The morning light piercing the high warehouse windows felt like needles in Lutz's eyes. Every muscle ached with a deep, familiar protest, a symphony of pain conducted by the boot to his ribs and the knife's kiss on his back. Yet, beneath the physical misery, something hummed. A new layer of energy and vitality, while these were painful wounds, his body was not that of a normal human anymore. He moved with a careful grace, the phantom memory of scaled walls and broken bones guiding his movements.
He found Karl not at his desk, but standing before a large, hand-drawn map of Indaw Harbor pinned to the wall. He was tracing a route with a charcoal-stained finger.
"Fischer," Karl said without turning around. "I trust you've grown… acquainted with your new tools?"
Lutz stopped a few feet away, his posture straight despite the pain. The question was a trap, layered with meaning. Did he mean the potion? The abilities? Or the more philosophical 'tools' of violence and deception he'd been forced to employ?
"Mostly. The user's manual was a bit bloody and hard to read, but I'm getting the hang of it."
Karl finally turned, his coal-like eyes sweeping over Lutz, missing nothing: the slight stiffness in his stance, the way he favored his right side. A faint, knowing smirk touched his lips. "Practice is a generous term for what happened in the dockside alleys last night. Two bodies found behind the fishmonger's on Crane Street. Messy. But efficient."
Lutz didn't flinch. He had known the Vipers would hear about it.
"Consider it my contribution to neighborhood beautification. They insisted on a tuition fee. I'm nothing if not a good teacher, i provided a lesson."
A short, approving grunt was his answer. "Good. The lesson is this: The Baron and I did not gift you that formula. It was not a reward for loyalty, which you have in short supply, or for sentiment, which we have none." He stepped closer, his voice dropping, becoming cold and precise. "It was an investment. And now, it is time for that investment to see a return. Your days of counting textiles and strong-arming shopkeepers are over."
"A shame. I was just getting my 'you owe us money' glare perfected, also, no more quality time with Gerhart? I'll miss the profound conversations."" Lutz replied.
Karl didn't pay attention to what he said. "You are a specialized tool now, and you will be used for specialized work."
Lutz met his gaze, feeling not like a victim being pressed into service, but like a weapon being taken from its rack. This was the expected price. This was the deal.
"Ah, so I'm a business expense. Should I start depreciating my soul on a ledger now, or later? I was wondering when the interest payments would start. The principal was quite a bitter pill to swallow."
"Anyway, what's the job?"
Karl turned back to the map, jabbing a finger at a district far from the grimy Salt-Weep, a neighborhood of tree-lined streets and gaslit promenades. "The Upper Anchor district. A man named Alaric Vance. Imports fine porcelain and Intisian silks. He's grown… politically ambitious. He's been meeting with officials from the Loen embassy, and we believe he's preparing to provide testimony about 'undue influence' on the port's customs officials—testimony that would be inconvenient for certain arrangements the Baron enjoys."
He slid a small slip of paper across a nearby crate. On it was a rough sketch of a house and an address. "Your task is to enter his home tonight, while he attends a soiree at the embassy. Find his private study. Any correspondence with the Loenish seal. Steal them. Nothing else.
"That's sad, so many shiny things will go untouched, it'll be hard to restrict myself".
This is not a burglary for profit; it is an extraction of information. Clean. Quiet. No bodies, no noise, no signs you were ever there. Is that understood?" Karl answered indifferently.
Lutz picked up the slip of paper. The address seemed to burn in his hand. This was different. This wasn't a brawl in a back alley or a snatch from a drunk. This was a deliberate, planned incursion into the world of the powerful. A thrill, cold and sharp, ran through him, momentarily eclipsing the ache in his bones. His new senses were already whirring to life, imagining the locks on the doors, the layout of the house, the possible locations of a hidden study.
He could feel the potential for acquisition in the task. Not just of papers, but of leverage, of secrets. It was a different kind of theft, a higher-stakes game.
"Understood," Lutz said, his voice low and steady. He folded the paper and tucked it into his pocket. "It will be done."
Karl gave a final, curt nod, his attention already returning to the map. The audience was over. Lutz turned and walked away, the simple slip of paper feeling heavier than any coin purse.
The ache in Lutz's side had settled into a dull, persistent throb, a grim metronome keeping time as he made his way out of the Salt-Weep and towards the Upper Anchor district. He moved not with the furtive speed of a criminal, but with the measured, observant pace of a scholar or a surveyor. His new reality was a double-vision: one eye saw the world as it was, the other saw it as a series of opportunities and vulnerabilities.
The change in the city's character was abrupt. The grime and chaotic noise of the docks faded, replaced by broad, clean-swept streets, the scent of damp earth from manicured gardens, and the quiet hum of affluence. The houses here were not crammed together for survival but stood with confident space between them, built of pale sandstone and dark timber, their windows gleaming with glass that was actually clear.
Number 17, Alaric Vance's residence, was a three-story townhouse nestled between two similar, though slightly less imposing, properties. It was a statement of wealth, but not of ostentation. Solid. Secure. Unassuming. The perfect place for a man to keep inconvenient secrets.
Lutz found a bench in a small, leafy square a block away, partially obscured by a laurel hedge. He took out a small notebook and a stub of pencil, pretending to sketch the foliage. His real canvas was the house.
Alright, Vance, he thought, his gaze sweeping over the structure. Let's see what you're so proud of.
His eyes, sharpened by his advancement, began to pick apart the defenses. The front door was thick oak, banded with iron, and he could just make out the robust, polished brass of a high-quality lock. A direct approach was out of the question. The ground-floor windows were all tall and elegant, but they were also barred with delicate-looking but undoubtedly strong wrought iron. More for show than true security, but a noisy obstacle nonetheless.
His attention drifted upward. The second-floor windows were unbarred. One, on the side of the house facing the narrower gap between properties, was slightly ajar, a tell-tale sign of a room that needed airing—a servant's room, perhaps, or a lesser-used guest room. A potential entry point, but it would require a significant climb.
Then his gaze landed on the third floor, and a slow, cold smile spread across his face. There, nestled in the steeply pitched slate roof, was a dormer window. It was smaller than the others, likely leading to an attic or a servant's quarters. And it had no iron bars. It was the house's forgotten back door, high up and out of sight.
There you are, he thought, Everyone forgets the top.
But getting there was the problem. The façade was mostly smooth sandstone, with few handholds. His eyes traced the path. A sturdy-looking drainpipe ran from the gutters down the side of the house, passing within a few feet of the second-floor window he'd noted. It was a risk. The pipe could be rusted, the brackets loose. But his enhanced agility and newfound understanding of balance and trajectory made it feel… plausible. He could scale the pipe, use the slight protrusion of the second-floor window's ledge to reposition, and then make the final, shorter climb to the dormer window.
Entry: secured, he mentally noted. Now, for the prize.
He got up and started circling around the house as close as possible. This was where his Thief's nose truly came into play. He let his focus soften, not looking at the house, but into it, seeking the quiet, instinctual pull of concentrated value. The hum was faint at this distance, a whisper against the backdrop of the city. But it was there. It emanated not from the grand front rooms, but from the rear of the second floor. A room with a window overlooking the back garden. The study. He was sure of it.
Got you.
Next, escape. A successful thief always plans his exit before his entrance. The front was a death trap. The back garden was a walled enclosure, but the wall was a manageable eight feet high, topped with iron spikes. A nuisance, not a barrier. He could be over it in seconds. From there, a network of service alleys ran behind the row of houses, a hidden world for delivery carts and servants that would swallow him whole. He traced the route in his mind: over the wall, third alley on the left, straight through to the mews, then out onto a busy commercial street where he could disappear into the crowd.
He spent another hour observing the rhythms of the house. A maid came out to beat a rug. A cook's assistant left with a market basket. The patterns were predictable, built on the rigid hierarchy of service. The real danger would be the lone, burly individual who patrolled the perimeter at irregular intervals—a private watchman. The man moved with a bored gait, but his eyes were sharp. Lutz timed his rounds. Roughly every fifteen minutes. A tight but manageable window.
As he sat there, a new sensation prickled at the edge of his awareness. It was different from the focused hum of the documents. It was a diffuse, glittering sensation coming from the heart of the house—the master bedroom, he guessed. Jewels. Gold. Loose coin. The mundane wealth of a merchant. His fingers twitched instinctively. It would be so easy. A secondary score. A personal bonus for a job well done.
No, he chided himself, the thought feeling like a physical temptation. That's not the job. Karl said nothing else. A Marauder isn't a magpie, grabbing every shiny thing. He's a surgeon, taking only the diseased organ. Stealing the Vance family silver would turn a quiet information extraction into a loud, personal robbery, bringing down a different kind of heat. He had to be disciplined. The real treasure wasn't in the jewels; it was in the Baron's continued favor and his own survival.
He closed his notebook, the blueprint of the theft complete in his mind. Every lock, every handhold, every timed patrol, and the siren song of forbidden loot, all cataloged and assessed. The physical pain of his wounds was now just background noise, a secondary concern.
He stood, his body humming with a cold, focused energy. The house at 17 Upper Anchor Road was no longer a fortress. It was a schematic, a series of solvable problems. As he walked away, blending back into the shadows of the approaching evening, he felt a familiar, grim anticipation.
The warehouse felt like a different world upon his return. The grim, oppressive atmosphere was now a familiar toolkit, its shadows places to hide, its noises a map of its inhabitants. The throbbing in his side and the sting on his back, however, were insistent reminders that he was still flesh and blood. He needed to be functional for the job.
He found Old Henrik in his usual corner, this time meticulously oiling a set of lockpicks that looked far more sophisticated than anything a simple harness-mender should own. The old man didn't look up as Lutz approached, but his one good eye tracked his movement.
"You're moving like a man who argued with a cart and lost," Henrik grunted, his voice a low rasp.
"Something like that," Lutz replied, leaning against a crate. The simple act of stopping made the pain flare. "I need to clean up. And I need… different clothes."
This finally made Henrik look up. His milky eye seemed to stare through Lutz, while the good one held a spark of understanding. "The investment is being put to work, then." It wasn't a question. He set down the lockpicks and gestured for Lutz to follow him to the small, tucked-away forge and wash area.
As Lutz carefully peeled off his coat and shirt, hissing as the fabric pulled away from the clotted wound on his back, Henrik rummaged in an old sea chest. The cut was clean but deep, a angry red line against his pale skin. The bruise on his ribs was a blossoming tapestry of purple and black.
"Hold still," Henrik ordered, producing a bottle of clear, potent-smelling liquor. "This isn't for drinking." Before Lutz could protest, the old man poured a generous amount onto a cleanish rag and pressed it against the knife wound.
Fire erupted across Lutz's back. He gritted his teeth, a strangled gasp escaping him. For a terrifying second, the world swam in a haze of white-hot pain. He squeezed his eyes shut, instinctively reaching for the image of the iron crucible, using Cogitation to build a wall against the sensation. The pain receded from an inferno to a manageable, if searing, ache.
Henrik grunted, either in approval of his silence or at the state of the wound. He produced a roll of relatively clean bandages and began to wrap Lutz's torso with practiced, efficient movements. "You'll live. But you'll be stiff. Don't do any heavy lifting."
"Not planning on it," Lutz managed, his voice tight.
Finished, Henrik turned back to the chest and pulled out a bundle of dark cloth. He tossed it to Lutz. It was a set of clothes—close-fitting, dark trousers, a long-sleeved shirt of a thick, silent wool, and a sleeveless jerkin of soft, supple leather. There were no fastenings that could catch or buttons that could glint. Everything was secured with ties or laces.
"Wear this," Henrik said. "Wool doesn't rustle like cotton. The leather is dark and quiet. And it's thin. Lets you feel the walls, helps with balance." He pointed a gnarled finger at Lutz's own sturdy but scuffed boots. "Black those. Use soot from the forge. Your face and hands too, when the time comes. You're not a gentleman paying a social call. You're a shadow. Shadows don't wear brown leather."
Lutz ran his fingers over the clothes. They were unassuming, almost invisible in his hands. They were perfect. This was the uniform of the work he was now destined for. "Thanks, Henrik."
The old man turned back to his lockpicks. "Just maintaining the Baron's assets. A rusty tool is a useless tool. Now get out of my sight. Some of us have real work to do."
A ghost of a smile touched Lutz's lips. It was the closest thing to camaraderie he was likely to get.
The night of the next day found Lutz transformed. Dressed in Henrik's borrowed shadows, his face and hands smudged with grime, he was no longer Lutz Fischer, the gang member. He was a concept, a void in the fabric of the night. He stood perfectly still in the deep gloom of a garden gate across and down the street from Number 17, his breathing slow and controlled. The house was a silhouette against the lesser darkness of the sky, a single light burning in a downstairs window—likely a servant finishing the final tidying.
The grand soiree at the Loenish embassy was underway. Alaric Vance would be there, smiling, shaking hands, utterly unaware that the silence he had paid for was about to be stolen from him.
Lutz felt a strange calm settle over him. The pain in his body was a distant echo, a software running in the background. His mind was clear, the blueprint of the house etched behind his eyes. He could feel the faint, magnetic pull of the green ledger from the second-floor study, a siren song only he could hear. The drainpipe was a ladder waiting to be climbed. The dormer window was an open invitation.
He watched the lone watchman complete his round, his lantern bobbing like a lazy firefly before disappearing around the back of the property. Fifteen minutes, Lutz thought.
He took one last, deep breath, the cold air filling his lungs. This was it. No more planning. No more analysis. It was time to act. Time to steal.
He stepped out of the shadows and crossed the street, a patch of deeper night detaching itself and moving with silent, purposeful intent. The city held its breath around him.