The echo of Elara's sobs was a phantom limb, a pain Lutz felt with every hurried step away from the Salt-Weep District. The emotional purge with the musicians had left him raw, and the encounter with the girl had salted the wound. He felt flayed open, every nerve ending exposed to the grimy air of Indaw Harbor. He needed to be gone. He needed the sterile anonymity of the carriage, the motion of travel, the promise of St. Millom.
'Just get to the station. Get on the carriage. Put this city in a box and bury it.'
He focused on the mechanics of movement, his honed senses cataloging his surroundings on pure instinct. A clock above a pawnbroker's shop, its face grimy but legible, snagged his attention. He squinted, his heart giving a nasty lurch.
'Eight-twenty? No, that can't be right. The carriage leaves at half-past.'
He quickened his pace, tapping a well-dressed man on the shoulder. "Pardon me, sir, the time?"
The man, annoyed, pulled a silver pocket watch. "Twenty-two minutes past eight. Late for an appointment?"
The blood drained from Lutz's face. Twenty-two past. He had eight minutes. The station was a ten-minute walk at a brisk, unobtrusive pace. He had miscalculated, lost in the maelstrom of his own guilt.
"Thank you," Lutz mumbled, already moving. He broke into a fast walk, a "harried businessman" pace that was just on the acceptable side of suspicious. His mind, a moment ago a swamp of emotion, crystallized into a sharp, cold point of calculation.
'Don't run. Running draws eyes. Eyes remember faces. Breathe. Plan. The case. The bag. The musicians are trustworthy, but gold can tempt anyone. The Church's alert must be on a all time high. Every second is a variable.'
He weaved through the evening crowd, his body tense, every sense screaming. It was then he saw the tell-tale gleam of polished brass and beige serge. A Church of Steam officer was standing at the corner where he needed to turn, his gaze sweeping the crowd with methodical boredom. There was no way around him without a significant, time-consuming detour.
'Damn it. No. Not now.'
Lutz adjusted his course slightly, aiming to pass by with his head down, just another face in the stream. But the officer's eyes, sharp and practiced, locked onto him. Perhaps it was the slight sheen of sweat on his brow, the determined set of his jaw, or just the random luck of the draw. The officer took a step, blocking his path.
"You seem in a hurry, young man," the officer said, his voice neutral but firm. He was a broad-shouldered man with a close-cropped beard and the faint, metallic scent of engine oil about him.
Lutz's mind went blank for a single, terrifying second. Every lie, every alias, evaporated.
Then, his fingers, moving with a life of their own, found the cool, familiar hilt of Creed in his inner coat pocket. He didn't draw it; he simply gripped it, his thumb running over the intricate carvings.
The panic didn't vanish, but it was pushed down, compartmentalized. His thoughts became fluid, his tongue felt lighter. The increased Eloquence was like a key turning in a lock, opening a reservoir of glib confidence.
He offered a harried, slightly embarrassed smile, the expression feeling alien but fitting perfectly on his face. "Hurry? Officer, you have no idea. I've just spent the last twenty minutes trying to extricate myself from my dear aunt Hilda. A lovely woman, truly, but she believes if you're not fifteen minutes early, you're practically dead." He rolled his eyes in a gesture of fond exasperation.
The officer's stern expression didn't change, but a flicker of understanding crossed his eyes. "Your name and business?"
"Collen Finch," Lutz said without a heartbeat of hesitation, plucking the name from his memories. "I'm a junior partner with Northsea Imports. I have a carriage to St. Millom leaving in..." He made a show of checking a non-existent watch, his face falling into a mask of genuine-looking panic. "Gods above, less than five minutes! The contracts for the Feysacian timber deal are in my luggage. If I miss this carriage, my senior partner, Mr. Abernathy, will have my head on a platter. The man has the temper of a faulty boiler and the patience of a gnat."
He was layering the story, adding specific, mundane details. Northsea Imports. Abernathy. Timber. It was all boring, believable commerce. He adjusted the new spectacles on his nose, a nervous tic that also served to further shadow his eyes under the brim of his hat.
The officer's gaze lingered on him, a slow, appraising look. Lutz could feel the man's eyes on his coat, his luggage-less hands, his face. He kept his expression one of flustered urgency, letting a little real fear—the fear of missing the carriage—bleed through.
'Come on' Lutz thought, the words a silent scream behind his placid eyes. 'I'm just a harried clerk. A nobody. Let me be a nobody.'
"St. Millom, you say?" the officer finally grunted. "Big city. Lots of opportunities for... all sorts."
"Opportunities for ulcers and premature grey hair, more like," Lutz countered with a forced chuckle, gripping Creed tighter. "But a man has to make a living. Please, Officer, if I could just...?" He gestured past him, towards the station.
The officer stared for a second longer, then gave a curt nod, stepping aside. "Mind your pace. The Steam Gospel teaches order, not chaos."
"Order is all I aspire to," Lutz said, the lie slipping out as smooth as silk. "Thank you, Officer. May the Steam's grace be with you." He said as he drew a triangular shape in his chest with his fingers.
He didn't wait for a response, moving past with a pace that was just short of a run. He could feel the officer's gaze on his back until he turned the corner. Only then did he allow himself a shuddering breath, his knuckles white around the stiletto in his pocket. He released it, the flow of easy words ceasing, leaving him feeling drained and slightly nauseous.
'Too close. Far too close.'
His little good action that had him come all the way to the Salt-Weep had almost cost him.
He burst into the carriage station, his eyes scanning the platforms frantically. There it was. The St. Millom express, a heavy, enclosed carriage hitched to a team of four powerful horses. The driver was already climbing into his seat. The door was open, but a station attendant was about to close it.
"Wait!" Lutz yelled, his voice cutting through the din.
He sprinted now, all pretense of subtlety gone. His eyes darted to the bench where he'd left the musicians. They were still there, a protective circle around his suitcase and leather bag. The old man heard him coming and gave a slow, reassuring nod. The luggage was untouched.
"Thank you," Lutz gasped, his breath ragged as he skidded to a halt. He didn't have time for more. He grabbed the handle of the big wheeled suitcase and slung the leather bag over his shoulder. "I won't forget this."
"Safe travels, son," the old man said, strumming a single, quiet chord on his banjo. A blessing, or a farewell.
Lutz didn't look back. He lunged for the carriage door just as the attendant began to swing it shut. "I'm here! Apologies!"
The attendant, a sour-faced man, scowled but stepped back. Lutz half-fell into the carriage, dragging his luggage in after him. The door slammed shut with a final, resonant thud.
The interior was dim, smelling of old leather, dust, and faintly of perfume. Two other occupants were already seated. A stern-looking matron in a dark dress glared at him over her spectacles. A younger man, perhaps a scholar, glanced up from a book with mild curiosity.
"My sincerest apologies for the delay," Lutz said, his voice still breathless as he found an empty seat by the window as he showed his ticket "A family matter. Unavoidable."
The matron sniffed disapprovingly. The scholar merely nodded and returned to his book.
Outside, the driver shouted a command. There was a lurch, and the carriage began to move, the wheels rumbling over the cobblestones. Lutz collapsed into his seat, his heart hammering against his ribs. He stared out the window as the carriage pulled out of the station, leaving the soot-stained brick and bustling chaos of Indaw Harbor behind.
They moved through the city gates, the imposing structures manned by guards who paid them no mind. And then, they were out. The cobblestones gave way to packed earth. The cramped buildings fell away, replaced by open fields and distant, rolling hills. The air, filtering in through a small gap in the window, changed. It lost the cloying mix of coal smoke, salt, and sewage, gaining the clean, wild scent of damp earth, pine, and open sky.
Lutz pressed his forehead against the cool glass of the window, watching the city of his rebirth and damnation shrink in the distance. The spires of the Steam Cathedral, the hazy smudge over the dockyards, the entire, teeming, wretched hive of it—all of it was receding into memory. A chapter closed. A life buried.
He didn't feel triumphant. He felt… empty. Hollowed out. He had stolen a fortune, destroyed a gang, and engineered his own escape. He was a success story written in blood and betrayal. But as the last outskirts of the harbor vanished behind a bend in the road, all he could see was Silvia's lifeless eyes and hear Elara's shattered sobs.
But now, he took a deep, shuddering breath, filling his lungs with the wild air. It was clean. It held no ghosts. Not anymore.
The immediate panic subsided, leaving a profound exhaustion in its wake. The adrenaline had flushed from his system, and the weight of the last hour—the catharsis, the penance, the narrow escape—crashed down upon him. He was safe. For now.
His hand went to the inner pocket of his coat, not for Creed, but for the other crucial artifact of his new life. His fingers brushed against the crisp parchment. He pulled out the small, leather-bound folder containing his identification documents.
He opened it slowly. The forgery was exquisite. The paper was correct, the seals were perfect, the script was official. He had paid well for this piece of fiction.
His eyes fell on the name.
James Morgan.
He stared at it, the two words feeling alien and yet irrevocably tied to his fate. It sounded solid. Respectable. But it was the story behind the name that was the true work of art, a narrative woven with just the right threads of pathos and ambition to be both memorable and believable.
Lutz recited it silently in his mind, rehearsing the lines of his new life:
James Morgan, of the Southgate Morgans. A very minor noble line from the southern plains of Feysac, their crest—a gilded wheel now chipped and tarnished—a relic of a time when their merchant caravans were the lifeblood of the region. But time and poor investments had ground the wheel to a halt. The family name was now a hollow echo in dusty manors, its members scattered, working as clerks, shopkeepers, and provincial accountants. A slow, genteel decay into obscurity.
But not James Morgan. Unhappy with this fate, unwilling to let the Morgan name become a footnote, he had done the unthinkable. He had become the architect of its final, glorious liquidation. He sold the last remaining plots of land, the crumbling estate, the family silver—every last asset he could legally get his hands on. He was not a destroyer, but a radical reformer, turning a dead inheritance into a living, breathing chance. With that small, hard-won fortune, he was traveling to the heart of the empire, to St. Millom, a city booming with industry and opportunity under the new Steam Gospel. He was an ambitious young man, full of modern ideas and old-world drive, determined to become his generation's greatest young entrepreneur. He would rebuild the Morgan crest not on land, but on industry and innovation.
It was a magnificent and ridiculous story. A tale of foolish, glorious ambition that any true noble would scoff at, but that the new merchant class of St. Millom might just applaud. It explained his capital, his education, his drive, and his lack of local connections. It made him interesting, but not threatening. A gambler, not a predator.
A swindler's story for a swindler's life, Lutz thought, a bitter taste in his mouth. The real tragedy wasn't the fictional fall of the House of Morgan; it was the fact that this fabricated fool, with his naive dreams of entrepreneurial glory, was in reality a man carrying a king's ransom in stolen gold and artifacts that had consumed the soul of a man. This "ambitious young man" was heading to the capital not to build an empire, but to infiltrate, to hide, and to learn how to swindle the world on a grander scale.
He traced the fake family crest embossed on the document—that gilded wheel. It was supposed to represent commerce and progress. To him, it looked like a lock waiting to be picked.
Is that who I am now? he thought, the question echoing in the silent cavern of his mind.
He traced the letters with his finger.
He looked back out the window. The landscape was a blur of greens and browns, a world rushing past. He was unmoored, a ship that had cut its anchor and set sail for an unknown horizon. The vow he had made—to be stronger, to take the unnecessary evil out of the world—felt as fragile as the paper in his hands. How did a thief and a liar keep such a promise?
But as the carriage carried him further from the graveyard of his old life, a tiny, stubborn ember of determination began to glow in the emptiness. James Morgan was a blank slate. A role to be acted. And he had all the tools to act it perfectly. He had the money to build a life. He had the power to defend it. He had the intelligence to navigate the dangers ahead. And most importantly, he had the freedom to live however he wanted.
He had stolen a future. Now, he had to build one worthy of the name, and the vow, he now carried.
He closed the document folder and slipped it back into his pocket. Leaning his head back against the seat, he closed his eyes, letting the rhythm of the carriage wash over him. The past was a country he had fled. The future was a city called St. Millom. The city of Twilight.
And he was James Morgan. For now.