This morning, Ashlynn wakes me with excitement written all over her face. She is already standing beside the bed on my side.
"Len, wake up!" she says, tapping my chest.
"What is it?" I mutter, pushing myself upright. Sleep still blurs my sight.
She grabs my hand and pulls. Hard.
I give in and rise. Her grip is firm, purposeful.
"What is it?" I ask again, trying to gather my senses.
She leads me into the corridor outside the master bedroom, toward the narrow door at the far end.
We climb the stairs.
The attic door creaks open.
And I blink.
The once empty space is no longer empty.
A circular steel table stands at the center. Desks and shelves line the walls — three on each side. Two steel chests rest near the stairway. By the attic window at the far end, there is even a small bed.
I take it all in.
"TADA!" she announces cheerfully. "I set this up yesterday. But I couldn't show you."
"Our own miniature alchemical lab," I reply, stepping forward slowly. "This is brilliant."
"Come." She gestures for me to follow her to the steel chests.
She opens one.
Inside — twelve knives.
"Teach me how to make Trackfangs and Shardfangs."
"Alright."
We move the knives to the table and arrange them equally. Six on my side while the rest in hers.
I pick up a knife and begin carving patterns guided by the alchemical principles I know. Precise lines. Controlled angles. Purpose behind every incision.
She mirrors my movements.
Some of her carvings are uneven, not as refined — but the structure is correct. The intent is accurate. That makes them safe.
Half the knives receive breaking patterns for Shardfang.
The other half receive seeking patterns for Trackfang.
"Alchemy requires fuel," I explain as we work. "Blood... Or its derivatives like Kuor."
"I can't keep using blood," she says. "Where do I get kuor?"
"Hand me that liquid lantern." I nod toward the lantern mounted on the wall behind her.
She rises, unhooks it carefully, and places it on the steel table.
I lift it and hold it between us.
"Kuor is diluted blood," I explain. "Mixed with stabilizing materials to preserve potency. If you can't create it yourself, watch closely."
I remove the container from the lantern frame and twist the lid free.
Ashlynn leans closer as the liquid inside shifts.
White.
Then slowly — red.
"Is that kuor?" she whispers.
"Yes. This is why liquid lanterns cost more than other Trinkteks. The shops are selling glowing kuor inside decorative frames."
She stares at it in fascination.
"Now watch."
I pour a small amount onto one of the carved knives.
The liquid seeps into the engraved patterns. It follows the lines like veins. Then it hardens, locking into place.
The Shardfang is complete.
"Your turn." I hand her the container.
She hesitates only briefly before pouring.
We spend the entire morning crafting Shardfangs and Trackfangs.
Steel. Pattern. Fuel.
After the first lesson ends, we prepare to go out.
I put on a dark coat over a fitted shirt and dark leather pants. She wears her old crimson coat — the one she once wore — paired with dark leather pants. Belts secured at our waists. Everything practical. Flexible. Built for movement.
And possibly combat.
"Bring the fangs," I tell her.
We each pocket three Trackfangs and three Shardfangs. She straps her rapier to her belt, the scabbard secured at her hip.
My revolver is still at the warehouse.
Unfortunate.
We stand before the mirror.
Matching silhouettes. Dark and crimson.
Ready.
She looks at me.
I lean in first.
A brief kiss — soft, familiar — before the day begins.
Then we descend and step into our personal carriage.
"Eastern Outskirt," I instruct the jarvy.
The carriage lurches forward.
From Eldenmere we move south toward the main cross section, then turn east. The horses surge ahead with raw power, their strides longer and stronger than the teams pulling other carriages. Ours dominates the road without effort.
The smog in the Northern Outskirt is already heavy.
But when it grows thicker — suffocating, greasy — that is how we know we've entered the Eastern Outskirt.
Here, soot does not merely stain buildings. It coats them. Layers so dense they look deliberate, as if the city painted itself in ash. Some districts are shielded by vaporgates. They release walls of mist, holding back the worst of the poison.
But most are not.
We turn south again, passing cross section after cross section.
Then we cross a bridge cutting through the eastern stretch of the city. Into the mini islands within the Eastern Outskirt.
In the center — where the smog is thickest — stand the factory districts. Iron skeletons coughing smoke into a sky that never clears.
Near them, a slum sprawls outward. Everything is buried in soot.
The moment we step out of the carriage, eyes turn. Not curious. Suspicious. We are too clean for this kind of place.
We walk past patched roofs and warped wooden frames. Past children with ash on their cheeks. Past women who pause mid-conversation to watch us.
An old man sits on an overturned crate, rubbing his hands.
Before we can speak, he groans.
"Whatever you're here for, make it quick. You rich folks are all the same anyway."
Ashlynn stiffens beside me. I feel the protest forming in her chest.
I step forward slightly, blocking her.
"We're looking for Tobyas."
The old man clicks his tongue.
"Grrr… that little shit must be up to no good again."
He squints at me. Then at Ashlynn. Then back at me. Measuring.
"He keeps to himself. Usually hiding in an abandoned shed near the river." He points with a crooked finger. "That way."
"Thank you," we say.
We turn to leave.
"Stop kidnapping our children…" he mutters. Soft. But not soft enough as if it was intentional.
Ashlynn's hand shifts slightly near her rapier.
I keep walking.
We follow the direction he gave us.
The further we go, the quieter it becomes. The river cuts through the district like a dark scar, its surface reflecting nothing but smoke.
Then we see it.
The abandoned shed. Small. Crooked.
But… maintained.
No soot on the walls.
No grime on the windows.
Even the door hinges look recently cleaned.
Knock. Knock.
"Who's there?" a man's voice answers from within.
"Tobyas?"
The door creaks open.
A man in his thirties stands before us. Sweat and soot cling to his skin in uneven patches. His posture is guarded. One thing catches my attention. A red bracelet wrapped around his wrist.
I push past him with my shoulder and step inside. Ashlynn follows without hesitation.
The interior is sparse. A single table at the far end.
And above it—
A porcelain puppet surrounded by tools and papers. Nearly one and a half meters tall. Smooth white surface. Featureless expression. No clothing. Pristine.
We turn back to Tobyas.
"Is there a problem, Monsieur?" His eyes flick between us. "Madam?"
He swallows. He already knows.
"Kill him," I say calmly.
Ashlynn draws her rapier and lunges.
"No!" he screams.
The bracelet unravels. Threads burst outward, thin and red like living veins. They shoot across the room and latch onto the puppet.
The puppet moves suddenly. It lands with a crack of porcelain.
Ashlynn pivots as it closes the distance. Steel clashes against ceramic. She blocks, but the force behind the puppet's strike shoves her blade aside.
It doesn't move like a puppet. It moves like something being yanked.
Another strike.
Another block.
I remain still and only observe.
"Who are you?!" Tobyas shouts, panic breaking through his voice. Tears well in his eyes.
Ashlynn is driven backward, barely holding the line.
"Use your tools, Ash."
She reacts instantly. A Trackfang flashes into her free hand. She angles it between strikes and slices through one of the red threads.
A joint loosens.
The puppet stutters.
But the severed thread writhes and reattaches itself.
"Please… at least tell me who you are…" Tobyas begs.
The puppet launches a relentless barrage. Its limbs slam down like hammers. Each impact forces Ashlynn another step back.
Block.
Slide.
Block.
Her boots scrape across the wooden floor.
Then—
The puppet drives its knee into her stomach. The opening allows it to land a clean kick.
The air leaves her. She collapses to her knees, blood spilling from her mouth. Her grip slipping and the trackfang falls.
"Len… it hurts…" Tears blur her eyes.
That's enough assessment.
"IF YOU WON'T EVEN ACKNOWLEDGE ME— THEN DIE!" Tobyas roars.
The puppet raises its arm for the final blow.
I move.
A Trackfang leaves my hand and flies straight. Fast. Seeking.
Splash.
The blade buries itself into Tobyas' wrist. His hand detaches cleanly. Blood sprays all over the floor.
The threads snap.
Thud.
The puppet collapses instantly.
"MY HAND!" he screams, falling to his knees.
I walk to Ashlynn and help her stand.
She steadies herself against me.
"Thanks, Len."
We turn to Tobyas.
He writhes on the floor, clutching the stump, blood pooling beneath him.
"Finish him."
Ashlynn nods.
She walks toward him slowly.
Each step measured.
Each step heavy.
Tobyas can only beg now. Words broken. Voice cracking.
Ashlynn calms her breath and tightens her grip.
Then—
A clean thrust.
Splash.
Blood pours from his neck.
Silence fills the shed.
Ashlynn pulls her blade free.
She has completed my first independent duty.