No longer an Initiate but an agent of an Order. Not just a cog but a gear in the system.
Dark leather boots, tight and silent. Skinny pants and shirt, a dark tie snug at my collar. Over it, a long coat with built-in holster for my revolver; the badge slips into my pocket. Cartridge pouch on my belt. Fedora from Ashlynn completes the look.
Early in the morning in Hearthlight building.
"Good Tuesday day, Len," Margaret greets me as I enter.
"You forgot to bow, Margaret," I reply.
Her brows knit, lips twitching. Confusion painted on her face. "Len?"
I pull out my badge and hold it to her face. "I outrank you now. I demand respect."
She claps, eyes wide. "Your hard work has paid off!"
"I still remember the day you slapped me," I say, smirking. "So, as your superior, I command you to spend the rest of the day cleaning the toilets… with your tongue."
She smiles, bows, almost exaggeratedly. "Thank you, Len. Truly a brilliant leader. You'll see results by day's end."
I smirked at Margaret's wide eyes. A small victory—tiny, meaningless—but satisfying.
After displaying my authority, I stride through the Hearthlight halls, boots whispering over polished stone. I stop at Gary's office and knock, a grin tugging at my lips.
"Good Tuesday, Gary," I say as I enter.
"Good… Tuesday…" His face freezes, eyes narrowing, scanning me. "Len? You seem… in a good mood."
"I finally did something I've always wanted," I shrug. "Also—what's my job now?"
Gary rises, the chair groaning under him. "Come."
I follow him through the back corridors. The elevator hums upward, carrying us to the top floor. We walk toward the clocktower room—but instead, he turns right, to a room tucked close to the elevator.
The room is square, wide, its walls built of thick, rough-hewn bricks. The floor gleams, polished stone arranged in a precise checkered pattern. Four vertical beams rise symmetrically around the large wooden table at the center, its surface polished smooth, scattered with papers and arcane symbols.
Along the walls, wooden shelves line the space, heavy with books and artifacts. Between them, weapon racks stand at attention: swords, spears, crossbows, rifles—each piece resting as if waiting for command. The room feels like lion teeth.
We walk to the table at the center.
"Jasper Rook," Gary says, tapping the paper laid across the polished wood.
"Wait… where's his picture?" I ask, my tone lifting a notch.
Gary turns to me. "With promotion comes responsibility," he smirks.
"So this is what agents do," I say. "No wonder I don't see any agents in the building—just clerks and workers."
"Actually, you're the only agent in this facility," he shrugs. "One agent per site. And I already told you—I'm non‑combatant."
I nod.
"You can use anything in this room." He gestures toward the shelves and weapon racks lining the walls. "They're your supplies and equipment."
I open a shelf near the wall.
Knives.
Some of them resemble Silva's blade. Up close, the metal is etched with broken, irregular patterns—engraved fractures frozen mid‑shatter.
I lift one and hold it out toward Gary. "What's this?"
"Shardfang. Throw it and it detonates into shards. Kills anyone nearby."
"Huh… neat."
I slide two into the knife pockets beneath my coat.
I reach for another. Different pattern—something like a vortex carved near the guard. I hold it up. "And this one?"
"Trackfang. It follows your target until it lands—or is stopped."
I place it back.
Before I can grab another, Gary raises a hand.
"Len. Our mission is to identify and capture. Not assassination."
I nod, closing the shelf and refilling my rounds.
After that, we leave the building.
Gary calls a carriage. "West," he instructs the jarvy.
The carriage moves through the streets west of the Hearthlight building, rolling straight through multiple intersections.
Eventually, we arrive at the Western Outskirt. The smog isn't as thick as in the North or East, but the air carries a sharp hint of sea salt. Less soot settles here. The buildings are slightly cleaner—though not as polished as those in City Heart.
The carriage slows and stops.
We step out in front of a Hearthlight building. Red brick. Two stories tall, half the size of the northern building, yet symmetrical. Only one door marks the front entrance. Like the building in the north, the Hearthlight emblem sits above the doorway. People flow in and out—those who enter with sorrow leave with relief; those who enter with hope leave with joy.
I take my first step toward the building, and Gary stops me.
"No. You're not going inside," he says. "Your job is to find Jasper Rook."
"I thought we were doing this together."
"We are," he says. "Just with different responsibilities."
He meets my eyes. "You identify the target and capture him. I interrogate him."
"That doesn't seem fair."
"No."
He turns me by the shoulders, firm hands guiding my body around, then gives me a push between the shoulder blades. "But I'm the captain."
I stumble a step forward.
"Go," he adds. "I'll be waiting in the Western building."
I walk away from the Western building. Across the street, houses line up, each with the Hearthlight emblem engraved above the doors.
I slip into a narrow alley between them. Mostly empty. A few figures crouch over card games, tossing rocks as bets. Elsewhere, young couples cling to one another, stealing quiet moments—moments I might have claimed today, if not for work.
The alley spills out onto the port-side market. Tents brim with fish and spices, scents sharp and salty in the sea air. Merchants hawk their wares; street performers twist and balance for rocks. Laborers drag crates toward waiting ships, the boards creaking under the weight.
The vessels are uniform. Smaller ones carry merchants; larger ones are crewed by men in black jumpers, white striped edging, wide-legged trousers, and topped with cap with ribbon. Rifles rest against the rails. Canons glint along the decks. All of them fly the Corvanian flag: a black field crossed by a deep blue.
I walk through the shops and tents lining the market. A tavern stands among them, pressed between a fish stall and a rope seller. Low stone walls, windows dulled by salt and grease. A wooden sign hangs above the door, paint chipped, letters worn thin by wind and time.
I push the door open.
The air smells of brine and stale ale. I move toward the bar, resting my elbow for support, sliding a couple of rocks across the counter. The tavernmaster notices. Tall, bulky and bald. He wipes his hands on a rag and approaches.
"You don't look like someone who's here to drink," he says, eyes narrowing.
"I'm looking for someone by the name Jasper."
He taps his chest lightly. "I'm Jasper. What do you need?"
Something about him doesn't fit. I tilt my head slightly, fingers brushing the counter as I lean in, voice calm. "You don't look like a Jasper."
His eyes sharpen. He straightens, muscles flexing under his shirt. A slow, deliberate inhale. "Men in my family have been Jasper for four generations," he says, each word measured, confident. His hands curl slightly over the bar, knuckles pale, asserting presence.
"Your last name?" I ask.
"Queen."
I pause, studying him, tracing the lines of his hands, the way he shifts weight. "Okay. Checked. But I'm looking for a Rook."
His hands tighten on the bar, the tendons visible beneath the skin. He leans, breath coming heavy and steady. "Screw the Rooks."
I leave the tavern, slipping back into the alley where fewer people wander, shadows stretching along the walls.
I pull out my badge, pressing the emblem—a subtle click sounds.
A moment later, it vibrates.
Instinctively, I hold it closer to my ear, like a smartphone. Yes, another hollow word.
"Len?" Gary's voice cuts in, calm but sharp. "Well?"
"It might take a while," I say, eyes scanning the alley.
"Yes," he replies. "I expect this will take three to seven days. Get yourself a room in the tavern."
"I just want to make it clear—I prioritize today's job over a date with Ashlynn."
"The sooner you find Jasper Rook, the sooner you return to Ashlynn," he says.
Click.
The connection cuts. Silence swallows the alley. The hum of the market fades behind me. I pocket the badge and move again.
I return to the tavern, weaving through the crowd, and approach the tavernmaster.
"Welcome again," he says.
"A room for one, please," I reply.
"Okay," he holds out a key.
I focus my left eye. It pulses faintly from within. Abyssal Eye awakens. The tavernmaster meets my gaze, frozen for a fraction of a heartbeat.
"Do you plan to sleep anytime soon?" I ask, taking the key.
He chuckles. "You're a funny man."
I ascend to my room, lock it from the inside, and lie on the bed.
I close my eyes and sink into dream.
—
I stand atop a vast expanse of water stretching to nowhere, horizon swallowed in darkness. The void hums softly. It stills my mind and sharpens my focus.
Time bends here, subject to my will. Moments collapse into one another in an instant.
"Hello? Anyone here?"
A man appears at the edge of my reflection on the water.
I bend, letting my hand skim the surface. The water curves, pulling me across to his side.
His breath comes fast and ragged as I materialize before him—one arm's length away. His eyes widen, fear etching his features.
"Wh... what do you want?"
"Good Tuesday, Jasper Queen. I'm Monsieur Abyss." I tap my chest once.
"Mo... Mo... Monsieur Abyss..." he forces his breath slower, trying to steady himself. One step back. "What can I do for you, oh great and magnanimous lord of the void?"
"You will fight Jasper Rook today."
"Is that all?" He takes another careful step back.
I lean close and whisper, voice low: "Wake up."
Then I push him. He falls backward, plunging into the water. It resists him, swallowing him without mercy. The more he struggles, the faster it drags him under.
He vanishes, struggling futilely, until the surface smooths into perfect stillness.
I turn my attention to the darkness itself, commanding it—
"Wake me up."
—