[b]Havel[/b] stared at the notes for a long moment, then at the wax, then at the coins left behind on the desk. Whatever loyalty he had to Brass Lantern seemed to be fighting a losing battle against the obvious.

[color=ec008c]“Milo Wick,”[/color] he said at last, voice low. [color=ec008c]“Thin. Brown hair. Sharp nose. Usually clean shaven. Walks with his left shoulder a little higher than the right. Old carriage injury. He wears spectacles when writing, but not on the floor. Nervous man. Talks too fast when cornered.”[/color]

[b]Gears[/b] snorted. [color=f26522]“Sounds like he’s gonna talk plenty, then.”[/color]

[b]Havel[/b]’s jaw tightened, but he did not argue.

As they moved back down through the carriage house, Marcus caught the first flicker of familiar movement near the wall. One Haunter drifted after him, then another, then two more, all returning from their scattered errands with the solemn urgency of children reporting a fire they only half understood.

Their reports came in pieces. One had found the coach with the missing faceplate. It smelled [b]“like flowers, wet dirt, and angry kicking.”[/b] Another had listened to stablehands whispering that carriage fourteen was [b]“the one with the sick passenger who cursed through the curtains.”[/b] A third insisted someone inside had said [b]“Bell went under the arch where the red lantern is broken.”[/b] The last proudly reported that [b]“the quiet clerk was not quiet after all,”[/b] and that Milo had been seen heading for Cinder Arch before dawn.

Outside, the polished calm of Brass Lantern gave way to the district’s colder service streets. Ahead, beneath the glittering race avenues, the road sloped toward the old undertrack passages of Cinder Arch.

[hr]

[h3]Into the Cinder Arch[/h3]

The road down toward Cinder Arch sloped beneath the brighter avenues of the racing district, leaving behind polished storefronts and lantern-lit marquees for damp stone, soot-dark brick, and the echo of distant wheels overhead. The city above celebrated speed. The city below existed to make that celebration possible without being seen.

Old service tunnels opened beneath the streets in broad arched passages, once used to move feed, tack, coaches, and injured racers between track grounds without clogging the public roads. Now half of them had been bought, rented, forgotten, or quietly claimed by people who preferred their business one level beneath respectable notice.

The arch itself was easy enough to recognize. A massive curve of blackened stone bridged the road ahead, its name carved into the lintel in worn letters. Beneath it, one red lantern still burned dimly. The other hung shattered and crooked, its remaining panes catching the light like bloodied teeth.

Beyond the arch lay a small pocket of service yards and shuttered storehouses. Most doors were closed. One old betting office had its windows boarded. A coach shed leaned against the tunnel wall, its painted sign peeled down to ghosts of lettering. Fresh wheel marks scored the pale clay near the road’s edge, turning sharply toward a narrow side lane half-hidden behind stacked crates.

There were other signs too. A scrap of expensive black fabric snagged against one crate corner. A boot print overlapping the carriage tracks, narrower than Havel’s description of Milo would suggest. A faint smear of blue silk thread caught on a splinter near a side door. And, somewhere deeper within the lane, muffled but unmistakable, came the sound of raised voices.

One was nervous, quick, and male.

The other was sharper, angrier, and very much not afraid.