It's morning. I'm already on my way out, walking toward the vaporgates of Eldenmere.
Carriages line up in a long row, trying to exit the neighborhood. Some residents stand beside them instead of sitting inside, arms folded, impatience written plainly on their faces.
The line doesn't move.
Not an inch.
I approach a familiar figure near the backline carriage.
"Good Friday, Monsieur Carmo," I say, extending my hand.
He takes it. "Ah, Monsieur Thadeo. Good Friday."
"Why is the line not moving?"
"I don't know. I'm trying to leave myself."
A woman steps closer, lowering her voice as if that alone gives her words weight. "I heard Monsieur Xandar is implementing a full lockdown."
"That's madness," another man says from behind us.
"I heard Twilight Wraith lives here too," the woman adds.
Carmo exhales sharply. "Don't scare us. Do you have proof?"
"Last Wednesday someone was killed right before he opened his own gate."
"That's scary," I say.
"It's true," another man chimes in. "I heard the gunshot. I live next to Monsieur Amon."
The circle grows without anyone formally inviting it to. Small clusters merge into something denser. Conversations overlap. Names are repeated. Facts bend.
"Haven't you heard? Madam Tanya suddenly collapsed while she was with her fiancé, Monsieur Xandar."
"Haven't you heard those whose names were called during Wednesday's gathering never returned?"
Theories bloom faster than reason. Some are accurate. Some are twisted. Most are invented on the spot.
But they all agree on one thing:
Monsieur Xandar is being targeted by Twilight Wraith.
Unbeknownst to them, they are discussing me.
I find it mildly amusing.
"What if the lockdown lasts the entire day?" someone asks.
"Then tomorrow we hold a protest."
There's a murmur. Then nods.
Agreement spreads quickly when frustration is shared.
"Yes. Tomorrow morning."
"We'll spread the word."
And just like that, the idea takes root.
We disperse naturally, as if nothing significant has been decided. Some visit neighbors. Some linger to gather more rumors.
I turn back toward my manor.
There, I spend the rest of the day with Ashlynn. We drink tea. We talk about nothing important. The sky dims. Night settles. Then morning comes again.
Yet the line outside only grows longer.
By the second morning, it stretches all the way into the cluster where my house stands. Carriages clog the street. Residents no longer pretend patience. They stand outside in groups now.
Waiting.
The waiting turns into murmuring. The murmuring into movement.
I step outside and walk with them.
We move together toward Xandar's Mansion. The closer we get, the larger the crowd becomes. Side streets spill more bodies into the flow until it feels less like a neighborhood and more like a gathering storm.
At the gate, a man stands atop an extended wooden platform. Xandar's servants and guards line the inside of the fence, positioned carefully within the courtyard.
"THIS IS TYRANNY!" the man shouts.
The crowd roars it back.
"THIS IS CULTIST BEHAVIOR!"
Again and again, the chant rolls forward.
Eventually, Xandar emerges from his house. He stops behind the iron fence, posture straight, face composed.
"What's the commotion all about, Monsieur?" he calls out.
"Remove the lockdown. We need to work!" the man on the platform replies.
"Work? You're already rich!"
"We need to run our companies!"
"If that's a problem, you may send mail through the Valazam Estate office."
"BOOOOOOO!"
Displeasure ripples outward instantly.
"Return my brother!" a woman cries.
"Where's my wife?" another voice shouts.
Xandar raises his palm. "Calm down!"
"Do you think we're in the Empire?"
"I want to meet my lover!"
"Let us go!"
The pressure shifts.
The protesters begin pushing against the fence. Metal rattles. A few shoes fly over the bars and land in the courtyard.
Then—
Bang.
The gunshot cracks through the air.
The crowd gasps and silence falls immediately. Even the wind seems to pause.
"If you want to speak, then let's speak," Xandar says evenly. "The rest of you disperse."
The men at the front exchange glances. After a brief hesitation, a handful step forward. Representatives. Self-appointed, but accepted.
The gate opens just enough to admit them.
They enter the mansion grounds to negotiate on behalf of the residents.
The rest of the crowd begins thinning. Anger turns into discussion. Discussion into retreat.
By the time I return home, the street is quieter.
I have done one important thing.
I acted like everyone else.
I walked. I chanted. I stood in the crowd.
Good Sunday.
More like, Bad Sunday.
The line hasn't moved. Not a single inch.
Outside, my neighbors gather again. Not to protest this time. Just to talk. Their voices are lower now. Thinner.
I join them. I don't speak much.
"The line still hasn't moved?"
"I didn't stock enough food."
"I thought this would end yesterday."
Their worries are practical now. Rice. Meat. Deliveries. Servants who cannot leave. Businesses that cannot operate.
Then—
"Those guys who went in never returned."
The circle goes quiet for a moment.
Someone laughs it off. "They're probably negotiating."
No one sounds convinced.
At that moment, I understand what's going to happen next.
I excuse myself and walk back home without rushing. Only once the door closes behind me do I move faster.
"Ash."
She greets me immediately.
"Hide everything. Anything related to alchemy."
She doesn't ask why. She just moves. Notes slide between recipe books. Instruments scatter into harmless shapes. Bottles are diluted, relabeled, misfiled.
She works quickly.
While she cleans up, I walk to one of the bedrooms we don't use.
I sit on the bed. Close my eyes.
And force myself to sleep.
—
I return to my Abyss.
There is no weight here. No shouting. No fences. No gunshots.
I do not feel the pressure that presses against me in the waking world.
But I understand the danger of my situation.
I focus on my Abyssal Eye. It pulses from within.
The water before my throne ripples outward. Then it rises and spills a figure onto the surface.
Mynar stands before me.
He drops to one knee immediately, head lowered.
"Your servant is ready to serve."
"What have you learned from observing Xandar these past few days?"
"Monsieur… it seems my brother is both terrified and enraged at Twilight Wraith."
"Good," I reply.
He hesitates. "Good? But you said he isn't you."
"He's an instrument of my plan."
Understanding spreads across Mynar's face.
"Truly brilliant. The Wraith is simply a tool for you."
I let out a small, intentional laugh.
He joins in.
"How fast can you forge a mobilization request?" I ask.
"M-mobilization request, Monsieur?"
"Yes. Forge a request made by the Hearthlight Order. Send it to the Custodian Order."
He straightens slightly. Thinking.
"It can be done quickly. A couple of minutes. I have been doing similar work on behalf of the Gilded Ledger Order."
"Good. Make it explicit. State clearly that Xandar is the wanted fugitive. Write that Xandar is the Twilight Wraith."
Mynar freezes for a fraction of a second.
"You mean…?"
"Yes."
Silence.
Then realization.
"You're going to inherit the entirety of the Valazam Estate and its assets," I say.
His voice trembles — not from fear. From greed.
"Thank you so much, Monsieur."
"Do not thank me yet. Execute it cleanly."
"Yes, Monsieur."
The Abyss stills.
—
I wake while it is still morning.
Ashlynn is moving between shelves, placing the final items among ordinary tools.
When she finishes, I call her over.
"Ash. When the guards come — or Xandar's servants. Or perhaps taxmen from the Gilded Ledger. What do you do?"
"I pretend to be a good maid."
"Good girl."
I kiss her. Brief. Measured. Not indulgent — reinforcement.
She nods once.
Then she changes into her maid uniform.
We rehearse.
Where she stands when opening the door.
How low she bows.
How long she maintains eye contact.
What tone she uses.
If they ask about the protest — she was inside all day.
If they ask about me — I was reading. Resting. Writing letters.
If they ask to search — she appears nervous, but compliant.
We run through it twice.
On the third round, I tell her to improvise. Natural reactions are harder to suspect than memorized ones.
She understands.
Morning becomes afternoon.
The sunlight shifts across the floorboards.
Afternoon becomes evening.
The air grows quieter.
Then—
RIIIIING.
The bell at the front gate.