Crossing Griffon Bridge, Sherlock waited until they were away from the palace before speaking. He glanced at Lily, who pushed Aiwass’s wheelchair, then murmured:
“Honestly, I never expected Master Yanis would give you that painting.”
“I didn’t expect it either,” Aiwass replied truthfully.
“Don’t be fooled by her easy smile. Master Yanis is a proud woman. If she doesn’t recognize you, she won’t waste words—just watch you with that mocking little grin, as though you were a child fumbling with toys.”
Sherlock lowered his voice. “She values you highly… she wanted you to take the Path of Beauty, didn’t she?”
“Yes.”
Aiwass chuckled. “She even suggested I beco Her Highness’ junior disciple.”
“You refused, of course.” Sherlock didn’t hesitate.
“I did. How did you know?”
“Because I see no fire for art in you,” Sherlock said with a small smile. “I myself enjoy the violin. I like to think I play well. But I was never fated to walk Beauty’s road.”
Aiwass blinked. “It’s not too late now, is it, Mr. Sherlock?”
“It is. Or rather, it was never my path. Balance, Wisdom, Beauty—any of them suited better than Authority.” His sharp eyes softened. “Listen, I don’t want you to spend years on a path only to realize you never loved it. Talent decides how far you can go. Passion decides how far you will.
“If you pursue a path you don’t love, yet the pull of higher power drives you forward regardless… believe , the inner tearing will drive you mad.”
“…Thank you, Mr. Sherlock. Truly.”
Aiwass knew the man spoke from experience. This was no idle lecture but heartfelt warning. That he shared it so openly could only an one thing—his friendship with Edward.
And that piqued Aiwass’s curiosity. For Edward Moriarty was soone he rembered only in fragnts. The age gap was so great that Edward felt more uncle than elder brother. They had scarcely interacted. In the “story” Aiwass recalled, Edward had been the direct cause of his death—attacking the players under foster-father’s command, and Aiwass had thrown himself in the way.
Even if Edward had not ant him, the thought still chilled him.
“I have a question, Mr. Sherlock… how did you co to know my brother?”
“We were classmates.”
“…But you’re in your twenties, aren’t you?”
“Twenty-six.”
“And my brother is thirty-five. How were you ever classmates?”
Sherlock laughed. “University isn’t only for the young. Edward first studied at Milton University in Grey County—not at the Royal Law Academy.”
He explained. Three centuries ago, professors had been accused of teaching “forbidden doctrines.” Condemned at first to boiling alive, they were spared by public protest, instead humiliated by being paraded naked. They refused such disgrace and fled. A sympathetic young bishop of the Eternal Church, Milton, sheltered them in his new seminary. From there grew Milton University.
Though smaller than the Royal Law Academy, its faculty was strong, especially in “heretical” or “banned” arts the Crown had long turned a blind eye to. Even when Avalon fell to Stannum, Milton University survived as a refuge in war.
“Edward graduated from Milton, then studied further elsewhere. Eventually he skipped the lower ranks and joined the Inspectorate directly, even earning his own griffon.
“Seven years ago he returned to law, enrolling in the Academy’s Faculty of Jurisprudence. He was twenty-seven. I was just eighteen.”
Sherlock’s tone softened with mory. “I was aloof then. Found most students loud, shallow, childish. The professors were the only ones worth talking to.
“One day, seeking out Professor Moriarty, I was mauled by Edward’s griffon outside the office. Its bloodline was impure, larger and darker than usual, and foul-tempered. It nearly tore my leg off. Edward rushed to Cathedral Candle, where the Archbishop himself healed with Illumination. My flesh nded, but the phantom pain lingered for weeks.
“Edward visited during recovery. We spoke. I realized—he was clever. Different. Like , a lonely mind with no companions. From then we were friends. He taught law. He taught boxing. He could weave Authority’s power into his fists—stronger than any pugilist I’d seen. Had he taken the ring, he would have been a star of Avalon.”
Sherlock seed almost wistful, speaking until they reached Moriarty Manor itself.
There, in the courtyard, a shadow moved—an enormous black griffon, eyes glowing like garnet.
Edward’s mount.
“But… wasn’t my brother called away?” Aiwass frowned.
“Another warehouse fire,” Sherlock explained. “Much like the one at Little Jack’s Fishery. Sa traces of Fire Essence. Sa abandoned depot. No casualties. This ti it was a stone warehouse. Edward rushed to investigate.”
“Oh?”
“Do you know what Fire Essence is?”
“A bit like demon’s blood—red, salty powder, residue of fire-elent phantoms,” Aiwass recited.
“True, but that’s the textbook answer. Fire phantoms are rare. Most Essence is alchemically synthesized. We call it pseudo-fire essence. Purity lower, but function the sa.
“Mages use it as a casting reagent. Demonologists require it for every summoning ritual. A pinch in fla, and the concept of fire grows stronger—hotter, fiercer. Even stone can burn, given enough.”
“Stone…” Aiwass murmured, eyes tightening.
His mind raced. Wait. The first warehouse fire—wasn’t that Veronica, the depraved warlock from Pelican Bar? I killed her. If she’s dead… then who is still summoning?
Sherlock went on, calm and practical: “But don’t worry. Each alchemist’s Essence carries a unique signature. The samples are being analyzed. Soon we’ll know the source.”
Still unsettled, Aiwass parted with Sherlock at the gate.
But as Butler Oswald took hold of the wheelchair, he bent low, voice hushed:
“You have returned just in ti, young master. Please—co tend to Miss Yulia at once. Her condition worsens.”
“…Strange. I treated her this morning.”
Doubt prickled at him, but he nodded. Lily was dismissed, and Oswald wheeled him swiftly inside.
The sight in Yulia’s chamber froze Aiwass where he sat.
Silver chains of light bound the girl to her bed. Edward stood grim-faced, eyes glowing white. Yulia herself lay drenched in sweat, barely conscious, whispering nonsense.
Her nightdress was charred in places. Across her pale skin spread red, glowing fissures like cracked porcelain, like glass shattering under heat. Faint tongues of fla licked from the rents, only to be forced back down by Edward’s chains.
Her sweat was not clear, but tinged faintly red—drying into dust.
Fire Essence.
(End of Chapter)
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