The brass key felt unnaturally warm in Maelo's palm, a stark contrast to Sybilla's cool, steady hand. Her heels tapped softly across the polished stone before silence claimed the space once more. He looked at Noemi, her brow furrowed in a rare display of open doubt. The generous gesture from Sybilla, Maelo mused, felt like a gift wrapped in silk and thorns. “Too easy,” Noemi said, studying the brass teeth. Her gaze, usually so impenetrable, held a flicker of apprehension. “Far too easy. Sybilla Morant doesn’t hand out master keys to Florian's private workspace without an agenda. This isn’t assistance, Maelo. This is bait.” Maelo’s fingers tightened around the notched metal. “Perhaps. But if it leads us to evidence that can protect Mount Soriano, it’s a risk we must take.” His resolve hardened, fueled by images of his adoptive family’s faces, their quiet lives threatened by the gleaming towers of Mercadia. “We follow the bait, but we remain vigilant.” Noemi studied him, a faint softening around her eyes. “Very well. Tenth Avenue annex, then. It’s tucked away in a seldom-used service wing, primarily storage for discarded sets and forgotten props from old galas. Barely anyone goes there.” They moved through the sprawling network of the Grand Auction House, past hushed galleries and echoing ballrooms, their soles muffled by thick wool runners. The service wing was a stark contrast to the opulence, a labyrinth of concrete passageways and bare fluorescent lights. The air grew cooler, carrying the scent of dust and disuse. Noemi guided them down a narrow stairwell that spiraled into the building's lower levels, a space that felt entirely cut off from the vibrant life of the Estevant dynasty above. At the end of a desolate hallway, a heavy, unmarked steel door bore a simple, recessed keyhole. Maelo inserted the brass key. It turned with a satisfying click, the sound sharp in the oppressive quiet. He pushed the door open, revealing an atelier that was a carefully constructed facade of artistic genius. It wasn’t a mere storage room, as Sybilla had implied, but a fully functional, if meticulously arranged, workspace. The room hummed with the muted drone of ventilation. Easels stood sentinel, some holding partially finished paintings, others bare. Palettes lay scattered, splattered with rich, vibrant pigments. The walls were adorned with what appeared to be Florian’s signature abstract pieces, all bold strokes and vibrant, clashing colors. Yet, beneath the veneer, something felt off, too perfect, too staged. Noemi moved with purpose, her eyes scanning every surface. Maelo, meanwhile, drifted towards a large workbench cluttered with an array of tools: brushes, spatulas, and an unnerving collection of magnifying loupes and chemical vials. His gaze fell upon a stack of pristine, blank canvases, each meticulously stamped on the reverse with a small, stylized ‘F’ beneath the Estevant crest. Beside them, an open register, not like the cryptic black-market book they’d found earlier, but a meticulously organized inventory. He picked it up. “Noemi,” he murmured under his breath. “Look at this.” She was already by his side, her attention drawn to the same register. It wasn’t a record of sales or acquisitions. It detailed commissions. Each entry listed an artist's pseudonym, a specific style, the required materials, and a surprisingly low fee. Underneath, a corresponding entry showed the ‘completion date’ and the ‘Florian Estevant’ attribution. One entry, dated six months prior, read: *“Artist: ‘The Shade.’ Style: Neo-Expressionist Landscape. Subject: Mercadian Skyline at Dusk. Pigments: Alizarin Crimson, Cerulean Blue. Commission Fee: 5,000 Solars.”* Below it, in Florian’s distinctive, flamboyant script: *“Completed: 14th of Floriana. Title: ‘City’s Veiled Embrace.’ Attribution: Florian Estevant.”* They found other, more damning evidence. A series of instruction manuals for replicating various historical textures and aging processes, complete with diagrams of brushwork for specific eras. A half-finished landscape on an easel bore a striking resemblance to an anonymous mountain scene Maelo had seen in a local gallery, yet it was signed with a nascent ‘F’ in the corner. Then, tucked into a drawer beneath a stack of discarded palettes, Maelo discovered a collection of high-resolution photographic prints. Each print showed a famous, obscure artwork, often a foundational piece of a nascent art movement. Beside them lay precise chemical analyses of the original pigments, along with detailed schematics for creating near-identical blends. “He’s not just buying fakes,” Noemi said, her voice tight with revelation. “He’s building his entire collection, his entire *reputation*, by outsourcing the creation of works he then claims as his own. His genius, his prodigy—it’s all an elaborate charade.” Her fingers trembled slightly as she flipped through the pages of a small, leather-bound pad containing a list of ghost painters, each with a specific stylistic specialty. “This is a factory, Maelo. A fraud factory.” A low, rhythmic *thump-thump-thump* echoed from the hall outside, growing steadily louder. The sound of heavy, uniformed boots. Security patrol. Maelo and Noemi exchanged a look of urgent comprehension. They couldn't be found here. “Quick,” Noemi urged, grabbing the register and the pad. Her eyes darted around the room, landing on a narrow, shadowed indentation in the wall. A utility locker, barely wider than a man’s shoulders. They squeezed inside, pulling the flimsy metal door shut just as the heavy tread paused directly outside Florian’s room. Maelo could hear the jingle of keys, the murmur of voices, indistinct but close. The locker was a cramped, suffocating space, smelling faintly of cleaning solvent and old dust. Their bodies pressed against each other, Maelo’s back against the cool metal, Noemi facing him, her breath warm on his neck. He could feel the rapid pulse beneath his fingers where his hand rested against her arm, a shared tremor of adrenaline and proximity. The stagnant air smelled of pine oil and their own trapped heat. Her eyes, usually so guarded, held a raw vulnerability, reflecting the dim sliver of light filtering under the locker door. The security guards’ voices faded, then returned, moving down the corridor. Noemi’s gaze flickered to his lips, then back to his eyes. His own heart drummed against his ribs, not from fear, but from the sudden, overwhelming awareness of her closeness. He leaned in, slowly, giving her every chance to pull away. She didn’t. Her eyes fluttered shut as his lips met hers, soft at first, then deepening with a hesitant, burgeoning hunger. It was a kiss born of shared danger, of a blossoming trust in a treacherous world, a quiet promise made in the dark. The patrol finally retreated, their rhythm fading into the distance. Maelo pulled back, his breath ragged, his eyes searching hers. A faint blush dusted Noemi’s cheeks, a rare splash of color on her usually composed features. She quickly composed herself, though a subtle tremor still ran through her. “We have to go,” she said, her voice a little husky. “Now. Before they double back.” They stepped out into the room, the register and pad clutched tightly in Noemi’s hand. As Maelo reached for the steel door, a sharp *clunk* echoed through the room. The door refused to budge. He rattled the handle, then pushed with his shoulder, but it was sealed, locked from the outside. A low, mocking chuckle filled the air, emanating from hidden speakers embedded in the walls. “So, Maelo, my dear, dear brother,” Florian’s voice, amplified and distorted, resonated through the studio. “And Noemi, my little shadow. Playing with my toys, are we? Such a shame.” A soft hiss filled the air as tiny nozzles in the ceiling began to spray a fine, acrid mist. The smell of burning chemicals quickly followed, thick and choking. Flames erupted from the corners of the room, licking at the walls, at the easels, at the delicate papers on the workbench. The heat instantly intensified, pressing in on them. Maelo lunged for the evidence Noemi held, but the heat drove him back. The paper curled and charred with terrifying speed, blackening into ash. Florian’s voice, devoid of its usual polished charm, dripped with venom. “It seems you’ve accidentally started a little fire, Maelo. Such a clumsy mountain boy. A tragic accident, wouldn’t you agree? I’m sure the Mercadian authorities will find your arson charges… most compelling.”

Ashes of Evidence