The fourth day dawned not with a gentle light, but with the grim, grey insistence of a debt collector. Lutz Fischer was already awake, had been for an hour, watching the weak sun struggle to pierce the high, grime-caked windows of the Viper's warehouse. The vast space was hushed at this hour, filled with the sleeping breaths of men and the scent of stale beer and old wood. In his partitioned-off corner, his world was a command post, an arsenal, and a stage for his many faces.
Laid out with military precision on his thin cot were his costumes. The rough-spun, anonymous clothes of a dockworker. The slightly-too-nice trousers and coat of a minor merchant. The dark, functional garments of the phantom operative. And the wigs. A mousy brown one, lank and unassuming. A darker, curly one that added years and a hint of scholarly dishevelment. Each was a key to a different lock in the prison of Indaw Harbor, and today, he would need them all.
He washed his face in the basin of cold water, the shock cementing his focus. The face in the small, cracked mirror was a stranger's—sharp, pale, with eyes the color of a winter sea and a mind teeming with intricate, venomous plans.
His first task, conducted in the morning quiet, was forgery. He sat at his small table, a sheaf of cheap paper before him, along with a variety of pens and inks smuggled in at different times. He was not just writing; he was building a reality. With swift, precise strokes, he fabricated intelligence reports on Harbor Viper operations. He listed names of corrupt dock clerks, their shifts and prices for looking the other way. He detailed the routes of two specific contraband runners, their schedules, and the specific markings on the crates they carried. He wrote in different hands—a clumsy, blocky print for one, a spidery cursive for another—and sealed them with different wax blobs, pressed with the base of a candlestick, a button, anything but a recognizable sigil.
They were incremental, verifiable truths. The Church would act on them, find them accurate, and their trust in the phantom informant would grow, even as their suspicion of his motives deepened. He was feeding them the Vipers' peripheral nervous system, one nerve ending at a time. Let them prune the branches. He was guiding the axe toward the trunk.
Then, the more delicate work. A single sheet of finer paper, pilfered from the Baron's own supply. His own, steady hand. This was not for the Church; this was for the monster in the dark.
To the Servant of the Shadows,
I hope this finds you well, or at least, finds you. I confess, I've grown somewhat fond of our little dance. It's so rare to find a worthy partner in this dreary city.
You must forgive my sentimentality. I've grown attached to my companions. 'Creed,' for instance, speaks with such decisive authority. A true friend in a tight spot. And 'Umbra'… she is a whisper of perfect silence, a loyal shadow. I find it fitting they were forged from the remains of your associates. They serve me with far greater distinction than they ever did you. A testament to improved management, don't you think?
I hope the introduction to Captain Krieg was pleasant to you. A most… illuminating individual. I trust the aftermath of your meeting was as educational for you as the prelude was for me. The Church's hospitality is so thorough.
Do consider this a standing invitation. The next time you feel the urge to call, know that I am preparing a much warmer reception. One I am confident will leave a lasting impression.
Yours, in anticipation of our final waltz,
A Friend
He read it over, a cold, thin smile touching his lips. It was perfect. Arrogant, personal, and laced with truths only the mysterious attacker, Sett, would understand. The naming of the artifacts, the reference to Krieg. It was a goad, designed to pierce the man's pride and send him into a reckless fury. A furious enemy was a predictable enemy. A predictable enemy was a dead one.
He sealed this letter with a blank disk of wax. No mark. Let the anonymity itself be a signature.
The main warehouse was beginning to stir as he finished his preparations. The sullen, watchful quiet of the last few days was still present, but underneath it was a new, raw nerve of anxiety. The Church's noose was tightening, and every man could feel the rough hemp against his neck.
With everything set, he made his way out of his room.
It was then that Karl found him. His handler moved through the scattered cots and storage crates with a predator's grace, his presence causing the murmured conversations to die down. He stopped before Lutz's corner, his gaze flicking over the organized clutter.
"Fischer," Karl's voice was neutral, but his eyes, those banked coals, held a new, speculative weight. The shared experience on the Ocean Snake's Bane had altered their dynamic. There was a wary respect now, a recognition of capability that went beyond mere usefulness. "The Baron is waiting. This phantom is costing us assets. He's expecting results."
Lutz met his gaze, his face a mask of cold determination. He was playing the loyal, frustrated operative, hunting the ghost that was his own reflection. "The ghost is a problem," Lutz agreed, tightening the strap on his rucksack, which now contained his forged documents and the taunting letter. "But every problem has a solution. I've been making my own inquiries on the streets. The Church is moving because they're scared of him, which means they're off-balance. I'll find who's doing this. I just time to draw them out."
It was the performance within the performance. He was assuring his superiors he was on the case, all while being the case itself. He was the disease and the purported cure.
Karl studied him for a long moment, then gave a slow, almost imperceptible nod. "Don't take too long. The Baron's patience, like everything else, is an investment. He expects a return." He turned to leave, but paused. "And be careful. The Church isn't the only hunter in the fog."
The warning was delivered without warmth, a simple statement of fact. Then he was gone, melting back into the gloom of the warehouse.
Lutz was about to head out, his mind already shifting into the persona of a dockworker, when a young, eager voice called out.
"Lutz! Hey, Lutz!"
He turned to see Peter, the young Viper he had subtly turned into his unwitting agent. The young man's face was flushed with excitement and the importance of his own news, a stark contrast to the grim atmosphere.
"I've been watching, like you said!" Peter puffed out his chest, oblivious to the weary, cynical glances from the older Vipers nearby. "I found out things! Important things!"
Lutz forced a look of avuncular interest onto his face. The mask of the promising older brother, the mentor. "Did you now, Peter? The Baron appreciates initiative." He kept his voice low, conspiratorial.
"There's a new fence! Over by the bird-seller's stall in the market! He's taking the good stuff, the shiny things from the upper districts. And I heard Rikard talking about two watchmen on the west dock, the ones who always look the other way when the Sea Nymph comes in. Their names are Goran and Hewitt.
Lutz kept the smile plastered on his face, but internally, he was cataloging the information. The bird-seller fence was new. The watchmen's names were valuable. This foolish, idol-worshipping young man was proving to be a more effective intelligence asset than half of Karl's seasoned enforcers. The irony was so rich it was almost poetic.
"That's excellent work, Peter," Lutz said, clapping the boy on the shoulder. The gesture felt alien, a manipulator's tool. "Truly. You have a sharp eye. You keep this up, and there'll be a promotion in it for you. Maybe your own collection route soon."
The light that ignited in Peter's eyes was blinding in its naivety. He saw a path, a future, a purpose. He saw a mentor in Lutz.
"You won't regret this, Lutz! I'll find out more!" Peter promised, his voice trembling with fervor, before turning and practically skipping away between the crates, eager to prove his worth to his idol.
As the boy's footsteps faded, the false warmth drained from Lutz's face, replaced by a look of cold, crystalline contempt.
You stupid, stupid lad, he thought, the words a silent, venomous echo in his mind as he finally moved towards the warehouse door. You are building your own gallows and thanking me for the lumber.
He slipped out into the narrow, mist-choked alley behind the warehouse and wore his first face. The phantom beginning his day's work.
The city outside the warehouse was a different kind of battlefield—wider, more fluid, and infinitely more treacherous. The mist that coiled through the streets of Indaw Harbor was his ally and his enemy, providing cover while also hiding his pursuers. Lutz moved through it like a toxin in the city's bloodstream, his presence undetectable until the damage was done.
His first task was the drop for the Church. He made his way to the edge of the Merchant Quarter, where the clean, ordered streets began to fray into the commercial chaos of the docks. Here, the Church of Steam had a small satellite office, little more than a storefront with a brass-shod door and a slot for citizens to drop missives.
He changed his disguise in the cramped privacy of a public latrine, swapping the dockworker's rough clothes for the slightly-too-nice attire of "Elias Vogler." He didn't don the full wig, but he mussed his ash-blonde hair differently and put on a pair of wire-rimmed spectacles with plain glass lenses. The change in posture, from a worker's slouch to a scholar's slight stoop, completed the transformation.
He didn't approach the drop box himself. Instead, he found a different urchin, a girl this time, huddled in a doorway trying to sell wilted flowers. Her eyes were old in a young face.
"A Shield," Lutz said, holding up the silver coin. He held out the packet of forged intelligence reports. "See that brass slot on the door down the street? You put these through it. Then you walk away. You don't run. You don't look back. You tell no one."
The girl looked from the coin to the papers, her suspicion warring with hunger. She nodded, snatched both, and did as she was told. Her walk was calm, practiced. She had done this kind of thing before. Lutz watched, admiring the efficiency, until she disappeared around a corner. He then spent the next half-hour in a nearby public reading room, pretending to peruse a ledger of ship arrivals, all the while watching the Church door through the window. He saw a clerk eventually come out, collect the dropped papers, and take them inside. The feeding was complete.
The tension in the city was a palpable thing, a wire pulled taut. He could feel it in the way the city watch walked, their hands closer to their truncheons. In the way merchants closed their shops a little earlier. The Church's "constriction" of the Salt-Weep district was more than a strategy; it was a mood, and it was spreading.
He needed to measure its progress. On his way back towards the warehouse, he passed a newsstand. The vendor was arguing with a customer, his back turned. It was the work of a moment for Lutz, his Agile Hands making the theft invisible even in the open air. He palmed a copy of The Indaw Harbor Gazette and kept walking, not breaking stride.
He ducked into a deserted alley to read it. The headlines were stark.
CHURCH OF STEAM INTENSIFIES "OPERATION CLEAN PISTON"
Dozens of Dockworkers, Clerks Arrested in Smuggling Crackdown
Reverie Noire Vows to "Purge Corruption from City's Gears"
Lutz's eyes scanned the articles, his mind coldly absorbing the data. The names listed were his names. The operations disrupted were the ones he had outlined in his forgeries. The Church was moving with brutal efficiency. They were not just acting on his information; they were validating it, building a solid, public case against the Vipers. This was good. This was exactly what he wanted.
But then he read a smaller, buried article on the second page, and his blood ran cold.
MYSTERIOUS INFORMANT'S TIPS PROVE ACCURATE, SOURCES SAY
The article was careful, citing unnamed sources within the Church trade compliance office, but it was there. It mentioned the "uncanny accuracy" of the recent intelligence leads. It quoted a "Church insider" as saying, "The information is good, too good. It's as if someone is handing us a map. The question is, why?"
The Church was perceptive. More than he had anticipated. They were no longer just grateful recipients; they were becoming analysts of the source itself.
Lutz folded the newspaper and dropped it into a puddle of filth. The next drops would have to be even more deniable, the routes more convoluted. He couldn't afford to become predictable.
He made his way back to the Viper's warehouse, his mind a storm of re-calibration. The sense of impending doom inside was thicker than the fog outside. Men spoke in hushed tones, clustered in small groups. The arrest of their peripheral members was a psychic blow; it made them feel watched, vulnerable. The great, hulking warehouse, once a symbol of their invincibility, now felt like a cage.
He was almost to his corner when Peter found him again. The boy's face was alight with a different kind of energy now—not just excitement, but a feverish urgency.
"Lutz! They got Guss! The clerk from the customs office! The Church took him this morning!" Peter's words tumbled out in a rush. "And I heard… I heard from a girl who works in the Church kitchens… they're bringing in more people. Investigators from outside the city. They're calling it a 'crusade'."
Lutz looked down at the boy, this eager, terrified instrument. The information was gold—the confirmation of outside investigators was critical. It meant the Church was committing major resources. It meant the endgame was approaching.
He forced the mask of the concerned older brother back onto his face. "You're doing good work, Peter. Vital work. This is what I mean by initiative. When this is over, the Baron will remember who his loyal men are." He placed a hand on the boy's shoulder, feeling the tremble of adrenaline and fear. "Keep your eyes and ears open. But be careful. The Church… they're getting sharper."
Peter nodded, his eyes wide with a mixture of terror and pride. He was playing a dangerous game and had no idea the board was rigged. "I will, Lutz. I won't let you down."
As Peter scurried away, Lutz retreated to his cot. He sat in the gloom, the sounds of the anxious warehouse a dull roar in his ears. He had confirmed his strategy was working, and simultaneously confirmed that the risks were escalating exponentially. The Church was no longer a blind force; it was a thinking, analyzing entity, and it was turning its gaze upon him.
He looked around at the squalor and the fear, at the men who thought he was their ally. He thought of the Baron in his office, believing himself still in control, and Karl, with his wary respect. He thought of Peter, building his own pyre.