'll end up paying the price.

Three months. It sounds like a generous amount of time, but I know better. This isn't just about solving a murder. It's a test. My brother is giving me a chance to prove my worth, or maybe to fail spectacularly. He's always been good at offering just enough rope to hang myself.

I pull on my boots and head for the door, pausing for a moment as I glance around the shop. The destruction feels like a personal insult, as though the killer didn't just want to take lives but wanted to destroy every piece of me in the process. My shop was more than a place to sell trinkets and potions—it was my sanctuary, the one connection I still had to the life I'd lost. Now, it's in ruins.

I grit my teeth and push the door open, stepping outside into the cool night air. Hawke is waiting for me, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed. His eyes flick over me briefly before he turns away, starting down the street without a word. I follow, the tension between us thick enough to cut with a knife.

"Where are we going?" I ask after a few minutes of silence, keeping my tone neutral.

"First stop is Lycus's quarters," Hawke replies without looking back at me. "We'll see if anything there gives us a lead."

I don't respond. Lycus's quarters. Of course. I should've thought of it myself. But then, Hawke's the enforcer—used to investigations, death, and the constant pressure of being one step away from disaster. Me? I've always been on the periphery of danger, flirting with it but never fully committing. Until now.

We walk in silence through the darkened streets, the city around us eerily quiet. The city is always like this at night—still, as if holding its breath. I can feel the weight of the place pressing down on me, the invisible chains of my punishment tightening with every step. This city, this life, it's a prison in itself.

We reach Lycus's quarters, a nondescript building tucked away in one of the less-traveled parts of the city. Hawke unlocks the door with a key I didn't realize he had, and we step inside. The air is stale, untouched since Lycus's death.

The room is sparse, as expected. Enforcers don't have much in the way of personal belongings—no need for them when their existence is devoted to penance and duty. There's a bed, neatly made, a small table with a few papers scattered on it, and a chest in the corner. Nothing out of the ordinary to what I'd left behind last night. Hawke moves immediately to the table, rifling through the papers with a practiced efficiency, while I head for the chest.

It's locked, of course, but that's not a problem. A few whispered words and the lock clicks open, the lid creaking as I lift it. Inside are a few items—mostly weapons and armor—but tucked underneath the pile is a small, leather-bound journal. I pull it out, flipping through the pages.

Lycus wasn't much of a writer, it seems. Most of the entries are brief notes about his assignments, places he'd visited, people he'd spoken to. Nothing that stands out, nothing that screams he was in trouble. But then I reach the last few entries, and something catches my eye.

"Found something," I say, my voice cutting through the quiet as I hold up the journal. Hawke looks over at me, his expression unreadable as always, and crosses the room in a few long strides.

He takes the journal from my hands, scanning the pages quickly. His brow furrows, and I can see the gears turning in his mind.

"What is it?" I ask, peering over his shoulder.

"Lycus mentions meeting with someone in the days leading up to his death," Hawke mutters, flipping back a few pages. "He doesn't give a name, and it's clear he was purposeful with hiding it."

I frown, trying to think of anyone Lycus might have met recently who would raise his suspicions. "Do you think this person is the killer?"

"It's a lead," Hawke says, closing the journal with a snap. "Better than anything else we have so far."

I nod, though a part of me doubts we'll find answers that easily. Whoever or whatever killed Lycus was smart, careful. They wouldn't leave a trail of breadcrumbs for us to follow.

Hawke slips the journal into his coat, his eyes flicking over me for a brief moment before he turns toward the door. "We'll check the records next. See if anyone unusual has been around the city recently."

I hesitate, glancing around Lycus's quarters one last time. Something about this doesn't sit right with me. The journal, the meeting—it all feels too convenient. But I keep my thoughts to myself and follow Hawke out the door.

As we make our way back into the city, I can feel the weight of the situation pressing down on me. Lycus is dead, and I'm a suspect. Hawke clearly despises me, and we're running out of time. Three months. It's not enough.

"Do you really believe I'm guilty?" I ask suddenly, the words slipping out before I can stop them.

"We don't have time for this," he mutters, turning away. "Let's go."

I follow him, my mind racing.

We reach the records hall, a massive stone building near the center of the city. Inside, rows upon rows of shelves stretch as far as the eye can see, filled with ledgers, scrolls, and documents detailing the comings and goings of every soul locked in the underworld. It's a labyrinth of information, and it'll take hours to find anything useful.

Hawke moves with purpose, heading straight for one of the clerks behind the counter. The woman looks up, her eyes widening slightly as she recognizes him.

"Enforcer," she says, dipping her head respectfully. "How can I assist you?"

"We need access to the records from the last few weeks," Hawke says, his tone clipped. "Specifically any unusual activity. New arrivals, visitors, anyone who might not belong."

The clerk nods, pulling out a large ledger and flipping it open. "I'll fetch the relevant documents. It may take a few moments."

As she scurries off, I lean against the counter, watching Hawke out of the corner of my eye. He's tense, his jaw clenched, eyes scanning the room as if expecting an ambush at any moment.

"You always this wound up?" I ask, my tone light despite the heaviness of the situation.

Hawke's eyes flick to me, a spark of irritation flashing across his face. "You always this flippant?"

"It's a coping mechanism," I reply with a shrug. "Helps me deal with enforcers who think I'm a walking death trap."

He doesn't respond, the corner of his mouth flattening and he turns back to the clerk as she returns.

"Here are the most recent records," she says, placing them on the counter. "Highlighted are any individuals who seemed... suspicious."

Hawke grabs the top of the stack and starts flipping through them, his eyes scanning the pages with lightning speed. I grab a few myself, scanning the names and descriptions, but nothing jumps out at me.

All low level demons, no one with enough juice to kill an enforcer or enough sway to manipulate someone to do it for them.

Although if I'm honest, nothing is meant to kill an enforcer so searching for someone that can, will be impossible.