I start my day with Gary summoning me to his office early in the morning.
"Good Thursday," I say.
"Good Thursday," he replies.
His office walls are paneled in light wood, masking the damp stone beneath. A desk lamp filled with glowing liquid casts a soft white light.
Vaporgates filter the air, carrying an artificial scent of lavender that smothers the city's stench.
I haven't gotten used to it.
I step closer to his desk and notice a sheet of paper laid flat atop it.
A portrait.
"Here." He taps it once. "Professor Isaak Silva."
I study the drawing. A young man. Smooth skin. Not even twenty.
"I don't know who he is," Gary exhales, "aside from the fact that he's a professor."
He adds, "He teaches History and Psychology at Haverstock."
"What's his connection to Aram?"
"My guess?" He pauses. "A supplier for iam. Or worse."
"Is alchemy evil?" I ask.
Gary goes still. His eyes lock onto mine—like a snake fixing on its prey. My heart pounds. Somewhere beyond the window behind him, distant noise bleeds through the glass. I probably asked the wrong question.
Then he breaks the silence.
"Evil?" he says. "No. Uncontained?"
He leans forward slightly. "That's treason."
He reaches beneath the desk and pulls out a document: a registry.
He taps it with one finger. "From now on, you're Damian Smith. You're going to be a student there. Get close to Isaak Silva."
I reach for the paper and take it. Gary doesn't move, only watches.
"Don't worry," he says. "We register one nonexistent individual at every university. As long as you don't alert the university, it won't notice you."
I nod, holding the registry flat against my chest.
I leave Gary's office and finish my work for the day. Nothing eventful today—but I need to go back to Ashlynn.
At night, in the hotel room.
Ashlynn is already on the bed when I return, lying on her side with one arm propping her head.
I take a quick bath before lying next to her.
"Ash," I say quietly. "Do you know where Haverstock is?"
"Oh, I do," she says.
She swings her legs over the side of the bed and stands. "We go north first, to the plaza."
"Yes."
"Good. From Hearthlight Building, head east. Keep going straight—it will take a while. Eventually, you'll pass a major cross-section. To the left is a rich neighborhood. To the right, City Heart. Keep straight until you find an alley between florist shops. Take that alley; no one walks through there. You'll find a warehouse on sale—I told you about it."
I frown. "Warehouse?"
"Old one. Paint peeling. You can't miss it. Red bricks, tall doors." She gestures vaguely with one hand. "We turn left there. Another alley. Fewer people at night."
I memorize the directions. She slowly points at the walls and corners, imagining the streets for me.
"After the alley," she continues, "straight until the street forks in two. Right goes to the market. Left—Haverstock. Can't miss it. Clock tower at the center. Sheep-over-books emblem above the doors."
I repeat it silently in my head: Warehouse. Alley. Fork. Left. Clock tower. Emblem.
I ask, "Do you ever… get followed?"
"Sometimes. Drunks, rats, shadows." She shrugs. "Nothing serious. You're careful, you'll be fine."
I nod again. My hands rest on my lap. My chest is tight.
I lie down across from her. The liquid lantern casts a thin circle of light. Shadows hug the walls.
We are silent for a while. I trace the warehouse in my mind—the alley, the fork, the tower.
"Thanks, Ash," I say finally.
She gets up and disappears into the bathroom. "No problem. And no peeking."
I close my eyes and sleep.
—
I'm sitting in a room—a classroom.
The teacher writes something on the board. I can't make sense of any of it, but my hands reach the answer before I do. She's teaching math.
I look to my right: a girl. Teenage, brunette, with green eyes.
I've seen her before.
She turns to me.
"Allen."
She smiles.
Then I turn my head forward.
The teacher yells at me:
"Pay attention."
I turn back to the girl. She places one hand over her mouth and chuckles.
I was happy.
—
I wake up in the morning feeling fresh while Ashlynn is still asleep.
I wear regular student clothing—a blue blazer over a plain shirt, paired with trousers and boots.
My cylindrical bag is filled with my diary, empty notes, the Damian Smith registry, my badge, and my gun.
The revolver: a slab of symmetrical steel, widened for twin barrels, its double-indexed cylinder set between them.
The metal is poreless, oily black, devoid of scuffs or tool marks.
It cycles with a clockwork whir, locking into place with a thud that makes the heavy walnut grip feel like a lead anchor.
A cartridge pouch of twelve rounds also goes into the bag, which I strap over my shoulder.
The morning air hits me, then I leave the hotel perimeter, and the smog finally descends.
I go north toward the plaza. From there, I find a carriage and instruct the jarvy to go exactly where Ashlynn told me: east from the Hearthlight Building, straight to the cross-section, then straight again until I find the florist shops.
The carriage slows then stops in front of the florist shops.
I step out and walk toward the alley between the florist shops. I walk through it and find the warehouse on sale. Paint peeling. Red bricks. The kind of warehouse nobody looks at twice.
I take out a note and write the name of the warehouse's owner.
I continue left, exiting into the street. I walk straight until the fork, then take a right, heading directly toward the market.
I approach a local man, a fruit merchant.
"Excuse me, do you know where to find the person selling the warehouse?" I gesture toward the warehouse visible from the alley.
"You see that tavern?" He points to a tavern just across the street. "The owner is in there, you can ask him before he moves out of the city next week."
"Thanks."
I walk toward the tavern. It is a soot-stained hollow in the market's jaw, thick with the stinging fog of stale porter, tobacco, and wet wool. A carpet of pine sawdust muffles the heavy clatter of iron-shod boots and absorbs the brine tracked in from the stalls. It is a place of frantic, muffled trade, where the roar of the square is traded for the cramped shadows of high-backed snugs.
I go to the tavernmaster. "Excuse me, do you know anyone selling the warehouse in the alley?"
"You see that guy over there?" He points at a man sitting in a corner reading newspaper.
The man is a bit older. He wears a long black coat with red trousers. He looks too clean, way too clean compared to everyone else in the tavern.
I walk to him. On closer look he has blonde hair and blue eyes.
"May I talk, Monsieur?" I ask.
The man closes his newspaper. "sit."
I sit and ask, "About your warehouse—"
"It's 300 phens, very cheap," the man cuts me off. "Most other warehouses go for 1000."
I lean closer and whisper. "Is this warehouse frequently searched?"
"Ah, don't worry." The man whispers back. "The Custodian Order won't bother sending police or guards to search something already written off."
"Huh?"
"They're too busy taking money from rich merchants. Are you rich?"
He leans back waiting for my response.
"I don't think I am, Monsieur,"
"Good," he claps his hand once.
"How do we do this transaction?"
"Tomorrow we meet at the warehouse before noon, bring me 300 phens and I will bring you the ownership documents."
"Okay," I stand up and walk away.
"Hey, young man," he calls me.
"Yes Monsieur?"
"Your name?"
A pause. Words don't come out instantly.
Finally I say, choosing a name that fits. "Thadeo Owright."
"Pleased to meet you Monsieur Thadeo. You may call me Nathan."
"You too Monsieur Nathan."
I step out of the tavern and back into the market, then go straight, opposing the flow of stalls and voices.
After I leave the market, it takes a bit of walking before I see a huge column of mist rising into the sky, blocking the smog.
Through the mist, a silhouette of a clock tower emerges.
As I draw closer, it grows clearer. Along the street toward the tower, lines of vaporgates steadily release their protective mist.
People move in and out of the mist. Some are old but most are young. They wear blazers over white shirts—men in trousers, women in skirts. They are students.
I pass through the mist. Laid before me is an open iron-wrought gate.
I step through the gate; the clang of metal is sharp, cutting through the thin air of the heights. Ahead, the main building rises—a monolithic pillar of blue brick, its surface vitrified and cold, reflecting the pale sky. Its sharp gables and arched windows are fixed in a permanent stare. To my left and right, three smaller red-brick buildings sit in perfect, rigid alignment, their low profiles emphasizing the absolute dominance of the central mass.
My boots click over dry, raked gravel paths. High above the roofline of the monolith, a needle-like clock tower erupts from the building's core. Topped with ironwork, its massive, milk-white face radiates a steady green light—a silent, unblinking sentinel. As I walk, a rhythmic thrum vibrates through my soles: the mechanical pulse of internal gears, a heartbeat of clockwork echoing from deep within the building.
The path ends at a heavy oak door, banded with polished black iron—the only break in the blue stone. Above it, an emblem is set into the wall. At its center sits an iron-bound leather tome. Around it coils a thick, roiling fog of charcoal-blue smoke, twisting into the shapes of unblinking sheep heads. Looming above is a hooded, faceless silhouette, framed by intricate, tarnished bronze scrollwork.
I reach for the handle. The vibration of the great clock overhead is no longer just a sound; it is a physical weight, pressing against my chest like a vice.
I open the door, and the world on the other side does not wait for me to enter.