Ashlynn lets me know that she won't be going anywhere. Not now. Not until I tell her the truth, or at least the truth I'm comfortable enough to share. I acknowledge her silently, the understanding passing between us unspoken but heavy.
"I won't be back home until tomorrow. Just one last mission."
She nods, the motion subtle but firm, her acceptance clear without a single word.
Today, I get to use the personal carriage from dawn to dusk. The carriage accompanies me to work, though I tell the jarvy to park it in a less noticeable part of the plaza so no one knows that I have a carriage. He nods and follows my instructions without question, aware of the subtlety required.
When my work ends, I tell the jarvy that he will receive a bonus if he works longer. A personal request, which he agrees to with a slight bow, acknowledging both the favor and the obligation.
The first place he takes me to is the Market, still in the Northern Outskirt.
I walk through the crowded streets, weaving between merchants and buyers, keeping my eyes trained on potential clothing that could make me vanish in plain sight. Something that doesn't attract attention, something that lets me move unseen if needed.
There, tucked between a trinktek shop and a glassmaker's, I spot a building that seems both old and recently renovated. Its sign reads Brienne Atelier, and the way it sits slightly askew on the street gives it the air of a place that has history.
I step inside and am greeted by a brunette woman; her amber eyes catch the light as she smiles.
"Good Thurs—Monsieur Len?"
"Cassia?"
"Yeah, it's me."
"How have you been?"
"I've been good," she says, gesturing expansively to the furniture, the walls, the corners of the atelier. "I got a small fortune recently. I was lucky enough to build this whole shop from scratch."
"Mhmmm… it looks wonderful," I nod, letting my gaze wander across the space, taking in the warm wood, polished counters, and carefully curated shelves.
"What can I do for you?"
"I need clothes that make me anonymous. The kind of clothing that doesn't attract attention."
"You mean, you don't want people to identify you?" she asks, curiosity flickering in her eyes.
Cassia moves with purpose toward a high shelf near the desk, pulling something down and handing it to me. A mask with dual expression: one half white with a smiling expression, the other black with a frown.
I take it in my hands, examining the craftsmanship, and try it on.
"It looks great," she comments, her voice warm. "But I think I know how to make you look… mysterious," she adds, already moving toward a long shelf that stretches along the wall.
"You have something in mind?" I ask, intrigued by her confidence.
She pulls out an old set of clothes. A worn dark frock coat, patched in places, alongside dark skinny leather pants. The fabric carries the scent of age and use, yet it's sturdy, practical, and suited for blending into the shadows.
She hands them to me. I take them and hold them, feeling the weight and texture. I don't wear them immediately, but I can already imagine myself moving in them—blending, observing, unseen.
I place the clothes alongside the mask in my bag. The combination promises concealment and anonymity, a shield against prying eyes and unwanted attention. It feels… right.
Before I even manage to step outside, Cassia calls me again.
"Monsieur Len."
I turn to her slightly. "Yeah?"
"Thanks for treating me like a person when I was still living in the sewer."
Her words linger, carrying a weight that makes me pause just long enough to let them settle. I nod, a small, deliberate smile forming, the acknowledgment passing between us silently, heavy yet unspoken. Then I leave the atelier, stepping into the Trinktek shop next door, the faint scent of metal and oil greeting me as the door swings shut behind me.
I move among the shelves with practiced ease, selecting liquid lanterns one by one. Their glass glimmers softly in the morning light filtering through the front window, weight of each bottle reassuring in my hands. With the purchase made, I step back onto the bustling market street, the murmur of voices, the shuffle of boots, and the clatter of carts wrapping around me.
From the market, I slip into my usual alley, narrow and dim. The warehouse looms ahead, silent and waiting. Once inside, I close the door behind me and lock it.
First, I set my bag down next to my bog oak throne. I place the three liquid lanterns I purchased on the heavy table in the center of the room, their glass glinting faintly in the dim light. Beside them, I place knives from wooden box that I moved to the floor.
I pull my diary from one of the steel shelves and lay it near the edge of the table, opening it to the page of my personal alchemy notes. I read them first, letting my eyes drink in the intricate formulas and philosophies, committing each detail to memory once again. Then I pick up what appears to be the sharpest knife on the table, feeling the weight settle in my hand.
With that knife, I start carving broken patterns into the another knife, each incision visible but shallow, careful not to compromise their structure. The carvings trace the philosophy of my alchemy notes, a symphony of thought, precision, and craft etched into steel.
Next, I take a liquid lantern, removing its container from the frame and twisting the lid open slowly. The white liquid inside flares as it hits the air, turning a deep red—the kuor. I pour a bit onto the carved knife, letting it flow into the etched lines, following every groove and pattern.
The kuor hisses softly as it touches steel, releasing a thin cold vapor that rises like smoke from a dying flame. The knife seems to drink it in, gleaming with latent intent, each carving now bound with alchemical life.
I carve different patterns into the remaining six knives. Not for explosion but for seeking target, Trackfangs. The philosophy shifts beneath my hand, the intention different, the incisions guided by pursuit rather than detonation.
When finished, Shardfangs and Trackfangs lie neatly on the table, twelve blades in disciplined order. One liquid lantern provides enough kuor for the whole process.
I place my revolver next to them and my pocket watch on the edge closest to me. Steel, alchemy, time—each tool occupying its rightful space.
After everything is done, I let my back fall onto my throne. The bog oak receives me. I settle perfectly into it, the weight of preparation complete, the warehouse silent around me except for the faint lingering scent of kuor.
I close my eyes and slowly drift into sleep.
—
I return to my abyss, standing above the vast water that stretches to nothing, a horizon endless and unbroken. The silence is absolute, yet it hums with anticipation.
I focus my left eye and activate the Abyssal Eye. A pulse radiates from within, slow at first, then firm, resonating like the heartbeat of the void itself. Mynar occupies my mind, and the instant his face flashes before me, the surface of the water shivers.
Ripples begin, gentle at first, then swelling, twisting into larger waves. White froth curls and churns, spiraling, thickening into a sphere. The turbulence masks everything—I cannot see inside, no hint of shape or movement. It is like standing above a stormy ocean, where the whitecaps conceal what lies beneath.
The sphere tightens, coiling and spinning. It obscures whatever is inside.
Then, with a wet snap, the sphere bursts. The froth collapses back into the abyss, and Mynar falls onto his hands and knees before me, coughing, drenched but unharmed.
His eyes drift across the abyss, searching, until they lock onto mine. Instantly, he collapses to one knee, reverence bleeding from every movement.
"Monsieur Abyss," he calls, his voice low and controlled, yet edged with awe.
"Welcome, Mynar. I have a task for you." My tone carries no warmth, no impatience—just intention.
"I was just enjoying a tea, chatting with guests, but I think my meeting with you is more important," he says, trying to mask his unease with casual words.
I do not respond to his statement. Instead, I state my command: "I want you to meet Xandar tomorrow. Do not let him return home until Saturday."
"Monsieur, Xandar isn't at his mansion already," Mynar protests, hesitation in his voice.
I pause, letting him continue his explanation.
"He's in the Eastern Outskirt, in one of his villas, preparing for the funeral that takes place tomorrow," he finally admits.
"I already know," I say, my voice calm, flat, carrying no hint of surprise, pretending effortless knowledge. "Now go."
Without hesitation, the water beneath him rises like a tide summoned by command. It coils around his form, a liquid cage, and then swallows him entirely. He struggles for a moment, but the pull is absolute. The water drags him down, down, down, until he disappears from my sight, leaving only ripples fading across the surface of the abyss.
—
At the dead of night, I awaken and reach for my bag. My hands move with practiced precision as I slip into the clothes I bought earlier: dark boots that fit snugly, leather pants that hug my legs, the white shirt I already wear beneath, and over it, the patchy old frock coat, its worn fabric muted in the darkness. On my face, the dual-expression mask settles, half white with a smile, half black with a frown, shifting my presence into something unknowable.
The revolver slides smoothly into the shoulder holster beneath the coat, the knives into their respective pockets, balanced and accessible. Every piece finds its place with deliberate intent.
I leave my warehouse, locking it securely behind me, and move toward my carriage parked quietly in the market.
"Back home," I instruct the jarvy.
He bows once and guides the carriage out of the market. The wheels clatter softly on the stone streets as we move, cutting through the near-empty night. Vaporgates shimmer and part, allowing the carriage to cross into Eldenmere neighborhood. Guards on duty bow their heads, acknowledging the passage without interruption.
The carriage rolls through the familiar routes, over and over, until we reach a road untouched by activity—no guards, no lights, no residents. Just silence and shadow.
I step down onto the road, the darkness swallowing me as the carriage retreats toward the exit, leaving me alone in the quiet. Blending seamlessly with the night, I move with measured steps, shadows concealing my presence as I advance toward Xandar's grand mansion.