The only sound in the Crow's Nest was the slow, heavy grinding of the clock tower's colossal gears, a rhythmic heartbeat for a city that never slept. Elias Corvus sat in the cold, spartan room, his world narrowed to the single, worn photograph in his hand. The face of his father, the hero he had mourned since childhood, stared back at him from beside the brutish grin of Kestrel. Every tick of the clock was a hammer blow against the impossible truth, a question echoing in the silence: Why?
His thoughts were shattered by the sharp hiss of a pneumatic tube arriving in its receptacle. A coded message. It was from his asset in the countryside—a quiet innkeeper paid to be his alibi. Elias unrolled the thin paper. The message was short and chilling. "Director Thorne summons you. Report to HQ. Immediate."
A cold dread washed over him. He was supposed to be a ghost, but his leash was being yanked. He couldn't go immediately; the journey from the countryside would take a full day. He had to wait, trapped in his high-altitude prison, letting time create his cover story. For twenty-four agonizing hours, he paced the cold stone floor, the photograph feeling like a lead weight in his pocket. He sharpened his blades, recalibrated his crossbow, and prepared the lies he would have to tell.
Midday, looking down at the city through his spyglass, he saw a commotion near the Ministry of Engineering. A crowd was gathered around a public chronovisor, its display flashing bold headlines. Focusing his lens, Elias could read the words: WRAITH STRIKES AGAIN. PROMINENT GEARWRIGHT MURDERED. Below, a blurry artist's sketch of a tall figure in a dark coat and a featureless white mask filled the screen. His disguise. His persona. Stolen and twisted into a tool for public slaughter. A cold, hard resolve settled in his chest, pushing past the grief. He wasn't just being hunted; he was being erased.
The next day, he walked into Director Thorne's office looking exactly like a man who had traveled far and fast. His wounds, though mostly healed, were still visible, and he carried a weariness that was not entirely an act.
"Corvus," Thorne began, his eyes immediately locking onto the faint scar tissue on Elias's temple. "Your alibi reported you were recovering. He failed to mention you'd been in a rockslide."
Elias kept his expression neutral, his heart a cold, steady drum. "A training accident in the mountains, sir. My own carelessness. It's nothing."
Thorne's gaze lingered for a moment, sharp and analytical, before he finally nodded, accepting the lie. He gestured to a series of lurid crime scene photographs on his desk. "I wish that were the only reason I recalled you. Aethelburg has a new monster, Elias. A killer who moves through the shadows like a phantom. The underworld has a name for him: The Wraith."
Elias felt the blood drain from his face, but his training held his body rigid, his expression a mask of stone. Thorne continued, his voice grim. "He's brutally effective, but sloppy. He leaves a trail of bodies, witnesses, and fear. We've sent our best teams after him. They were either killed or so badly injured they couldn't give a coherent report. This 'Wraith' is a ghost, an exceptional fighter who is tearing this city apart."
Thorne slid the witness sketch across the desk. It was a perfect portrait of him.
"I need someone who can match him, Elias. Someone who can think like him, move like him. I need you to hunt this Wraith down and bring him to justice. You're the only one capable of it."
The words hit Elias like a physical blow. The room seemed to tilt, the Director's voice fading into a dull roar. He was being ordered to hunt himself. He stared at the sketch, his mind a vortex of confusion and dawning horror. Who was this imposter? What was happening?
"...Corvus? Elias!"
Thorne's voice snapped him back to reality. The Director was looking at him, a flicker of concern in his weary eyes. "You look like you've seen a ghost. Do you know something about this?"
It was the most important lie of his life. "No, sir," Elias said, his voice steady. "I know nothing. But I will find him."
After accepting the mission, he walked from the office, his mind a whirlwind. The corridor, a place he had walked a thousand times as the Crown's loyal weapon, now felt like enemy territory. He thought of Thorne, of the genuine concern in the man's eyes. The Director had taken him in as an orphaned boy, sharpening him, molding him, giving him a purpose and a home. Thorne had been the father he'd never had. A bitter, painful irony.
But as he walked, the guilt was pushed aside by a cold, tactical realization. He was back inside. He had access. The Cogwork was a special task force with unparalleled resources, with access to the records of every department in the nation. This mission, this impossible, dangerous lie, was also a golden opportunity. He could finally search for the truth of his real father, to find out what happened to the army doctor who had supposedly died a hero.
A new, grim resolve settled over him. His hunt was no longer a simple, linear path of vengeance. It was a war on two fronts. He would play the part of the loyal agent for Thorne, using the Crown's resources to hunt the imposter. And in the shadows of that hunt, he would set his own trap, both for the phantom who had stolen his name, and for the ghost who had stolen his past.