Rules are the backbone of any society—whether to keep one safe, well-fed, provided for, or to simply maintain the cycle. These rules become especially vital when their consequences ripple outward, threatening the world as a whole.
There are many cycles within any given system.
One natural cycle is the eternal dance between creation and decay—a balancing force that prevents life from consuming all, and decay from devouring everything. This paradox of growth through death, and death through life, is the reason why nature does not spiral into chaos. It is the silent law that governs existence: a perpetual exchange that births stability, ensuring that all life grows… to eventually perish.
Inspired by this sacred law, the Wanderers of the First Era created cycles of their own.
One such construct placed metaphorical walls around species and societies—designed not to divide, but to restrain overgrowth, prevent domination, and keep the great wheel of civilization turning for all.
Another cycle was conceived to establish safe-zones—pockets of land untouched by the wild temperament of mystica and the elemental chaos they often bring. Within these havens, both mystica and Wanderers could travel without bloodshed, under the protective veil of balance.
Because not all mystics coexist peacefully.
Just as fire and ice repel one another, bringing two opposing mystica into proximity risks a violent clash. One would perish, igniting a war that could eradicate an entire element from the world.
Worse still, should a single mystica multiply unchecked, the region would become an uninhabitable wasteland: a blistering inferno or a frigid frozen tomb.
Safe-zones, then, are not merely neutral grounds; They are pressure valves—containing chaos, preserving peace, and enforcing distance where proximity would mean destruction. These deliberate absences and gaps have held the line since the end of the Third Era, preventing accidental encounters and maintaining a forced, yet fragile, peace.
The Arcane Force is charged with the preservation of these cycles.
They legislate, imprison, investigate, and—most critically—anticipate. Whether it's a rogue mystica threatening the elemental balance or a new Wanderer race emerging from uncharted lands, their role is to ensure that no single variable unravels the threads of Wanderlust.
Each department within the Arcane Force specializes in one of these cycles, and those governing the most delicate of balances rise highest in the hierarchy.
In a sense, this structure reflects a broader truth: Authority shifts to those whose voices resonate with the weight of the moment. Because in the land of mysteries, every voice must be heard.
Any voice could be the one to uncover a buried truth, or sound the warning cry before a Mystic Armageddon.
A Sentinel can outrank a Queen—and a commoner can outrank a Sentinel.
Of course, such claims are challenged, first publicly, then formally at the Equinox Tribunal.
If the claimant fails to provide satisfactory evidence, they lose a significant portion of their Stars, and face either community time or prison-time, depending on the resources wasted and the harm done to the cycle as a whole.
But if they're right…
Then, depending on how many officials opposed the claim and the disparity in ranks, that individual earns a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity: the chance to ascend as the highest-ranking figure in their kingdom—whether that be the Queen, who writes the rules, or the King, who enforces them.
The Sentinel is a unique post within the Arcane Force, tasked with safeguarding the fragile balance between Mystica and Wanderer. Any disturbance or harm by either side is mediated by this department.
Not that they possess strong enough Ornyx to discipline a Mystica directly…
But they have other, more clever means—wards, veils, sanctions, isolations—to protect the innocent while neutralizing the threat.
Since the Arcane Force's formation at the end of the Second Era, the Sentinel title has steadily climbed the chain of authority.
Now, in certain circumstances, the acting Sentinel can even override the Queen's orders—without prior approval.
A privilege… not without peril.
Mr. Hem Lock is one such example. A tale told across four kingdoms—a walking warning, used by the Chief of Sentinels to discipline and humble fresh recruits.
"Just because you can... doesn't mean you should." —Chief Retterford, Sentinel Commander.
"You know, Lyra—Just—"
"—I know. We know. Everyone knows!" Lyra cut him off mid-sentence, again.
"But I didn't finish my sentence yet," Retterford hissed.
Lyra stepped back—just slightly—eyes narrowing at the hiss. It was subtle, but telling.
One way to identify a Wanderer of the 'Dreadmorne' race is by their sharp 'S' sounds—a side effect of their elongated front teeth, which shift the tongue's placement and alter their speech.
Another way is to provoke them. Which should be near-impossible, given their cold-blooded temperament—except for Lyra.
Lyra had a gift: she could dissect a sentence, analyze tone, peel back the context and cadence to expose exactly what someone meant—and why they meant it.
That talent had helped her profile more than a few serial killers.
Add to that her hypnotic beauty, a presence that bypassed mental defenses, and a rare blend of Ornyxes that let her tap into nearly any aura—and she became someone you couldn't help but trust.
Or fear.
She had a way of making your darkest secrets feel like a burden you wanted to share.
One of Lyra's greatest accomplishments was convincing a hardened criminal not only to confess to his crimes—but to heal.
He later joined a rehabilitation program, seeking redemption instead of ruin.
Like many races across Wanderlust, the Dreadmorne had limited ability to connect with most common mystica.
However, they wielded extraordinary control over mystica that mirrored the essence—or the origin—of their Patron Mystica...
The very being responsible for shaping what they had become.
That's why Lyra took a wary step back.
She wasn't sure if her mystica—or any of the Ornyxes on her person—were triggering Retterford's sudden agitation.
And while she had mastered the art of seduction, empathy, and the delicate language of repressed emotion…
She still struggled with one truth: Some darkness wears no mask.
This blind spot—her stubborn faith in people's capacity for change—kept her firmly in the third Sentinel rank among the four kingdoms, with Hem and Simon Baker alternating the top two positions, but Lyra had never come close.
Not because of her ideals… But because, as Mrs. Ford—Mr. Retterford's wife and secretary—so bluntly put it: "She's just not talented enough."
Most dismissed the Diva's biting words.
But in this case… Lyra had misjudged Retterford.
A proud Dreadmorne, Retterford's ancestors once bartered their very souls to the forbidden Crimsonfae, trading mortality for salvation. That sacrifice granted the Dreadmorne race longevity… but at a cost.
Retterford had outlived friends, foes, fashions, and jokes. And while most chuckled at the Dreadmorne's infamous hiss, he had grown tired of it. He hated how his tongue fluttered between his fangs every time emotion slipped past his cold composure. But after more than an era… He still couldn't control it.
Then again… what could a Dreadmorne do?
They couldn't silence emotion like the 'Hystorians'. And they needed their fangs to live. Remove them—and a Dreadmorne would wither in a week.
Well… maybe Retterford would last longer, burning through stored fat and residual energy. But without nourishment, even he wouldn't survive forever.
"Twist it however you want," Lyra said softly, shifting his irritation like wind pushing smoke. "You always end with the same sentence."
And it worked.
Retterford felt the emotion slide from her to Hem. Redirected. Displaced. Manipulated.
"This isn't right," he told himself, trying to reclaim the flickering feeling.
His pale complexion dimmed—a quiet echo of his struggle to hold on.
To shake off Lyra's sway, Retterford reached to his belt and unclipped a thick black orb fastened by a dual-hook clasp. As he squeezed the sphere, the twin hooks curled inward, transforming into sleek metallic wings. They flipped around the orb, locking together on the opposite side like tweezers.
With practiced ease, Retterford plucked a charcoal filament from inside and extended it out toward the street.
The moment the thread touched sunlight, it caught fire—brilliant and brief. It flared white-hot for a heartbeat, then vanished in a wisp of smoke.
Retterford narrowed his eyes and counted the seconds. Then, with a hiss that betrayed his returning irritation, he muttered, "Thirty-P out there. Darn heat."
Anything to focus. Anything to ignore her.
Lyra stepped closer, her presence soft as velvet. She patted his chest with mock affection and whispered, "That's exactly how it feels in here too, boss."
She slipped her arms around him.
The warmth of her body and the whirlwind of her scent—sugar and nostalgia and something sweeter still—disoriented the chief.
His pulse quickened. His pale cheeks flushed with renewed color. His composure faltered.
"Creampuffs…" he muttered, lips parting slightly.
"Lavender!" said one of Lyra's subordinates, leaning in.
"Ornyx," scoffed Hem.
They all smelled something different.
The truth was, Lyra's scent was no ordinary perfume. It was a mirage—crafted from mystic extracts and her natural musk, fused into an aura that tricked the senses. Each person perceived the fragrance they most adored.
A scent designed to seduce you, specifically.
Lyra wasn't sure if Hem genuinely enjoyed the scent of Ornyxes—or if he was simply sharp enough to see through the illusion.
From the day she met the famed Sentinel Hem Lock, he had been an enigma: distant, analytical, and always at odds with the Queen.
She had tried everything—logic, charm, even fine-tuned Ornyxes that complemented her aura. But Hem seemed immune. Her efforts, like the heat outside, evaporated the moment they touched him.
His constant expression—half-exhausted, half-unimpressed—never shifted.
And just moments ago, before Retterford derailed the mood, Lyra had come so close to the impossible: Getting Hem Lock to notice her.
For Lyra, it wasn't just personal. It was a mission.
She wanted the world to believe in something beyond power—to embrace empathy, compassion, connection. To see that strength wasn't always a force to be wielded—it could be a hand extended in forgiveness. Even toward Murderers and terrifying mystica.
She had dominated every department she entered. She had softened hardened hearts and mesmerized even the most ancient of Mystics. But Hem… He was a locked gate in a dying storm.
Where others melted under her gaze, Hem offered no friction at all. No spark. Just cold circuitry.
A closed loop. Unreachable.
Lyra often compared Hem to the mystica known as Rakton—a species that lived deep beneath the earth, rarely seen, even less understood. They were obsidian orbs, perfectly smooth, with no clear function, language, or desire to connect with either Mystica or Wanderers.
The only known interaction between Rakton and the world above was their peculiar "hair fall"—silken threads that drifted upward from their dense cores, harvested by Specialists and meticulously woven into Ornyxes known as Litup Frags.
What one did with a Litup Frag was entirely up to the wielder's imagination. Retterford used one as a sun-activated thermometer. Enforcers could fashion them into brilliant flares—blinding even in daylight.
"Just like how he blinds every one of my attempts," Lyra pouted, biting her lip.
Her initial strategy to prove the effectiveness of her people-first methods went up in flames—quite literally—after Hem strolled into her crime scene and unraveled it with one glance.
She had spent days deciphering layers of lies, fake clues, and motive webs strung tighter than a Bloodspider's web. Then in walked Hem, boots barely dusted, and solved it as if the answers had been painted in glowing runes across the walls.
No one cared about the cookie she'd taken from the pantry. It wasn't near the crime scene. The owners were already dead. The pantry wasn't even connected. Yet somehow, Hem noticed.
He noticed the missing symmetry of the cookie plate. Traced invisible crumbs with his eyes. And in front of everyone—including the grieving (allegedly)—he called her out.
"Irrelevant," he'd said of the mourners.
Well... to be fair, they were the murderers. Hem had exposed their convoluted, blood-soaked scheme to murder their own family and fake grief.
But still. The cookie callout felt unnecessary.
She couldn't beat him with logic. His mind was a fortress wrapped in fog. So Lyra changed tactics. She tried becoming his friend.
That went worse.
Her attempts at camaraderie only made him more suspicious.
Which, in Hem's view, probably aligned with her broader mission to reshape Wanderlust itself—empathy-first, power-second. Suspicious indeed.
When warmth failed, she tried competition.
She built a scoreboard just to make him feel like he was in the race. Opposed every argument he made, no matter how airtight, just to spark debate.
Confrontation might lead to acknowledgment.
Acknowledgment to… something more.
But Hem? He refused to play. Refused to bend to social cues, to emotional bait, or peer pressure. If not, he wouldn't have gone against the Queen herself -- Thrice!
She tried every key. Every angle. Every Ornyx in her collection, but little did she know, Hem Lock was simplicity incarnate: A closed vault with a rusted lock… and no desire to be opened.
True to his family name, everything Hem Lock saw became a puzzle—an intricate mechanism of unseen gears, waiting to be solved. And being perhaps the most insatiably curious Wanderer alive, he couldn't leave a single lock unopened.
"Ahem! Hem," Retterford barked, trying to shatter Hem's signature, vacant stare—the kind of stare that meant something was being picked apart behind those sunken, ruby-shadowed eyes.
This time, the lock he was trying to pick... was Lyra Hert.
She wasn't a puzzle made of iron and cogs. She was pure instinct. Emotion. Chaos. A concept Hem could never crack—literally or figuratively.
Retterford had watched this dance play out for years. He'd been around these two longer than the rest of the Arcane Force combined. A Dreadmorne near-immortal, he'd outlasted empires and lovers alike, and he'd played the long game for Chief—betting on two of the wildest wanderers he'd ever seen.
He had gambled, and he'd won. They had showcased unparalleled skill and skyrocketed through the ranks, carrying his name with them.
But today... Today he needed to gamble again. Unfortunately, his attempt to steer Hem back to the conversation backfired.
Hem's gaze turned—locked—onto Retterford.
"Is there any reason you're stating the obvious?" Hem's voice was dry as stone. His eyes narrowed. "Wait… The dramatic speech, the casual weather talk... and now flattery? You're trying to soften the terrain. You're about to drop—"
"Nope!" Retterford hissed, loud and sudden, cutting Hem off before he could kick open yet another vault of unwanted truth.
"Was that an actual hiss," Hem muttered, "or is your tongue still struggling between vowels?"
His head tilted, gears turning again.
Another lock. Another distraction.
Retterford smirked. That was Hem's greatest flaw. His hunger for secrets. His obsession with unlocking truths—everywhere, always. It had cost him sleep, posture, and the natural gleam of his once-precious ruby eyes. Most assumed he needed Ore just to stay upright during the day. But Retterford knew better... and exploited the reason without remorse.
Now that Hem's attention was successfully misdirected, Retterford moved in with the first part of his play.
"Both of you..." he began, raising his voice so the whole department could hear, "were my first gamble."
He pointed at Hem, then Lyra. "My pride. My honor. The department's glory—"
"He's buttering us up for something," Hem and Lyra interrupted in unison, not even sparing each other a glance.
The department chuckled.
Retterford sighed. "You two ruin every good monologue," he mumbled. "The only ones who don't give me the respect I deserve," he hissed loudly.
"That hiss was on purpose." Hem declared, having already figured out his boss.
"Nah!" Lyra opposed. "He wants us to think that he does stuff on purpose. To throw us off his game." She agreed with Hem's statement. He seldom was wrong, yet she didn't want to miss the opportunity of picking a fight. For that was the only way for Hem to notice her.
Officers within the department broke into two groups, one supporting Hem, and the other supporting Lyra's claims, while the Chief's voice drowned away beneath their debate.
With defeat in his eyes, Retterford turns to a place where sat a person who had always had his back since before they exchanged 'Vows Of Eternity.'
And in case of a Dreadmorne and Diva, this can be taken in the literal sense.
Mrs Ford, or Diva—which is her name, personality, and the name of her race—swallowed her boiling personality to assess the developing situation.
For being the most hot blooded race on the planet, and an impulse decision maker in any situation, Mrs Ford had more calm and rational decisions under her belt than her dear husband.
This had nothing to do with her rebelling against her ancestral blood. She simply swallowed molten bursts of anger for a simple hair transformation.
Diva—the race, not Mrs Ford—are devoted worshipers of illuminant mystica: ones that produce the concepts of light and heat on Wanderlust.
Their devotion, which is closer to fanatic worship, turned their humanoid physiques into perfect vessels to host the concepts of their patron mystica.
Similar, yet opposite to Dreadmorne, they are more attuned to illuminant mystica, and unlike Dreadmorne, they are adored by other mystica, except for the cold-blooded ones.
Unknown to others, the mystica hate their race for being too hot, while the Diva's hate them for being too cold. Either the case, both of them stay farther apart.
In contrast to Retterford's complexion, his wife had the fairest skin in all of Zeus. Of course, comparing one Diva's fair skin to another is a mute point in which only other Divas participate, for the rest of Wanderlust is just concerned with their transformation.
As their race members get hotter—which is directly proportionate to their anger—from the tip of their nose to the soles of their feet, they begin to turn red. Red as the freshly plump tomatoes.
This change is immediate, as their temper, disappointment, disgust, and judgment, is one click away. With only judgment being a few clicked ahead, before they even get see the subject—which is everyone else, but their kind.
It's difficult to be around a Diva who wears their emotions on their sleeves—or worse, displays them through expressions. While it requires a miracle to please a normal Diva, they are still universally preferred over Divas with red hair. The latter—those whose hair has transformed into literal heaps of fire—are officially marked as danger zones by the kingdom's Mahant.
Only a compressed surge of pure anger can turn a Diva's gorgeous silver hair into a reddish hue, and you never cross a Diva with red streaks—let alone one with a head full of fire.
"Yes ma'am. Will do. My life is yours—do with it as you please."
Those are the only words that might please a red-headed Diva enough to let you live.
"Wait!" Mrs. Ford calmed her husband by placing a finger to her lips.
Retterford always kept a close eye on his wife's silver hair. Ever since the first red streak appeared, he'd grown even more cautious. Only deeply suppressed emotions could trigger such a change, and only Aurochs knows what caused that one strand—because Retterford was as clueless as any stranger.
Back in their youthful, romantic days, Diva used to repeat herself often. These days, Retterford scoured her every subtle gesture—like Hem with his "everything is a lock" obsession—searching for hidden meanings in even the tiniest action.
Retterford spiraled into thoughts. A finger on one's lips means "Hush." That should be universal—should apply to Divas too. Does she want me to shut up? Lower the volume? End the debate?
He fixated on her finger, trying to decipher the meaning. Maybe she wants her lip balm. Did she apply any in the last hour? Think, damn it… think. How can you be this slow? You're the Chief of Sentinels! Seventy years of Diva experience!
He mentally scolded himself as pressure built up—and somehow, his cold Dreadmorne blood generated enough heat to make him sweat. A rare and shocking phenomenon for his kind.
"Now!" Mrs. Ford pointed at the crowd. "Jump in!" she clarified.
With no response from her husband, she tilted her head, sighed, and broke it down further. "Wait for your chance to jump into the conversation. That's the only way you can."
Then she gently returned her finger to her lips.
Oh! She was about to give advice. Retterford exhaled in relief for a moment—until he saw a second white strand of Mrs. Ford's hair shift into a glossy red hue.
'What in Aurochs' dishonor did you do, Rett?!' Retterford questioned his very existence.
Retterford lost another piece of himself that day. Yet, even as he shivered—spiraling into a myriad of plausibilities—he still functioned on reflex, ready to jump into the debate the moment his dear wife gave the signal.
Mrs. Ford assessed the room carefully. Her husband never quite grasped the timing required to jump into a conversation and make it his own—a trait Divas were naturally born with. But being married to one, he really should have picked it up by now.
In any case, she had to use her power to help her lost husband seize the conversation—and make it all about her. Ahem, him! And she knew the best way to do it...
Hem and Lyra were busy competing over a ridiculous bet about who was better. The entire idea, of course, had come from Lyra.
The Duo were polar opposites, to say the least. Yet if one were to subtract Hem's overconfidence, which a Diva would generously label as rock-solid confidence (especially considering he'd opposed the Queen thrice, he truly was the best Sentinel in all four kingdoms. Lyra had realized this the day they met. So, to boost her confidence—or ego, as a Diva would say—she hijacked every case meant for Hem and proposed a bet: whoever solved the most cases in a year would be declared the best.
Mrs. Ford, however, changed the rules to make things more interesting for herself.
With her husband as the department chief, and she being the master of the house (a fancy way of saying master of him), she effectively controlled everything within the department.
Including the number of solves.
Mrs. Ford convinced her husband, who then convinced everyone else, that performance should be judged not just on case count, but also on quality, loose ends left, and time taken to solve them.
Which, conveniently, tied directly into the number of Stars an officer could earn based on performance.
Stars that were—again—handed out by her husband.
A Diva needs her daily dose of drama!
Finding her moment, Mrs. Diva pointed into the crowd, signaling her husband to take over the conversation. She loved watching a dominant man with power squash the dreams of little peasants.
Retterford followed her finger to a pair of twins among the raging officers—and instantly understood Diva's master plan. He nodded, patiently awaiting the perfect moment to make his entrance.
Among Lyra's many schemes, one particular possibility finally came to fruition during today's debate.
Until now, Hem had always stood alone in his analysis of any situation. But for the first time, he had a group of people supporting and defending his claims. All thanks to her master plan—and months of behind-the-scenes manipulation, of course.
And once someone on your side contradicts your point of view, anyone would stop and reconsider. That hitch was Lyra's planned entry point into Hem's field of vision.
Where he would finally take notice of the Lyra Hert.
"Act, by not acting, seems spooky!"
The phrase echoed without an actual echo, bouncing awkwardly in the room. Lyra spotted a pair of twins, both speaking in unison—but with a slight delay. Though they looked identical, she couldn't tell who was following whom, or who initiated the speech.
Twins on Wanderlust should seriously have their own race, she had often tried to convince every official who'd listen. And tried to persuade a few who wouldn't, yet none deemed this enough of an accomplishment, calling it a strange coincidence at best.
Hem followed Lyra's gaze and found the twins. His mind was already blocked by too many unanswered questions, and he didn't want to dive into the strange mysteries twins always seemed to hold.
"That's one too many locks for today," he muttered.
Lyra read Hem's lips, sensed his fraying focus, and quickly twisted the twins' words to suit her hidden agenda.
"Just because it makes no sense to you, doesn't mean it doesn't exist," she said aloud, purposefully cryptic.
Hem, confused further by her nonsense logic, turned his attention back to the twins, trying now to separate and study them. Both twins knew this might lead to Hem losing the debate, and Hem himself had no intention of acknowledging Lyra before he unlocked a few more of her internal locks.
At the same moment, Retterford received a strategic kick from Mrs. Ford and jumped into the conversation with a perfectly timed recovery, grabbing the crowd's attention, all the while praying he had interpreted his wife's intentions correctly.
"That is why I've selected you for the job," Retterford declared, louder than necessary.
Before Hem could pivot and expose his true plan, Retterford pushed the twins into an introduction. "NOW!"
"Hi! I'm Jorik," said one of the twins. "With an I."
"And I'm Jorek," said the other. "With an E."
"They sound alike," they both said in unison.
"But I have an I that's pronounced 'eye' in my name."
"And I have an E that's pronounced 'ee' in mine."
Everyone heard them. Everyone got confused. No one could tell them apart—or remember who said what.
"Twins," the crowd muttered in unison—more as an insult than a complaint.
On Mrs. Ford's command, Retterford slipped in more information during the wave of confusion.
"They're the newest recruits," he announced. "They kept bouncing around—no one wanted them because of their incompetence." He whispered that part, then raised his voice again.
"To show you a piece of my mind that's been boiling since the day I met you." He pointed directly at Hem and Lyra. "Hopefully, they'll get you to where I am, mentally, in about a decade—or faster."
Swept up in the chaos, Lyra burst into laughter instead of taking Hem's side.
"Boy! You are screwed, Lock. I mean, Mister. Mr. Lock. You—screwed!"
"Don't you worry, my Miss Lyra," Retterford cut her off mid-laugh. "I've got a pair for you too."
He pointed, and another set of twins stepped forward to introduce themselves.
"Hi, I'm Seris—with an I," said one.
"And I'm Serys—with a Y," said the other.
They spoke in eerie unison, mimicking the previous twins and cranking the confusion to a whole new level.
Aside from being female, they resembled the male twins in nearly every conceivable way.
"Don't you worry for a second." Retterford pointed at Lyra's scoreboard, where Hem still had the lead. "I never forget a juicy bet." He chuckled. "You irritate me a bit less than him, I'll admit… but you must have a similar playground with similar obstacles for a proper assessment. Now shouldn't you!?"
"Did Big Boss call us obstacles?" the quadruplets questioned in unison, glancing at one another.
Retterford waved his hand to shush them, unable to tell which one had spoken.
"For the first time in this era, we have a real chance for promotions," he said, rubbing his hands together with glee. "Do your best."
While Lyra pumped herself up, taking Retterford's words to heart, Hem had already unlocked the Chief's hidden agenda—and called it out for all to hear.
"You mean we do all the hard work while you use our efforts to climb higher—with zero effort?"
The quadruplets flocked to Hem, clearly impressed by his quick deduction. Their presence blocked his view of Retterford, and with it, any chance of formulating new theories or confirming his suspicions—while four identical faces raised several more.
Once again swept away by her emotions, Lyra charged after her assigned pair of twins, forgetting all about the Chief's devious plan. Her full focus now was on stopping Hem's charms from sweeping away her subordinates.
And just like that—without anyone realizing what had happened—Retterford slipped away with another lucky break.
Hem's vision was clouded by newly popping locks, while Lyra followed her heart—away from what was important, and toward something completely trivial.
Only Mrs. Ford had all the proper strings in line, wrapped delicately around her slender little fingertips. For how could a true Diva ever have any flaws?
She had originally planned to slip the twins in during a separate chaotic moment. But with that opportunity now lost—and no time-controlling mystica to reverse what had happened—Diva swallowed another blazing emotion. Her only solace was a strand of hair that gradually turned bright red, from root to tip.
Once the red hue reached the end, she let out a long sigh, smiled, and turned her gaze toward her husband.
"I thought you were about to talk about the Ouroboros case," she said in a low, sharp tone. "Never did I assume you would leak such a critical political move in its beginning stages."
The word Ouroboros sparked Retterford's dormant memory. Diva's smile, however, brought with it the sting of deeper, buried ones.
While Retterford spiraled through emotions—his blood pressure settling down from a new personal high—his brain kicked back into gear, forcing him to focus on the situation at hand.
He revealed the mysterious death of Mrs. Hope in the black-market alleys of Oru'Ma, and how the case had landed in their lap due to close proximity. Their usual suspect—the husband, Jefferson—was found dead around the same time, incinerated in a ball of flame near Hallow Station N147.
The shocking, albeit delayed, reveal struck the Sentinels hard. But instead of reacting like normal Wanderers—or behaving like the professionals they technically were—they burst into yet another spiral of chaos.
Diva, of course, sprinkled in more specific details—partly for drama, but mostly to assess which Sentinel was most suited for the job.
Leave the decision to her husband, and he'd throw the case at whichever Sentinel happened to be standing closest.
Citizens living near an Arcane force were used to keeping one ear trained on their local department—and often their neighbors'. This helped them react quickly to unfolding events. But those living near Retterford's precinct had an additional reason to eavesdrop.
Unlike any other Arcane Force building, Precinct 221N maintained a constant level of chaos—that was their daily norm. After years of exposure, the local citizens had become experts at gauging the intensity of disorder inside based on various factors.
When the shouting, arguments, and occasional explosions reached a new peak, they cleared the area to avoid unimaginable damage. And Auroch forbid—if the precinct ever fell eerily silent—they would immediately begin planning for worst-case scenarios.
One such moment had arrived at Precinct 221N.