2408, Dalfa 23, Jyda

The roads of the city blurred under April's feet as she tackled the twists and turns, trying to locate the shop slated in the reports. If it wasn't for the council being absolute bums, she wouldn't even be out here. An exasperated sigh tore from her nose at the thought.

Days after she took over the Falkirtan court, she sent the Advisers to look into the incident where she was taken from her room and aided Melron in threatening her life at the edge of the city. She tasked them to find the origin and the whereabouts of the long metal poles that killed Hera. It's been weeks and none of them bothered to cough out a semi-corrigible report. None of them were able to find a lead. Certainly none of them bothered to do the legwork and investigate themselves.

That's why April was out here, trudging through the heat of the afternoon sun in Azorgend, because nobody cared about all this more than she did.

One really couldn't rely on others but oneself. April learned that the hard way at this moment. She shouldn't have invoked Provision Nine. Shouldn't have put up with the humiliation of being given way because of political maneuvering.

Still, she was glad the Falkirtan court couldn't do anything now that she has the final word for everything. At the very least, they wouldn't be able to send Ilvi or anyone from the Vafron base to spy on her and knock her out over again.

She came across January's statue in the square once more. Hatred twisted her throat so she ducked her head and let the wall of her thick blond hair cover her periphery of her ancestor's polished, stony face. Then, she peeked at the crudely-drawn map one of her maids had drawn on a sheet of parchment. Straight through that alley and..?

Wait. This was familiar.

April bit her lip as her eyes speared past the awnings, the beige walls holding up the buildings, the array of shops and residential houses. She'd been here before. She recognized the place. With her forehead creased and eyebrows drawn together, she strode deeper into the alley, letting the roofs shield the bright sun rays beating down on her.

Then, she spotted the display window. The golden, decorative wings were still propped on a wooden stand, displayed into the street that nobody, save for a few sprites munching on steaming buns of xeitre, could see. Still, April spared a glance at the shop, wishing the owner was still doing a good job in their sales and wouldn't need to close down any time soon. April did take inspiration from their artistic ideas.

Such a shame she hasn't even used it against Ilvi. Her win might have been more cemented if she did spring it on him.

The shop in question turned out to be just a front door along the line of backdoors. April frowned. That's a weird layout but what could she do about it? It's not like she could uproot the whole thing and renovate it.

So, tucking her flimsy map back into the space between her tunic and her breastplate, she strode towards the door and rapped her knuckles against the wood. Nobody answered from the inside until the sound of bustling and metal clinking resounded from the inside. Then, something crashed to the ground, followed by a string of curses.

The door swung open, but something seemed to be wrong about the hinges because it jarred to a stop, leaving just a fraction of space enough for one person to squeeze through. What the—

A face peeked between the gap, dark eyes scanning April's face. "What do you want?" the masculine but quite shrill voice grouched. "I don't have time to buy your mussins, girl."

Mussins? What...?

April shook her head. "That's not why I'm here, sir," she said. "Can I come in? I want to ask you a few things as to why you filed a theft report to the Palace? I'm the one they sent to look after the case."

The man stuck his head farther into the gap, revealing a three-week stubble on the lower half of his face and a mop of curly dark hair sitting atop his head. As it turned out, his dark eyes weren't that dark at all. They were a brilliant shade of brown shrouded by the dim light of the shop. He looked left and right behind April as if checking for anyone who followed her. There was no one.

Once he deemed it clear and safe, he shut the door to her face. She was about to protest and call the man rude when she heard a clicking sound inside, followed by the jumble of thick chains. Then, the hinges whined and the door opened wider.

"Quickly," the man said. April ducked inside like a fugitive and the man shut the door behind her. When she turned to the door, the man was already replacing the locks barring the door. Then, he turned to her. "Have a seat."

He gestured to the three-legged stool standing next to a wooden counter filled with an assortment of daggers, with both simple and intricately-carved hilts. Some of them have wavy blades, meant to serrate into the flesh and make the wound infinitely more painful, while others were satisfied with the simple, triangular and tapered blade they were given.

"You got my report?" the man, who turned out to be a smith, judging from the stained apron he wore over his tunic and trousers as well as his burnt sleeves. He dusted his hands against each other. "What do you think?"

April jerked her chin at him as she slid into the stool. It was as comfortable as a dagrine's ass. "Tell me your version of events," she said. It got awkward how he remained standing amid all the shelves and desks filled with various types of weapons for all preferences. A number of what seemed to be the desk that fell over littered the wooden floorboards. "The report didn't say much, except the presence of Vafron soldiers at your door."

The smith crossed his arms. "A long time ago, I received a request for weapons made of pyxade metal. It was quite a hefty request so I got to work on it," he said. "When the client claimed their order, I was surprised to see soldiers at my door bearing the Falkirtan crest. They said they were the ones sent by the one who made the request. So, I got ready to load their order but when I returned, they were gone."

April watched the smith walk back for a few steps until he reached a spot between a shelf and the door. More weapons with pointy tips protruded from the niches, some almost at eye-level. This man did like living on the edge.

"Then, they took something else," the smith pointed to an empty spot beside the self and the wall. April didn't even notice it was there. "My stash of Dwarven metal."

Those words drove a pike in April's heart. It was one of the last things Hera said to her before her friend died. Dwarven metal. What in Nira's name was that?

"So...you reported it as theft because your clients took the wrong order?" April scratched her chin. "That seems like a suspicious case. Any idea why those soldiers took the...metal? What's the big deal with those anyway?"

The smith tore away from his spot and approached April. He didn't make any more moves apart from shuffling his already messy hair. "I was in fact saving it because there was a rumored benefactor who was looking for anything made of dwarven metal. I got it from my father and him from his father. Consider it a family treasure," he shook his head, waving a hand in front of his face. "Anyway, rumors circulated among the smith and merchant circles that this benefactor was so wealthy they are willing to pay any price in exchange for the treasures. So I stashed them in my shop for a long, long time."

April bobbed her head. "So, whoever sent the request and the soldiers must have known you have quite the ridiculous amount of dwarven metal," she said. Her mind already roiled with all the possibilities.A small, flitting memory slammed into her brain. Those soldiers she saw that day who were carrying sacks as they exited this shop. Could it be them? Highly probable.

Then, who was it that sent them? Who made the request?

Dwarven metal. It was no question that they've used that amount of metal to mold it to what would become the metal poles. Those soldiers indirectly killed Hera.

"As for what made dwarven metal special," the smith continued in response to April's other question. "It's a special type of metal left by the Dwarves when they conquered Umazure during the Hundred Years' War. They have special characteristics, such as being immune to any magic with roots in Umazure."

A different magic, altogether? That's why April couldn't heal Hera back then. It wouldn't even be possible. No wonder those people had their sights on it, too. Having it on one's personnel would make them harder to defeat.

"Do you know where the soldiers went?" April asked. If anything, they dropped their loot somewhere in order to deliver it to the one they follow.

The smith nodded. "I asked the neighbors and they did say they saw the soldiers head somewhere west, in the way of the archives."

April raised an eyebrow. "There's an archive in the city?"

"Just a place where the Scholar works," the smith rolled his shoulders. "It could be a place to buy tomes or you could just go there to read. The Scholar doesn't mind either way."

"You think that's where these soldiers went?" April narrowed her eyes at the smith. He'd better not be leading her around in circles.

The smith pursed his lips. "It's a common spot visiting soldiers from Vafron would hang out," he said. "It's a safe bet. No one would suspect what those soldiers were doing there and they might as well slip past the throng already there. That's why I was still unable to track them down when I filed my report."

April stood up, the stool's legs creaking against the floorboards. She got all she needed for now. "Where is the Scholar's archive?" she asked. "Can you draw me a map?"

What kind of a future monarch didn't know her own city? It's embarrassing but it was what it was. It wasn't like April had enough time to go strolling in between her court meetings, briefings, training, and dealing with the thick-headed people in the palace just to get some policies and aid going.

After a few minutes, April was back on the road with a new crudely-drawn map in her hands. She had thanked the smith and flipped him a few kalta dryde on her way out. She didn't promise to find the dwarven metal he lost and return it to him.

Mostly because a new idea was forming in her mind. If she could incorporate some in her wings, then...

She shook her head. There were still a number of metallic feathers hanging around in her secondaries and coverts after her failed sparring with Ilvi. The closed wounds were beginning to itch, the metal always feeling cold against her wings, but she let it be. Their use would come at the proper time.

For now, she has somewhere to be.