His footsteps scratched against the smooth, blue floor, the sounds echoing in the muted light shining over this present floor. He sniffed, tucking his hands inside his sleeves to keep them from shaking. The earlier encounter with the patrols was too close of a call. He has to hurry.

The Grand Marshal's archive was on the floor below the war room so not only was it heavily-patrolled, it was also accessed only by the Grand Marshal, herself, and a few of her trusted Generals. Kennen, being neither of those, has to play it smart if he wants a peek inside.

So, the moment he felt like he wasn't being watched, he slipped out of the dinner hall and tackled the stairs leading to the two-hundredth floor. He remembered running out of breath, the cold air clawing at his throat to a greater degree than he was used to, on his way down flights of stairs. By the time he reached his target floor, he edged away from the stairs and disappeared into the adjacent corridor.

Snaking his way past the maintenance sprites tapping away with their canes, he ducked inside one of the rooms flanking the hallway. After sealing the door of ice shut with his summoned magic, he turned to the room's contents. Like the numerous unoccupied rooms scattered around the Capital, this one sported the most basic necessities a fairy might need to survive.

A single-legged, circular table with a pitcher and a wooden cup sitting atop it. They were meant for consuming melted ice—quite a foreign concept to Kennen. Wouldn't fairy potions do? They're known to treat both hunger and thirst in one sip. Why would fairies insist on drinking melted ice? Surely it tasted like nothing.

Kennen shook his head. No time to ponder about that. These rooms were designed to house representatives from Alkara and Penleth whenever they dropped by. Of course, they would need to have spare clothes issued by the state so everyone could tell them apart and also to make them comfortable and acquainted with the universal temperature of the capital.

Exactly what he needed at the moment.

The prongs of his slippers thunked against the ice as he tore towards the lone cabinet tucked into one of the room's corners. His fingers wrapped around the cabinet's handles, grunting a little upon pulling it out. A smile crept to his lips as he beheld the rows upon rows of dark beige robes folded atop the racks. Without further ado, he grabbed one and slid into it.

Before he could see what he looked like on his distorted reflection from the ice walls, the lights around the room flicked shut without a sound, plunging him into complete darkness. A gasp flitted past his lips, his feet stepping backwards until his back hit the wall. The cold seeping into his muscles barely registered as he took in the endless carpet of darkness swallowing everything around him.

The lights were out. It's time for the whole Capital to sleep.

Kennen clenched his jaw, steeling his nerves and forcing himself to peel off the wall. He stretched his arms, trying to feel anything he might bump into as he started walking to where he remembered the exit was.

There weren't any rules regarding staying up past lights out and Kennen wasn't really sure what would happen if he was caught wandering around. Was anyone even patrolling this late or were the patrols sleeping at the same time as anyone else? If it was the latter, then why haven't they heard of anyone committing crimes during the hours when the capital was dim?

Moreover, why hasn't anyone seemed concerned about the fact that the capital seemed to be leaving itself to be vulnerable during these hours. What would happen if an intruder happened to chance stumbling into one of the entrances scattered over Penleth? Would they be able to move freely, at least until the lights come on?

His fingers touched the opposite wall. As his magic flared to the surface, he prayed it was truly the wall leading to the corridor. When the hard surface cleared, he breathed a sigh of relief. It wasn't the other way, then.

With cautious steps, he ducked out of the room and shut it behind him. His mind whirred with possible endings to his plan. How would he dispose of these clothes? Should he have put the emissary robes atop his normal ones? If so, how would he put his borrowed robes when he got out?

Also, where was he going when he couldn't see anything?

He patted the pockets of his robes until his fingers felt something straight and cylindrical. He stopped in his tracks. A flare. It was given to the emissaries in case they got lost in the capital's numerous floors. That, or it could be used as a light source should the lights cut off on them. With gritted teeth, Kennen dug the flare out. It took a few twists and maneuvers to get it out seeing as he was doing it in the dark.

Running his hands over the slick surface, his mind ran over to his memories for the knowledge of how to turn a flare on. He settled on finding the wick somewhere at the top. When his fingers closed around the thick twine decorating the flare like a tassel, he felt for the button he knew to be next to it. The bump marring the smooth stick brushed his thumb. He pressed it.

A spark hissed to life, prompting Kennen to almost drop it. When he managed to hold on to it, he sighed and watched the sparks whistle and burn by the wick. A small, bright circle amidst the sea of black.

His eyes turned back to the dark horizon beyond him. He hefted the flare, letting the bright circle illuminate the corridor for at least a few steps. It wasn't much but it'd have to do. He glanced at the stick in his hand, noting the level of oil contained inside it. Hurry. The fuel won't last long.

Then, he was on his way again, daring to run the length of the corridor until he came to a set of thick doors carved from ice. The archives. With his heartbeat pounding in his ears after his mad dash, he splayed his fingers against the surface and called his magic to the surface. An inkling of thought flared in his mind, dampening the whirring energy underneath his skin.

Would they be able to trace his trail weaving in and out of this room when they investigate who was visiting the Grand Marshal's archive at the dead of night?

Kennen pursed his lips. He just has to avoid being caught, then.

Summoning his magic anew, he spread it evenly to the door, willing it to open. He pumped his fist in the air when the hinges squeaked as the door hissed open. Here goes nothing.

Kennen ducked inside, shutting the doors behind him like a proper ice sprite he was. He swept his flare in a wide arc, letting his eyes take in every detail the light could give him. Rows upon rows of parchment bound into tomes stacked on an array of tables littering the whole space. It appeared bigger than an average room given to a citizen, judging from the spaces between each table and between tables and the shelves stuck to all of the four walls. From what Kennen could make out with the flare's limited reach, the shelves brimmed with more tomes.

What has the Grand Marshal been keeping here?

Wasting no more seconds, he plunged into his search, keeping his eyes peeled at any mention of the foraging party sent three weeks ago. Words written in plain Keijula koset as well as a couple of others which appeared to be either one of the secret codes the military had developed to protect information flitted in his periphery. The tables came and went. Nothing special caught his eye. He glanced at his flare again. The oil level was somewhere at three-fourths. That fast?

He clicked his tongue. Having reached the other end of the room, the one opposite the entrance, he edged to the closest stack of tomes to his right. Standing on his tip-toes for his head to reach past the topmost tome, he read the first word he could.

In the Year 2403. Month of Rab. - Recent developments in Helinfirth, Lanteglos, and Cardina.

Kennen raised an eyebrow. He only heard of the three territories mentioned in his lectures with Lydin. Apart from that, he wouldn't know what their significance was to the ice sprites and their welfare. Was...was the military keeping records of everything happening to the island all along?

He slapped the side of his head before he could feel a bout of betrayal in his veins. Spying might not be a perfect job for him with his leafy arms and innocent face. Lydin made it clear to him, especially the latter.

Then, his attention perked at the date. Year 2403. Hmm. He moved to the next table. The same year but a different month, one that was after Rab. Xavem, was it? Something clicked. Of course. This was an archive. Everything had to be arranged in a chronological order. The oldest information was to the farther side of the room. The most recent ones would be on the front.

With renewed vigor, Kennen turned back and dashed towards the first table to the right. When it claimed to have information on Year 2404 on the month of Strilaxis, Kennen moved to the first table to the left. A burst of triumph blossomed in his gut. Aha.

Year 2404. Month of Tull.

He just has to narrow it down to the foraging division. Where would he start? He rolled his shoulders. Just start with anything! His fingers closed around the first tome he could grab. He took a quick look at the title. Year 2404. Month of Tull - Recent developments on Lanbridhr, Avalora, and Desara.

Kennen arched an eyebrow. The elemental sprites' territories? Why would the Grand Marshal send their own people there?

He forced his fingers to return the tome to its stack. Now's not the time for his other curiosities. For now, he had to find out what happened to Merko and his team. More words flitted out of his lips as he read tome titles after the other as he worked down each individual pile. His arms hurt from stretching up and down with every tome he retrieved and put back. He was about to give up when something caught his eye on the title of the tome he got from the pile farther down the table.

Year 2404. Month of Tull - Recent report on Divisions

This was it. With pounding temples, Kennen flicked to the first page, skimming through the page for any mentions of the foraging division. Most of it concerned the spies, of course. He flipped several pages forward. No. Still spies. More. Oh, the trading division. Interesting. How were their wares doing in the fairy market? No. More pages.

He stopped when the familiar set of letters spelled foraging. With trembling fingers, he went down the first page, searching for the team sent out three weeks ago. When it wasn't on the first page, he turned to the next. His eyes widened as his eyes landed on the first entry.

Team 332A - no credits; newly formed. Members include: Ravan Elis, Oris Falza, Teri Perran, Vasti Qamare, Zarie Mestaal

Kennen's breath hitched when the familiar name bled into the pages. Merko Dhara. Somehow, seeing his friend's name in the records made everything that happened...more real. Gathering what's left of his courage, he read the next records tallied underneath their names.

Tull 20 - Team 332A sent to Diven for a regular foraging task.
Tull 20 - Team 332A made contact. Safe.
Tull 21 - Team 332A crossed the border to Flaron for a regular foraging task.
Tull 21 - Team 332A made contact. Safe. Hinted at having interactions with locals.
Tull 22 - Team 332A procured products. Sending to Eastern Stocks. Made contact. Safe.
Tull 22 - Team 332A distress signal confirmed. Last signal detected.
Tull 23 - Searching for signal. Deemed in distress.
Tull 24 - Searching for signal. Deemed in distress.
Tull 25 - Team 332A signal lost
Tull 25 - Team 332A untraceable
Tull 26 - Team 332A untraceable
Tull 27 - Team 332A untraceable

Kennen ran his hands down to the last day of the month. Only one word described the current situation of his friend.

Untraceable.

His heart sank. Was this why the General didn't tell him the truth? What about the Grand Marshal? What was she doing about this?

He turned to the next page. Some of the teams contained the same reports while most contained Eastern stock received shipment, Team en route to entrance, Team on the ground, and the most precious word of all, safe.

Kennen didn't notice it until his wrist hurt but he was clenching his fists with an anger he didn't know he had in him. Merko was out there, lost and untraceable. Kennen hadn't even had the chance to properly say goodbye to his friend and take back the hurtful words he said to him.

It looked like Kennen shouldn't have to worry about being caught in the dark anymore. Sooner or later, he'd be out of the Ice Capital despite what the Grand Marshal or the Chieftain said. If no one's searching for them, Kennen might as well save his friend as the only one who could. Probably.

He took one last look at the untraceable remark beside the team his friend was on. Merko, I'm coming, he thought as he replaced the tome back into its pile and shut the archive's door behind him. Then, the oil inside the flare ran out. The light fizzled out, plunging Kennen back into the darkness he dreaded.

Well, that's a start.