The fog had retreated from Vellum Street by late afternoon, leaving behind a damp chill that clung to brass railings and seeped into coat collars like an uninvited creditor. Gas lamps remained unlit; the daylight was thin, gray, reluctant to commit to warmth.
Elias Varn returned to No. 17 at seventeen minutes past four. The brass bell above the pawn shop door gave a single, muted chime as he entered—less announcement, more acknowledgment.
Harlan Quill looked up from a ledger that had not been open when Elias left that morning. Ink-stained fingers paused mid-turn of a page. The older man's scar twitched once.
"Crowe's messenger returned while you were out," Quill said. Voice low, gravel wrapped in resignation. "Left this."
He slid a folded card across the counter. Black vellum. No seal. Only a single copper sigil pressed into the surface—the knotted coin of House Crowe, but inverted, as though the knot had been deliberately loosened.
Elias accepted the card without touching the edges. It was warm. Not body heat. Something older.
He opened it.
A single line in precise copper script:
Tomorrow. The Veil Markets. Midnight. Bring the Prism.
One discrepancy remains unaddressed.
—D.C.
Below the initials, in smaller letters that appeared only when the card was tilted to the gaslight:
Refusal noted. Interest compounds.
Elias folded the card once. Twice. Three times. It became a perfect equilateral triangle, edges sharp enough to draw blood if pressed.
He placed it in his coat pocket beside the copper coin.
The coin warmed immediately—tasting not threat, but anticipation.
Quill watched the exchange without comment. Then, quietly:
"The Prism showed you something this morning. You didn't mention it."
Elias regarded him for a long moment. The silence stretched until the nearest gas lamp hissed in quiet impatience.
"The Prism showed branches," he said at last. "Most end in quiet misfortune. One… did not."
Quill's mouth twitched—almost a smile, though the scar pulled it crooked. "And that one?"
"Involved a glove. A voice. And the word 'interesting.'"
Quill exhaled through his nose. "The Correspondent, then."
"Likely."
Elias moved toward the staircase. Paused at the first tread.
"Prepare the black iron key," he said. "And the Severing Shears. If Crowe wishes to discuss discrepancies at midnight in the Veil Markets, we shall arrive prepared to… clarify them."
Quill nodded once. Already reaching beneath the counter.
Elias ascended.
The office waited.
The mahogany box remained sealed.
The black silk glove lay on the desk—fingers no longer curled, but extended, as though reaching for something just beyond the edge of sight.
Elias crossed to the tall window.
Beyond the glass, the city of Aetherforge lay in late-afternoon hush. Spires pierced the thinning fog. Airships drifted like suspended debts. Somewhere in the Veil Markets, stalls were already closing early, vendors lowering shutters with the quiet urgency of those who know midnight brings more than buyers.
He touched the pane with two fingers.
A colorless Thread—colder than the rest—slid outward into the air. It tasted the intentions of the street below.
Most tasted of routine.
Three tasted of anticipation.
One tasted of ink and ozone.
The sigil on his wrist pulsed twice—slow, patient.
Somewhere far below, in the shadowed lanes of the Veil Markets, a woman in charcoal coat paused beside a stall that sold secrets by the ounce. She lifted a gloved hand—black silk, identical to the one on his desk—and brushed a single fingertip across a ledger that should not have existed.
The ledger warmed.
She smiled—thin, private, gone before it could be catalogued.
And whispered to no one in particular:
"…very interesting."
The Thread Elias had sent recoiled—snapping back to his fingertip like a rubber band stretched too far.
He exhaled once.
Measured.
The gas lamp above the desk flared briefly—bright, almost indignant.
Then steadied.
The black silk glove on the desk turned itself inside-out.
Slowly.
Deliberately.
As though something on the other side had just decided to pay a visit.
The sigil pulsed a third time.
And the weave—patient, relentless, amused—tightened another imperceptible fraction.