The fireplace burned in the chairman's office, casting red glows across the large but cold space. Shadows danced across the towering oak bookshelves and the polished floor, which reflected the flames in wavering streaks. Not a speck of dust dared settle on the massive oak desk at the center of the room.

  David sat in a large leather chair, hunched over blueprints scattered across the desk. The crisp rustle of paper punctuated the otherwise silent room as he scanned them with precision, simultaneously verifying something on his tablet, the faint glow of the screen reflecting in his glasses.

  Time passed. Veins started throbbing at his temples as frustration coiled in his chest. Abruptly, he stood, jaw clenched, and approached the cupboard. He pulled out a bottle of whiskey, poured a glass, the liquid catching the firelight, and loosened his tie.

  "Six years! Six years waisted because of that parasite! I should've killed him the moment I realized what he was doing," he hissed through clenched teeth, pacing around the room. "At least I have the satisfaction of seeing him beg for bread in rags now."

  He stopped, took a long gulp, frustration coiling tighter, then resumed his mutterings.

  "Time and money go hand in hand. The more time I lost because of that fool, the more my wallet drained. And now the extractor is ready... but I've got no more funds for the excavation. I'm broke. What did I do it all for if I can't proceed further?!"

  David drained the glass, feeling the amber liquid burn down his throat. Stopping by the fireplace, he stared into the flames, the firelight flickering over his sharp features.

  "I could go to the government for funding and feed them all this restoration-of-soil nonsense. They'd surely buy it. But then I'd have a dozen experts breathing down my neck and a broadcast on TV...way to stay inconspicuous."

  Scoffing, he unwrapped a dark chocolate bar, the crinkle of the foil loud in the quiet room. He popped a piece into his mouth, the bitter taste twisting his face in a grimace. He made a mental note to buy more.

  "Maybe Deborah? She owns half of Arctar, sleeping on money. But she's a merchant -she thrives on imports. Scientists not arriving at a breakthrough suits her business. I wouldn't be surprised if she were the main reason the soil research isn't going anywhere. I'd never convince her to fund the excavation with the restoration of the soil as the reason. I'd have to make something else up... and if she agrees, she'd be even more controlling than the dozen government experts combined."

  David sank back into his chair, the leather cool against his back. Crickets chirped faintly from the open window. His gaze grew colder, jaw tightening as he ran a hand through his blond hair, brushing it back in a nervous gesture.

  "The last possibility would be...Vu. No one annoys me as much as this magenta peacock. How many times have I wished for an anvil to fall on his head? It never did."

  He grimaced, taking another slow sip of whiskey before continuing his monologue:

  "But he's eccentric, volatile... And he's not against the idea of soil restoration, so long as he can spin it into Dream Factory merchandise. I could have my hands untied, get the funding and start the excavation... all while he's distracted with some 'sparkly' feedback I'd regularly send him. Yes...That could work..."

  David smirked lightly, fire illuminating him from behind in a disturbing red halo.

  -------------------------------------

  The late evening air bit at her skin as Rosalyn entered Rodderick's bar. A medium-sized, old-fashioned space in Arctar's quieter district, it smelled of smoke and wood polish. Parquet floors, sturdy worn tables, and wooden panels halfway up the walls gave it a cozy, timeless feel.

  Behind the main counter, glasses sparkling and bottles neatly arranged, stood Rodderick himself — a tall and bulky man nearing his sixties, posture straight from years of military service, greying beard, booming laugh, and a mischievous twinkle in his eyes. "Best psychiatrist in town," he liked to say, "buy a drink, consultation's free."

  Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  The bar buzzed with conversation and clinking cutlery, jazz playing softly in the background. But Rosalyn's attention was drawn to high-pitched voices in a corner of the pub, mixing with the music. Dozens of gnomes in colorful Dream Factory overalls were huddled around a small monitor like ducklings, eyes glued to it in utter concentration. Some bit their nails, some sniffed in tissues while unintelligible, overdramatic voices were coming out of the screen.

  Rosalyn stared at the scene for a few seconds in confusion then settled at the counter, and Rodderick greeted her with a grin.

  "Evenin', lass! The usual peach iced tea?"

  "Yes, please."

  He draped the cloth he was using to wipe glasses over his shoulder, pulled a clean glass, and prepared the beverage skillfully.

  "Got a new decoration for the drinks today, courtesy of ol' Marge after I cured her husband of Toolbox Amnesia. The lad could never remember where he'd put his toolbox every time somethin' around the house needed fixin'. Told him to tie the toolbox to his belt every mornin'. That sure helped."

  Rosalyn chuckled as Rodderick set the iced tea before her, ice clinking, topped with a tiny blue paper trumpet flower. She smiled at the charming decoration.

  "It's quite lively today," she said, glancing at the gnomes.

  "Aye. Premier of the first episode of season 812 of Gnomish," Rodderick explained. "Sir Vu banned it in his Dream Factory, so they come here to watch."

  "Gnomish?"

  "It's that telenovela about the dramatic lives of sentient cleanin' tools," he said, gesturing toward the corner. "They're filmin' their 1051672nd episode now. Last week's finale had a big reveal: Aya Toothbrush loves Gustavo Mop, not Finny Broom like it was implied for 811 seasons. Caused an uproar in the gnome community. Two gnomes went orbitin' in despair, punchin' holes in the Dream Factory roof. Sir Vu wasn't happy. Spends gold on elevator swans rainin' roses, but a roof? No."

  Rosalyn laughed softly. "At least they've got your bar."

  "Aye. Good customers," Rodderick grinned. "Never thought I'd make more on milk than alcohol. They drink the stuff by the barrel!"

  "Milk is the drink of giants," came a grim, raspy voice from the other side of the counter.

  A gnome in an oversized asphalt-grey detective trench coat, high collar up, reflective armbands catching the light, sat perched on a stool. A long magenta wig, slightly askew, framed his serious face, strands falling past his shoulders. He nursed a pale pink beverage, eyes squinted as if perpetually suspicious. Raising his glass, he intoned gravely, "But strawberry milk is the drink of the misunderstood."

  He took a big gulp, set the glass down with a satisfying clink, and exhaled like it had been the strongest whiskey in the world. Rosalyn averted her eyes, biting back a laugh.

  Rodderick chuckled. "Aye, Rogue. Anythin' boomin' in the underground lately?"

  "Same as always," Rogue Gnome replied, voice low and conspiratorial. "Connecting all the pieces of the puzzle alone. Nobody else believes me."

  "You should loosen up a bit," Rodderick said with a grin. "I always told recruits back in my military days: don't be as rigid as wooden boards, or you'll get chopped by the enemy! Apply the same to life outside combat. Why don't you join your comrades by the monitor there, chat about why the Toothbrush loves the Mop and not the Broom, socialize a bit?"

  He gestured at the gnomes glued to the screen. A faint scream rang out: "NO! NOT THE WASHING MACHINE!" The gnomes erupted in synchronized tears. Rogue Gnome's head snapped toward Rodderick, indignation written across his face.

  "I do not socialize with traitors!" he barked.

  With that, he tossed a few gold coins onto the counter. "Keep the change," he said, then hopped down and stalked toward the door like a tiny noir detective. The effect cracked, however, when he had to tiptoe to reach the handle.

  As he disappeared, Rodderick sighed.

  "A handful, that one. Someday he'll either stumble on a breakthrough or end up writin' hourly reports on how Sir Vu's hair tilts and whether it makes the moon late."

  Rosalyn chuckled lightly, then rose to leave. She paid, said goodbye to Rodderick, and stepped into the night.

  The stars hung faint in the sky, the streets nearly empty under the glow of the lamps. The air smelled of fresh rain.

  She passed the main plaza where one of the Four Great Trees towered, its leaves shimmering in the breeze. Beneath its crown drifted a mournful electronic hymn, half a sigh, half a lament.

  A young man stood there, hunched over a portable synth keyboard. His lean silhouette was wrapped in a worn dark-brown leather jacket, a dark-grey sweater beneath, and frayed blue jeans. Fingers in fingerless grey gloves traveled the keys with solemn precision and his tousled, neck-length brown hair, shifting slightly with the branches' sway, framed a face shadowed by a few days' stubble. His expression was serious, unreadable.

  Rosalyn stopped, caught by the haunting melody.

  Suddenly the man's eyes lifted. They locked with hers. She froze, her heart hammering, then tore away and hurried down the street.

  Because in that instant, she could have sworn his eyes had glowed gold.