Zhang woke to the faint bitterness of root tea and the delicate clink of porcelain.
Not sunlight—Nocturne City never allowed such indulgence—but twilight glow filtered through heavy curtains, painting the apartment in muted violets and gold. The threadbare rugs absorbed the light like tired witnesses. His chest ached beneath fresh bandages, the wound from the Murk avatar reduced to a dull, insistent throb.
Beneath it all, something else stirred.
The rune Midnight had pressed into his soul hummed faintly beneath his skin, warm and patient, like a secret heartbeat that did not belong to him.
Merlina sat at the low table nearby, journals spread open in a careful sprawl. Her dark hair was tied back, sleeves rolled, mana-ink flowing steadily as she scribbled notes. When Zhang shifted, she looked up at once, green eyes softening.
"You're awake. Good," she said. "I was beginning to think you'd sleep through the next breach."
Zhang managed a weak grin as he pushed himself upright on the sofa. Leonard's body healed far faster than his old one ever had—mana knitting flesh overnight—but exhaustion still clung to him like a second skin.
"Wouldn't miss it," he said dryly. "Who else is going to flail dramatically at shadows?"
She rolled her eyes, but the smile stayed. "Tea?"
He nodded. The mug was warm in his hands, grounding. Steam curled upward, sharp and invigorating. For a moment, they sat in silence, the apartment's quiet a welcome balm after the chaos beneath the aqueducts.
"The journal updated," Merlina said at last, sliding it toward him.
New runes glowed faintly across the pages, lines stretching upward—toward the higher districts. Public archives. The Spire Café hub. Notes clustered around whispers of Dark Castle movements.
"We'll need healing salves too," she added. "My arm's still tingling."
Zhang traced the glowing map with his finger. Midnight's words echoed uninvited.
The Dark Castle hungers.
His father's domain. In the novel, the man had been distant—cold, rigid, almost abstract. Here, that shadow felt much closer. Heavier.
"I'll go," Zhang said. "Alone. Less conspicuous."
Merlina frowned. "Leonard—"
"I'm fine. Really." The words came quickly, sharper than intended. A protective instinct flared, no longer just borrowed characterization. "You rest. Guard the tower."
She studied him for a moment, then exhaled. "Be careful. Your… reputation precedes you out there."
Reputation.
Great.
He changed in the tower chamber: a fresh black suit, high collar pressed immaculate, cape draped with deliberate elegance. The lantern rested at his side, its glow steady and obedient.
The mirror reflected Leonard's face back at him—sharp, composed, every inch the enigmatic beyonder. The rune peeked faintly at his collarbone. For a heartbeat, he thought his eyes carried a trace of crimson.
Looking the part, he thought. Feeling like a fraud.
Merlina pressed a list into his hand—salves, inks, discreet inquiries—along with a small charm for messages. "If trouble—"
"I'll brood my way out," he said lightly.
She laughed despite herself and hugged him quickly, careful of his wound. Warmth lingered as he descended the stairs.
Then he stepped outside.
Nocturne City unfolded around him.
Wide boulevards gleamed beneath mana-steam lamps. Brass pipes hissed along building facades. Clockwork carriages rumbled past, pulled by mechanical horses that exhaled soft plumes of ethereal vapor. Overhead, airships drifted between spires, sails swollen with alchemical winds, casting slow-moving shadows across the streets.
The crowd was alive with motion and contrast.
Victorian elegance layered with steampunk practicality. Men in tailored waistcoats adorned with brass gears, top hats tilted just so, canes that concealed wands or worse. Women in corseted gowns of deep velvet and midnight silk, skirts cut for movement, parasols subtly inscribed with warding runes.
Magic hummed everywhere.
Floating news-orbs projected headlines into the air. Street vendors poured glowing elixirs from brass kettles. Children chased phantom butterflies conjured by laughing buskers.
Wonder crept in despite the ache in his chest.
This city wasn't merely built.
It functioned—like a massive gear-heart, endlessly turning.
Then came the glances.
At first, curiosity. Murmurs trailing behind him.
"Is that…?"
"Leonard of the Tower?"
Then appreciation. Lingering looks. Fans fluttering behind gloved hands. A bold group of women giggled openly, eyes tracing the fall of his cape.
Zhang felt heat rise to his cheeks.
Fan club? Me?
The guy who once nearly passed out lighting a candle?
He quickened his pace, lantern swinging lightly.
Too late.
A man in a towering top hat lunged into his path, hoisting a massive brass camera. The mana-bulb at its heart flared.
"Master Leonard!" the photographer boomed. "For the Daily Spire—hold that brooding pose!"
Light exploded.
Zhang staggered, vision swimming. "Personal space," he muttered.
"Incredible!" the man crowed. "The lantern glow—iconic!"
Before Zhang could escape, a portly tailor swept in, arms laden with rugged coats stitched with gear pockets and reinforced seams.
"Sir! Beyonder extraordinaire!" he proclaimed. "Your attire is elegant, yes—but ruins demand resilience!"
A vest was thrust forward. The crowd murmured approvingly.
Zhang blinked, processing rapidly.
Mob forming. Escape options limited.
He straightened, posture cool, voice slipping into Leonard's dry cadence. "Formality suits the shadows. They respect a good suit."
The tailor pressed on. "Exclusive discount! The city talks of your disappearances!"
Zhang leaned closer, lowering his voice. "I hear Voss is buying up explorer contracts. Exclusivity, you understand."
The name worked like a charm.
The tailor paled, backing away with hurried reassurances. The crowd thinned, disappointed but amused.
Someone shoved a utility belt into Zhang's hands. "Goodwill gesture!"
He didn't refuse.
Adrenaline buzzed as he moved on. The city's energy felt intoxicating now—wondrous, alive.
Yet beneath it lingered tension.
A watchful glance. A shadow that held too long.
Then—
She appeared.
Blonde hair cascading down her back, tied with a sleek black ribbon. A black silk gown flowed effortlessly as she cut through the street, poise natural, presence undeniable.
Astoria.
She spotted him instantly, amber eyes lighting with recognition.
"Leonard," she called, voice warm and teasing. "The city's been bereft without your brooding silhouette."
Zhang stopped.
Of course her.
The journalist. The chronicler. The woman who had danced along the edges of Leonard's story with wit and charm.
He rallied quickly. "Disappearances keep the mystery alive," he replied. "Good for circulation, I imagine."
She laughed, genuine and rich, closing the distance. Up close, she smelled faintly of jasmine and ink, a subtle glamour shimmering at her skin.
"Coffee?" she asked, gesturing to a nearby café. "Catch up. My treat—for a scoop."
Opportunity warred with unease.
Information mattered.
"All right," he said. "Shadows can wait."
Inside, the café glowed with brass and steam. Privacy wards hummed softly as they settled into a corner booth. Drinks arrived on floating trays.
Astoria leaned forward, sharp eyes missing nothing. "You vanished. Now you're back… wounded."
"Minor scrape," Zhang said lightly.
"Castle's mobilizing," she said, equally casual. "Your father's shadow divisions. Upper spires are restless."
The pieces aligned too neatly.
"Meet tomorrow?" she asked after a moment. "Spire Archives. Secrets await."
Outside, his rune pulsed faintly.
A warning.
Zhang nodded. "Tomorrow."
As he stepped back into the street, the city no longer felt merely alive.
It felt attentive.
And the shadows had begun to watch.