The next week, aside from his studies, Lutz spent it trying to apply the acting principles he had created.
The principles were not just rules; they were a new lens through which to view the world. Lutz began to move through Indaw Harbor not as a man, but as a force of nature—a silent, inevitable correction to the world's carelessness. He could feel the difference immediately. Each act undertaken with these tenets in mind was no longer just a theft; it was a philosophical statement. And with each statement, he felt that faint, satisfying click in his soul, the potion within him settling with a discernible quickness that mere larceny had never provided.
Principle 1: What is left unseen and unguarded is mine to take.
He wasn't casing a merchant's house. He was observing a system of neglect. His target was a clerk in the customs office, a man with a habit of visiting a particular pub after work. The man always hung his coat on the same brass hook by the door, always drank two pints of stout, and always became engrossed in complaining about his superiors with his colleagues.
Lutz, dressed in his unremarkable "Civvies," sat in a shadowed booth, a half-finished ale before him. He didn't watch the clerk; he watched the coat. It was a void of attention, a perfect vacuum. The man's wallet was in the inner pocket, but that wasn't the prize. The prize was the small, folded stack of cargo manifests the man had tucked there, intending to work on them at home. They were covered in official stamps and unverified signatures—worthless to most, but to a man who understood their potential, they were a key to future leverage.
When the clerk lumbered off to the privy, Lutz didn't move like a thief. He moved like a shadow filling a space that was always meant for him. A casual brush past the coat rack, his Agile Hands a blur, and the manifests were in his own pocket. He was out the pub door before the man had finished relieving himself. The potion within him hummed, a quiet vibration of alignment. He hadn't stolen; he had simply collected what the world had so carelessly left available.
Principle 2: A Marauder takes because they must, not because they need.
The opportunity presented itself in the library. A wealthy, self-important scholar, deep in research on Feysac naval history, had left a beautiful, silver-plated letter opener and a small, mother-of-pearl inkwell on his desk while he went to search the stacks. They gleamed under the gaslight, calling to Lutz's Thief's nose with a siren song of value. The old Lutz would have taken them without a second thought. The new Lutz assessed them coldly.
He felt no need. He had funds. The items were distinctive and would be difficult to fence without questions. Taking them would be an act of pure greed, a spasm of the old, desperate hunger. It violated the deeper principle.
He left them untouched.
The sensation that followed was more profound than any he'd felt from actual theft. It was a wave of cold clarity, as if he had asserted dominance over the potion's most base instinct. He had taken control of the urge to take. The potion settled so dramatically it was almost a shudder, the digestion progressing further in that single moment of restraint than it had in three successful petty thefts. He was not a slave to acquisition; he was its master.
Principle 3 & 4: The Take is Never Worth the Fall. Your Exit is Your First Step, Not Your Last.
Karl gave him a job: retrieve a strongbox from the home of a minor noble who had reneged on a gambling debt to the Baron. The house was a fortress of new money, with visible alarm wires on the windows and a private watchman making rounds.
Lutz spent two days not planning the entry, but planning the exit. He Knew the Prey, Not Just Its Lair. The noble was paranoid but lazy. The watchman was diligent but predictable, with a fondness for a flask he kept in the garden shed.
The take was the strongbox. The potential "fall" was immense: capture, exposure, the Baron's wrath.
On the night, he didn't scale the wall to the study. He slipped into the garden shed and half-emptied the watchman's flask, replacing the liquor with a potent, rudimentary fast-acting sedative courtesy of his alchemy books. He had bought the necessary ingredients from different herb stores in the merchant district. His first exit route was neutralized.
He entered through a servant's entrance, the lock yielding to his touch. He found the study, the strongbox held in a flimsy safe behind a painting. But his Thief's nose tingled, snagging on a nearly invisible wire running from the safe to the floorboards. A pressure plate. The Fall.
He didn't touch it. He assessed the reward against the tripled risk. It failed the test. The Take was Not Worth the Fall.
He took something else instead. From the noble's desk, he lifted a handful of personal correspondence that hinted at a secret, second family in a nearby city. It was leverage, more valuable and far less risky than a booby-trapped box. He exited exactly as he had entered, leaving the noble asleep and oblivious, his most dangerous secret now resting in Lutz's pocket. The potion digested in warm, satisfying waves. He had taken, but on his own terms, with his safety paramount.
Know Your Prey, Not Just Its Lair.
This was the most subtle application, and the most rewarding. He was "Henrik Moss," helping a flustered Matthias Brenner organize a chaotic pile of trade permits. Brenner was his prey, and the Church investigation was the lair.
Lutz didn't just translate; he observed. He learned that Brenner tapped his fountain pen twice on the inkwell when he found a discrepancy. He noticed the man's shoulders tense slightly when certain merchant names appeared. He saw the way Brenner's eyes flickered to a small, framed sketch of his daughter when he was stressed.
Lutz wasn't taking an object; he was taking a measure of the man. He used this knowledge. When he "accidentally" found a document that seemed to implicate a rival of the Vipers, he presented it with a carefully crafted hesitation, mimicking the behavior that would make Brenner trust the find. He was stealing Brenner's certainty, his investigative direction, and redirecting it. He was appropriating the very course of the Church's inquiry, making it his own tool.
He was carefully stacking the translated documents on the edge of Brenner's desk, preparing to make a polite exit, when the air in the library's study room changed. It wasn't a sound, but a shift in pressure, a subtle realignment of the space that made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. His Thief's nose, even without Umbra, registered a new, potent value entering the vicinity.
Captain Signeil Krieg stood in the doorway.
His gaze, those sharp green eyes that missed nothing, swept the room, first acknowledging Brenner with a slight nod, then landing on Lutz. There was no surprise in his expression, only a quiet, calculating assessment, as if he were adding another data point to a complex equation.
"Assistant Inspector Brenner," Krieg's voice was a low, precise hum. "A moment of your time regarding the Vance shipping manifests."
"Of course, Captain," Brenner said, looking up from the document Lutz had just "found" for him. "Mr. Moss here was just finishing up some excellent translation work. A real boon to the investigation."
Krieg's eyes remained on Lutz. "Mister Moss. We meet again. Your dedication to civic duty is… commendable." The pause before 'commendable' was a universe of unspoken suspicion.
Lutz gave a slight, self-deprecating bow of his head, the perfect picture of a modest scholar. "I do what I can, Captain. A well-ordered city benefits everyone." He made to move around the desk, aiming for the door. "I'll leave you to your business."
"A moment, Mister Moss," Krieg said, his tone leaving no room for refusal. He stepped fully into the room, blocking the most direct path to the exit. Lutz's mind automatically cataloged two alternatives: the main aisle between the bookshelves, or a retreat deeper into the stacks. Both were less ideal. Your Exit is Your First Step. He had misstepped by letting himself be cornered.
Krieg engaged Brenner in a brief, technical discussion about cargo weights and Loenish import codes, but his attention was a physical weight on Lutz. Lutz stood patiently, his hands clasped behind his back, the model of respectful stillness. Inside, every instinct screamed. This was more than a casual delay.
As Brenner gathered a new set of papers, Krieg turned his full focus to Lutz. The languid predator was done observing; he was beginning to probe.
"You spend a great deal of time in the Salt-Weep district, do you not, Mister Moss? For a man of your… evident education."
It was a statement designed to provoke a reaction. Lutz kept his face neutral. "My late father was a dock clerk. The area is familiar to me. And translation work often requires understanding the vernacular of the ports."
"I see," Krieg murmured. His eyes drifted down to Lutz's hands, then back to his face. "You have the hands of a scholar, but you carry yourself with a certain… awareness. As if you're accustomed to navigating unruly crowds."
The conversation was a minefield. Every observation was a potential trigger. Lutz could feel the Captain circling the truth, sensing the incongruity of "Henrik Moss." He needed an edge, a way to match this razor-sharp intellect. The pendant of Henrik and Annelise felt cold against his skin, a reminder of the cost of a single misstep.
Then, the idea came. A desperate, dangerous gamble.
As Krieg opened his mouth to form another question, Lutz subtly shifted his posture, bringing his right hand forward as if to adjust his spectacles. Instead, his fingers slipped inside his coat, closing around the cool, rose-tinted hilt of Creed in his pocket.
The effect was instantaneous. A surge of warmth, a low hum of power that sharpened his senses to a razor's edge. The world didn't slow down, but his perception of it became crystalline. More importantly, he felt the artifact's secondary effect take hold—a faint, persuasive eloquence, a supernatural confidence in the truth of his own words.
"The city requires awareness to survive, Captain," Lutz said, his voice gaining a new, calm fluidity. "Even a scholar cannot walk these streets with his head perpetually in a book. That is a quick path to an empty purse or a cracked skull." He offered a thin, wry smile. "Vigilance is not the sole province of the Church."
Krieg's eyes narrowed a fraction. The shift in Lutz's demeanor had been subtle, but he'd noticed it. The young man had suddenly become… sharper.
"Vigilance," Krieg repeated, latching onto the word. "A interesting choice. It makes me wonder what, or who, a man like you might have seen during your… vigilant… walks." He took a half-step closer, his voice dropping. "A man with your eye for detail, who frequents the docks and the library… you would be a valuable witness. For instance, regarding this 'Harbor Butcher.' The papers are full of it."
This was it. The heart of the trap.
"A dreadful business," Lutz replied, the words flowing from him with an effortless, convincing gravity. He let a flicker of genuine revulsion show—not for the Butcher, but for the violence itself. Know Your Prey. Krieg valued precision and detested hysteria. "But I'm afraid I know nothing beyond what I've read. The mutilations are… singular. It seems the work of a madman, not a common criminal." He shook his head, a perfect gesture of scholarly bewilderment mixed with distaste. "I make a point to be indoors well before such darkness falls. My mother, may she rest in peace, always said nothing good happens in Indaw Harbor after midnight. It seems she was right."
He held Krieg's gaze, his own expression open and slightly troubled, the very picture of a concerned, law-abiding citizen. The eloquence from Creed didn't make him charming; it made his lies feel like reasoned, self-evident truths. He was stealing Krieg's suspicion and repackaging it as mundane caution.
Krieg studied him for a long, silent moment. The spiritual pressure in the room was palpable. Lutz could feel the Captain's will, a finely tuned instrument, testing the seams of his story. But the story was flawless, reinforced by the subtle, supernatural weight of his delivery.
Finally, Krieg gave a slow, almost imperceptible nod. The tension broke.
"A wise mother," he conceded, the intensity in his eyes receding back to a state of general observation. "Thank you for your time, Mister Moss. The Church appreciates cooperative citizens."
It was a dismissal. A conditional one.
"Always happy to assist, Captain," Lutz said, releasing his grip on Creed. The heightened clarity vanished, leaving behind the familiar, cold dread. He gave another nod to a preoccupied Brenner and walked out of the room, his steps measured and calm, even as his heart thudded against his ribs.
He didn't look back. He knew Captain Krieg's eyes were on his back until he turned the corner, a predator reluctantly letting potential prey wander from his sight. Lutz had talked his way out, but the cost was high. He had drawn more attention to himself, not less. The game was accelerating, and the next move would be even more dangerous.
As he left the library that day, the potion within him didn't just settle; it sighed, a deep, resonant feeling of harmony. This was it. This was the essence. Theft was not about objects. It was about opportunity, information, leverage, and control. It was about redefining the very boundaries of what could be owned.
He walked through the streets, the principles a mantra in his mind, each step a deliberate act of becoming.