Rudel's boot slammed into the door again. The wood around the latch splintered, and the door flew inward, crashing against the wall.
The big man filled the doorway, his silhouette blocking the dim light from the hall. His eyes, small and brutal, scanned the room and immediately locked onto Lutz, who stood frozen by the table, the iron candleholder held uselessly at his side.
"Thinkin' of usin' that, Fischer?" Rudel sneered, stepping inside. Another, bulkier Viper followed him, blocking the exit.
Lutz's mind raced, Andrei's panic clashing with Lutz's ingrained survival calculus. Fighting was suicide. His only currency was words.
He let the candleholder clatter to the floorboards. The sound was loud, final. He raised his empty hands, making his body look smaller, defeated.
"I wasn't thinking," Lutz croaked, letting the raw pain in his throat thicken his voice. "I was scared."
Rudel stepped closer, his breath smelling of cheap tobacco. He grabbed a handful of Lutz's shirt, shoving him back against the wall. A rough finger jabbed at the livid rope burn on his neck. "This your idea of scared? Tryin' to skip town without payin'?"
"I wasn't skipping," Lutz gasped, the pressure on his throat genuine and agonizing. He met Rudel's gaze, not with defiance, but with a desperate, calculated earnestness. "I was… I was making sure I'd be here."
Rudel's grip loosened a fraction. A flicker of confusion in his cruel eyes. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"The debt's to the Baron, right? Not to you." Lutz kept his voice low, urgent. "If I'm dead, the debt dies with me. The Baron gets nothing. But if I'm here…" He let the implication hang in the air. "I can work. I'm good at… getting things. I can get the Baron his money."
It was a fragile gambit. Appeal to the Baron's greed, not to Rudel's nonexistent mercy.
Rudel stared at him, his simple mind processing the logic. Killing a debtor was fun. Explaining to the Baron why he'd killed a debtor who was promising to pay was less fun.
He shoved Lutz away with a grunt of disgust. "The Baron don't like to be kept waiting. And he don't like excuses." He jerked his head toward the door. "You can tell him your pretty story yourself. Move."
The other Viper grabbed Lutz's arm, his grip like iron. As he was marched out of the room, Lutz caught a last glimpse of the overturned chair, the rope still hanging from the beam.
The first part of the gamble had worked. He was alive. Now he had to convince the kingpin.
15th of November, 1352 of the Fifth Epoch, Early Evening.
The cold air of Indaw Harbor hit Lutz's face like a physical blow, a biting dampness that seeped through his thin jacket. It was a harsh, industrial cold, carrying the stink of fish, coal smoke, and the thick, briny odor of the sea. Rudel marched ahead, a hulking silhouette of impatience, while the other thug—a silent, broad-shouldered man named Jannik—kept a firm grip on Lutz's arm, propelling him through the warren of cobblestone streets.
As they moved, a detached part of Lutz's mind—the part that was still Andrei Hayes—replayed the door splintering. The force of the kick… it hadn't seemed right. A normal man, even a strong one, shouldn't have broken that latch so easily. The observation was a cold, sharp shard of unease lodged in his thoughts. There were rules in this world he didn't understand.
He forced his attention outward, using Lutz's ingrained knowledge to parse the city while Andrei's mind cataloged everything with a scholar's horrified fascination. This was the Salt-Weep District, a canyon of grimy brick tenements and belching factories. The cobblestones were slick with runoff, and the air thrummed with the distant, rhythmic pounding of steam-hammers. Workers, their faces smudged and exhausted, trudged in the opposite direction, their shifts ending. They kept their eyes downcast, carefully avoiding looking at Rudel and his prisoner. The fear the Vipers inspired was a palpable force.
They passed a public square where a crier, standing on a crate, shouted news in a booming voice that carried over the din. Fragments reached Lutz's ears: "…the Loen Kingdom protests the tariffs… the Church of the God of Steam and Machinery announces a new boiler design for naval vessels…" It was all strangely mundane, yet the context was alien. Loen Kingdom? Church of Steam? These were not names from any history book Andrei had ever read.
The crier's next words, however, made Jannik's grip tighten slightly. "…and the Backlund police continue their investigation into the recent spate of disappearances in the factory district, urging citizens to report any suspicious activity…"
Disappearances. The words landed with a chill. Lutz's memories supplied a dark undercurrent: people whispered about such things. They blamed rival gangs, or smugglers, or sometimes, in hushed tones, things that were… not people. The average person in Indaw Harbor knew the world was not safe. They knew the official churches held power, that nations squabbled, and that in the shadows, things happened that were best ignored if you wanted to see the next sunrise.
This was the knowledge of the common man: a grinding awareness of mortal dangers, both human and otherwise, set against a backdrop of political and industrial machinery they could never hope to influence.
They descended toward the docks, the streets narrowing into alleys choked with crates and refuse. The Harbor Vipers' influence was everywhere here. He saw their symbol—a black serpent coiled around a vertical harpoon—crudely painted on walls. Dockworkers unloading a ship under the watchful eye of a man with the same tattoo moved with a nervous efficiency. A tavern, the "Rusty Nail," had the symbol above its door. This wasn't just a gang; it was a parasite that had woven itself into the very lifeblood of the harbor. They controlled the theft, the smuggling, the protection rackets. They were the unofficial, brutal government of the waterfront.
Rudel stopped before a large, two-story warehouse that loomed over a lesser wharf. It was a grim structure of weathered wood and corrugated iron, its windows boarded up. Unlike the bustling main docks, this area was quiet, controlled. Two more Vipers lounged by a large sliding door, straightening up as Rudel approached. They nodded, their eyes sliding over Lutz with disinterest. This was a routine occurrence.
The main entrance was a smaller, reinforced door set into the larger frame. As they approached it, Rudel turned back to Lutz, his lip curling.
"Time to see the Baron, weasel. Remember what I said. No excuses."
Jannik released his arm, giving him a final shove toward the door. Lutz stood before it, the rough, scarred wood feeling like the gate to a prison—or a tomb. The walk was over. The real trial was about to begin.
The inside of the warehouse was a cathedral of stolen goods and shadows. The air was thick with the smell of damp hemp, old wood, and the faint, metallic scent of oil. High above, dusty beams of late afternoon light cut through the gloom, illuminating motes of dust dancing like restless spirits. The space was a chaotic maze of crates, barrels, and shrouded shapes that hinted at everything from stolen spirits to smuggled machinery.
Rudel led the way, his heavy boots echoing on the plank floor. Jannik followed close behind Lutz, a silent, looming presence. They passed groups of men—Vipers of all ages and sizes. Some were inventorying crates with a practiced efficiency, others honed blades or cleaned firearms with a casual reverence that spoke of constant readiness. The atmosphere was not one of frantic crime, but of a grim, well-ordered business. Conversations died as they passed, and hard eyes followed Lutz with a mixture of curiosity and contempt. He was a debtor. The lowest of the low.
"Move faster, rat." Rudel grunted. "I'm moving as fast as the debt hanging around my neck allows. It's surprisingly heavy." Lutz joked.
"Lets see you bein' funy in front of the baron" The Vyper answered.
Andrei's mind, still reeling, tried to categorize it all. This was an organization. A corporation of violence. Lutz's memories provided a sharper edge: these men were dangerous, but they were predictable. They respected strength and chain of command. It was the ones at the top you had to fear most.
They reached a set of rickety stairs leading to an office built into the warehouse's second-story loft. As they ascended, Lutz's gaze was drawn to a figure leaning against the railing. This man was different. Where Rudel was brute force, this man was coiled intensity. He was lean, with sharp features and restless fingers that tapped a rhythmless beat on the wood. His hair was an unruly mop of black, and his eyes held a disturbing, vacant warmth, like banked coals. This, Lutz knew instinctively, was Karl, the Baron's right hand. They called him "The baron's Spark", the knowledge came with a flash of memory: a rumor of a warehouse fire that had eliminated a rival gang, a fire that had burned unnaturally hot and fast.
Karl's eyes flicked over Lutz, not with threat, but with a detached, analytical curiosity, as if assessing a potential kindling. He gave a slight, almost imperceptible nod to Rudel and pushed the office door open.
The office was an island of oppressive order. It was sparsely furnished: a heavy desk, a few chairs, a locked cabinet. Baron Gunther Vogler sat behind the desk, his flint-like eyes fixed on Lutz as he entered. He didn't speak, letting the silence stretch, a tactic to fray the nerves.
Rudel broke it. "The little rat was waiting for us. Says he wants to work off the debt." He spat the words, disgusted by the very notion of negotiation.
The Baron's gaze was a physical weight. "The debt is due. Now. Not in installments. You have nothing to offer but promises, Fischer. Promises from a man who tried to hang himself to avoid me, are worth less than nothing."
Lutz forced his voice to stay level, pushing past the raw pain in his throat. "B-But killing me gets you nothing. My promises are all I have. But I'm a good investment. I know the streets. I can get into places others can't. I can… persuade people." He was careful not to say 'swindle' or 'con'. He was selling utility, not admitting to crime.
The Baron's expression remained impassive. "I have men who can break doors. I have men who can persuade with a fist. Why do I need a scrawny debt-skipper?"
It was then that Karl, who had been silently observing from his post by the door, spoke. His voice was softer than expected, almost conversational. "A fist is a simple tool, Gunther." He didn't use a title, a mark of his favored status. "It can break a lock, but it can't pick one. It can threaten a man, but it can't trick him."
His coal-like eyes settled on Lutz again. "This one… he's the sly type. Look at his eyes. He's scared, but he's still thinking. Calculating. A tool like that can be useful for more… delicate work."
The Baron's finger tapped slowly on the desk. He was listening.
Karl continued, his voice dropping slightly so as to not be heared by the small fries. "Remember that formula we found on the Intisian smuggler? The one that's been gathering dust because it doesn't suit a hammer? Maybe it's time for a different kind of tool. We could… test his mettle. See if he's worthy of the investment."
A silent communication passed between the two men. The Baron's eyes narrowed slightly, then he gave a slow, deliberate nod. The decision was made.
He turned his full attention back to Lutz, the full force of his presence pressing down. "Karl sees potential. I see a liability. But I am a businessman." He leaned forward, his voice dropping to a deadly calm. "This is the new debt. Your life, which you forfeited, now belongs to me. You will work for the Vipers. You will do what you are told, when you are told. Every coin you earn, every breath you take, is mine until I decide the debt is paid. There will be no second chances. Do you understand the terms?"
It wasn't a question. It was a verdict. Lutz felt a cold certainty settle in his gut. He had traded a quick death for a slow one, with a master who owned his very existence. He had survived the hour, but he had lost his freedom.
He bowed his head, the picture of submission. "I understand."
"Good," the Baron said, the word final. "Rudel, find him a cot in the back. His old life is over. He lives here now."