Lord Of In Between

"do you want to come? To investigate the post office." A brief silence settled between them, lingering like an unspoken thought.

Without warning, Watson coughed.

Cough! Cough!

Elias remained calm, his gaze steady as he observed her. Then, with a voice both hoarse and measured, he finally spoke:

"Relax, Watson. I'm merely inviting you for a little investigation…"

Watson's eyes narrowed, a faint smile forming on her lips—before it quickly faded. Her gaze, still slightly watery from the coughing, locked onto Elias with an intensity that betrayed her emotions.

She hesitated, searching his face.

"You… actually invited me?"

There was a gleam in her eyes, a fragile hope that had been tested too many times, as if the world had deceived her over and over, yet she still wanted to believe.

Elias exhaled softly, closing his eyes for a brief moment before offering another smile, this time gentler.

"Never mind that. Let's go."

They stepped out of the café. The bell above the door chimed softly, its crisp ring lingering for a fleeting moment before dissolving into the city's restless hum.

Outside, Elias and Watson walked side by side, heading toward the edge of the main road. Elias remained silent, watching the carriages and pedestrians. Beside him, Watson walked with an unusual lightness, as if momentarily freed from whatever had been weighing her down.

Why did I invite her?

Elias couldn't quite pinpoint the reason. Perhaps he simply couldn't bear it… or perhaps, despite everything, something within him remained deeply human—an empathy too stubborn to be erased.

They soon arrived at a row of waiting carriages. Elias approached one of them, its driver slumped against the seat, dozing off. Without hesitation, Elias rapped his knuckles against the wooden frame, jolting the man awake. It was a bit rude to disturb someone's sleep, but there was no other choice.

The driver yawned, rubbing his eyes before fixing his drowsy gaze on the two of them.

Before Elias could speak, Watson stepped forward and gave the destination.

"17 Whispering Pines Avenue, please, Mr. Walker."

Elias slowly turned to Watson, who was still smiling faintly.

She knows a lot of people, huh…

"Alright, Miss Watson," the driver replied with a teasing smirk.

Elias heard Watson let out a long sigh beside him, but she simply smiled in response, saying nothing.

Without further words, they both climbed into the carriage. The wooden wheels creaked, and soon, they were on their way—toward their destination

Elias leaned back against the carriage seat, his posture relaxed, yet his mind drifted beyond his own reach, wandering into the fog of uncertainty.

What does the real Elias' killer want to achieve by sending this letter?

A mere trophy? A self-indulgent display of arrogance? No, that possibility wasn't zero, but it was far from the only one. A trap was just as likely—perhaps even more so.

His fingers moved instinctively, pressing against the space between his brows as if trying to ease an unseen weight.

Elias turned his gaze toward the window, watching the streets rush past—vendors arranging their stalls, hurried footsteps crossing uneven roads, the occasional stray cat slipping between shadows.

A few seconds passed before the woman sitting across from him finally broke the silence.

"Hmm… quite a crowd for a Tuesday morning."

Tuesday?

Elias blinked, his mind taking an extra moment to process the information.

So it's Tuesday… What happened in Tuesday?

His lips curled into the faintest hint of a smile, though it faded as quickly as it came.

"Is it not usually this crowded?" Elias asked, his voice carrying a trace of curiosity.

Watson, who had been watching the outside world through the carriage window, turned her gaze toward him.

"You look surprised. Don't tell me you didn't know?" she said, the corners of her lips curling into a knowing smile.

Elias inhaled lightly, his fingers tapping against his knee.

Because I don't. The fragments of memory left behind by the real Elias showed nothing regarding this!

Watson tilted her head slightly, then exhaled before offering an answer. "Tuesdays usually bring circus performances in several places."

A circus? A large-scale event?

Elias laced his fingers together, listening attentively. The faint creak of the carriage wheels and the rhythmic clatter of hooves against cobblestone filled the air, underscoring Watson's words.

"But what truly draws people in is their fortune teller. He reads the fates of many, and more often than not, his predictions come true."

Elias narrowed his eyes slightly. "Is that so?"

"Of course!" Watson replied, her voice laced with amusement, as if entertained by his skepticism. "Even Mr. Walker here has tried it before! Isn't that right, Mr. Walker?"

From the front of the carriage, amidst the steady rhythm of the horses, a low voice responded, almost lost in the noise.

"...That's true."

Elias let out a quiet hum.

Accurate divinations… Heh. This world contains more peculiarities than I expected.

A thin smile tugged at his lips, vanishing just as quickly. Watson continued, her voice carrying an air of practiced ease, "There's also a market in Grimshaw District, only a few blocks from here."

Elias glanced at her. "And what makes it noteworthy?"

"Mm… it's an ordinary market, mostly," she admitted, her fingers tapping against the seat as if recalling something. "But on Tuesdays, antique dealers set up shop—offering items that you wouldn't normally find on any other day."

Elias absorbed this information in silence before speaking once more.

An antique market…

He lowered his gaze, fingers brushing absently against the hem of his sleeve.

Perhaps it will prove useful in the future. If I ever require something—an object steeped in history, imbued with traces of the supernatural…

His thoughts deepened, sinking into that ever-present undercurrent of reason and speculation.

If this fortune teller is real… does that mean spirits exist, too?

As a fan of mysticism in high school, Elias was already familiar with the concept of ritual magic and evil spirits, but finding himself among real situations is something that is difficult to accept.

He exhaled softly, his breath dissipating into the cool air of the carriage.

And if spirits—both good and ill—truly walk among us, then countermeasures must exist as well. Talismans, charms, artifacts that have absorbed lingering faith over time…

He cast a brief glance at Watson, who remained occupied with her own thoughts, before turning his gaze back to the window.

Yes… when the time comes, that market may hold exactly what I need.

"Is there anything else that makes Tuesday mornings this crowded?" He asked once more.

Watson blinked, as if sifting through her thoughts, before eventually shrugging. "As far as I know, that's about it. Most people come out for the fortune teller's readings."

"So that's how it is…" Elias nodded thoughtfully. The rhythmic clatter of carriage wheels mixed with the growing hum of the streets, the scent of damp earth and freshly baked bread lingering in the air.

Divinations, huh? He lowered his gaze, the idea lingering in his mind like an ember refusing to die. Perhaps I should try it sometime…

He leaned back against the carriage seat, his fingers unconsciously tracing the worn fabric of his coat. Outside, the city pulsed with life—street vendors shouting their wares, the occasional whistle of a patrolling constable, the rustle of newspapers carried by hurried office workers.

Before long, the carriage came to a halt. Through the fogged-up window, Elias caught sight of an elegant yet aged building, its architecture reminiscent of the 19th century—tall columns, intricate carvings, a solemn presence that whispered of countless untold stories.

Watson disembarked first, her movements precise, practiced. Elias followed, stepping onto the damp pavement with the crisp sound of leather against stone. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out two copper Gild coins and handed them to the driver. The metallic clink as they landed in the man's palm felt oddly heavier than it should have.

as he remembered the currency of the Republic of Caerleon was divided into four tiers

Copper Gild, the lifeblood of the common folk, exchanged for meals, transport, and daily services.

Silver Gild, the currency of the middle class, used for stable transactions, finer goods, and respectable wages.

Gold Crown, the weight of authority, reserved for grand trade, taxation, and the vaults of the wealthy.

Platinum Crown, an enigma—more a symbol than a currency, appearing in the hands of collectors, diplomats, and those who dealt in matters that shaped nations.

Elias sighed, slipping his hand into his coat pocket. Only 15 Silver left… The realization pressed against him like an invisible weight, a reminder of how precarious his situation truly was.

At that moment, the carriage behind them creaked, the driver flicking the reins as the horses began to move once more, disappearing behind the building.

Wordlessly, Elias stepped forward, following Watson through the heavy doors of the post office.

Elias and Watson stepped into the Oter post office, the air inside thick with the scent of old paper and drying ink. Stacks of untouched letters lay scattered across desks and shelves, some neatly bundled while others were left in disarray, as if abandoned in the midst of the day's relentless workload.

Tuesdays are always busy… even here.

Elias joined the queue, standing among clerks and couriers burdened with their own parcels and correspondence. Watson, on the other hand, chose to sit on one of the wooden benches near the entrance, occasionally rising to wander the room, her keen eyes observing the clerks sorting through letters, recording transactions, and tapping out messages on telegraph machines with practiced ease.

Minutes passed before Elias finally reached the counter. Behind it, a middle-aged man with thinning hair and a well-groomed beard was busy arranging the previous customer's letters. Without looking up, he spoke in a polite but detached tone,

"How may I assist with your post today?"

Elias cleared his throat. "Ahem—Mr. Rupert."

The postal clerk froze for a moment before lifting his head. Surprise flickered across his face, quickly replaced by a warm smile.

"Mr. Vayne! It's been quite some time! How have you been?" Rupert set aside the letters he had been handling, his expression one of genuine familiarity.

Elias returned a small nod. "I'm well, Rupert. Thank you."

"What brings you here?"

Elias met his gaze for a moment before lowering his voice. "…I would like to request an audience with Mrs. Beatrice."

Rupert frowned slightly. "The assistant postmaster?" His voice dropped to a more cautious tone. "What's the matter? Why do you need to meet with Mrs. Beatrice?"

Elias let out a quiet sigh, slipping his hands into his coat pockets. "It's… something related to an investigation."

Rupert hesitated, studying Elias for a few moments before finally nodding. "Alright. I'll see if she's available."

With that, he disappeared into the back office, leaving Elias to wait. The seconds stretched on, filled with the quiet rustling of paper, the rhythmic clatter of ink stamps, and the occasional chatter of customers and clerks.

After a few minutes, Rupert returned. "Mrs. Beatrice said she can meet you in ten minutes. Please wait, Mr. Elias."

Elias gave a small nod before stepping away from the queue, heading toward Watson. As soon as he left his spot, the two people behind him exhaled audibly, relief evident in their posture.

Oh, come on… I wasn't that slow…

Watson glanced at Elias and asked in a flat tone, "What's wrong?"

Elias met her gaze briefly before letting out a short sigh. "Nothing. We just have to wait ten minutes before we can meet Miss Beatrice."

He then sat beside Watson, leaning his back against the hard wooden bench. "Yeah… Beatrice is quite busy."

For a moment, silence hung between them, filled only by the constant hum of activity in the post office—the rustling of papers sliding across desks, the rhythmic stamping of seals, and the brief exchanges between clerks and hurried letter senders.

Elias yawned before continuing, "Since she was promoted to assistant postmaster, her workload has increased significantly. Usually, I ask for her help whenever a threatening letter arrives for one of my clients."

Watson nodded wordlessly, her eyes scanning the bustling room where clerks moved tirelessly, each a cog in a vast mechanism that could not afford to stop, even for a moment. In one corner, an elderly worker with thick glasses sorted through letters with practiced efficiency, while a young man in a worn uniform stood anxiously by the counter, clutching an envelope sealed in red wax.

Before they realized it, ten minutes had passed.

From a distance, a young woman appeared, walking with swift yet controlled steps. At first glance, she seemed older than her years—eighteen, perhaps slightly more if judged by the weight in her gaze. Her jet-black hair was neatly tied into a bun at the nape of her neck, though a few fine strands always managed to escape her meticulous order. Her pale complexion contrasted sharply with the natural red of her lips, lending her the appearance of a porcelain doll placed amid the ceaseless motion of a world that moved too fast.

A pair of sharp gray eyes hid behind thin silver-rimmed glasses, observing her surroundings with the composed scrutiny of someone accustomed to daily chaos. She wore the deep blue uniform of a post office worker, adorned with white stripes at the collar and cuffs.

Miss Beatrice approached with measured, deliberate steps, the sound of her heels tapping against the wooden floor like a ticking clock in the quiet room.

She stopped in front of Elias, her gaze locking onto him with an intensity that seemed to pierce through the layers of his being, as if peeling away flesh to glimpse the secrets buried beneath.

Her lips curled ever so slightly, carrying a trace of amusement.

"What is it this time, Elias?" she asked, her voice smooth yet weighty, each syllable carrying the weight of unspoken history.