The glass-and-steel monolith of Aberddu’s financial district rose from the perpetual mist like a series of fractured reflections. Rhys Llewellyn walked with Gwyllgi at heel, the dog’s broad shoulders occasionally bumping his leg in quiet reassurance. The office tower, 'The Mire Spire', glimmered with cold ambition. Inside, the air hummed with hushed efficiency, a stark contrast to the decaying grandeur of the river manor. He gave his name at a polished marble desk, the receptionist’s smile a practiced, brittle thing. Morwenna Morvran. Ffion’s sister. The woman who’d sent the threat. Rhys felt the familiar prickle of heat behind his eyes, a precursor to the temper he usually reined in. Not today. Today, he’d let it simmer. Morwenna’s office, high above the churning harbor, offered a panoramic view of the grey city, a landscape of wet slate roofs and distant, rain-blurred ships. She sat behind a desk of dark, polished basalt, framed by floor-to-ceiling windows that swallowed the weak light. Her dark hair, cut with razor precision, framed a face that bore a sharper, harder echo of Ffion’s features. Her tailored suit was the color of a winter sea, impeccably fitted, every line speaking of power and control. No dust, no damp, no lingering scent of decay here. “Inspector Llewellyn,” she said, her voice smooth as river glass, utterly devoid of warmth. She did not rise. “I assume you received my note.” “Loud and clear.” Rhys remained standing, Gwyllgi settling quietly beside him, a dark, shaggy presence. “It didn’t say ‘please’.” Morwenna’s lips barely twitched. “There’s no need for pleasantries. Let me be blunt. This investigation, this… reopening of old wounds, it’s cruel. To me, to my family. Ffion is gone. There’s nothing more to find.” “That’s where we disagree,” Rhys countered, stepping closer to the desk. He placed his worn leather satchel on the basalt, the scuffed material a deliberate counterpoint to her pristine surface. “The original investigation was a mess. Half-hearted, riddled with assumptions. I found a loose end.” “A loose end you fabricated in your desperation to cling to a career?” Her eyes, the same deep grey as Ffion’s, narrowed with disdain. “I know your reputation, Detective. The papers made sure of that. Your last partner, Dai Maddox, how did he die again?” The name, dropped like a stone into a silent pool, set a hard knot in his throat, iron taste rising on his tongue. He pushed past it, refused to let her see the tremor. “Dai’s death has nothing to do with Ffion’s murder.” “Doesn’t it? A pattern, perhaps? An investigator who gets people close to him killed, then obsesses over unsolvable cases out of misplaced guilt. You should consider early retirement, Llewellyn.” Rhys leaned over the desk, his voice a low, dangerous rumble. “You had an alibi for the night Ffion died. Attending a charity gala at the Penddôl Theatre across the city. Witness statements, the whole nine yards.” “That’s correct. A very public event. I was seen by dozens of influential people.” Her tone was dismissive, confident. “And yet,” Rhys continued, pulling a laminated page from his satchel, a copy of an old meteorological report. “The original police report noted a distinctive, thick river mist that night. Localized, settling heavily around the Mire and Tŷ Haearn. But the records from the city’s weather beacon, barely a mile from the Penddôl Theatre, show clear skies, calm air. Not a wisp of fog.” Morwenna’s confident posture stiffened. She glanced at the document, a flicker of something unreadable passing through her eyes. “What are you implying?” “The attending officer, a young constable, attributed the fog to ‘general Aberddu weather’. Lazy. But the Mire’s fog isn’t general. It’s tied to specific tidal conditions, specific atmospheric pressures. It forms a dense, localized curtain. If you were at the Penddôl Theatre, Morwenna, you wouldn’t have known about the mire fog. You wouldn’t have described it with such casual familiarity in your initial statement to the police when they questioned you about the conditions at the manor that night.” Rhys watched her, a predator sensing a weakness. “Unless, of course, you’d been there.” The silence that followed was absolute, broken only by the faint hum of the building. Morwenna’s face, usually so composed, fractured. The smooth mask of indifference slipped, revealing a flash of genuine shock, quickly replaced by a furious calculation. Her eyes, cold and sharp, fixed on Rhys. She picked up her phone, her fingers moving with precise, deliberate movements. She didn't look away from him. “I believe this discussion is over, Detective. Consider yourself officially off the case.” She spoke into the receiver, her voice regaining its icy control. “Chief Inspector Bevan. It’s Morwenna Morvran. Yes, I’m calling about Detective Llewellyn. He’s become… overly enthusiastic with a very sensitive cold case. I insist he be removed immediately. And I expect a full apology for this unwarranted intrusion.” Rhys felt the familiar spiral of fury, a dark whirlpool threatening to drag him under. He could hear the tinny, outraged protest of his superior from Morwenna’s phone, a man he already knew was a spineless political climber. He knew what was coming. He grabbed his satchel, the worn leather scraping against the basalt. “You won’t stop me, Morwenna. Not this time.” He stormed out, Gwyllgi trotting swiftly to keep pace, the chief inspector’s furious lecture already ringing loud against his ear. He pulled his own phone from his pocket, the screen displaying an official dispatch. SUSPENSION. IMMEDIATE. For insubordination. He cursed, a raw, guttural sound, and shoved the device back into his pocket. He was halfway down the Mire Spire’s elevator when his phone buzzed again. This time, an incoming transmission with an attached image. An unknown number. He opened it, his blood cooling in his veins. The image showed the interior of Tŷ Haearn’s conservatory. The rain-streaked windows, through which he’d first truly seen Ffion, were now fractured, shards of glass gleaming on the damp flagstones. The attached caption was simple: *Maintenance*. Another photo followed. The grand, tarnished hall mirror, the one Ffion had used to speak. Now, a spiderweb of cracks marred its surface, a single, dark hole punched through the center. A third image. A figure in grubby overalls, face obscured by shadow, a heavy hammer raised, about to strike another window. Morwenna. She was attacking the house. Attacking Ffion. Air scraped dry in his throat. “Gwyllgi!” he roared, sprinting out of the elevator as soon as it hit the ground floor, ignoring the startled looks of the polished executives. “We’re going back! Now!” He burst from the building into the relentless Aberddu rain, his mind consumed by a single, terrifying thought: what would he find when he reached the iron estate?

The Iron Sister