In the hushed, incense-laden back room of 'The Gilded Lily', a teahouse known more for the secrets exchanged over its porcelain cups than the quality of its brew, a woman known only as Whisper examined a small, slightly crumpled piece of newsprint. Her perfectly manicured fingers, accustomed to the delicate dance of pouring tea for influential clients or, when necessary, the cold steel of a hidden stiletto, held the notice with a light, contemplative touch.
The notice hadn't been found tacked to a wall. It had been discreetly placed inside the silk-lined money pouch returned by a nervous informant – a minor functionary in the City Scribes' Office who occasionally sold her information on overdue guild fees or minor bureaucratic scandals. He'd claimed he "found it" and thought it "might be of interest" to someone like her, who dealt in the city's undercurrents.
Whisper, with her chameleon-like ability to appear as an unassuming tea server one moment and a confidante to the powerful the next, had given him a serene smile and a few extra coppers for his trouble. Alone now, her intelligent eyes, the colour of polished jade, scanned the crude text and the oddly compelling "Bleeding Eye" symbol.
Amateurish, was her first assessment. The script was unsophisticated, the threats and promises ("lost in the mundane," "truth in shadow") were standard psychological bait for the disenfranchised or the overly imaginative. Most likely, it was the work of a new, poorly funded cult, or perhaps a gang trying to rebrand with a more mystical veneer.
Yet… there was a certain raw audacity to it. To operate so openly, even with such crude methods, in Veridia… that suggested either profound ignorance of the city's true powers, or a different kind of confidence altogether. And the name, "The Crimson Path," coupled with the symbol, had a certain visceral appeal. It hinted at action, at secrets, at a directness many of the city's more established clandestine groups, mired in their ancient traditions and byzantine hierarchies, lacked.
Whisper had survived in Veridia's treacherous social and political landscape by understanding information, leverage, and the subtle flows of power. She'd been a courtesan in her youth, learning secrets from loosened tongues; then a spy for a noble house that eventually met a bloody end, teaching her the importance of self-preservation. Now, she operated independently, a broker of information, a weaver of whispers, her loyalty only to her own security and the acquisition of useful knowledge.
This "Crimson Path"… it was a new thread in the city's complex tapestry. And new threads, if pulled correctly, could unravel old patterns or provide new leverage.
"Seek the Bleeding Eye in the deepest shadow. Where silence screams…" Cryptic, but not impenetrable. She considered the source – the Scribes' Office functionary. Had he really just found it? Or was he subtly testing the waters for this new group? Or perhaps he was trying to ingratiate himself with her by bringing her a potentially interesting piece of intel.
She wouldn't dismiss it outright. Even amateur players could cause ripples. Sometimes, a well-placed stone, no matter how small, could start an avalanche. Her best course of action, as always, was to gather more information. Who was behind this? What were their true capabilities? What was their actual agenda, beyond these melodramatic pronouncements?
She would put out feelers through her network of informants – street urchins, disgruntled servants, minor guild officials. She would have them watch for more notices, for any unusual activity in the city's 'deepest shadows,' for anyone else showing interest in this 'Crimson Path' or the 'Bleeding Eye.' Knowledge was power, and Whisper intended to know everything about this new, potentially disruptive, element. If it was a threat, she'd know how to avoid it. If it was an opportunity… well, opportunities were her specialty.
***
Anya knelt by the circular iron drain cover in the Market Square, the early morning bustle already beginning around her. She'd returned before the crowds became too thick, her gaze fixed on the spot where the crimson cloth had lain the day before. The cloth was gone, as expected.
She ran her gloved fingers over the cold, grimy metal of the drain cover. It was old, deeply set, its surface worn smooth by countless feet and cartwheels. She saw nothing unusual about it, no hidden symbols, no secret latches.
Was I mistaken? she wondered, her breath misting in the cool air. Was it merely a random arrangement of unrelated objects?
Patience. The Path was subtle. She closed her eyes for a moment, trying to recall the exact wording of the notice. "Seek the Bleeding Eye in the deepest shadow. Where silence screams…"
The drain led to the city's underbelly. That was a literal deep shadow. And the Market Square, for all its daytime noise, fell into a profound silence in the dead of night, a silence that perhaps did scream with the city's unacknowledged truths, its hidden pains.
As she rose, her gaze swept the surrounding stalls, the patterns of the cobblestones, the faces of the early vendors. Her eyes caught on a small, discarded object near the edge of the drain, almost invisible against the dark stone. A child's cheap wooden toy soldier, painted with a bright red coat, lying face down. One of its tiny, painted-on eyes was almost directly over the edge of the drain's central hole.
A red-coated figure, one eye looking into the shadowed depths.
Anya's pulse quickened almost imperceptibly. Another coincidence? Or was the Path guiding her eye, teaching her to see significance in the insignificant? The colour crimson, again. An 'eye' in proximity to a 'deep shadow.'
She didn't touch the toy soldier. She merely observed it, committed its position to memory. It was another data point. She would continue to watch this area, to look for repetitions, for convergences. The Path, she was beginning to understand, was not about grand pronouncements, but about the careful accumulation of subtle signs, a language spoken in the city's accidental artistry.
***
Barric walked with a heavy tread through the narrow streets bordering the City Watch's West Barracks. He'd spent the previous day revisiting places from his past – old guard posts, forgotten watchtowers, the training yard where he'd first taken his oath. He was looking for something, anything, that might connect to the cryptic words on the notice.
The "Bleeding Eye" was proving elusive. He'd looked at official Watch symbols, guild crests, even the crude graffiti in the rougher districts. Nothing matched. "Deepest shadow" and "silence screams" were even more abstract. He wasn't a philosopher; he was a soldier. He needed clear orders, tangible objectives.
He found himself standing before the imposing, grey facade of the Hall of Imperial Justice. Its tall, narrow windows were like vacant eyes staring down at the city. Above the grand entrance, carved in stone, was the Imperial Crest: a snarling griffon clutching a balanced scale. The scales of justice. One pan for mercy, one for retribution.
Balanced. Like the Path pursuing 'balance' perhaps? The thought was a stretch, even for him. But then his eyes focused on the griffon. Its carved eyes were wide, unblinking. And directly above its head, at the crest's apex, was a large, deep crimson gemstone, representing the Emperor's divine mandate.
A crimson stone, above staring eyes, on a building representing a truth often subverted in shadow, where the silence of the wronged often screamed unheard.
Barric frowned. It felt… significant. Not the crude symbol on the notice, but perhaps this was what it alluded to? A higher, more symbolic meaning? That the Crimson Path was concerned with justice, with the true, often bloody, cost of Imperial law?
It was a more comforting thought than chasing random graffiti. He wasn't sure what to do with this observation, but it felt more substantial than anything else he'd found. He decided he would keep this Hall of Justice in mind, observe who came and went, what whispers circulated around its periphery. Perhaps the Path operated in proximity to power, seeking to correct its imbalances.
***
Zero stared at the 'Tenets of the Crimson Shadow Path' he had so carefully crafted. They looked impressive on the parchment, written in his best archaic script, the crimson-tinged ink lending them an air of gravitas. But a horrifying thought had just occurred to him.
How will anyone know these tenets? How will they know how to contact me? Or where to meet?
He had scattered the initial notices, the vague invitations. But he hadn't included a call to action, a next step. It was a glaring oversight, a rookie mistake for any aspiring shadow mastermind. His meticulous lore-crafting had completely overshadowed any practical planning for actual recruitment.
He groaned, burying his face in his hands. I'm an idiot. A complete, utter idiot.
Okay, new plan. He needed a way for interested parties to signal their intent. A secret sign. A dead drop. A specific, coded phrase spoken to a specific, unsuspecting vendor in a specific, out-of-the-way market stall… Yes! That sounded suitably convoluted and mysterious!
He grabbed a fresh sheet of parchment, his mind already racing. The vendor would be the old woman who sold slightly wilted herbs in the Blind Alley market – she was half-deaf and unlikely to remember faces. The coded phrase would be… "Do the silent lilies bloom crimson in the deepest shade?" If the recruit said that, the vendor would (unknowingly) hand them a small, pre-packaged bundle of common thyme, inside which Zero would have hidden a tiny scroll with the location of the first meeting (the dilapidated warehouse, once he'd actually cleaned a corner of it) and perhaps a single, introductory tenet.
It was brilliant! Complex, indirect, full of potential for dramatic irony and hilarious misunderstandings. He just needed to prepare the thyme bundles, write the tiny scrolls, brave the Blind Alley market, and somehow convince the old herb vendor to participate in his scheme without her knowing. What could possibly go wrong?
He started writing the instructions for the tiny scroll, a fresh wave of desperate, misguided enthusiasm washing over him. This was it. This was how the Crimson Hand would truly begin.