I prepare for class as usual: blue blazer, cylindrical bag, and my diary—Allen's notebook tucked safely in my pocket. The fabric sits right. Nothing feels out of place.
The carriage waits. The horse shifts its weight once. I climb in, directing the jarvy toward Haverstock University. The wheels creak, then settle into rhythm.
Early morning light filters through the vestibule. Dust drifts lazily in the air. Students pass, murmuring, shoes scraping stone. Someone laughs too loud and gets shushed.
A tap on my shoulder.
I turn.
Brunette. Blue hair. A faint scent of citrus drifts from her, clean and sharp.
"Good Tuesday, Damian," she says.
"Good Tuesday, Kayla." I lift my hand and wave. The motion feels automatic.
She beams and slaps mine with a high-five. "Yayy."
The sound echoes more than it should. A few heads turn.
I let a small smile escape. It doesn't stay long.
She leans closer, fingers brushing mine as she takes my hand. "Damian~"
Heat flares briefly in my chest—quick, sharp—but my mind clenches. My fingers curl around the strap, just for a second. I let go.
"Let's go to class," I say. My voice stays even.
She links her arm through mine, firm enough I can't pull away without effort. The pressure is light, casual. My pulse stutters anyway. I don't move.
Her gaze flicks toward the other students, then back at me, blue eyes glinting with something playful. Something watchful.
"You can't escape me today, Damian~," she whispers, tugging gently.
Her words brush my ear. I inhale the faint citrus scent again. Muscles coil. Resist. Don't react. I let her pull me forward.
We sit in the front row. The bench is cool through my uniform. Our arms remain linked as we wait. The room fills around us. The gazes follow—confusion, admiration, envy—passing like drafts.
"KYAAAAAAA!"
Professor Silva enters and the class erupts. Chairs scrape. Someone drops a notebook. He walks to the platform and places his bag on the desk with careful precision.
He turns, finger to his nose.
The class goes silent. Even breathing seems to pause.
He glances at me, at my arm linked with Kayla's arm. He winks.
He steps forward to a girl in the front row.
He places his hand gently on her face. His thumb barely moves. "Your weekly kiss, Sylva."
He leans in and kisses her.
"KYAAAAAA!"
The girls scream. The boys slap their desks. Someone whistles. The Sylva-girl's face flushes bright red, her smile wide and sincere, almost reverent.
Professor Silva lifts his hands. "It's normal to kiss a girl who shares my name."
"One day I will name my future daughter Sylva!" a boy shouts from the back.
"She needs to come to Haverstock then," Silva replies smoothly.
Laughter ripples through the room.
He walks back to the center of the platform. His steps are unhurried.
"Corvania, our glorious Republic, relies on something! What is it?"
"Strength?" a boy shouts
"Wrong!" Silva shakes his head, voice steady but firm. Not angry. Certain.
"Reason!" a girl shouts.
"Correct!" He snaps his fingers once. His voice rises, measured, theatrical but controlled. He steps closer, eyes sweeping the room, pauses cutting his speech into clean segments.
"Reason is the foundation of our glorious Republic! The Cultist Choirs abroad spread their religions, entrenching belief into their systems! But here—Orders, especially the Veiled Canon Order—they build education! Schools! Universities! They burn reason into our very bones!"
The words settle slowly. Not shouted. Not rushed. Heavy.
The class leans in. Some whisper to each other. Others sit frozen, eyes fixed on him, afraid to blink.
When the bell rings, it feels late.
After the class ends, I follow Silva to his chamber, leaving Kayla behind. Her fingers linger for half a second longer than necessary.
His chamber smells faintly of incense and old paper.
He sits on the edge of his bed. The mattress dips. I remain near the closed door. The wood presses cool against my back.
"You're not going to lick me again, professor?" I ask.
He chuckles softly. The sound is controlled. "Do you think I'm a creep?"
"No. But I felt uncomfortable."
"Don't worry. I won't lick you again," he says, smiling.
Then, quieter, almost absent: "I don't have to anymore."
He bends down and pulls a wooden box from beneath the bed. Dust flakes off the bottom. He lifts it and walks toward me.
He presses the box lightly against my stomach. The wood is warm. "You know where to deliver this."
"Yes, professor." I take it, holding it against my waist.
"Damian."
"Yes, professor?"
"About your girl." He pauses. His eyes linger, measuring. "I'll teach you something after you return."
"Thank you, professor."
I leave his chamber.
Exit Haverstock.
Head straight for the market.
The streets are louder here. Wheels, vendors, voices overlapping.
I visit the smithshop.
The clerk notices me immediately and approaches, wiping his hands on a rag.
"Monsieur, what can I help you with today?"
"Not much. Lockpicks."
He doesn't ask how many.
I buy ten. Nothing more. The metal clinks softly as I slip them into my pockets one by one.
Then I go to my warehouse.
Inside, the air is still. Dust floats. I set the wooden box on the heavy table and lift the lid.
Gold.
Three bars. Exactly.
I cross to the steel shelves along the western wall, open one panel, and retrieve the medical documents—the forged ones. The paper smells faintly of ink and oil.
I place them inside the box, resting them against the gold.
Then I close the lid.
From my warehouse, I leave the alley and flag down a carriage at the street mouth. The horse snorts. I instruct the jarvy: Lethor Hospital.
The ride is long enough for the city to thin.
I step out just outside the wall of mist. It blocks the smog out.
Then I glance left. Then right.
An old man stands nearby. Skin and bone. Tattered clothes clinging to him. Flies orbit his body in lazy loops. His face is tight, eyes refusing to meet mine.
"Good Tuesday," I say.
"Don't bother me," he scoffs.
"Do you want some phens?"
He turns immediately. His shoulders loosen. The tension drains from him like a habit breaking. His voice softens, practiced.
"What can I do for you, Monsieur?"
I open the wooden box and take out the documents.
"Here." I hand them to him. "I'll go inside the hospital. Once I'm in the building, you enter. Then give these to the clerk."
"Understood, Monsieur," he says. Excitement bleeds through restraint.
I turn and take a few steps toward the hospital, passing through the vaporgates.
The smog falls away behind me.
Clean air closes in.
I walk toward the front door. I can feel the old man waiting. Counting my steps.
As I enter, a doctor approaches. Dark skin. Dark, curly hair. Amber eyes that settle on me without hesitation.
"Good Tuesday, Beatrix," I greet her.
"Good Tuesday." She smiles and waves, already turning. "Come."
I follow her down the corridor. The floor hums underfoot.
"Goo goo gaa gaa—"
SLAP.
A nurse strikes the crying patient.
"I'M NOT CRAZY! THE AIR IS POISONING US!" another patient screams.
"You forgot your pill." A nurse shoves a fistful of tablets into the man's mouth. Some fall. No one picks them up.
We enter Beatrix's laboratory.
The noises die instantly.
Silence seals the room like a lid.
I place the wooden box on the table.
Beatrix approaches and lifts the lid. She reaches inside, fingers moving slowly, deliberately—measuring what she cannot see. Weight. Edges. Absence.
"Three IAM, as usual," she says.
She removes the gold bars one by one and lays them on the table. The sound is dull. Final.
From her pocket, she produces a crystal—memorite—and places it into the box. She closes the lid.
Knock. Knock.
The sound fractures the silence.
Beatrix moves at once. She opens the door. A nurse stands outside, arms full of documents.
"Doctor, you need to see this."
Beatrix's brows knit. She exhales, small and controlled.
She turns to me. "Don't leave yet. Wait here."
She steps out and locks the door behind her.
Click.
The sound settles in my chest.
I reach into my pocket and take out a lockpick. My fingers are steady. I move to the shelf. A cabinet sits on top.
I slide the pick into the keyhole.
Resistance.
I adjust the angle. Slow. Patient.
Click.
The lock yields.
Inside, a single flower rests in shadow.
Dull indigo. It doesn't reflect light. Not even the edges.
I take it out and close the cabinet.
The flower is warm in my palm, yet it leaves a creeping numbness in my fingers. Its shape blurs the moment I look away, refusing to stay whole in memory.
Nyxamere.
Material for the Abyssal Eye.
I carry the nyxamere to the wooden box. I lift the lid, place it inside, and close it.
Nothing changes.
Nothing looks suspicious.
Everything looks the same.
A moment later—
Click.
The door opens. Beatrix enters.
"Hey, I forgot to ask your name."
"It's Damian," I say.
"Okay, Damian. I won't be available Friday morning. Something came up. Doctor stuff." She walks closer, already distracted.
"What should I tell Professor?"
"Nothing. You come here. Same hours." She hands me a key. "Here."
I take the key and hold it up. "Understood."
I leave her laboratory carrying the wooden box against my waist. I exit the hospital and meet the old man.
"Here are your phens." I give him a couple of rocks.
"Thanks, Monsieur," he says, smiling wide.
I flag a carriage and instruct the jarvy.
"Florist shops east of Hearthlight Building."
After traveling across the Northern Outskirt, the carriage slows and stops.
I step out in front of the florist shops. Petals spill onto the street. I walk through the narrow alley between them and return to my warehouse.
Inside, I place the box on my table. I lift the lid. Take out the nyxamere and place it in my steel shelf. The metal chills it immediately.
Then I close the lid.
Once it's done, I lock my warehouse from the outside and head back to Haverstock.
To Silva's chamber.
When I enter, Kayla is already inside.
She sits on the bed.
A leash circles her neck. Her clothes are gone, replaced by black underwear that doesn't try to hide much. The room smells faintly sweet.
"Ah—perfect timing," Silva says, voice bright, lifted, almost pleased. The energy snaps instead of sprawling.
"Professor? Kayla?" I step closer despite myself.
"Hi, Damian," Kayla says, smiling easily. Too easily.
"Come," Silva says, waving me in with two fingers.
I set the wooden box on the floor and move closer to Kayla.
Too close.
She tilts her head, eyes half-lidded. "Do you like what you see?" Her tongue flicks briefly over her lips.
"This," Silva says smoothly, cutting through the moment, "is what alchemy can do, Damian."
"What?" I let the word come out light. Almost careless. I tilt my head, just a fraction late.
"Alchemy?"
"Alchemy can make your girl fall in love with you, just like Kayla here," he says, a thin smirk cutting across his face.
The room feels smaller. Warmer. I don't react.
"How?" I ask, keeping my voice shallow and even.
"There are two ways," he says. His eyes linger on me, slow, measuring. "Cognitive suggestion. I don't know how to do that."
I nod once. Neutral. Patient.
"But I know the other way."
He walks toward me. Standing right in front of me. A breath length.
Measuring. Waiting.
A pause. Just long enough to matter.
"Memory implant."