Dorothy’s Forbidden Grimoire Novel - Chapter 464

Chapter 464**Iwig, Adria.**

The midday sun bathed the serene riverfront library nestled in central Adria. Inside, Dorothy sat tucked away at a corner table with a view of the waterway. A stack of borrowed texts on Iwig customs and history lay at her elbow. One book sat open before her, yet her attention was far from its pages. Her mind was wholly fixed on the precarious developments unfolding in Tivian.

‘After comparing Grey’s data with Adel’s findings, we’ve narrowed the Northern Ufian gang’s current location. Blackwater Street in Tivian… That’s the last place I’d have imagined they’d choose as a base.’

She straightened, staring out the window at boats gliding along the canal, thoughts spiraling. The South District was the worst possible news.

‘The southern and western sectors of Tivian are infamous for lawlessness and neglect. Blackwater Street’s among the most derelict. Only someone deeply versed in Tivian’s criminal networks would ever pick it for a hideout.

‘Hiring a drivers’ ring for logistics, opting for South District — that’s no rookie mistake. They’ve got someone on their side who knows Tivian’s underworld like the back of their hand… Or maybe, true to form, they simply offed some local trafficker and interrogated his lingering spirit? Hmph… “Silence” adepts always do love their unconventional intel gathering…’

Dorothy rubbed her temple, realizing the full extent of the setback: this sudden relocation had fractured her intelligence grid.

‘Grey’s officers are rooted in the East. Adel’s influence also lies in the East. With the gang now in the South, both of their networks are practically blind. I’ve got no established fixers or sources there. Locating them under those conditions is going to be a nightmare.’

Her brows knit, frustration simmering beneath her composed facade. If only she were in Tivian—her original form could have swept that district with barely any effort.

‘As things stand, I’ve got only Grey and Adel in play. I need to deploy them as efficiently as possible if we’re to flush those bastards out.’

Tilting back in her chair, she bit down on her pen, eyes narrowing in thought. The plastic was seconds from crumbling in her jaw when clarity broke through like sunlight through fog.

—

**Pritter, Tivian.**

As late afternoon settled over the skyline, a hired cab rumbled to a stop on one of South Tivian’s crumbling avenues. The back door swung open, and a man in an immaculate suit stepped out, polished shoes touching down on dust-covered pavement. After adjusting his stance, he handed over payment. The driver saluted him with a nod and swiftly pulled away.

Grey stood there, face disguised with subtle but deliberate alterations to his features, surveying the unfamiliar territory. This was a Tivian he hadn’t encountered before.

Under a leaden sky, the street stretched ahead—flanked by shabby structures, only a few stories high. The facades were cloaked in layers of decaying posters, brickwork filthy beneath. Dark run-off, likely seeping from faulty industrial waste lines, snaked along the curbs. It spread in oily streams across walkways, carrying an acrid stench that clung to everything. Blackwater Street had earned its name.

Grey resisted a gag as the stench hit full force—worse here than anywhere else in the city. He swept his gaze wider: soot-streaked workers moved like ghosts through the smog, their steps heavy. Some dragged overloaded carts by sheer strength, while others huddled in alley mouths, eyes wary and sharp. Farther off, smoke curled endlessly from factory chimneys.

“This… is worse than Igoumont’s Lower Ward… And that place was already hell,” Grey muttered, recalling his brutal time in Igoumont’s industrial sector. He’d seen suffering there, but this was a new low.

‘So the richer parts shine brighter… and the poor rot deeper. That’s Tivian for you.’

Shaking the thought, he began walking deeper into the mire of Blackwater Street.

Despite its name, the area wasn’t a single road. It sprawled across a significant portion of the district, and just navigating its maze of alleys took the better part of an hour. By the time Grey had finished a preliminary circuit, the light was starting to fade.

‘It’s a labyrinth here. Narrow alleys everywhere, unpredictable layout, too many people coming and going. You couldn’t spot a rat without knowing where to look…

‘We’ll get nowhere trying to hunt them like this. We need to shift tactics.’

He checked his watch. The hands confirmed it was time. Doubling back to the main entrance to Blackwater, his eyes soon picked out what he’d been searching for: a modest alleyway where a deep maroon carriage waited. Several wagons were parked nearby, their contents hidden under canvas, guarded by a few idle men.

Grey approached the carriage directly. One of the drivers standing nearby gave him a cautious look.

“Pardon… this is the transport for the performance?”

“Yes, sir. And you would be…?”

“I’m among the performers. Playing the part of the butler.”

“Ah, of course! Right this way, sir.” The man hurried to open the door. Grey stepped inside and closed it behind him. On the seat lay a carefully arranged set of clothing.

Without delay, Grey changed into the ensemble: a sleek, tailored butler’s coat, ascot tie, white gloves—the standard garb for a high-ranking Tivian household servant.

Once dressed, he adjusted his lapels and turned to the large mirror built into the carriage interior. He touched his face. Skin tone darkened, features restructured with practiced ease. The young man vanished, replaced by a stern, imposing figure: dark brown complexion, snow-white hair, a neatly styled mustache—the spitting image of Nutte.

Disguise perfected, Grey emerged from the carriage and addressed the waiting men. His voice now mirrored Nutte’s deep, clipped cadence.

“Begin the procession. Let us share the Saint Mother’s blessings with the forsaken of Blackwater. In Her name, we deliver aid.”

“Yes, sir!”

The crew responded as one. They pulled back the wagon covers, revealing stockpiles of goods—food, clothing, medicine, books, and home supplies—stacked to overflowing.

—

Charitable acts in Tivian were common enough—at least in form. Nobles and the wealthy often gave publicly, funneling donations through societies or trusts. These gestures, though widely praised, were often hollow. Funds trickled down slowly, if at all. Corruption siphoned off resources, and complex schemes ensured the money circled back to the elite.

Real generosity in Tivian meant stepping into the grime yourself. It meant looking the desperate in the eye and handing them relief with your own hands. Few ever bothered. But exceptions existed.

Now, along Blackwater Street’s main route, an extended convoy of wagons rolled forward. Flanking each side were crew members calling out to the people. Their chants piqued curiosity, drawing glances. Surprise quickly shifted to disbelief as the crowd registered what was happening.

An alms caravan—its cargo freely given. No cost, no strings. Just help, here and now.

Suspicion cracked as food and essentials began reaching eager hands. Then came the surge. From doorways and alleys, people emerged in droves, pushing toward the wagons. The promise of real, unfiltered charity spread like fire through dry brush. Hushed voices confirmed what others dared not believe. Hope filled the air.

Despite the growing throng, the crew maintained order with practiced authority. Lines formed quickly, kept neat by firm hands and commanding voices. At the center of the operation, high atop a decorated wagon, stood the one overseeing it all: the elderly, dark-skinned butler—flawlessly dressed and composed—issuing commands like a general.

“Maintain the lines! All will be served! There is enough for all! The Saint Mother does not forget you!”

His voice carried above the din, echoing off buildings and hanging like a benediction in the air. The crowd responded with murmurs of awe and thanks.

In the dense press of bodies near the wagons, another cloaked figure moved, figure feminine yet artfully concealed.

It was Adele, gliding through the mass of people unnoticed. She stretched her awareness outward, using her ability to detect and interpret emotional needs. All around her, raw desperation pulsed like electricity. Her passive gift sifted through those focused on her, while focused probes picked up yearnings not aimed at her specifically.

Need… endless waves of need… Adele searched through it all, hunting something different. Then it came—a spike of desire that didn’t fit. Not hunger. Not desperation.

*Disbelief.* A sharp, jarring craving to comprehend. A mind thrown into turmoil, gripped by impossibility, screaming for clarity.

She froze. Her eyes tracked the origin through gaps in the crowd. There—another cloaked figure.

The man stood motionless, his head tilted back. Through a slit in his hood, his face was visible: stunned, eyes wide, locked on the butler atop the wagon.

‘That—no—that’s *him*! That’s the Boyle family butler! But… but we had him! He was our prisoner! How is he out here? How is he handing out supplies like some saint? What is going on?!’

Paralyzed by shock, the man’s thoughts raged behind his stunned face. He’d only come to investigate the disturbance, but now he stood frozen by what he saw. His confusion radiated from him like heat.

‘Bingo,’ Adele thought, her lips twitching into a sly smile beneath her hood. ‘Looks like someone took the bait.’