The retired titular councilor Ignat Silaev lived for himself, one might say, and did not grieve. They kicked me out of the service, so be it - it’s not just the chickens that don’t eat the money, the stray pigeons don’t eat it. And life is not boring for him in provincial Topinsk: either a werewolf needs to be caught alive, then killers from the offended empress will drop in for a glimpse, or even a sorcerer friend will drag him with him into the swamps to fight to the death with a whole flock of mermaids. But no, some devil was drawn to the service again! They lured me with the rank of collegiate assessor, protection from the machinations of the imperial wife, and a personal airship. I agreed. He plunged into frozen Yakutsk with its spirits and shamans. Now, drink up the bitter brew, flavored with blood, horror and such an ancient and black malice that not every brother inquisitor can overcome without turning gray hair.