Mid-morning light filtered through the shutters in thin, anemic bands, smothered by the smog that forever clung to Backlund's East Borough.
Anthony stood at the window, forehead nearly touching warped wood, eyes narrowed as he studied the street below.
The slums breathed.
Laborers in patched coats trudged toward factories, boots sinking into mud. Children wove between carts and legs, scavenging for coal chips or lost coppers. A woman hawked wilted cabbage from a barrow, her voice scraping raw against the distant clang of steam hammers. Gas lamps still burned in narrow alleys, unextinguished remnants of the night. Horses passed, hooves sharp against stone, hauling crates from the docks—spices, wool, cheap imports.
No constables.
They only came when bribes were due.
Anthony searched for what didn't belong.
No lingering figures. No stillness where there should be motion. No gaze that lingered too long.
Nothing.
Paranoia is a tool, not a master.
If they believed the spear had done its work, they would wait. Or forget.
He memorized routes anyway—the alley leading toward the river docks, the tenement opposite with its flat roof and narrow fire ladder.
Satisfied, he stepped back.
Liam still slept on the pallet, white hair fanned like frost against the thin pillow. His breathing was even now, exhaustion finally claiming him.
Solitude.
Anthony returned to the table and cleared space among the poems. A half-burned candle stub waited there.
He didn't reach for flint.
The whispers stirred—soft, insistent.
…the flame sighs once before surrender…
He focused.
Shadows thickened at the candle's base, rising like ink through water. They curled over the wick.
The flame vanished.
No smoke.
Anthony released a slow breath. A faint pressure bloomed behind his eyes—spiritual consumption, mild but undeniable. He waited for it to subside, then struck flint and relit the candle the mundane way.
Control confirmed.
Next.
He drew the Whispering Blade from his coat and laid it on the table.
…night folds what it claims…
Darkness flowed again, wrapping the dagger like living cloth. The blade vanished—not an illusion, but absence itself, folded into a pocket of shadow only he could sense.
He reached out blindly.
His fingers closed around the hilt.
The dagger emerged.
A coin followed. Hidden. Retrieved.
Limits untested—distance, weight, line of sight—but the cost remained low.
For now.
The whispers pressed closer, brushing his thoughts with half-formed verses. Midnight Poet side effects—creative impulse, or the first hairline cracks of madness.
One more test.
Riskier.
Anthony sat, palms flat against the table, and let his breathing slow. He murmured the invocation, voice barely above a whisper:
Into the dream's abyss I fall,
Where shadows trade the truths they keep…
The room dimmed—not physically, but in perception. His vision tunneled as he slipped into a deliberate half-sleep, a Midnight Poet trance.
Darkness swallowed him.
Fragments surged.
Fog-choked alley. Moonlight dulled by mist. Original Anthony stepping forward, dagger drawn—chivalry masquerading as courage.
The woman stood cornered, raven hair stark against the gloom. Three masked figures closed in, robes dark, cuffs stitched with serpent and hourglass.
Numinous Episcopate.
The clash was brief. Anthony held for seconds.
Then betrayal.
The woman raised her hand. A pendant gleamed—silver, shaped like a condensed spear of shadow.
It formed.
It struck.
Pain—echoed now as a phantom ache in Anthony's chest.
Her voice, soft and fractured with regret:
"Forgive me, Anthony Reid. Your bloodline… complicates the Goddess's eternal slumber. The Order cannot allow it."
One of the robed men hissed, "The bastard son ends here. No contingencies."
They fled.
She lingered a heartbeat longer, eyes searching his dying face.
"If only your father had remained sealed…"
The vision shattered.
Anthony snapped awake, breath ragged, sweat slicking his skin. The whispers swelled, mocking, then receded.
Cost: high.
But the reward was clarity.
This wasn't random.
It was a purge.
An organized order—whether a splinter of the Numinous Episcopate or something deeper—had marked his bloodline as a threat. To Evernight's slumber. To her apotheosis.
And his father…
Sealed.
Anthony leaned back, eyes closed, letting the headache fade to a manageable throb. Self-induced trances were not something to repeat casually.
His stomach growled.
Reality intruded.
Liam stirred, blinking awake. "Brother? You were talking…"
"Dream," Anthony said flatly.
The boy crept closer, knees tucked up. "Do you think they'll come back? Should we leave? Or tell someone?"
Fear bled through his words.
Anthony cut it off. "Enough."
Then, a fraction softer, "Stay inside today. Lock the door. I'll handle it."
Liam nodded immediately.
Good.
Anthony counted the coins. Three soli remained—barely breathing room. Rent loomed. Food was necessity.
Decision made.
He pocketed two coins, left one hidden, and stepped out into the street.
The East Borough assaulted him—mud sucking at boots, coal smoke clawing his throat, voices layered in constant friction. He moved with purpose, aristocratic pallor shadowed by his collar.
At a stall near the junction, an old woman guarded day-old bread, stringy meat scraps, wilted herbs.
"Bread's two pence," she rasped. "Meat five."
Anthony met her gaze.
The Midnight Poet stirred.
…in want's long night, a gentler dawn…
His words carried rhythm, warmth threaded with subtle compulsion. Not domination—suggestion.
Her eyes softened.
"Pretty tongue," she murmured. "One pence for the loaf. Meat's on the house. Take an onion too."
Anthony paid and left.
Confirmation settled cold and satisfying.
Back in the room, they ate. Bread torn. Meat shared. Liam relaxed, chatter creeping back.
As afternoon faded, Anthony practiced again—shadows curling around his fingers, obeying without enthusiasm.
They whispered.
Evening approached.
Tomorrow, the scheme would begin.
Far away, in a black-stone castle overlooking the Tussock River, Evelyn Nightshade brushed her pendant absently during a silent council. Unease stirred, then was dismissed.
The whispers in the dark had only begun.