The first place I go is the real estate office. It's already open. Inside, the agent waits near the doorway, documents tucked under his arm.
He smiles when he sees me approaching.
I smile back.
"You're here, finally," he says, extending his hand.
I take it. We shake. "Sorry I'm late."
He leans in slightly, gives a brief sniff, then pulls back. "The smell of soap at night can only mean one thing."
He winks.
I chuckle.
"Was it hot?" he asks.
"Wet."
"Then you must be a lady killer."
We laugh for a moment.
"Come in," he says, stepping aside.
I follow him inside. We sit at the low table. He places the documents down carefully but does not slide them toward me. Not yet.
"You already have the keys," he says. "They were fake keys." He chuckles.
"What?"
"There's no way I'd give anyone the real keys to a real house."
"Understandable," I say. I pull the fake keys from my coat and place them on the low table.
He takes them and flicks them toward the corner of the room.
Clink.
The key lands neatly in the center.
"Nice shot," I say.
He reaches into his inner coat, produces another set of keys, and places them gently on the table between us. "These are the real ones."
I take them. They're heavier. Honest.
"Now the payment?" he asks.
I reach for my cylindrical bag and set it on the table then tip it over.
Rocks spill out. Some are small, others are big.
His eyes move from the stones… to me… and back again.
He doesn't comment. He simply begins to count.
Uncounted rocks go to his left. Counted ones to his right. Each piece handled once. No pauses. No recounting. His fingers move with quiet precision, the way only someone trusted with other people's fortunes ever learns.
The counted pile grows. And keeps growing.
He stops.
Slowly, he lifts his gaze.
"You brought more than eleven hundred phens."
The composure in his voice thins, just enough to reveal the shock beneath.
"Mhm." I nod, a faint smirk forming.
For a moment, he just exhales, shaking his head once.
"Monsieur," he says quietly, "you are one of the very few people I have met who can pay like this… and choose to do it all at once."
"You can keep the change," I say, gesturing toward the neatly stacked piles.
His face brightens instantly. "Thank you, Monsieur! Thank you very much." He bows three times, almost comically reverent.
"The documents of ownership?" I let my finger drift toward the papers on the table.
"Here they are," he replies, sliding the papers across to me with careful hands.
I take them. Read them once more then place them neatly inside my now-empty bag. I close it and strap it over my shoulder. The weight feels right—another piece firmly in place.
We rise simultaneously, hands meeting in a firm shake. The deal is done.
I leave the office and move toward my new house. Not far—just two blocks away.
The house sits tucked among the grandeur of Eldenmere. Its pale stone has mellowed with age, warm beneath the lanterns' glow. Tall windows, framed in dark, polished wood, catch moonlight in subtle glints. A simple iron fence traces soft curves around the property, well-maintained, ivy climbing neatly along one side. Quiet life clings to the facade.
I pass through the front gate, walking between flower-lined pathways. The space between the fence and the house stretches wide, letting the approach feel open, almost ceremonial.
The front door is heavy oak, smooth from decades of use. A brass knocker shaped like a lion's head gleams faintly, polished enough to signal care without ostentation. Stone steps rise evenly to the threshold, worn subtly where generations have passed, solid beneath my boots.
Inside, the foyer opens upward with measured space. The ceiling is high enough to breathe, not to impress. A stairwell curls along the right wall, its banister polished smooth by years of use. Liquid lanterns set into the walls provide a steady, warm light, complemented by a simple chandelier of brass and glass overhead.
The house is quiet. Solid.
To the left, the living room faces the street. The space stretches deeper than it first appears, widening subtly as it runs toward the back of the house. Furniture sits with purpose rather than display. Cushions are firm, fabric clean, edges softened only by time. A modest fireplace anchors the inner wall, and beyond it, built-in storage disappears neatly into the structure.
To the right, the dining room mirrors it in depth. The table seats six comfortably, with room to spare. Cabinets extend along the rear wall, their doors flush, their contents ordered. The room feels balanced—meant to host.
Both rooms feed naturally toward the back.
The kitchen sits behind them, accessible from either side. Compact but open, it draws light from a rear window. Counters are scrubbed clean, cookware hung within easy reach. Storage runs deep along one wall, practical and well-used. The space feels connected, not tucked away—part of the house's rhythm.
Satisfied, I return to the foyer and climb the stairs.
The second floor opens directly above it, the ceiling lower but the space wider. The landing branches outward instead of narrowing. A narrow door at the end of the landing leads to the attic, a small space tucked beneath the roof, hidden from view yet easily reached when needed. A back door leads from the kitchen to a small rear courtyard, hidden from the street.
At the front of the house, directly above the foyer, lies the master bedroom. Tall windows overlook the street below, drawing in moonlight. The room is larger than the others, the ceiling slightly higher. A heavy bed rests against the inner wall, the wardrobe plain but spacious.
Further down the corridor, several additional bedrooms stand empty. Smaller, simpler, their floors clean, their windows open to the quiet sides of Eldenmere. Rooms meant to be filled when needed.
I stop in the master bedroom and let the silence settle.
The house exudes restraint, understated wealth—the kind that doesn't need to announce itself.
It is older, yes, but maintained, respected, comfortably elite. A home that fits one of my identities perfectly—Thadeo Owright.
I set my bag down and lie on the bed. The sheets are smooth, fine silk, offering instant comfort.
I close my eyes and drift into sleep.
—
I stand above the vast body of water within the darkness of my dream—my abyss.
Time stretches. The water stretches endlessly beneath me. Then, in its mirrored depths, he appears.
His eyes widen, pupils dilating as if the reflection itself betrays him. He blinks rapidly, tilts his head, trying to reconcile what he sees. One hand rises, then drops uncertainly. His lips part, but no words come. He takes a cautious step back, then another, shifting weight as though the world might tilt beneath him.
I let him wander first. Each hesitant step, each uncertain glance, speaks of mounting confusion that slowly curdles into worry. He glances behind him, searching for an escape.
Every breath comes sharper, faster, yet he freezes again as the water stirs subtly beneath him.
I bend, fingers brushing the liquid surface. The water twists obediently, curling around me. It swallows me whole, cold and silent.
Then, in a heartbeat, it spills me onto his side. I emerge instantly—sudden, undeniable. His eyes snap to mine like a deer caught in headlights.
"Don't be afraid, Mynar," I say, voice calm but weighty, before words can even form on his lips.
"Wh-w-w-who are you?" His voice trembles, stammering. Worry twists sharply, raw, into pure fear. "How… how do you know my name?"
I tap my chest once.
"I am Monsieur Abyss."
He swallows hard, eyes darting, body tense. One shaky step back. Another. Then Another. His composure collapses, panic setting in. He turns and runs.
I lift my fingers toward him. Instantly, the water beneath his feet rises, swallowing him whole. It forms a levitating bubble, enclosing him in suspended, trembling isolation.
He struggles, clawing against the water, trying to escape, but the liquid presses at the center of the sphere, relentless.
I curl my fingers inward. The bubble flies toward me, halting one arm's length away.
I snap my fingers. The bubble pops. Mynar drops to all fours.
"STAND!" I command, voice firm, echoing like a roar in the void.
He scrambles upright, legs cramped, arms locked stiff at his sides. Every muscle is rigid, every movement deliberate, restrained—as if even a twitch might summon my wrath. The water around him hums, tiny ripples clawing at his ankles, reminding him who controls the space.
"I advise you not to run," I say, calm but carrying weight.
"Thank you, Monsieur Abyss, for letting me understand that running is futile," he stammers.
"What do you need from this humble servant?"
I tilt my head slightly. "What is your relationship with Xandar Valazam?"
His gaze falters. "He's my half-brother. We share the same father. Her mother is the legitimate wife… mine was just a servant."
"And that's everything?"
"I… I was always the better brother. If only my father had married my mother—"
"I see," I interrupt, voice smooth, unyielding. "He is hosting a masquerade. For what purpose?"
"Masquerade?" His eyes widen. "We barely speak. Only three times a year, and only to discuss business."
"Anything else I should know?"
He shudders, his body almost vibrating with fear. One hand twitches at his side; his jaw clenches. His voice is low, trembling:
"I… I can't prove it… but I've heard… he has been trafficking people for phens."
—