Dawn bled a pale, sickly light through the warehouse's high windows, doing little to dispel the shadows that clung to Lutz like a second skin. Sleep had been a fractured thing, filled with the phantom sensation of cracking bone and the shimmer of a crystallized rose. He woke with a start, the memory of the fight a cold stone in his gut. His first conscious thought was of Rudel.
He found the enforcer in the same corner, but the frantic energy of the previous night had been replaced by a grim, waiting stillness. Henrik was there, wiping his hands on a blood-stained rag, his one good eye looking more weary than usual.
"How is he?" Lutz asked, his voice low.
Henrik shook his head. "The body is a machine, and his took a beating. Lost too much blood. The flesh will knit, the bones are set. But the spirit… it's retreated. He's in a coma. He'll live, probably. But he'll be out for days, maybe a week. It's up to him now to find his way back."
A coma. The word landed with a complex, unsettling weight. Relief, immediate and selfish, washed over him. It bought him time. But it was followed by a spike of cold anxiety. What happened when Rudel woke up? The man was a blunt instrument, loyal to the Baron to his core. He wouldn't understand the need for secrecy about the Beyonders, the characteristics. He would tell Karl everything: the ritual, the impossible speed of the beautiful one, the horrifying prayers of the old man. He would describe Lutz driving knives into a man's eyes.
Karl would know he had lied. And Karl would want to know why.
Standing there, looking at Rudel's broken, dormant form, Lutz ran through his options with a criminal's cold calculus. He could try to bribe him. But with what? Rudel's loyalty wasn't for sale for coin; it was forged in the simple, brutal ethos of the Vipers. He could threaten him? The idea was laughable. Rudel would just break him in half once he recovered. The only other option was to ensure Rudel never woke up. The thought was there, a dark, smooth pebble in the stream of his consciousness. But it was impractical, and more than that, it felt… wasteful. Rudel was a known quantity. A predictable, manageable threat. Creating another mystery, another dead Viper, would bring down a scrutiny he couldn't afford.
No, he was stuck. His safety depended on the continued silence of a man whose very nature was to be loud and truthful. The lie he had told Karl was a ticking clock, and Rudel's awakening would be the alarm.
The pressure was immense, a vise tightening around his future. He needed to move. He needed an advantage, something so valuable it could buy his way out of any consequence, or give him the power to face it.
His fingers went to the inner pocket of his coat, which he had not taken off even to sleep. They brushed against the cold, heavy brass of the key. Their residence.
It was a risk. It could be another trap. But it was also the only tangible lead he had. It was a door, and behind it might be the answers—or the leverage—he desperately needed.
Without another word to Henrik, he turned and left the warehouse. The morning fog was thinner than the night's, but it still clung to the city, matching the murky uncertainty in his mind. The key had an address, 58 Anlenkwell street, towards the south-east, towards the warren of narrow streets and canals known as the Labyrinthine Docks, a step up from the Salt-Weep but still a place where questions were not asked.
He followed, his senses on high alert, his body moving with the fluid silence that was becoming second nature. It led him away from the main wharves, into a district of leaning, half-timbered houses built over the sluggish canal waters. The air smelled of damp rot, fish, and the faint, acrid tang of illegal distilleries.
It led him to a three-story boarding house that leaned precariously over the water, its paint peeled away by salt and neglect. The sign above the door, shaped like a leering gargoyle, was so faded the name was unreadable. This was it. The Gargoyle's Rest, or something similarly grim.
He stood across the narrow street, partially hidden in a doorway, and watched. He observed the comings and goings for nearly an hour. A tired-looking woman with a market basket. A courier with a package. No one who looked like they belonged to the world of ritual assassins.
Satisfied it wasn't an active ambush, he crossed the street and entered the dim, narrow foyer. The air inside was thick with the smell of boiled cabbage and mildew. A gaunt, elderly landlady with a shawl pulled tight around her shoulders sat behind a small counter, sorting keys.
Lutz didn't hesitate. He adopted the posture of a messenger, slightly impatient, slightly bored. He held up the key. "Message for the gentlemen in room…" he let his sentence trail off, pretending to have forgotten the number.
The landlady peered at the key, her eyes squinting. "Third floor. Last door on the left. Number nine. Quiet ones, they are. Haven't seen them today."
"Thanks," Lutz said, already turning towards the rickety staircase.
His heart was a steady, loud drum in his chest as he ascended. The hallway on the third floor was dark, the only light coming from a grimy window at the far end. The air was still. He reached the last door on the left. Number 9.
He pressed his ear against the cheap wood. Silence. Absolute silence. Using the tips of his agile fingers, he felt around the keyhole and the frame for any signs of a trap—a hair, a sliver of wax, a wire. Nothing.
Taking a deep breath, he inserted the key. It turned with a smooth, well-oiled click.
He pushed the door open, his body tense, ready for anything.
The room within was dark, the shutters closed. But a sliver of light from the hallway fell across the floor, illuminating a scene of stark, impersonal order. It was not a home. It was a staging ground. And it was waiting for him.
The door swung inward on silent hinges, revealing a space that was less a residence and more a predator's den, meticulously cleaned after a meal. A sliver of grey light from the hallway cut across a floor of scrubbed, bare floorboards. The air was stale, carrying the faint, ghostly remnants of Jhin's floral cologne and the sharper, metallic-ozone scent that had clung to Taric. It was the smell of the alley, distilled and contained.
Lutz slipped inside, closing the door behind him and plunging the room into near-total darkness. He stood still for a full minute, letting his eyes adjust and his other senses map the space. No sound, save for the distant, muffled complaints of the city. No movement. The silence was absolute, a vacuum left by the sudden removal of its occupants.
He risked striking a match. The sudden flare illuminated a scene of unnerving austerity. There were two narrow cots, their blankets stretched tight, military-neat. A small, scarred table stood between them, holding a washbasin and a single, unlit candle. There were no personal effects on display. No books, no trinkets, no discarded clothing. It was the room of men who owned nothing, because they were owned by a purpose.
His Thief's nose wasn't humming with a single, concentrated source of value, but with several smaller, distinct auras. He started his search with a cold, systematic efficiency, his Agile Hands making the work swift and silent.
He began with the cots. Running his hands under the thin mattresses, he found nothing. He checked the bedframes, the legs, the spaces between the wood and the rope supports. Nothing. He moved to the single, rickety wardrobe. Inside hung a few sets of clothing: Jhin's fine, dark tunics and trousers, and Taric's more somber, practical coats. He patted them down. In the inner pocket of one of Jhin's coats, his fingers closed around a small, heavy pouch. He drew it out. It was soft, worn leather, and it clinked with a satisfying, solid weight.
He emptied it onto Jhin's cot. The matchlight danced on a small pile of gold. He counted quickly, his heart beating a little faster. Twenty-three Gold Hammers. To this, he added the coins he'd taken from their bodies—another nineteen Hammers and a handful of Shields. Forty-two Hammers in total. The number glowed in his mind, searing itself into his consciousness. Together with his savings, he had 53 Hammers and a few shields.
It was enough. Enough to pay off the remaining fictional fifty-Hammer debt to the Baron and buy his freedom. The thought was a fleeting, beautiful mirage. He could walk out of this room, go to Karl, and settle his account. The idea tasted like ash. Freedom? The Baron didn't deal in freedom. He dealt in assets and liabilities. Lutz had just proven himself an exceptionally valuable asset, a Sequence 9 Beyonder who could pull off high-stakes thefts and survive professional hit squads. The Vipers would no more let him go than a smith would throw away his finest hammer. Paying the debt would just make him a debt-free slave, his leash perhaps longer, but no less strong.
No, this money wasn't for buying a past that was already dead. It was for purchasing a future he had to steal for himself. This was his escape fund. His war chest.
He swept the coins back into the pouch, the weight of it a comforting, solid promise against his hip. He continued his search. In Taric's side of the wardrobe, tucked into a rolled-up pair of socks, he found a small notebook. Flipping it open, he saw pages filled with cramped, spidery script—diagrams of rituals, lists of ingredients, and what looked like transcribed whispers in languages that made his head ache to look at. It was a grimoire of blasphemies. He tucked it away. It was dangerous knowledge, but knowledge was power, and he was in the business of acquiring both.
Beneath the floorboards under Taric's cot, his sensitive fingers found a loose plank. Prying it up, he discovered a cavity containing the rest of Taric's ritual kit: more of the strange powders in wax-sealed vials, a small, black-handled knife with a serrated edge meant for more than just cutting herbs, and a few more of the crimson metal charms. He took it all. These were tools. He might not know how to use them yet, but they were part of the loot, and a Marauder did not leave valuable tools behind.
The room was yielding its secrets, but it was the table that held the final, most significant prize. As he ran his hands along its underside, his fingers brushed against a slight irregularity—a small, flat package secured with a dab of wax. He pried it loose. It was a letter, sealed with a plain, black wax seal bearing no insignia. It was addressed, in Jhin's elegant, flowing script, to a single entity:
Saintess.
The title sent a chill down his spine. It spoke of a hierarchy, a cult, something far more organized than a simple mercenary operation. He broke the seal without hesitation, unfolding the single sheet of expensive vellum.
The script was as beautiful and controlled as the man himself, each letter a tiny masterpiece of penmanship.
Your Eminence, Saintess,
This communique serves to affirm that our collaboration with the Aurora Order has been successfully established in the city of Indaw Harbor. Their representatives are… pragmatic, and their goals, for the moment, align with our own need for discretion and resources. The initial phase of integration proceeds as planned.
However, a minor divergence was necessitated by practical concerns. Our operational funds have been depleted more rapidly than anticipated. To ensure the continued viability of our mission and to maintain the requisite cover, we have temporarily accepted a localized contract. It is a simple matter: the removal of a rising asset within the local criminal hierarchy, a man who has drawn the inconvenient attention of a secular business consortium. The fee is substantial and will fund our endeavors for the next two months, allowing us to operate without further external entanglements.
Do not concern yourself, the task is beneath our station but will be executed with the artistry befitting our calling. It is a momentary distraction, a means to a greater end. Once this is concluded, we shall immediately return to the primary objective: the gathering of suitable sacrifices for The Coming. The whispers in this country are ripe with potential; the despair here is a deep, untapped well. We will channel it.
I remain your devoted instrument,
J.
Lutz lowered the letter, his mind reeling, the fine paper trembling slightly in his hand. The air in the room seemed to grow colder, the shadows deeper.
The Aurora Order. The name meant nothing to him, but it sounded old, organized. A "collaboration." So Jhin wasn't a member. He was from another organization entirely, one sophisticated enough to engage in joint operations. They were partners in some darker endeavor.
And that endeavor had been put on hold for a "localized contract." The removal of a rising asset. Him. Lutz Fischer. His death had been a side hustle, a fundraising effort for a larger, more horrifying project. The sheer, casual insignificance of it was a blow to his pride, even as it confirmed his suspicion about Karbinian Hass. The "secular business consortium" was Hass's group.
But it was the final lines that truly iced his blood. The gathering of suitable sacrifices for The Coming. The words were capitalized, imbued with a terrifying significance. This wasn't just about money or power. This was apocalyptic. Jhin and Taric, these highly specialized Beyonders, were just… instruments. Collectors. They were gathering raw materials—human lives, despair—for an event, a "Coming," orchestrated by this "Saintess."
He was no longer just caught between rival gangs or a suspicious Church. He had stumbled into the periphery of a cosmic plot, a shadow war being waged by entities whose motives and power he couldn't even begin to fathom.
He carefully refolded the letter and tucked it into his inner pocket. This was the most valuable thing he had found. It was a map, however incomplete, of the true dangers lurking in the world's shadows.
He gave the room one last, comprehensive sweep, ensuring he had missed nothing. He had the money, the research, the tools, and the intelligence. The room was now just a hollow shell.
Slipping back out into the hallway and down into the foggy morning, Lutz felt the weight of his acquisitions not as a burden, but as an arsenal. He was armed now with more than just knives. He was armed with secrets. And he knew, with a chilling certainty, that the Whispering Market tonight was no longer just a place to sell loot. It was a place to hunt for answers.