The days following the raid on the Shrieking Eel settled into a new, tense rhythm for Lutz. He had begun his hunt for Silas. It was a frustratingly cold trail. He'd spent hours in the Gallowsmarket, dropping Silas's name with a carefully calibrated mix of threat and promise, but the fence had vanished like smoke. He'd visited the man's known haunts—a dingy boarding house, a particular stool at a seedy tavern—only to find them occupied by nervous strangers who claimed to know nothing. The man had expertly severed his ties to the underworld. The only thread left to pull was the one the Baron had suggested: family.
He also performed his usual duties—collections, theft, eavesdropping at the Rusty Nail—with a mechanical efficiency that left his mind free to churn. The memory of the fight was a constant undercurrent, a silent hum of terror and possibility beneath the grind of daily survival.
He maintained his training, rising before dawn to drill in the secluded corner of the warehouse. The movements Gerhart had taught him were becoming ingrained, a second nature. He also began a new ritual: twice a week, he paid for a proper bath at a public bathhouse and visited a second-hand clothier, slowly replacing his threadbare Viper-issue clothes with sturdier, less conspicuous garments. The change drew snickers from Rudel and some of the others.
"Look at the dandy," Rudel had sneered as Lutz returned in a new, dark wool jacket. "Gonna charm the coins out of the shopkeeps with your pretty new waistcoat?"
Lutz had just shrugged. "A clean tool is a sharp tool." The real reason was simpler: wearing the grime and stink of the warehouse felt like surrendering to it. The baths and new clothes were a small, defiant act of maintaining a separate identity, a line in the sand between Lutz the Viper and the consciousness that still felt like Andrei Hayes.
His most productive hours were still spent in the Indaw Public Library. With Loenese and modern Feysac mastered, he had burrowed into new texts: a dense grammar of Intisian and a crumbling primer on Ancient Feysac, the angular, runic script of the nation's ancestors. The languages were a refuge, a complex puzzle that quieted the noise in his head. As he studied, he absorbed the city's pulse through the newspapers.
The headlines spoke of a new normal: "Loenish Naval Exercises Conclude Near Pritz Harbor; Feysac Officials Decry 'Provocative Act.'" Another article noted the "Steam Church Announces Expansion of Main Indaw Seminary, Citing Increased Vocations." The death of a god had created a vacuum, and the political and religious forces of the world were rushing in to fill it. The Gray Sharks' eradication rated only a small, vague notice about "gang violence in the docklands," a testament to the Vipers' efficiency in controlling the narrative.
It was on his way back from the library, cutting through a bustling, open-air market that straddled the border between the city center and the slums, that he found the thread. He was browsing a stall selling dried herbs and remedies, the sharp, earthy smells a welcome change from the harbor's stench, when he overheard the vendor, a wizened old woman, complaining to a customer.
"That Silvia… she still owes me for the last batch of dreamwort. Three Shields! Her brother's always been bad news, but she was reliable. Now she's vanished too."
The name hit Lutz like a jolt of electricity. Silvia. It could be Silas's sister. He kept his face neutral, pretending to examine a bundle of dried lavender.
"Trouble with clients?" Lutz asked the vendor casually, his tone light.
The old woman snorted. "That one? Yes, trouble. Brother's a snake, and the apple doesn't fall far. She lives—well, lived—in a rented room above the chandler's on Cinder Lane. Probably skipped town with what she owed me."
Cinder Lane. It was a narrow, quiet street on the edge of the merchant quarter, not far from the market. A place for those who aspired to respectability but couldn't quite afford it.
Lutz bought a small, inexpensive pouch of mint leaves, thanked the woman, and walked away, his heart beating a steady, purposeful rhythm. He had a name and a last known location. Cinder Lane.
He went there first. The building was respectable in a shabby-genteel way, but a "Room to Let" sign in the window of Silvia's alleged apartment confirmed the herb-seller's information. He needed more. He loitered nearby until he saw an elderly woman sweeping the steps of the neighboring house.
"Pardon me," Lutz said, adopting a polite, concerned tone. "I'm looking for a Silvia? I have a package from her brother, but I'm told she's moved."
The woman eyed him suspiciously. "Aye, moved she did. In a right hurry, too. Left owing a week's rent, poor thing." She leaned on her broom. "That brother of hers is trouble. Always was."
"Trouble?" Lutz prompted, feigning ignorance.
"Skulking about, bad sorts coming round asking after him. She was scared, I could see it. Finally packed a single bag and left in the middle of the night last Tewsday. Said she found a cheaper room down in the Salt-Weep, of all places." The woman shook her head. "Fleeing from the pot into the fire, if you ask me."
"The Salt-Weep? Do you know where?" Lutz asked, pressing a single silver Shield into her hand.
Her fingers closed around the coin. "Didn't say exactly. But I heard her mention the coal yard on Stoker's Way. Said it was 'close enough to work.'" She sniffed. "Not a place for a decent woman."
It was enough. Stoker's Way was a grim, industrial artery deep in the Salt-Weep. Lutz thanked her and left. The picture was becoming clear. Silas had stashed his sister in the worst part of the city, the one place he might have thought the Vipers would overlook—their own backyard. It was a move born of desperation, not cleverness.
He found the tenement an hour later, a crumbling brick building squeezed between a tannery and the coal yard, the air thick with a stomach-turning cocktail of chemical and earthy stinks. He took up his position across the street, his patience now fueled by a clear purpose.
He didn't approach. He became a part of the scenery, leaning in a shadowed doorway across the narrow, refuse-choked street. For hours, he watched. He saw the comings and goings of weary residents, but no sign of Silvia. The frustration built. He had the location, but a direct approach was too risky. He needed a way to make her come to him, or to draw Silas out without spooking him.
As dusk began to settle, turning the fog a dirty orange, he saw her. A woman with Silas's sharp, furtive green eyes, but worn down by hardship, emerged from the tenement's main door. She carried an empty basket, heading towards the market. This was his chance.
He followed at a distance, his mind racing. The "Elias Vogler" persona was useless here; a well-dressed man in this district would be remembered. He needed to be someone else. He ducked into an alley, smudged dirt on his cheeks and new jacket, and adopted the slouched, hurried gait of a street messenger.
He intercepted her just as she was examining a stall of wilted vegetables. "Miss? Miss Silvia?" he said, his voice low and urgent.
She flinched, clutching her basket like a shield, her eyes wide with fear. "Who are you?"
"A friend of your brother's," Lutz whispered, layering his tone with conspiratorial anxiety. "He's in trouble. Bad trouble. The men who are after him… they're getting closer. He told me if I couldn't find him, to find you. Said you'd know the safe word."
It was a desperate gamble. There was no safe word. But the seed of panic, planted in fertile ground, took root instantly. Her face paled. "I… I don't know anything. I haven't seen him!"
"They're watching your old place on Cinder Lane," Lutz pressed, leaning closer. "They asked about you. It's only a matter of time before they check here. He needs to know. He needs to run. Where can I find him?"
The lie was a perfect cocktail of specific threat and urgent concern. Silvia's resolve crumbled. Tears welled in her eyes. "The old lighthouse," she choked out, looking around terrified. "The ruined one, south of the main harbor. He's been hiding there sometimes. Please, help him."
Lutz nodded, injecting a dose of grim reassurance. "I'll try. Get home. Stay inside." He melted back into the crowd before she could say another word, leaving her standing there, a perfect picture of terrified hope he had crafted solely to betray.
He didn't go to the lighthouse. Not yet. He went straight to Karl. The scent of the shadow was now a clear path.
He found Karl in the warehouse loft, meticulously cleaning a well-made pistol with an oily rag. The scene was one of calm precision, a stark contrast to the chaotic violence of the Shrieking Eel. Karl looked up as Lutz approached, his eyes reading the intent in Lutz's posture before a word was spoken.
"You have something," Karl stated, reassembling the pistol with practiced, fluid motions.
"Silas's sister," Lutz said, his voice low. "Her name is Silvia. She's not on Cinder Lane anymore. She's in a tenement on Stoker's Way, near the coal yard. Right in the middle of our territory." He delivered the facts cleanly, like a military report. "She confirmed Silas is using the old ruined lighthouse south of the main harbor as a hideout."
Karl's hands stilled for a moment, a faint, cold smile touching his lips. It was the expression of a chess player who has just been shown a winning move. "The lighthouse is a possibility. The sister is a certainty." He set the reassembled pistol down with a soft click. "A man on the run can abandon a place. It's harder to abandon his own blood." He stood up. "We'll send a pair to scout the lighthouse, but the sister is the priority. We take her quietly. Tonight."
Lutz felt a cold knot tighten in his stomach. This was it. The transition from hunter to captor. "I can show you the building. The exact door."
"Good. Get Gerhart. Meet me at the side entrance in five minutes. No one else needs to know." The order was given with an economy that brooked no discussion. This was to be a quiet, deniable operation.
Five minutes later, Lutz stood with Karl and a grimly silent Gerhart in the alley beside the warehouse. The air was cold, and the fog was thickening, perfect cover for their work.
"The goal is silence and speed," Karl instructed, his voice a near-whisper. "Gerhart, you take the door. Fischer, you point out the room. We go in, we secure her, we leave. If there's any trouble…" He didn't finish the sentence. He didn't need to.
They moved through the Salt-Weep district like ghosts, their footsteps muffled by the fog and the ever-present grime of the streets. The journey to Stoker's Way felt both interminably long and terrifyingly short. Lutz's mind raced. This is necessary. This is the only way. Silas made his choice. The logic was sound, a cold, hard edifice. But it did nothing to quiet the unease coiling in his gut.
They reached the tenement. A single, sickly yellow gas lamp cast a dim light over the entrance, doing little to dispel the deep shadows. The stench of the coal yard and the tannery was overwhelming.
"Which one?" Gerhart grunted, his voice like grinding stones.
"Third floor," Lutz whispered. "The door at the front, facing the street."
Gerhart nodded. He didn't bother with the lock. He placed a broad shoulder against the cheap wood, set his feet, and pushed. There was a sound of splintering wood, surprisingly muted, and the door swung inward. It was less a break-in and more like a force of nature asserting itself.
They moved inside and up the narrow, dark staircase. The building was silent, save for the distant crying of a baby and the sound of their own breathing. They reached the third-floor landing. Lutz pointed to the door.
Karl took over. He produced a set of thin, metal tools. Where Gerhart used brute force, Karl used surgical precision. He worked on the lock for perhaps ten seconds before there was a soft click. He eased the door open.
The room within was a single, small space, lit by a single candle. Silvia was sitting on a thin pallet on the floor, mending a torn dress. She looked up as the door opened, her eyes widening in sheer, undiluted terror. She opened her mouth to scream.
Gerhart was across the room in two strides. His large, calloused hand clamped over her mouth before a sound could escape. "Quiet," he rumbled, the word not a request but a physical command.
Lutz stood frozen in the doorway, watching. Silvia's eyes, wide and pleading, darted around the room, landing on him. There was a flicker of recognition—the messenger from the market—followed by a wave of utter betrayal that was more painful to witness than any accusation.
Karl entered, closing the door softly behind him. He surveyed the room with a dispassionate gaze. "Get her things. Anything personal."
Lutz moved mechanically, grabbing a small, worn knapsack and stuffing the dress and a few other meager possessions inside. Just business. This is just business, he told himself, but the thought felt hollow.
"Let's go," Karl said. Gerhart half-led, half-carried the struggling, muffled woman towards the door. She was slight, offering little physical resistance, but the terror radiating from her was a palpable force.
The journey back was a tense, silent nightmare. They kept to the darkest alleys, Gerhart's bulk and firm grip making Silvia's struggles futile. Lutz followed, the knapsack feeling like a lead weight. He had done it. He had successfully located and captured the leverage. He had been efficient, clever, and useful.
Congratulations. You're a model employee. Now you get to watch what the company does with its assets. The cynical thought surfaced, but it lacked its usual bitter humor. It just felt true.
They slipped back into the warehouse through the same side entrance. Karl led them to a remote storage room, windowless and smelling of damp rot and old hemp. A single chair sat in the center of the room.
Gerhart sat Silvia in the chair. She was trembling violently, tears streaming down her face, cutting paths through the grime. Karl looked at her for a long moment, then turned to Lutz.
"Secure the door," he said. "We wait."
Lutz closed the heavy wooden door, plunging the room into near-total darkness, broken only by a thin sliver of light from beneath it. He heard a final, choked sob from Silvia, and then silence. The trap was set. The bait was in place. And Lutz was now a keeper of the cage, waiting for the sound of another desperate creature walking into the snare he had helped build. The cost of the hunt was no longer an abstract concept; it was a terrified woman's muffled crying in the dark.