Lord Of In Between

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

Elias rose from his seat, his movements fluid yet measured. He dipped his head slightly, a gesture of courtesy ingrained in him through years of practice.

"Good morning, Miss Beatrice. I apologize for disturbing you on such a busy day."

Beatrice, however, did not return the greeting. She stood before him, arms crossed, her gaze as sharp as a well-honed dagger. The dim glow of the gas lamps cast flickering shadows across her face, accentuating the cold indifference in her eyes.

"Mr. Elias Vayne... You wouldn't be here just for idle chatter," she said, her voice calm yet carrying an undercurrent of certainty.

Elias lifted his head, meeting her unwavering gaze. A faint smile played at his lips, neither too warm nor too distant. "That's correct. I came with a purpose."

His right hand slipped into his coat pocket with deliberate ease, fingers brushing against the rough texture of parchment. He pulled out a letter and lifted it into view, letting the dim light catch the edges of the envelope.

"I need confirmation of the sender's address," he stated simply.

Beatrice took the letter with a slow, deliberate motion, her gloved fingers pressing against the paper as she turned it over. "...Isn't the sender's address already listed?" she asked, her brows barely shifting.

Elias chuckled, though there was no real amusement in it. "What I need is the original address."

At that moment, something stirred within him—an echo of a distant memory, as if a door within his mind had been unlocked.

The original address.

A system enforced by the police after a series of brutal murders tied to anonymous letters. The killer had been meticulous, sending messages from different locations, trying to elude capture. But the authorities had been just as relentless. They tracked him down, piecing together testimonies from neighbors, linking the movements, unraveling the deception.

It was a rather troublesome system, but also a valuable one.

Beatrice exhaled softly, her gaze never leaving Elias face. "Who is it this time?"

Elias raised a hand slightly, his fingers tensing as if weighing the weight of his own words. "Unfortunately, not the client this time… It's me."

Beatrice's expression flickered—first disbelief, then mild amusement, before settling into something unreadable. "That's… unusual. No, more than unusual. Isn't it always your clients who find themselves entangled in trouble?"

Elias sighed, the corners of his lips twitching in a fleeting, humorless smile. "I don't know either. But that's how it is."

Beatrice hummed in acknowledgment, her fingers trailing along the rough paper of the envelope. The inked address stood stark against its surface, rigid and unyielding, as if whispering secrets only to those willing to listen.

"Perhaps it's someone with a grudge," she mused, her tone absent-minded yet deliberate. "A remnant of a past case finally deciding to act."

That's possible… but that's not what truly unsettles me.

Why am I here?

A flicker of something cold slithered through Elias' mind—an intrusive, lingering thought.

If it was a personal reason why did I get reincarnated here?

As a perfectly normal citizen of Earth, why did I wake up in the body of a dead man!

And more than that—Elias' death, the disappearance of his friend… Was I truly meant to resolve this?

He exhaled slowly, forcing the thoughts aside. Now was not the time for questions without answers.

"Maybe," Elias muttered, his voice quieter, as if speaking to the shadow of doubt lingering over his shoulders. "Or maybe it's something else entirely. Either way, I need to know the original address. And the sender's name."

A promise had been made.

He had vowed to see Elias' search through to the end—to find his missing friend. That much, at least, he had to attempt.

Beatrice tilted her head, considering him for a moment before nodding. "I'll look into it. But with how busy the post office is today, it will take time." She glanced toward the clerks moving frantically behind her, their voices merging into an incoherent murmur. "I'll send the results to your office tomorrow."

Elias and Watson exchanged glances before giving their agreement.

Beatrice offered a faint smile before retreating into her office, vanishing into the depths of the archive rooms. Around them, letter carriers weaved through the crowded space, clerks scrawled notes onto parcels, and customers argued in hushed tones.

There was nothing left to do here. Elias turned, adjusting his coat as he motioned toward Watson.

"Let's move."

Elias adjusted his coat as he stepped out of the post office, the sharp sound of his boots striking against the damp cobblestones. The mid day air hung heavy with the scent of rain.

Miss. Watson followed closely, pulling her gloves tighter before shutting the door behind her.

As they stepped away from the post office and toward the waiting carriage, Watson cast a sidelong glance at Elias, her expression tinged with curiosity.

"What is it between you and Mrs. Beatrice?" she inquired, adjusting the cuff of her glove. "She seemed rather displeased at the sight of you."

Elias, ever unperturbed, merely exhaled through his nose as he strode toward the carriage, which was markedly different from the one they had taken earlier. "Mrs. Beatrice, I daresay, is simply weary of my presence," he replied with a tone as flat as the cobbled street beneath them.

"I do not often request private meetings with Beatrice," he continued as he reached for the carriage door, "but I do call upon her when a case concerns individuals entangled in the matter of threatening letters."

Watson gave a thoughtful nod before stepping into the carriage. "If the contents of that initial address are as valuable as I suspect," she said as she settled into her seat, "I trust you shall be inclined to share them, Elias."

Elias followed suit, entering the carriage with his usual unhurried grace, seating himself across from Watson before pulling the door shut. Outside, the coachman snapped the reins, setting the horses in motion.

Inside, the steady clatter of wheels against the damp stonework of the street became the backdrop to their conversation. The flickering glow of gas lamps filtered through the misty glass, casting restless shadows upon the polished wood interior. Elias sighed before turning to Watson.l

"Tell me," he began, his fingers lightly tapping against his knee, "what do you make of an individual bold enough to send an anonymous message, yet wise enough to seal it with a crest recognised by a select few in this city?"

Watson raised a brow. "I should say it is a rather dangerous combination—and a fascinating one, at that. But surely, it is nothing more than an empty threat? After all, no harm has yet come to you."

Elias let out a quiet, mirthless chuckle. "That is indeed the case for now, but a minor threat unattended has the tendency to grow into something altogether more troublesome."

Shaking his head, he gave a sudden, sharp sneeze, wrinkling his nose in mild distaste. "It would seem this carriage has been neglected in its upkeep," he muttered before composing himself.

"As for violence or terror, I have not yet been subject to either," Elias continued, voice level once more. "But you must know, Watson, I have never been one to wait for misfortune to strike before taking action."

Watson nodded, pressing a gloved finger to her chin, as if retrieving something from memory. "And the crest you mentioned earlier—what of it?"

Elias exhaled, watching the city blur past the window. "I had assumed you would have recognised it, being the recipient of the letter yourself," he mused. "The insignia in question was imprinted upon the secondary seal of the envelope… The emblem of knowledge and wisdom."

Watson's eyes sharpened.

"A set of scales," Elias elaborated, "with a book resting upon one side and a chain upon the other. It is often used by the learned societies of the Pendrith Kingdom, which lies to the east of the Southern Continent."

A brief silence settled between them, disturbed only by the rhythmic creaking of the carriage. Then, with a knowing glint in his eye, Elias leaned back slightly.

"It would seem," he murmured, "that our suspect has only just returned from beyond Caerleon's borders."

"Whether by intent or mere happenstance, that symbol serves as the second clue." Elias exhaled a measured breath, his fingers tracing idle patterns upon the armrest of his chair. His voice, hushed yet deliberate, carried the weight of concealed knowledge.

"At this juncture, we may assume that he is a student—an initiate of the Student Order from the Kingdom of Pendrith. It is not a group that welcomes the uninformed; indeed, those outside its fold would neither recognize the symbol nor comprehend its significance. The kingdom itself has decreed that any dissemination of knowledge concerning them is strictly forbidden."

A heavy silence settled between them, broken only by the distant ticking of the clock upon the mantle. Watson, seated across from him, did not so much as shift in his chair, though his gaze darkened with suspicion.

"Then tell me," her murmured, voice smooth but edged with something sharper, "how is it that you know of this?"

Elias did not answer at once. A shadow of amusement flickered across his features, barely perceptible beneath the dim glow of the gaslight. At last, with a ghost of a smile upon his lips, he replied, "I have my sources."

That's cool man~

although actually the truth is simpler

once, before becomes a Detective, i had been among them, though for only the briefest of spans. Upon my return from the southern continent, all ties had been severed, lost as if to the shifting sands of time. No letters, no familiar faces.

Until now.

Rumors, faint as whispers on a night, had reached his ears. The order, ever enamored with relics of bygone ages, had set their sights upon ruins buried for more than two millennia. Their fervor had grown, their ambitions deepened.

Elias leaned back, fingers steepled before him, eyes drifting towards the frost-laced windowpane. Beyond it, the city lay swathed in a pall of mist, the flickering glow of gas lamps barely penetrating the gloom.

What is it they seek? He muttered in his mind.

Miss Watson leaned back, absentmindedly tracing the edge of her glove "Then, what course of action should we take next?"

Elias, ever composed, did not immediately answer. His gaze remained fixed on the world beyond the glass, his expression unreadable. Only after a measured pause did he reply, his voice as steady as the ticking of a pocket watch.

"We wait."

Miss Watson arched a brow. "Wait?"

"We await address from Beatrice. Once we have it, then—and only then—shall we act."

Miss Watson, however, was less inclined toward patience. She nodded, but scarcely a moment later, her attention shifted to the window beside her.

A flicker of light and movement had caught her eye, and now she leaned forward, an unmistakable glimmer of excitement dancing within her expression.

"We've nothing pressing to attend to in the meantime, have we?" she mused. Then, with a sudden burst of enthusiasm "So—why not visit the circus?"

Elias blinked, momentarily taken aback by the suggestion.

"The circus?" he echoed, following her gaze.

There it stood, nestled between the winding streets—an elaborate tent, its vibrant canvas standing in stark contrast to the city's muted palette. Vendors lined the edges of the square, their wares spilling onto the cobblestones—brightly painted masks, twisted sugared confections, exotic trinkets whose origins were whispered rather than declared.

Miss Watson, undeterred by his initial hesitation, turned to him with a look of anticipation. There was a certain childlike insistence in her demeanor, and Elias—who had long since accepted that resisting her whims was often futile—sighed in quiet resignation.

"Very well," he acquiesced at last, his voice touched with reluctant amusement.

After all, there was something about the idea that intrigued him.

More than mere entertainment, the circus harbored mysteries of its own. Fortune-tellers whispered secrets beneath the veil of incense and candlelight, their divinations laced with cryptic meaning.

Perhaps, amidst the spectacle and illusion, he might uncover something of true value.

…This could be an opportunity. A chance to test the art of divination for myself—and to glimpse, if only for a moment, the hidden threads that wove this world together. To know this world better.