Just as in any society, most Opulents had to earn a living. The Opulent empire had multiple departments keeping everything in order, all interconnected, all had one goal: maintain the universal balance for the great advantage of all Opulents.

But it was not realistically easy. Politics was always present. Therefore, not all departments felt they were treated equally. Or seen as useful as others.

The Eastern Department of Lost Things was among those that had a lot of sentiments. From Opulent Resource privileges to the number of paid vacations, they had complaints. They craved for attention, the same kind bestowed upon the other departments with glossy marble flooring, unlimited and uninterrupted internet, maintenance, carpool services, and others.

They were not the Department of Treasury who kept all the gold, or the Department of Villainy filled of strong Opulent soldiers who did actual covert operations, or the dozen others out there who upheld the glorious name of the Opulent empire.

But they did things no other departments were capable of. Many ignorant Opulents thought they were just a simple lost-and-found department, but they were not. They specialized in finding things from the most bizarre to the most trivial. Their clients were major and minor deities! Even the Department of Villainy asked for their expertise—once! Or twice!

But like the many things or people they were paid to look for, the Department of Lost Things seemed to be invisible to most of the Opulent population. With only four offices, one in each Arena, they were under-manned, and they were drowning in assignments. Well, at least the other offices were drowning.

The easter office was just happily whining while doing close to nothing, which was not their fault, of course. They were not easily accessible as the other three offices.

Saying the office in the Eastern Arena was the least productive could be an understatement, as other Opulents familiar with their work would claim. The other three offices rumored they were useless. And to make it worse, they had just lost one useless manager.

Their office was the Tree House. Located deep inside a vast woodland, the Tree House was nestled between two giant Balete trees. It had no visible structure save for its doors.

An ordinary human—should one ever be stupid enough to step out of a Vesta and enter the woodland—could easily pass through it without feeling or seeing anything apart from the rare slight prickle at the back of their neck, but that was probably because of the entity that guarded the place.

The Tree House was not a "house", but for the Opulents working there, it was home.

And today was just another morning at the office.

"And I'm telling you, girl, it's going to be a hit," the man was saying to the receptionist, Esha, who had her eyes closed while he carefully drew a bindi pattern on her forehead with a liquid eyeliner.

"I'm not sure it's really unique 'unique', Al," Esha murmured, without moving.

Al paused from what he was doing and leaned back. When Esha opened her eyes, he dramatically blinked at her in disbelief. "Now, why would you say that?"

Esha rolled her eyes. "Girl, your novel is practically about everyone in the office."

Al straightened, his tall build casting a shadow over Esha. He brushed his taupe chiffon coat aside, revealing a white floral button shirt tucked under khaki pants, and placed his wrists on his hips. "No, of course not!"

Esha counted with her fingers. "An Indian who has never set foot in India—oh, wait, she sounds familiar!" she said, mockingly pointing at herself.

Al scoffed. "There are loads of Indians who had never set foot in India. Don't be delusional. You're my best friend, but I can't write about you. My character actually knows her lineage, darling, and that's Saraswati, the goddess of music, wisdom, speech, art, etcetera," he explained with a dramatic wave of his hand. "And some unnamed angel of the sea or something."

She uncurled her second finger. "A loner who is always, always sick?"

"Again, the girl in my novel has an actual disease. Come on, what do you think of me? I did my research," Al said, flicking the tip of the eyeliner in his hand.

"Then how do you explain the priest Explorer and the Muslim driver?"

"First, a church needs a priest and my story has a church near this mansion where my antagonist lives. And he's not a Explorer. He's an investigator. Second, Esha, Muslims can drive, too! And Zaara is not a driver. She's an Explorer. What's wrong with you?"

Esha laughed. "Al, I'm just saying your story sounds very familiar. Not saying it's bad."

"And I'm just saying my story is not based on everyone here."

"Al, you wrote our former boss as the fucking antagonist who lives alone in a colonial mansion with a ghost—"

"My antagonist has beautiful, long, silky hair! And she's more malevolent, vile—evil! Mona was nowhere evil, come on! She was just useless."

"Why are you getting angry? You asked for my opinion."

Al rolled his eyes. "My novel is going to be different from us."

"Your story's theme is about people with the blood of the gods and angels," she pointed out. "How is that different—"

Al gasped. "Now, hold it, girl! Let me tell you how the gods from Olympus got published by using their—" he stopped and stiffened in his spot.

"What now?" Esha asked him.

Her question was answered by the sound of opening doors and a burst of light from the woodland at the other side, washing over the brick walls behind Esha and the antique wood furniture around the small reception area, highlighting the floating specks of dust in the air. Glowing tiny orbs stopped at the threshold, unable to enter the Vesta ground of the office.

"Are we expecting a client?" Al asked.

"Not that I'm aware of," Esha replied, jumping with a cry as a brown maya bird flew through the doorway and landed on top of the reception desk.

"Everyone's in, right?"

"Yes."

"And we're not having any clients today, right?"

"I told you, yes."

The silhouetted figure walked toward them. Esha grabbed Al's arm as the figure stepped out of the bright morning light and onto the hardwood flooring.

The sound of heels echoed around them.

Al had already circled to the front of the counter, and Esha quickly followed. Her mustard khadi saree slipped over one arm as she did so and she absently fixed it, blinking a few times, her eyesight adjusting to the being standing before them.

The light from the open doors illuminated the woman. And before they could blink in astonishment, another figure appeared beside her: a young adult—or maybe a teen—male who was almost the same height as his companion.

The woman was in a blue dress with long sheer sleeves, the kind in a collared white shirt and suspenders.

Al and Esha looked at each other before they slowly turned their head back to gawk. The pair did not look like anyone from the East. Their very presence demanded for a throne to be wheeled in.

The door slowly closed behind the newcomers, and suddenly, their silhouetted faces were clearer.

"Welcome to the Department of Lost Things. How can we help you?" Esha greeted.

"Who are you?" the young man asked, eyeing Al and Esha.

They blinked. "Who are you?" Al shot back.

The woman let out a long sighed. "Isla Develler."

Al and Esha's eyes widened at the name. Al poked Esha's side.

"Ouch!" Esha cried out, bending away from him.

"Where's my office?" Isla asked.

They blinked. "Office?"

Isla Develler closed her eyes. She seemed pissed, and they panicked. "Cris," she gritted out.

The young man was scowling at the two of them. "Did you not receive the memo?"

"What memo?" Esha asked, looking around as if the memo was there somewhere. "I don't remember—"

The young man named Cris was not looking pleased. "The memo from the Office of the Emperor."

"We did not receive a memo."

"The one which states that your new manager is arriving today?"

Al and Esha blinked in surprise. "Manager?" Their head snapped toward Isla.

"What language do you speak that you can't understand me?" Cris asked, his thick accent very audible now.

"It's just..." Esha said, now in full-blown panic. "We were not informed. Mona just resigned and did not—"

Isla stepped forward, they stepped back. "Just lead me to my office."

Esha jumped on her feet. "Th—This way, Miss Develler," she said, gulping at the name.

Esha shared one last look with Al, both of them thinking Al's novel might have just found its new antagonist.

***

Not fifteen minutes later, the five staff of the Tree House tried to nonchalantly gawk at the new boss sitting inside her office. The glass panel that separated her from the entire work area made the ogling convenient.

Seated behind the desk, she was talking with the teenage boy who arrogantly introduced himself earlier as Isla Develler's secretary.

Esha had delivered coffee to everyone at least three times now, spilling half a cup on Das, their lead Explorer and the only one who seemed not to care that a Develler was inside their office.

A fucking—Al's choice of word—Develler!

"How long do you think she's going to last?" Esha asked the woman weakly typing on an old computer.

Fran pushed her glasses over the bridge of her nose and squinted at the glass wall five meters away from her desk. "The question is why is a Develler here."

Al, wide-eyed, turned to Das. "Did we do something?"

At forty, Das was like the father of everyone. Well, he was one. He was a priest. Not that humans were eager to attend the mass he held once a week in the Vesta village nearby, but his faith was his Curse. And he was wise. And very forgiving, even if you spilled half a cup of hot coffee over his lap. "We have done nothing good or bad. We haven't had a single client since last month." He followed it with a sigh and a cluck of his tongue while frowning down at the stain on his pants.

"I don't like him," Al said, gesturing at Cris. And as if he heard, the young secretary turned his head to stare at them. In a blink of an eye, all five employees went in motion—Esha scampered out of the main office floor, murmuring she had to return to the reception; Das stared at his blank computer screen; Fran coughed and squinted at her keyboard; twenty-year-old Zaara, another Explorer, swiveled around and hid behind a copy of Pride and Blood, a Vampire Story.

As Al slowly moved to follow Esha, Cris walked out of Isla's office and blocked his path. "Ms. Develler wants to have a word with everyone in five minutes."

Al gritted his teeth and forced a smile. "Of course, Cris," he said, making certain that this child knew who he was talking to. He may be from the Western Arena, but Al was from here and this child did not know here. "Esha!" he called out, eyes on the child. "The boss wants us here," he said to his friend when Esha hurried over. "You don't scare me, kid," he added to Cris with a wink before turning around to announce to everyone, "Gear up, useless Opulents. Boss talk!"

***

Isla was not sure how she should proceed. Everyone in front of her looked different. Their features were not specific to just one origin. Back in the West, there was a different kind of diversity. Apparently, so was the case here.

She faced the guy who seemed to be the oldest of the group. "Vedasto." The name rolled out of her tongue differently than she had hoped for. "It says here you're a priest," she said, holding up the folder in her hand.

"Yes." Vedasto said. "And you can just call me Das, boss."

"And you can call me, Miss Develler."

"I can call you child, boss. Take your pick."

Isla's jaw tightened. "Very well," she said, eyeing everyone. "If this is how things go here, then I'm willing to be called boss. What I'm not willing to tolerate, however, is the lack of reports."

"We have had no clients in the last month," said Esha, the woman wearing a saree.

It would have been the perfect time to get into their thoughts, but this entire office was a bloody Vesta. "Yes, and according to the very poor endorsement left by the former manager, the reason being is that you have the lowest success rate. Now," she said, lifting her finger when one of them started to explain, "I've looked into the three other Department of Lost Things and their reports of last year show that they've been getting a flock of clients from the Eastern Arena." Al closed his mouth and bit his lips. "Now, tell me why the deities from the east would bother going elsewhere when they have their own Department of Lost Things here?"

Everyone just stared. Isla had to remind herself that she was not facing Villains, but some minor Opulents, all of them Waifs.

"If there are any concerns that I should know—" She did not even have to finish her statement. Three hands were already in the air. And as she nodded, three people started talking all together: Al, Esha, and the sickly girl holding a cup of coffee.

"The paychecks are late, and that's not fair—"

"We don't have a service. Well, we have a van and we sort of have a driver, but the van's got to be rented. You must have seen the road going here. My dog's tail can pave a better terrain—"

"I'm always sick. Having to go to the office that doesn't even have any medicines or concoctions can be considered maltreatment. And there are very few faes nowadays who are willing to help with some of my weird symptoms. We're Waifs, you know. We don't have wings like you guys and it's just—"

When Isla's eye twitched, everyone sensed the possible horrible kismet. "Out," she said.

Al, Esha, and the sickly girl blinked. "What?" Al asked.

"Out, all of you." No one moved. "Don't make me repeat."

"Are you firing us?"

"I would love to, but I'm a fair leader. I'll give you a week to prove yourselves." She lifted her arm and pointed. "Out into the Erebus now."

"But why—"

"Because I'd rather do this my way. Out of this bloody Vesta now."

Cris was the first to move, and everyone else followed.

Once the last person was out the door, Isla looked around the old, beaten place. Bricks were peeking out of the peeled wall plasters; the ceiling blanketed in cobwebs; the glass pane that separated her office was crusted with dust. She turned on her heels and stalked after her team.

Her heels dug into the mud the very moment she stepped out, and she cursed under her breath. She left the Department of Villainy for this. Famous.

Five Opulents stood in front of her. Then she noticed a tall, slender man sitting on a rock beside one of the giant trees, his beard long, almost white from the smoke that came out of his pipe.

Definitely not Opulent. Not human either. She ignored him like how she did earlier and focused her attention on her five employees.

Suddenly, she felt better. Everyone was finally open for her to read. She focused on the sickly woman first.

Fran.

Isla had to withdraw and scowl. "What's wrong with you?" she asked, dumbfounded. How was this woman even alive? Merely a few seconds into her mind and Isla wanted to throw up because that's what the woman was feeling. If she ventured further, it would be worse, that's for certain. "Is that your Curse?" she asked.

The way Fran blinked at her reminded Isla of Ivor. Weak, but alive. Her pale face was one step away from the grave, and yet she was too weak to even take that one step. "What?" Fran asked, baffled.

Instead of answering, Isla turned to Das, who was thinking about Fran needing a seat. And that yes, it was her Curse.

Her eyes veered to Al, who was silently answering Isla's question. Yes, Fran's Curse is dying, but never dead.

"Thank you, Al," she said.

Al blinked in alarm. "What—Did you..." He turned to Esha, then back at Isla. "Did you just read my thoughts?"

It was Zaara who answered. "She's a Develler. She can read minds." The woman's eyes narrowed as she tried to remember something else. "And memories. And your future."

"Potential futures—plural," Cris corrected.

Everyone had a sudden tinge of fear in their thoughts. And all were curious why she was here, a powerful Develler.

She crossed her arms over her chest. "Now, I would like to get to work." They stiffened. Al and Esha dramatically clutched their chest.

Her lips twitched into a smile. "You know you can never lie to me, yes?" Their eyes trembled, flickering from her to the others. "I ask the questions and I don't need verbal answers." They looked pained, save for Fran who was already looking worse. Like an underworld god deprived of souls, Isla swept her gaze around, enjoying their very vulnerable and unguarded thoughts. "Now, shall we start?"