Good Saturday.
Morning dawns on the Republic. Activity has already begun, smog already covering the sky.
Yet I wake alone, and late.
Ashlynn is already gone, the bed cold on her side.
Usually I would be rushing to work on a Saturday morning. I don't have to anymore, so I spend the early hours writing in my diary.
After I finish, I get dressed in a proper manner.
A dark coat suit—tailored, restrained. The fabric is heavy but smooth, settling cleanly along my shoulders. A charcoal vest beneath, buttoned all the way up, pressed flat against my chest. A white shirt, stiff at the collar, cuffs sharp. Dark trousers, straight cut, without excess. Polished leather shoes, worn but cared for.
I fasten the coat last. The weight settles into place. Then strapped my cylindrical bag over my shoulder—already filled with rocks and papers.
Ready for business.
I leave the hotel and hop into a carriage.
"Market Port," I tell the jarvy.
He nods, and the carriage moves.
We head west, rolling through multiple cross sections. The smog thins as we go, its weight easing until it gives way to salt carried on the air. The carriage turns south, wheels rattling past a Hearthlight building in the Western Outskirt. At another intersection, we turn west again.
At the end of the road, the market port comes into view.
The carriage slows and stops.
I step out near a restaurant by the crowded market.
I weave between stalls, dodging baskets stacked high with fish and sacks of salt. The briny scent hangs thick in the air, undercut by the faint sweetness of baked bread and the acrid tang of coal smoke. Rocks change hands at every corner, clinking softly against wooden counters.
The tavern comes into view. Its low, weathered sign swings with a squeal of metal hinges; paint chipped, letters worn thin by wind and time. Salt crusts the windowpanes, the wood darkened by years of sea spray and smoke.
I push the door open.
The air hits me immediately—brine, stale ale, and the faint warmth of cooked meat. Shadows cling to corners, flickering candles casting irregular pools of light across scratched tables. A few sailors sit at the bar, mugs raised, coins rattling against wood, voices low and rough.
Jasper Queen, the tavernmaster, meets my gaze. Brow furrowed, lips pressed thin, eyes sharp beneath a coating of salt and tobacco. "You again," he says, voice gravelly, rough like rope burned by the sea.
I simply smile at him. "Hi again."
"What are you here for?"
"I'm looking for a man named Adrian Lockhart. Is he here yet?"
"He's already here, in his room. With a friend."
Friend?
"I'll call him," he adds.
I nod.
Queen leaves the counter and climbs the stairs to the upper floor.
A moment later.
He descends with two men.
I step forward.
"Here they are," Queen says, hooking a thumb toward them before turning away and returning to the bar.
"Good Saturday," I greet them.
"Good Saturday, Monsieur," they reply in unison.
"This is my brother, Rehanza," Adrian says, turning slightly and extending an open hand toward the man beside him—palm up, fingers relaxed, a gesture meant to present rather than introduce, as if placing him on display.
Just like Adrian, Rehanza is also young—blonde hair, green eyes. Their suits are decent: not flashy, but formal enough to be accepted.
We shake hands.
"My name is Rehanza Lockhart. I am a private solicitor," he introduces himself.
We exchange small talk, the words polite and measured. After a few minutes, we leave the tavern.
They lead me down the narrow, salt‑crusted street, past the market's clamoring stalls, toward a building on the opposite side.
The structure is modest, practical, and shows its age. Pale gray stone walls streaked with blackened rain marks, corners chipped, window frames slightly warped. The solid wooden door bears scratches from years of use, the brass knob dulled by countless hands. A small plaque hangs crookedly: faintly etched letters spell Rehanza Lockhart, Solicitor.
A single liquid lantern sways on a bracket by the door, casting long, wavering shadows across uneven cobblestones. The faint glow glints off wet patches, hinting at the sea's nearby presence.
Rehanza steps forward, holding the door open. I follow inside. The building, like its owner, is quietly competent: sturdy, functional, with the small signs of wear and fatigue that come from being used well but alone.
We go straight to his office, immediately to the left of the entrance. The scent of ink, old paper, and faint wood polish drifts toward us as the door swings shut behind.
We sit at the only table in the room, close to his desk and beside a window. Faded light filters through, casting soft lines across worn wooden surfaces and stacks of neatly organized documents.
Adrian begins, explaining his fishing business. Lockhart Fishing Enterprise—its assets, expenditures, debts, and the story he plans to tell about last month's income. Details meant for a proper business—but irrelevant to me. I listen, nodding only where necessary.
"Okay, so that's everything about the company," Adrian finishes. "How should we proceed?"
I reach into my bag and pull out my company registry—Owright Firm. I place it deliberately on the table.
"We agreed that half of this company will belong to me," I say, voice steady. "But I want you to register it under my company name." The words land with certainty.
The two exchange a glance, then turn back to me.
"We agree," Adrian says, while Rehanza picks up my company registry, studies it briefly, then returns it to me.
Rehanza begins drafting the new ownership documents. Ones that match my design.
We sign. Each of us keeps a copy. All that remains is formalizing everything at Civic Concord—Rehanza will handle it. As if the law even mattered here.
I spill the rocks from my bag across the table.
Their eyes widen. Shock creeps into their expressions. "It's… a lot of phens, Monsieur."
"Three thousand," I smirk as they study the scattered stones.
"Thanks, Monsieur. I'll make sure the company thrives," Adrian says, voice full of excitement.
"Rehanza," I call. "I have a favor to ask."
"Y-yes, Monsieur?" he replies.
I slide a different paper across the table—my tax receipt. "While you're at it, pay my tax as well."
He takes the receipt without hesitation. "Gladly, Monsieur."
A few more words pass between us, routine enough to fill the silence.
We have some more conversation, small talk threading between us, before I prepare to leave.
I focus on my left eye. Feel the pulse from within. Abyssal Eye awakens. My gaze meets Rehanza's for a fraction of a second while Adrian is distracted. It is subtle and quick.
After that, I leave. I hop into a carriage and ride back to my hotel, straight to my room. The door closes behind me.
Ashlynn is already there, leaning against the window sill, sunlight catching in her hair. She looks up, a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth.
"Back so soon?" she teases, voice soft but sharp enough to make me grin.
"I thought I'd check if the room missed me," I reply, shrugging as I set my bag down.
Her laugh is low, warm. She steps closer, brushing past me. "Missed you?" she repeats, the word playful, half-question, half-challenge.
We circle each other, words light but edged with teasing. A hand brushes an arm, a shoulder leans closer than necessary. The space between us shrinks with quiet ease, each movement intentional, yet fluid, like we're dancing to a rhythm only we can hear.
Moments stretch, laughter fading into quiet smiles. Our teasing softens, shifting into something gentler, more intimate.
And then, slowly, naturally, the world outside ceases to exist. Only us in our bed. Nothing between us—not a single thread. Every touch, every glance, carries a sweetness that fills the space around us, warm and unspoken.
As it ends, we settle into each other, eyes closing, hearts still echoing the quiet pulse of the moment.
—
I stand on the vast expanse of water. The reflection beneath me stretches endlessly, blending into the void that stretches nowhere into nothingness.
I push time forward, letting it flow faster, a current only I feel.
Ripples break the surface. The figure I've been waiting for appears, mirrored beneath the water, standing still. His fingers fidget while he's looking around confused.
I bend, fingers brushing the liquid surface. The water twists and pulls me in. The current carries me effortlessly, spilling me onto his side without struggle.
His eyes meet mine — unblinking, caught in the space between reality and this realm. Panic flits across his face, tiny beads of sweat forming, but his body stays rooted.
"Hello, Rehanza," I greet him, voice steady, weightless.
"W-w-w-wait..." he stutters, lips trembling. "Who… who are you?"
I tap my chest once. Calm but proud. "I am Monsieur Abyss."
His gaze falters. Instantly, he drops to one knee. "Please… don't hurt me.
"
"Rise, Rehanza," I smile, soft but certain. "Don't be afraid."
He swallows hard. Hesitates, trembling slightly, but rises—one leg at a time.
"About the company—you helped draft the documents," I say. "Do you intend to actually finalize and formalize it?"
"H-h-how do you know?"
"That is not a response I appreciate," I reply evenly, letting the weight of my voice press against him.
"I-I'm sorry, Monsieur," he swallows again. "I was just helping my brother… achieve his dream."
CLAP.
I clap once. Sharp, deliberate, echoing across the void of this dreamlike realm. My smile is calm, approving. "Very good, Rehanza."
He flinches slightly, relief and awe mingling in his expression.
"You will be faithful and loyal toward Thadeo Owright." I command him.
The words settle.
A subtle tremor passes through him. His shoulders straighten. His gaze clears, no longer searching—only receiving.
"Your command is my duty, Monsieur," he answers, voice firm now, unquestioning.
The water beneath our feet stills completely, reflection smoothing as if the world itself accepts the decree.
—