"Let's turn back…"
Behind them, the road toward Prius Academy stretched long and quiet beneath the morning light.
The carriage that had been heading toward the academy slowly came to a halt. Dust drifted across the path as the wheels made a stretch.
Panto stared at Baston, unsure if he had heard correctly.
"What?"
"We're not returning," Baston repeated calmly, "Not yet."
For a brief moment, the world seemed suspended between two directions.
Forward toward safety and backward toward uncertainty. The academy meant routine, predictability, and distance from whatever darkness lingered behind them.
The town meant unfinished business and possibly danger.
"Are you serious?" Panto's brows knitted together, "We just left that town. Why are we going back again?"
"There is unfinished problem…" Baston replied softly.
The auction incident had ended with chaos.
A corpse beneath chandeliers and suspicion carefully redirected. He had gained what he wanted which was third puppet.
A stronger hold over the old book's silent judgment. But, the quest about the captured people had not concluded.
The puppets he released last night found nothing in the town. No cellar, no hidden warehouse, and no underground chamber filled with prisoners.
The town was clean on the surface, too clean for something the old book deemed as the quest.
The only clue had been the granary and that lead had proven false.
The captured people mentioned in the quest were not there which meant they were somewhere else.
The old book never made mistakes.
If it declared there were captives, then captives existed. The problem was not the absence of evidence. The problem was that someone had hidden the evidence too well.
He didn't have many choices but to investigate more.
What if the word captured did not mean chains and locked doors?
The old book never wasted ink.
If it chose that word, then there was intent behind it. Perhaps the prisoners were not bound by iron but by something else.
It might be influence, agreement, fear, or something subtler.
If an entire town behaved as though nothing was wrong, then either nothing was wrong or everyone had already accepted it as normal.
And when abnormality became tradition, no one called it crime anymore.
Baston turned his gaze away from the road leading to the academy, "Sorry... I still have something to do in that town."
Panto opened his mouth to protest, but yesterday's memory surfaced instead.
The strange atmosphere, the excessive people, and the subtle fear that lingered beneath polite smiles.
The way conversations stopped half a second too late.
The way guards stood not in vigilance but in anticipation.
His imagination, as always, began constructing something darker.
A hidden organization, a cult, or a ritual disguised as normal life.
The more he thought about it, the less he wanted to argue. Without another word, he rushed back toward the town. The carriage slowly turned and so did their direction.
*****
They returned quickly while the morning light was still in the sky.
The town did not look different from yesterday.
The same bakery released the same smell of warm bread.
The same butcher shouted the same exaggerated praise of his meat.
The same children ran barefoot across the street.
It was normal to the point of very ordinary.
Yet, the rhythm of the town felt rehearsed.
The laughter rose at the right moments, conversations paused too neatly when certain figures passed, and even the guards at intersections did not look alert.
They looked prepared as if they were not waiting for trouble but waiting for a signal.
Baston stepped down from the carriage first.
He slowed his steps, pretending to browse a stall and observing reflections in polished metal trays. No one seemed anxious and that absence of anxiety was precisely what disturbed him.
He then came back to Panto.
"We'll stay here for a few days."
Panto exhaled slowly then nodded, "Alright…"
Back at the inn, Baston closed the door behind them and checked the lock. Not once but twice. Just to make sure everything was truly safe.
"Don't go anywhere," he instructed.
Panto frowned, "You just said we're staying."
"I mean stay inside this room," Baston clarified, "Don't wander outside. If you need anything, ask the innkeeper to buy it for you."
"And you?" Panto asked.
"I'll check something."
Panto's expression shifted between curiosity and unease, "You think this town has a problem?"
Baston paused for a second before answering, "I think this town knows something."
That was enough explanation.
Baston quickly left the inn, moving through the streets with no apparent purpose.
The morning market was bustled with life. The vendors shouted, the livestock bleated, and the housewives bargained over vegetables.
In such crowded situation, Baston did not look at faces. He looked at patterns.
Who watched others instead of their goods, who avoided certain streets, and who paused when specific names were mentioned.
If captives were hidden here, they were buried beneath layers of normalcy.
Once again, he found her where he expected. The little girl stood near the center of the road, holding her basket of flowers and calling out in a hopeful voice. Few people responded.
Her voice was clear, almost melodic, yet people stepped around her rather than toward her. It was not indifference. It was deliberate avoidance.
Baston soon waved from afar.
"Hello... We meet again."
She turned, recognition brightening her face, "Ah… young master from yesterday."
"I'm glad you remember me," he said gently, "Are you still selling flowers?"
"Yes!"
"How many do you have left?"
She counted quickly, "Almost all."
"I'll buy five then."
Her eyes widened in delight. He handed her the money, careful not to overpay noticeably.
Too much kindness would create attention and too much generosity would create questions.
She gave him the flowers with both hands, almost ceremoniously. After a brief exchange, they separated.
Baston did not follow directly.
Instead, he stepped into a narrow alley and summoned a puppet.
It shifted shape in his palm, feathers sprouting along its small body until it became a simple bird.
It was unremarkable and common. Soon, it took flight.
From above, the girl appeared small among the crowd, weaving through streets and alleys.
She continued offering flowers with unchanging persistence. Hours passed and Baston walked beneath rooftops, careful to remain within the boundary of control. He noticed something else.
Adults avoided eye contact with her while children did not. Some mothers pulled their sons gently away when they came too close.
The first puppet neared its limit.
He deployed the second seamlessly. By afternoon, exhaustion weighed on his legs but the girl's pace never faltered. She sold almost nothing yet she did not seem disappointed. That detail unsettled him.
Hope without reason was unnatural.
Finally, as dusk approached, she returned home. Her house was modest with wooden walls and a patched roof. There was a single window through which the bird perched quietly.
Inside, her family gathered.
"Sister! Sister! Look at this money!" she exclaimed, "I finally sold the flowers!"
The sister smirked, "Maybe, a neighbor pitied you."
"It wasn't pity!"
"Why do you always run to mother when you lose?"
"Enough," the mother said gently, "Wash up first."
The father laughed, "If you have the money, just save it in your piggy bank."
It was just an ordinary banter.
There was no hint of fear and no mention of captives but Baston noticed something subtle.
When the girl mentioned the buyer, the parents exchanged a glance. It was brief and almost invisible.
Baston guided the bird's gaze around the house.
He found nothing unusual.
No hidden hatch and no strange markings. He began to wonder if the thread he followed was nothing more than a coincidence. He waited then came a knock.
Three men stood outside.
The father spoke with them in low whispers.
Baston strained through the puppet's senses but caught nothing distinct yet the body language was revealing. The father did not ask question. He only nodded.
Moments later, the entire family stepped out. There was no resistance nor panic. They followed the men calmly.
Only the little girl hesitated for a heartbeat before walking after her parents.
Baston's pulse tightened.
The bird took to the air. He moved quickly along the streets, maintaining connection. Twilight darkened the sky as they approached the largest building in town.
He followed from far until everyone reached the mayor's mansion.
Torches burned along its perimeter and militia stood guard in numbers excessive for a simple town official.
More families arrived from different directions, entering through the main gate. Just by the numbers, it was indeed too many.
Baston summoned the bird back just before its limit expired and approached from a different angle.
The walls were high and the guards were numerous.
He deployed his third puppet. It shrank into a rat and slipped through a crack near the foundation.
Inside, the mansion was larger than expected.
Corridors extended like veins and rooms branched off in orderly arrangement.
The bedroom was empty, the kitchen was clean, and the guest chamber was unused. The rat continued exploring until it reached a large hall.
At there, people filled the space.
Dozens upon dozens were standing up, waiting for something to be announced. The little girl stood among them with her family.
At the front of the hall stood the man presumed to be the town mayor with broad smile, heavy robes, and arms spread wide.
"Welcome," he said warmly, "As always, we gather to celebrate this month's harvest. Please, eat and drink freely."
Servants moved through the crowd carrying trays.
"And do not forget," the mayor added lightly, "Our specially prepared juice. It is healthy and beneficial."
The laughter followed while Baston narrowed his eyes.
The rat remained hidden behind a decorative pillar.
He counted there were twenty-five glasses of the so-called special juice. It was only twenty-five even though the number of crowd far larger.
He watched carefully.
Some guests took the glasses eagerly, some ignored them, and some who did not drink later claimed they had.
One man declared loudly that it tasted wonderful though Baston had clearly seen him never touch it.
His friend, who had finished the glass entirely, frowned faintly.
"It tastes bland," the friend muttered.
"You must have drunk too much wine," the first man replied quickly, "Your tongue is dull."
The friend laughed it off. It was strange, very strange of perception. Then, Baston saw it.
The little girl's family approached one of the trays. The parents did not take the juice. They handed the single glass to her.
"Drink…" the mother urged.
"It doesn't taste good," the girl complained softly after a sip.
"Don't be ungrateful…" the father scolded gently.
The sister coaxed her. Under their watchful eyes, she finished it.
The family resumed eating as if nothing had happened.
Baston's gaze sharpened. From the expressions around the hall, many adults seemed aware of something. Not fear but more like silent agreement.
It was their understanding and participation. As for the children, only several of them drank it.
A pattern formed slowly in his mind.
He allowed the rat to explore further, slipping along walls and under tables.
It observed without being noticed. As the gathering progressed, people relaxed. Conversations drifted into light topics.
When the event began thinning and guests started dispersing, Baston prepared to withdraw. Then, the rat froze.
At the edge of the hall stood the mayor's wife.
She was alone in a side corridor, moving toward what appeared to be private chambers. The rat had paused near her feet. She looked down and she didn't look afraid.
For a second, Baston thought he was discovered. But instead of screaming, she crouched.
"You're hungry, aren't you?" she murmured softly.
From a small pouch at her waist, she took a piece of dried meat and placed it before the rat.
"Eat this and leave. This is not a place for living creatures."
Not a place for living creatures. The phrase echoed inside Baston's mind. He controlled the rat to grab the meat and scurry away.
Only after reaching the outer bushes did he summon it back. The dried meat returned with it. Baston stared at the object in his palm.
The puppet could retrieve physical items. It was such an interesting found to explore but not now. He needed to think.
From the juice, the children, the mayor's excessive security, and the phrase about living creatures.
None of it aligned cleanly, yet none of it was random.
As he walked back toward the inn, the streets now were quieter under nightfall. He tossed the dried meat toward the roadside.
A real rat darted out from the shadows, seized it, and vanished. Baston watched it disappear. Then, he turned toward the inn.
His expression was unreadable with thoughts threading themselves into something darker than simple harvest celebrations.