Norman Illget was not the boy Wilt Norcutt remembered.

  Fifty eight was the age when some people folded, and others simply grew heavier, the way metal did.

  Norman sat by the window in his office, smoking kolyan. The smoke rose in a clean ribbon, sweet and filthy at once. He wore a light jacket with no family marks, as if he wanted to look like a homeowner instead of a boss. The guard behind the door and the servants moving in careful silence said otherwise.

  The sun had left color in his skin, like there was still time in his life for streets, not just walls. Green eyes, sharp and awake. Gray hair, neatly cut. A lean face with tiredness tucked into the corners.

  When the inquisitor stepped in, the head of the family smiled as if the visit pleased him. Wilt knew better. Men like him used smiles the way others used locks.

  “Look what the years dragged back,” he said. “Lady Inquisitor. You have not aged a day.”

  “And you have,” Wilt replied, peeling off one glove. “Still refusing rejuvenation?”

  “Not my way. I am what I am,” Elder Illget said.

  “Still the civilized gentleman.”

  “You have to stand out somehow among colleagues.” He nodded toward the table. “Sit. I wanted to become an inquisitor so badly. But family kept me in this roach pit.”

  Wilt sat without relaxing. Her eyes moved through the room. Expensive metal in the furniture. Glass that would not scratch. A painting on the wall that looked original.

  And still the air felt wrong.

  Not dirty. Tense.

  As if every day in this room, someone decided who would be allowed to wake up tomorrow.

  “You live like a monarch,” she said. “What do you lack?”

  “Everything.” He exhaled smoke and looked out the window. “Chukur is a pit. A pit for waste. Every day I wade through filth, Mentor.”

  Wilt raised an eyebrow. The old word landed somewhere between a joke and a jab.

  “You already know why I’m here,” Norcutt said.

  Norman stubbed out the kolyan, not in an ashtray but in a metal case stamped with the family crest, as if even ash had to sit properly. He did it slowly.

  “Adam Graf,” the head of the family said at once. “Your former student went off the road, and now you want him dead.”

  “Stopped,” Norcutt corrected.

  “Of course. Stopped. On Chukur, stopped means dead.” He let out a quiet laugh.

  “I know you were friends, but”

  “That was long ago.” Elder Illget cut her off. The smile was gone. “Those words don’t run my life anymore. Still, I will help you. I have no reason to pick a fight with the Inquisition.”

  “Where do we start?”

  “I’ll send orders to my people,” Norman said, rising. “And while we wait, you are my guests. I’ll introduce you to my wife and children. Come.”

  On Chukur, information cost money, and money moved through people like the head of the family. Wilt only nodded and followed.

  The main hall was enormous. The ceiling was high, and the glass panels carried soft light like water. Family photos lined the walls beside awards and old artifacts, the sort of collection that turned a home into a private museum of power.

  This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

  Norman clapped once. Not loudly.

  Servants appeared instantly.

  He watched the room settle before speaking.

  “Here we are,” their host said. “This beauty is my wife, Arlet. Stunning, yes?”

  Arlet entered with the smoothness of an advertisement.

  She looked twenty five at most. Perfect skin. Clean features. A warm smile that felt empty. Pretty eyes, and somehow still foreign, like someone living inside a role she never took off.

  “Lady Norcutt,” Arlet said, tilting her head slightly. “Welcome.”

  “Arlet went through rejuvenation,” the head of the family added with mild pride. “Now she stays twenty five forever, even though we are the same age.”

  Wilt looked at her calmly.

  “Convenient,” Wilt said.

  Arlet’s smile widened, as if it were praise.

  “And this is my daughter, Doris,” Elder Illget continued.

  Doris stood a little to the side. Not hiding, just not stepping forward. Slender and flexible, with dark thick hair pinned back so it would not get in the way. Sharp cheekbones. Neat features. A trace of fatigue beneath her eyes, not from age but from work. Her gaze was quick and blunt, scanning people without shame.

  Doris looked at the inquisitor and did not smile.

  “Inquisitor,” Doris said evenly. “My father has told me about you.”

  “I hope the stories were kind,” Wilt answered.

  “My father rarely says good things,” Doris said dryly.

  Norman snorted. “Takes after me. And the last one. Boris.”

  Boris arrived loud.

  Tall, sun tanned, and solid. Crimson eyes, an odd shade that looked almost red under the lights. Confident movements. Wide shoulders. The head of the family’s son was used to fear, or at least attention.

  “Oh. Guests,” Boris said, flicking a glance at Tomos and Goodman, who had already been brought into the hall by servants. “These the ones from the ship?”

  “Yes,” the head of the family said. “Behave.”

  Boris smirked, then kept his mouth shut.

  Lunch was set quickly. The table was long, but they were seated close together. Elder Illget liked people within reach. Control came easier that way.

  The food was expensive, but not theatrical. Meat, tender and cooked right, with a sauce that did not drown it in sugar. Fish, local, sharp with spices. Fresh vegetables, which meant imported. On Chukur, people could start a fight over fresh vegetables.

  The head of the family drank dark liquor slowly, as if measuring time with it.

  Arlet barely ate. More performance than hunger.

  Doris ate without tension.

  Boris ate loudly and a lot, as if he were proving strength.

  Tomos stayed in his usual mode. Quiet, watching, smirking now and then.

  Goodman tried to look steady, but his eyes kept mapping exits.

  Lothar ate in silence. Small bites. His throat still hurt, and his appetite had turned strange. Nothing for hours, then suddenly a wave of hunger so sharp he could have chewed the table.

  “So, Graf,” the head of the family said when the hot course arrived. “Is he really that dangerous?”

  “Dangerous,” the female inquisitor said. “Not because he is strong. Because he is smart, and he has no brakes.”

  Boris snorted. “On Chukur, smart people do not last.”

  Doris glanced at her brother. “Is that how you comfort yourself?” she asked calmly.

  Boris opened his mouth to snap back, but Norman raised a hand and he went silent.

  “My people are already sniffing around,” the head of the family told the inquisitor. “But do not expect miracles. Chukur is noise. Everyone sells everyone every day. Information sinks.”

  “I need one point,” Wilt said. “One contact. One bar. One warehouse. Anything.”

  Norman nodded. “You will get it.”

  After a pause, he rose from his chair.

  “Alright, guests. After a meal, we do not pray here.” He smiled. “Here, we look the city in the eye. We are going to a bar. I will show you a place where people say too much.”

  Tomos raised an eyebrow. “Finally. I was starting to think you planned to feed us to death.”

  Norman smiled back. “Do not worry, Tomos. On Chukur, nobody feeds you to death. We kill people differently.”

  They left in the evening.

  The palace car was armored. It smelled of leather and expensive perfume. Two security cars followed behind. Norman rode like the whole city sat in his pocket.

  The bar was in a district where the streets no longer pretended to be safe. The sign flickered. People smoked outside. Someone argued. Someone laughed. Music punched through the walls.

  Norman stepped out first.

  Wilt followed.

  Tomos scanned the street, checking angles on instinct.

  “I do not like this,” Tomos muttered.

  “Nobody likes this,” Goodman replied.

  They reached the entrance.

  Gunfire cracked.

  Not one shot.

  A burst.

  Glass exploded beside Wilt. Sparks snapped off the car’s armor. One of Norman’s guards dropped to his knees screaming. A second burst chewed a chunk out of the wall by the door.

  Wilt did not run. She cut sideways into cover, already drawing her weapon.

  Tomos lunged at Goodman and slammed him down.

  “Down, Cap.”

  Norman shouted at his people, furious and precise. “Move.”

  Doris did not panic. She drew a pistol with calm efficiency and crouched behind a wheel.

  Lothar froze for one second.

  Something jerked inside his chest.

  The chains rang, metal on metal.

  He knew it before his mind caught up.

  This was not random.

  This was for them.

  Another burst stitched through the sign above the entrance, as if someone had put a period at the end of the word guests.