The fog clung to Lutz with the tenacity of a regret as he trudged away from the scrapyard and the hushed, impossible market within the Sea-Sorrow. The Candle Devourer Core in his pocket felt alien, a lump of condensed shadow that seemed to drink the warmth from his thigh with every step. His mind, reeling from the dual revelations of Roselle's diary and the devastating cost of the core, fixated on the mundane absurdity of it.
A Candle Devourer. What the hell was that? Some creature that ate wax? Snuffed out flames? The name was so literal it was useless, painting a picture of some mundane pest, not a thing whose internal organ could be traded for a man's entire savings and a sliver of his soul. The world of Beyonders was one of bizarre specifics, where power was locked behind a checklist of the grotesque and the obscure. He felt like a man trying to assemble a clock from a pile of random, misshapen cogs, blindfolded.
"it seems to suck in the light surrounding it, how strange, but i guess its fitting for a thief"
The warehouse was a tomb of familiar shadows when he returned. The usual night watchman gave him a grunt of acknowledgment, his eyes glazed with boredom. Lutz slipped inside, the oppressive atmosphere of the place now a dull constant, like a toothache he'd learned to ignore. In the privacy of his bunk, he pried up the loose floorboard. The collection of ingredients he'd so carefully gathered seemed pathetic next to the void left by his coin purse. The vial of blood, the nail fragments, the verbena, the stolen sapphire necklace... and now, this core. He placed the dark, fibrous lump beside them, his fingers lingering on its unnaturally cool, porous surface.
He had one. Just one.
He lay on his thin mattress, staring at the stained wood of the bunk above him. The Blood-Speckled Black Mosquito. The name now haunted him more than any ghost. It would be rarer, more exotic, more expensive. He was broke. Completely. The path forward was a solid wall, and he had no hammer.
Sleep, when it came, was a shallow pool, and his dreams were filled with the buzzing of invisible wings and the feeling of something precious being slowly, inexorably drained away.
Intis, Church of Steam and Machinery HQ
The air was different here. It was not the damp, salt-ridden fog of Indaw Harbor, but a dry, warm haze scented with oil, hot metal, and ozone. The chamber was a marvel of geometric precision, all polished brass, gleaming copper pipes that pulsed with a low thrum of power, and intricate clockwork devices that clicked and whirred with hypnotic regularity. Light came not from gas jets, but from glowing glass orbs set into the walls, casting a sterile, unwavering illumination.
Behind a vast desk of engineered wood and inlaid metal sat a man whose face was a roadmap of stern authority. His hair was the colour of iron filings, his beard trimmed with mechanical exactness, and his light-blue eyes held the cold, assessing gaze of one who values efficiency above all else. The insignia of his office—a complex gear interlocked with a triangle—was pinned to the high collar of his steam-priest's robes. This was Saint Valerius Montclaire.
"We are presented with a unique confluence of opportunity and obligation," the Saint's voice was as precise as the ticking of the master clock on the wall behind him. "The spiritual desolation of Feysac, while a tragedy, has created a vacuum. Nature, and politics, abhor a vacuum. The Evernight Goddess spreads her cloak, but there are places her stars do not reach, especially in her current state. The hearts of people who value progress, order, and the tangible power of industry."
He steepled his fingers, the polished brass caps on his gloves clicking softly. "Our initial assessments of Indaw Harbor are promising. The disarray in the national faith has left the populace... adrift. They seek new anchors. We will provide them. Not with grand pronouncements, but with quiet, steady presence. Soup kitchens powered by efficient steam-heaters. Public clocks that keep perfect time. Lectures on mechanical principles that can improve their livelihoods. We will make ourselves indispensable before we make ourselves loud."
He paused, his light-blue eyes shifting to the other occupant of the room. "This, however, presents a secondary problem. A nation in crisis, its institutions weakened, becomes a breeding ground for parasites. The criminal element in Feysac has grown bold, structured, and insidious. They are a corruption in the gears of society. They introduce friction, uncertainty, and chaos. They are the antithesis of the order we represent."
A shadow fell across the desk as the other figure stepped forward from where she had been observing a schematic of a new pressure valve. She was tall and impeccably proportioned, moving with an economy of motion that spoke of both physical grace and a formidable intellect. Her hair was a cascade of deep, dark red, like aged wine or freshly spilled blood. But it was her eyes that commanded attention. They were a deep, obscure purple, the colour of twilight shadows or a rare, fathomless amethyst. They held a penetrating, analytical quality, seeming to not just see, but to dissect, to unravel any mystery laid before them.
"This filth cannot be tolerated," she said, her voice low and melodious, yet carrying the sharpness of a honed blade. "They prey on the very people we aim to shelter. They disrupt commerce, spread fear, and create an environment where our message of order and progress will be viewed as mere fantasy. A show of force is necessary. Not a blunt instrument, but a surgical one. We must identify the key nodes of this criminal network—the leaders, the financiers, the enforcers—and remove them. We will cleanse the machinery of society so that it may function as intended."
Saint Valerius gave a slow, approving nod. "Precisely. A chaotic purge would only create more fear. We must be scalpels, not cudgels. We will restore order by demonstrating the superior efficiency of our methods." He fixed his gaze upon her. "This task requires subtlety, patience, and an uncompromising will. You have demonstrated all three in your service in Loen. Therefore, this undertaking is yours, Deacon."
The dark-red haired woman, Reverie Noire, bowed her head slightly, a formal, respectful gesture that did nothing to diminish the aura of latent power that surrounded her. Her deep purple eyes gleamed under the steady light of the orbs, already mapping out the shadows of Indaw Harbor, ready to unravel its secrets one by one.
"It will be done, Your Eminence."
The three next days consisted of Lutz working hard to regain funds, he took on additional "work" from the Vipers and even went to the merchant circles of the inner city in order to target wealthier individuals so as to make the process quicker, albeit more dangerous.
But despite his efforts, he could only amass 6 hammers, and the next instance of the whispering market was in 2 days, if the mosquito's price was similar to the candle devourer core, he wouldn't have enough, and nothing guaranteed that the vendor would accept "secrets" as payment.
Later that day, as usual, Lutz found himself in his spiritual bunker, the public library.
He sat at his usual carrel in the dim corner, a grammar text open before him: A Primer on the Dialects of the Rorsted Archipelago. The languages were a mongrel collection, maritime pidgins born from centuries of trade between the Southern Continent, Loen, and Intis. Grammatically simple but phonetically dense, full of clicks and glottal stops that would take weeks to master.
It was also the last linguistic frontier this library offered. He'd systematically consumed everything else—modern Feysac, Loenese, Intisian, Ancient Feysac, even a dusty primer on Jotun that was more archeological curiosity than practical tool. The Rorsted dialects and the Gargas Island tongues were all that remained, obscure enough that most scholars wouldn't bother.
He was bothering because he needed to. Because when he wasn't conjugating verbs or parsing syntax, he was back in that storage room, feeling the resistance of flesh against steel.
Focus. The genitive case in Rorsted Common uses a suffix rather than a separate article...
Movement in his peripheral vision broke his concentration. A man at the biology section, perhaps thirty feet away, was pulling books from the shelves with a deliberate, methodical rhythm. Natural history volumes, anatomical texts, a thick tome on marine invertebrates.
Lutz wouldn't have noticed—the library attracted all sorts—except for two details that snagged his attention like burrs.
First: the man's hands. As he reached for a high shelf, his coat sleeve rode up, revealing forearms marked with stains. Not the ink stains of a scholar or the grease of a mechanic. These were darker, irregular blotches that had an organic quality, like old blood inadequately scrubbed away. Or chemical burns.
Second: his complexion. The man was sallow, his skin bearing a faint, waxy sheen that spoke of someone who spent too much time indoors—or around noxious fumes. His breathing was slightly labored, audible even from this distance in the library's hush.
Lutz's scholar's curiosity, the part of him that was still Andrei Hayes, whispered: Interesting. What's he studying?
Lutz Fischer's instincts, honed by months of survival, thought something else: That could be useful.
He watched as the man carried his small stack of books to the librarian's desk, checking them out with a quiet efficiency. The librarian, an elderly woman who knew Lutz by sight, smiled at the man with polite disinterest. Nothing remarkable about a patron borrowing biology texts.
As the man tucked the books under his arm and headed for the exit, Lutz made a decision. He closed his Rorsted grammar, left it on the carrel with the understanding he'd return tomorrow, and followed.
The street outside was busy with late afternoon foot traffic—workers returning from the docks, merchants closing their stalls. The man moved with purpose but without urgency, heading away from the harbor district and toward the more residential areas inland. Not the wealthy merchant quarter where "Elias Vogler" operated, but not the Salt-Weep slums either. The middling neighborhoods where clerks and shopkeepers lived, respectable but anonymous.
Lutz kept a careful distance, using the skills he'd honed through countless collections and surveillances. He was just another young man in a dark coat, moving with the crowd. The man never looked back.
After fifteen minutes of walking, the man turned onto a quiet, tree-lined street called Eisner Lane. The buildings here were narrow townhouses, two or three stories, their facades showing the wear of decades but not the decay of true poverty. The man stopped at a house halfway down the block, its shutters closed despite the daylight. He produced a key, glanced once up and down the street with that same furtive quality, and disappeared inside.
Lutz continued walking past, not breaking stride, but his senses were tuned outward. He noted the number: 47 Eisner Lane. The house itself was unremarkable—brown brick, a small iron railing, a narrow alley on its left side separating it from the neighbor. No light appeared in the windows after the man entered.
He circled the block, approaching from the alley side. The windows on this side were also shuttered, but there was a small cellar grate near the foundation, partially obscured by overgrown weeds. He crouched, pretending to tie his boot, and listened.
Nothing. No voices, no movement. Not even the expected sounds of someone settling in after a walk—no footsteps on floorboards, no clink of a kettle being set to boil. The house had the quality of a held breath.
He considered his options. Breaking in was possible—he had the skills now, both from his inherited memories and from Karl's tutelage. But to what end? He had no specific suspicion, just a vague sense of wrongness. A man with stained hands and biology books was not, in itself, a crime or even necessarily suspicious.
And yet.
The stains. The sickly complexion. The shuttered windows in daylight. The silence.
A hobbyist. Or a fanatic. Or someone working with things that require... discretion.
Lutz had learned the value of patience, of not forcing a situation before understanding its shape. He had a location now. He could return, watch the house, learn the man's routine. The Whispering Market had shown him there was an entire ecosystem of people dealing in the bizarre and forbidden. This man might be a node in that network.
He stood, brushed the dirt from his hands, and walked away from 47 Eisner Lane, committing the address to memory. The warehouse awaited, with its familiar smells and its oppressive, violent warmth. But now he had a project, a small mystery to occupy the parts of his mind that still craved puzzles over brute survival.