Deliberate.
That's how the gold bars sit inside the wooden box. They are the size of my palm, just like my own hidden gold bar. Three in total.
I close the lid and carry it against my waist.
I step out of my warehouse and lock it.
The alley is empty. No eyes. Only occasional rats and insects scuttling across the cobblestones.
Outside the alley between the Florist shops, I get a carriage. I instruct the jarvy: Lethor Hospital.
The carriage turns and moves straight toward the plaza. From there, we pass west of Hearthlight Building, crossing soot-stained buildings and the smog-covered Northern Outskirts.
At the cross-section, we turn left. Not far from there, the carriage slows. Then stops.
I step out. A wall of mist, piercing the sky, rises before me. The vaporgates hum at its foundation, a low vibration under my boots as I cross the boundary.
Once through, the hospital becomes crystal clear. Its walls are pressed red brick, so smooth they look like a single sheet of polished clay. Tall, arched windows are trimmed in white Portland stone, edges sharp as if honed with a blade. The building feels less like a place for people and more like a perfectly maintained machine.
Above the main door, an emblem is embedded in the wall—a central caduceus glows with ethereal light, hovering over a pair of open palms, cupped and made of shifting water. The icon floats against a muted, deep teal circle that feels like sunless, placid water, framed with heavy, ornate gold flourishes. Willow-like branches drape down, brushing the edges.
I walk toward the door. The air smells of antiseptic and faint copper. My shoes click on the gravel path.
"Woof woof," a patient barks.
"You're not a dog!" a nurse yells, dragging the leash. "Get in."
My chest tightens at the muted cries, the metallic clinks, the lingering mix of disinfectant and sweat.
I push open the wooden door. The lobby's glazed tiles catch the lantern light and throw it back at my eyes. No dust here—none allowed.
Beneath my boots, the checkered marble floor stretches toward the corridors, reflecting the white light with a surgical ferocity. No shadow hides.
As I walk toward the receptionist, someone taps my shoulder.
I turn. A woman in a long white coat—dark skin, dark curly hair, amber eyes—stands before me.
"Yes?" I ask.
"Come." She curls a finger, gesturing me to follow.
I follow her through a corridor.
"I'M NOT SICK!" a patient yells.
"Kiss me, kiss me, kiss me," another humping his pillow.
We stop at a door. Her head drifts from one end to another, scanning.
Then she opens it.
"Come quick," she says as she enters.
I walk in.
She closes the door. The air changes. Thinner. No windows. No clocks. Stripped of even the faint copper scent from the lobby. The room is a forest of glass—coiled tubes and bloated retorts hissing with pressurized steam.
"You are?"
"Beatrix." She walks toward a shelf.
"Are we supposed to meet?" I ask.
"A smart one." She turns, pulling something from the shelf. "Place the box on the table."
I place it down where she points.
"So?"
"I just know it's you—your smell."
Cold chills crawl across my forehead. I freeze.
I lift my hand to the back of my neck. The spot Silva licked is still wet. Sticky.
I hold the same hand close to my nose. Sour. Tangy. Kuor.
I turn to Beatrix. She lifts the lid.
Her hand slips inside. Finds the gold. One. Placed on the table. Another. Placed down. The last. Done.
She places a palm-sized crystal inside. Closes the lid.
"That's all. You may go back to Isaak."
I nod, take the wooden box, and hold it against my waist. The air in the laboratory is thicker, sharp with chemical tang and steam.
As I leave, I glance at something tucked high on a shelf. A small cabinet, its latch cold and unyielding. Fingers of metal, click faint as a heartbeat. A thin metal plate glints in the steam: Nyxamere.
I walk out of the hospital, ignoring the yells and screams of the patients.
I find a carriage and tell the jarvy: Hearthlight Building.
I enter the building. Margaret calls, "Good Friday, Len."
I ignore her and proceed to Gary's office.
Knock knock.
"Come in," Gary calls.
I open the door, walk to his desk, and drop the wooden box on his table.
Gary stands. "What is this?"
I lift the lid.
He looks, then picks the crystal up. "Memorite."
"What's that?" I ask.
"An excellent-grade alchemical tool—for memory," he says. Then turns to me. "Where did you get this?"
"Silva made me deliver IAMs to Lethor Hospital. Then someone—Beatrix—swapped the IAMs for this." I point at the memorite.
"Memorite. Hospital. Beatrix." He places his hand on his chin. His brows frown.
Gary paces. Eyes drift to the memorite. The room feels tighter with every step.
He stops and turns. "Silva is a middleman. Beatrix is an operator, just like Aram. You're a courier, an invisible line working within the Veiled Canon Order."
"Okay?" I say.
"You don't matter to them."
Gary walks to me, places his hand on my shoulder. "Take this back to Silva. Monitor him for now."
I nod, carrying the box against my waist.
Margaret tries again. "Good Friday, Len."
I ignore her.
I get on a carriage and instruct the jarvy: Haverstock University.
At the university, I head straight to Silva's chamber.
Knock knock.
"Come in," Silva calls.
I open the door and step inside.
"Damian," he smiles. "That's fast."
He stands and catches my hand, fingers firm. "Come."
He leads me to his bed.
"Sit."
I sit, setting the box at my side.
He checks the box and lifts the lid. He picks up the memorite, then raises it to my face.
His eyes drift between mine and my mouth, slow, deliberate—measured like he's weighing something fragile.
"Do you know what this is?"
I pause. Silence stretches. There's no correct answer.
"I don't know, Professor," I say. The words come easily. My tone doesn't.
He studies me, gaze lingering on my eyes. I can see my reflection in them—small, trapped. The coldness of his stare presses against my skin.
Then he sets the memorite on his desk.
"About my girl—"
"That's okay," he cuts in, smiling. "I'll teach you something… for your girl. Eventually."
"But, Professor."
"Don't worry too much." He waves it off. "If Kayla isn't enough for now, I'll introduce others." A wink.
"Really?" I let my voice rise just a shade—bright enough to sell it—while my chest stays tight.
"Mhm." He nods. "Come again next Tuesday."
I leave his chamber, the university, and take a carriage back to the Valazam Hotel.
I spend the hours reading, writing, waiting.
Later.
Ashlynn returns. Her breath steady. Sweat beads along her collarbone. A faint warmth rises from her skin. Her dress clings slightly at the back, shifting as she moves. Every step measured, deliberate.
She removes her boots near the door, dragging off her coat and bag with a muted thud.
"Hey," she murmurs, moving toward me, bare feet light on the floor.
I look up from the chair. She pauses just short of the desk, letting the room settle around her—the faint smell of roasted bread clinging.
"I went to the plaza today," she says, voice low, almost a whisper. Her fingers brush my chest as she leans slightly forward, amber eyes catching the lantern light. "The food stalls. I tried a little of everything. Sweet bread, fried meat, roasting spices… people shouting prices. Some smelled like smoke and sugar all at once."
She tilts her head, watching me watch her, a small smile tugging at her lips. "And I met someone. A girl… really nice. She laughed at my clumsy way of tasting things. I laughed at hers. We talked about the bread, the smoke, the little smells in the alleyways."
I nod slowly, letting her words fill the quiet. My fingers tighten subtly on hers. I stand, leaning just slightly closer, so close our breaths mingle.
"I need your help," I whisper.
Her face flushes, amber eyes widening slightly. Her hands grow damp.
"Help?" she whispers back.
"Teach me…"
"Teach you?"
"Teach me how to pick locks," I say, letting my gaze linger.
Her shoulder lumps. She leans back, exhales a small sigh. "Fine."
She reaches her bag already on the floor and pull something out, her lockpick.
"Come," she curls her finger, gesturing me to walk to the door.
Ashlynn kneels in front of the room door, the small lockpick in her fingers catching the flicker of the lantern light. She tilts her head at me, amber eyes warm.
"See this?" she murmurs, holding it up. "It's simple. Not magic. Just touch… patience."
I crouch beside her, leaning closer. Our elbows brush. the subtle heat from her arm is immediate, subtle, grounding.
"You try," she hands me her lockpick.
"Start by feeling," she whispers, guiding my hand toward the door's keyhole. "Not looking, not forcing. The pins will tell you what they want if you listen."
I slide the pick inside, and it resists. She leans forward, fingers brushing mine lightly as she adjusts my angle. Her hand lingers longer than necessary—an excuse, or maybe not. My breath catches.
"Good… gentle pressure," she murmurs close to my ear. "The lock isn't your enemy. It just wants attention."
Click. The mechanism gives way. My chest lifts, a quiet thrill coursing through me.
Her smile is small, soft, proud, but she doesn't pull back. "See? Rhythm. Every lock has one. Feel it. And… remember you're not alone."
We repeat the exercise. Each time, her hands brush mine, subtly guiding. Each time, the moment grows warmer, slower, intimate. The mundane metal of the lock becomes a conduit, a shared rhythm between us.
Finally, she lets me try alone. Fingers trembling, I follow her teaching. Click. The door yields.
Ashlynn leans back just slightly, watching me with that quiet pride that disarms me. "Not bad," she murmurs.
I glance at her, heart still racing from both the lesson and the closeness. "Thanks," I whisper. "For… this. And teaching me."
She then walks to the bathroom and closes the door. "I won't lock the door. Don't bother."