Nox pressed against the alley wall, watching people pass. Their shadow tendrils writhed in the darkness. Someone had done this to them—changed them from human into this thing. Every person who walked by might hold the answer. But Nox couldn't ask. Couldn't get close. One touch and their memories would flood in, drowning Nox in moments that weren't theirs. The victim would forget everything. Nox clenched their dark fists. The person who transformed them was out there somewhere in this city. Nox would find them. Across the street stood an old courthouse, its marble columns cracked and stained. The building had been empty for years. No one would look for Nox there. No one would stumble into them by accident. Nox waited until the street cleared, then crossed in three quick strides. The courthouse door hung loose on its hinges. Inside, dust covered everything. Broken benches lined the main hall. Nox moved through the shadows to the back room where judges once prepared their verdicts. This would work. High ceilings gave space for the tendrils to stretch. Stone walls kept sound trapped inside. From here, Nox could hunt. They could watch the streets and follow leads. Someone in this city knew who did this. Someone had seen something. Nox would take their memories one by one until the answer came. The guilt burned like ice in their chest, but the hope burned hotter.

Nox studied the people through the courthouse windows, searching for patterns. Someone who walked the same route each day. Someone who glanced over their shoulder too often. Someone who knew. The first step was learning to watch without being seen. The shadows helped—they let Nox blend into dark corners and empty doorways. But watching wasn't enough. Nox needed to get closer, to listen. They practiced moving through the streets at night when fewer people were around. Three blocks east, then back. Four blocks north, then back. Each night, Nox pushed a little farther from the courthouse, mapping the city in their mind. The tendrils stayed tucked close to their body. Stay back, they would whisper when someone got too near. Most people ran. That was good. That kept them safe. But running meant no answers. Nox had to find another way. On the fifth night, Nox found a library. Ivy covered its walls in thick sheets. The windows were broken, their colored glass scattered on the steps. Inside, rows of shelves still stood. Books filled most of them, their pages yellow and curled. Nox moved between the aisles, reading titles in the dim light. Transformation. Magic theory. Body and form. Someone had studied these things before. Someone had written down what they learned. Nox pulled a thick book from the shelf and opened it. The words swam across the page, talking about rituals and costs. About changing one thing into another. The tendrils quivered as Nox read. This was how they would learn. Not by stealing memories one by one. Not by hoping to stumble onto the person who did this. They would study what had been done to them. They would understand the transformation itself. Then they would know what to look for. The book felt solid in Nox's hands. The first real tool in the hunt.

The library became Nox's base. Not the courthouse—too exposed, too close to the main streets. Here, between walls of rotting books, Nox could study without fear of discovery. The transformation had rules. Rules meant limits. Limits meant weakness. And weakness meant Nox could find whoever did this. Three books lay open on the floor, their pages marked with scraps of torn paper. One described shadow magic as hunger made solid. Another called it punishment for forgotten crimes. The third warned that all transformations required a source—something taken, something given. Nox's tendrils traced the words again and again. If someone had transformed them, that person had paid a cost. Or taken something specific from Nox. Either way, it was a thread to follow. The hunt had direction now. The books mentioned a place where others like Nox might have existed. A memorial stone, carved to show the moment when flesh turned to something else. Nox found it three days later in a small square behind the library. The statue stood taller than a person, its surface showing a figure caught mid-change. One half still looked human. The other half twisted into shapes that hurt to see. Names were carved at the base—twelve of them. Twelve people transformed and lost. Nox knelt before the stone. Their tendrils reached out and touched the cold surface. These people had suffered the same thing. Someone had turned them into monsters too. Nox pulled back and stood. The person who did this had done it before. That meant a pattern. That meant mistakes. That meant Nox could track them down.

Nox carried the thickest book from the library to the memorial stone. The pages described bindings—threads of magic that connected the caster to their victim. If those threads still existed, they might lead back to the person who did this. Nox set the book on the ground and studied the carved names again. Twelve transformations meant twelve possible bindings. The stone felt cold under Nox's palm. No warmth. No pulse of magic. Just dead rock and dead names. Nox pulled away and closed the book. The statue had given what it could. Time to search elsewhere. The clock tower stood at the edge of the square, taller than any other structure nearby. Its stone walls wore sheets of ivy that climbed toward the broken clock face at the top. Nox stared up at the frozen hands. They pointed to numbers worn smooth by years of rain and wind. The clock had stopped working long ago—maybe before the transformations began, maybe after. Either way, it had watched. It had been here when those twelve names were carved. Nox moved closer and pressed against the base of the tower. The stones felt different than the memorial—warmer somehow, like they held onto daylight longer. The tendrils spread across the surface, searching for cracks or hidden marks. Nothing. But the height meant vision. If Nox could reach the top, they could see across the whole area. They could spot patterns in how people moved through the streets below. The hunt needed eyes above, not just shadows below. Nox began to climb.