Good Saturday.
I finish my clerk job—almost half a day—and return to my hotel room.
Ashlynn is already there.
"You're not going anywhere?" I ask.
"No, just got back. Also…" She holds up a dark ornated tricorn hat, felt stiff and clean.
"Thanks, Ash." I take it.
I place it on my head. The brim folds into three sharp points, tilting just enough to shadow my eyes. The felt is firm, cool against my fingers.
Ashlynn tilts her head, eyes flicking to the shadow under my tricorn. A small laugh escapes her.
I unbutton my Hearthlight uniform, letting it slip from my shoulders. I slide the shoulder holster over my white shirt, securing the revolver. I reach for the darkest long leather coat we have and slip into it, the leather warm and slightly stiff. I cinch the belt around my waist.
I strap the cylindrical bag over my shoulder. Badge and Thadeo Registry go into the inner pocket. Everything sits right. Practical. Necessary.
I strike a pose, hand tilting the hat, legs spread slightly.
A videogame character has emerged. Another word without meaning—but I'm quietly proud.
"Hahahaha."
Ashlynn laughs. "Len, what are you doing?"
"Nothing," I say, stepping toward the door, hat tilted low over my eyes.
She laughs again behind me, but I keep moving until only the click of my boots fills the room.
Outside the hotel, I fill the bag with as many rocks as it can hold. Heavy, yes—but enough phens.
I get a carriage, instruct the jarvy: plaza, then east from Hearthlight Building, straight at the major cross-section.
Once the florist shops are visible, I tap the glass. The carriage slows and stops.
I step out, walking through the alley between the shops.
A few steps forward, the warehouse comes into view. Nathan stands outside. He raises a hand. I wave back.
I approach. "Monsieur Nathan, apologies for my lateness."
"Apology accepted. The phens?"
"Oh yes…" I drop the bag, letting the rocks spill slightly.
He leans over, studying them. "Wow, the universe has blessed me with a real buyer." He locks his hands as if praying. "Here—documents of ownership." He hands me a paper from his pocket.
I inspect it. At the bottom, a stamped emblem gleams: a dragon sleeping over a hoard of gold. Gold? Here, visible to anyone? My brow furrows.
"That document is authentic," he adds, "Verify it with Civic Concord Order to finalize." He tosses a key to me.
I catch it. "Thanks."
"One more thing." He pulls a folded paper from his pocket. "A gift for taking the warehouse off me."
I take the paper and slip it into my pocket alongside the ownership documents. He picks up the bag, straps it over his shoulder.
"I can't read it," he says, "but Custodian Order is searching for something like this. Be careful."
I nod.
"Where are you going?"
"Down south. Boat from Duenchester, then cross the channel to Rozarian Empire."
"You're leaving?"
"This country is sick," he chuckles. "You'd be wise to leave too." He starts walking away.
"Thanks for the warehouse," I wave.
"You too, Monsieur Thadeo," he calls back, waving.
Then he disappears.
I use the key to open the red brick warehouse.
I turn the key in the lock. The door groans once, long and low, and swings open. Inside, the warehouse stretches before me—bare, silent. Dust motes drift in shafts of pale morning light that pierce the grimy high windows. The floor is smooth, cold stone beneath my boots, unbroken by crates or debris.
The air smells faintly of brick and iron, dry and clean. My steps echo once, twice, then vanish into the emptiness. Silence hangs, almost tangible, a weight I shift with the tilt of my head. Every corner is visible, every shadow accounted for. Here, nothing hides. Nothing waits.
I pause in the center, letting the calm sink in. The emptiness is permission—permission to build, to claim, to plan. I know exactly what belongs to me, and what I will do next. The warehouse does not speak, but it listens.
I lock the door behind me, the click final, and the silence returns.
I get a carriage and go back to my hotel, then up to my room.
Ashlynn is already in bed, blankets pulled to her chin, amber eyes tracking me.
"Len," she says softly, "how was your day?"
I shrug, moving to the chair. "Busy. Very… ordinary. Nothing worth telling."
She hums, tilting her head. "Ordinary can be fun, you know."
"Maybe," I reply lightly. "Depends who's measuring."
Her lips twitch, a half-smile forming. "I like measuring with my own rules."
I raise an eyebrow. "I'll have to be careful then."
She laughs quietly, soft, teasing. "Maybe. Or maybe you'll enjoy it."
A pause. The faint hum of the city drifts through the hotel walls.
"I thought… maybe Sunday we could go to the City Heart," she says, low, deliberate. "Walk a little. See things. If you want."
I nod slowly. "Sunday. City Heart. I'll be ready."
Her eyes brighten for a moment. "Good. We'll see some shops… maybe a restaurant. Nothing fancy. You don't have to dress up or anything."
I tilt my head, noting the careful words. "And if I insist on something fancy?"
She smirks beneath the blankets. "Then… I'll still say no. But I won't stop you from trying."
She rises and disappears into the bathroom. "And… don't peek," she adds, playful.
Soaps from the bathroom linger faintly in the bed air.
Good Sunday.
Early in the morning, I go to Margaret.
"I need to take a day off," I say. "Something came up."
"Oh?" Margaret's smile doesn't arrive with her voice. It thins instead. "And what could be more important than working for the community?"
"I need to go to the City Heart," I say, calm, measured.
She exhales through her teeth. A soft, displeased sound.
"I have work-related matters as well," I add after a pause. "I'm looking for additional income. For donations."
Her expression shifts immediately.
"Oh." Warmth blooms across her face, sudden and practiced. "What a devoted thought. But donations aren't required of you yet. You already belong to Hearthlight—even as an initiate."
"So?" I ask.
"So you may go." She nods once. "Just remember to return once you're finished."
The smile stays. The permission feels conditional.
I know she doesn't like it.
I leave the Hearthlight Building and head back to my hotel.
To my room.
To Ashlynn.
We prepare for the City Heart visit.
I wear a mid-thigh matte black suit, seams tight, structure rigid. The dark tricorn Ashlynn bought sits clean on my head. A leather belt with a single pouch finishes it.
I slip Thadeo Registry alongside the document of ownership for the warehouse into my pocket.
Ashlynn wears a fitted bodice dress. The skirt nearly brushes the floor, silk and crimson, catching the light—matching her amber eyes. The bodice is low-collared with narrow sleeves; the skirt hangs without framing, draping as she moves.
"That hat fits you," she says.
"The dress matches your eyes," I reply.
We chuckle.
No gun. No badge. Just me and Ashlynn.
We leave the hotel and take the most comfortable carriage we can find.
During the ride, Ashlynn's gaze drifts between the streets and me.
I keep my composure.
And I note how often she looks back.
The vaporgates loom, releasing mist that halts the smog.
The carriage crosses the threshold, and the City Heart becomes clear. Everything is fixed with terrifying precision. Granite pillars gleam, polished to a dark sheen, reflecting the artificial glow of liquid lanterns.
No dim people here. No beggars. No soot-stained laborers. No fringe citizens. Everyone moves with rhythmic grace. Clothes are sharp. Postures straight. Smiles static. We fit in.
We step out of the carriage at the very center of the City Heart.
Ashlynn drags me from place to place—first a gallery, then shops. She makes me buy things: shoes, clothes, trinkets, accessories. Mostly shoes.
When she's finally satisfied, I ask her to wait. I need to visit the Civic Concord Order.
I return to the building of massive gray stone, four identical wings stretching with precise symmetry. Its walls gleam faintly under the early light, polished surfaces reflecting the orderly march of citizens inside.
I enter through the center into the rotunda. Footsteps echo on the smooth stone floor. The faint tang of ink and polished brass hangs in the air. A clerk approaches.
"Good Sunday, Monsieur," she says.
"Good Sunday," I reply. "I want to finalize ownership transfer."
"Oh, please this way," she smiles, leading me.
I follow her into the large chamber where I had obtained my registry. The air hums with a faint chill, and sunlight through high windows hits polished desks in sharp rectangles.
She guides me to a registrar desk.
"Good Sunday."
"Good Sunday," the registrar responds. "How may I help you?"
"I want to finalize ownership transfer for this building," I say, placing my registry and the document of ownership on the desk.
She studies them.
"Monsieur Thadeo, is it?" she asks.
"Yes, I am."
"An honest answer," she says, smiling. "Where did you acquire the wealth to purchase this building?"
I pause. Words fail me. Silence stretches. The tick of a distant clock marks time like a judge.
Then she breaks the silence. "Your job is a merchant?"
"Yes, my job is a merchant," I answer, regaining my composure.
"Another honest answer," she smiles.
I return the smile.
"Your income last month is 500 phens, and your current unpaid tax is 100 phens," she says, her smile practiced, deliberate.
"My income last month is 500 phens, and my unpaid tax is 100 phens." I repeat, careful, exact.
"Model citizen indeed," she continues writing, the scratching of her pen sharp in the quiet room.
We finalize the ownership transfer of the warehouse.
I now officially own a warehouse—and a substantial unpaid tax.