The gentle rocking of the carriage had lulled him into a shallow, uneasy sleep. It wasn't restful; it was a slide show of fractured images—the glint of a gold hammer in a frail girl's hand, the stern gaze of a Steam officer, the comforting, weathered face of a banjo player. He jerked awake, his heart thumping a frantic rhythm for a moment before the reality of his surroundings reasserted itself.
He blinked, his eyes adjusting to the light. It had changed.
The grim, uniform grey of Indaw Harbor's sky was gone. So too was the straightforward, almost brutalist sunlight of the southern Feysac plains they had passed through. The light outside his window now was… different. It was softer, yet more dramatic, casting long, deep shadows that seemed painted in indigo. He looked out, his breath catching slightly.
The landscape was dusted with a fine layer of snow, glittering like crushed diamonds under a sky caught between day and night. The sun, hanging low on the horizon, was not the bright yellow he knew, but a deep, burnished orange, like a forge's ember. Its light didn't blaze; it bled, staining the snowy fields and the distant, dark outlines of pine forests in hues of violet and rose. It was a silent, majestic twilight, a permanent, beautiful melancholy that hung over the land.
The City of Twilight, he remembered. The name wasn't just poetry. It was a literal description. This far north, the angle of the sun, the atmosphere, it conspired to create this perpetual, ethereal dusk, even in the middle of the day. It was breathtaking and unnerving. It felt like living in a liminal space, a boundary between the waking world and something older, more mysterious.
And then he saw it.
St. Millom. It didn't just appear on the horizon; it dominated it. The stories of Feysacians having giant blood hadn't been an exaggeration. The architecture was a testament to that scale. Where Indaw Harbor was a cramped, fish-smelling tangle of wood, this was a symphony in stone and iron. Towers, not spires, clawed at the violet sky, their peaks adorned with intricate gargoyles and soaring buttresses. Buildings were constructed with a vertical grandeur, their facades carved with scenes of legendary battles and mythical beasts, all scaled for a race of titans. Even from a distance, he could feel the immense weight of history and power emanating from the city. It was a place that demanded you look up.
His eyes were drawn to the city's heart. There, standing on a central plateau, was a colossal structure of dark, almost black stone. It was severe, majestic, built with a martial geometry that spoke of absolute discipline and strength. Even from miles away, he could feel its silent, brooding presence. The Twilight Hall. The former global headquarters of the Church of Combat. It was a monument to a fallen god, a relic of a bygone era of pure, physical might.
And eclipsing it, both literally in the shadow it cast from the west and figuratively in its symbolism, was the new power. A massive cathedral, still under construction but already awe-inspiring, built from gleaming steel, brass pipes, and vast panels of glass. Smoke and steam billowed from its numerous stacks, forming hazy clouds that caught the twilight sun in a different way—a industrial, pragmatic halo. The sounds of hammers and steam whistles, faint but distinct, carried across the distance. The Church of Steam was not just arriving; it was building its throne right next to the old king's crypt.
The contrast was a physical manifestation of the world's turmoil. The ancient, stoic stone of Combat versus the modern, industrious iron of Steam. And he, Lutz Fischer, now James Morgan, was about to walk directly into the space between them.
The carriage rolled through immense gates, passing under the stern gaze of guards who stood a full head taller than any man in Indaw Harbor. The city swallowed them whole. The streets were vast canyons between the monumental buildings, the twilight sun barely reaching the cobblestones below. The air was cold, crisp, and carried a complex aroma of coal smoke, baking bread, forging metal, and the faint, clean scent of snow.
Finally, with a sigh of brakes and a shout from the driver, the carriage shuddered to a halt in a designated yard. The journey was over.
Lutz gathered his belongings, the weight of his suitcase and the hidden power in his leather bag feeling more profound than ever. He pushed the door open and stepped out, his boots crunching on the grit-covered stone. The cold air bit at his lungs, a shocking, bracing change from the sea-level dampness of the harbor.
He turned and nodded to the driver. "Thank you for the safe passage."
The driver, a hulking Feysacian wrapped in furs, merely grunted in acknowledgment.
Turning back, Lutz/James stood for a moment, a single, solitary figure amidst the swirling, twilight crowds of the giant city. He adjusted the spectacles on his nose, pulled the hat down to shade his eyes, and took a firm grip on the handle of his suitcase.
The viper from the harbor was gone, shed like a skin. The architect of the Vipers' destruction was a ghost.
The monumental scale of St. Millom was both awe-inspiring and profoundly disorienting. Lutz stood on the bustling platform, his two pieces of luggage feeling suddenly insignificant against the tide of towering Feysacians and the canyon-like streets. The perpetual twilight, beautiful from a distance, now felt like a lid closing over the city, a constant, elegant pressure.
'First things first. You cannot be a gentleman without an address. A rootless man is a suspicious man. A man with a plan has a roof.'
The persona of James Morgan clicked into place, a well-rehearsed mask settling over the weary, watchful core of Lutz Fischer. James Morgan would not stand gawking like a country rube. James Morgan had a plan.
A residence, he thought, beginning to walk with a purposeful stride that mimicked the businessmen around him. 'Not an apartment. Too many shared walls, too many curious ears. A house. A terrace. Something with character, befitting a scion of a fallen noble line trying to reclaim his dignity. It must speak of ambition, but not yet success. It must have space. And most importantly…'
His mind, the architect of the Vipers' downfall, began drafting blueprints in the dark behind his eyes.
'…it must have a basement. A private, subterranean space. Somewhere to set up a workshop. An alchemy lab.'
He needed listings. In Indaw Harbor, he'd have asked in a tavern or looked for notices nailed to a post. Here, that wouldn't do. James Morgan operated through official channels.
His eyes, sharp behind his new spectacles, scanned the storefronts. He passed a tobacconist, a haberdashery, a cafe steaming in the cold air. Then he saw it: a window with gold-leaf lettering that read "Millom Metropolitan Lettings & Acquisitions." The window displayed elegant, hand-drawn architectural elevations of houses and terraces. It was perfect.
Pushing the door open, he was greeted by the warm, dry air and the smell of old paper and polish. A young, sharp-faced clerk looked up from a ledger, his eyes instantly appraising Lutz's clothing, luggage, and bearing.
"Good afternoon, sir," the clerk said, his tone professionally neutral. "How may the Metropolitan assist you?"
Lutz offered a slight, weary smile, the expression of a man who has endured a long journey. "I hope you can assist me in finding a residence," he said, his voice adopting the polished cadence he'd practiced. "The name is Morgan. James Morgan. I've just arrived from the south, and I find myself in immediate need of a place to call home."
"Of course, Mr. Morgan. We specialize in quality lettings for discerning clients." The clerk, whose nameplate read 'Albright', produced a large, leather-bound register. "What precisely are you looking for? An apartment in the city center? Very convenient."
Lutz gave a small, dismissive wave, a gesture meant to convey a man used to more space. "No, no. I'm afraid my tastes and my needs run a little larger. I am an entrepreneur, you see. A nice terrace house would be ideal. Something with character. A bit of history. My family," he added, layering the fiction with a touch of melancholic pride, "has always appreciated solid, traditional Feysacian stonework. And it is absolutely essential that it has a cellar of sorts. I have a collection of southern vintages that simply will not tolerate being stored at street level. The vibrations from the coaches, you understand."
Specific, believable, and appealing to a certain class sensibility. A man with a wine collection was a man of taste and means.
Albright's eyebrows raised slightly. "A cellar. That does narrow the field considerably. Most of the newer constructions have done away with them." He flipped through the pages, his finger tracing down columns of text. "Let me see… Ah. There is a property on Vesper Lane, in the Spire's Merchant district. A three-story terrace, built during the late Combatant era. Solid stone, as you requested. It has a small, walled garden at the back and… yes, a dry cellar. The owner is abroad and is seeking a reliable long-term tenant."
Vesper Lane. The Spire's Merchant. The names themselves were perfect, dripping with the city's twilight ambiance. And a late Combatant-era building would be constructed like a fortress, with thick walls that muffled sound.
"It sounds promising," Lutz said, keeping his enthusiasm carefully veiled. "Might it be possible to view it? Today? I am currently residing at a coaching inn, and the sooner I can establish a proper household, the sooner I can begin my business ventures."
Albright, sensing a serious and motivated client, became more animated. "I believe that can be arranged, sir. I can accompany you myself. The keys are here." He looked at Lutz's luggage. "Shall we hail a carriage? It's a fifteen-minute journey."
"Please do," Lutz nodded. "A carriage would be most welcome."
A short time later, they were seated in a enclosed brougham carriage, rattling through the vast streets. Lutz watched the city unfold, his mind a whirlwind of analysis.
'The Spire's Merchant district… that means it's close to the Twilight Hall. An area of old families and faded glory. Perfect for James Morgan's narrative. It will be quieter. More observant neighbors, perhaps, but also less of the chaotic, industrial bustle of the Steam districts. Fewer prying Steam Gospel patrols.'
Albright chattered amiably about the city's amenities, but Lutz only half-listened, his focus on the architecture, the people, the flow of traffic. He was mapping, identifying potential threats and opportunities.
They turned onto a quieter lane, Vesper Lane. It was a cobbled street lined with terraces that were indeed tall and narrow, their gray and white stone facades adorned with subtle carvings. They had a grim, dignified beauty, like aging generals. Albright pointed to one near the end.
"Number 17, sir. You see? The black door with the brass knocker."
The carriage halted. Lutz alighted, his heart beating a steady, controlled rhythm of anticipation. This was more than just finding a place to live. This was choosing the stage for the next act of his life.
Albright fumbled with the large, iron key and unlocked the door. It swung inward with a satisfying, heavy creak.
"After you, Mr. Morgan."
Lutz stepped over the threshold, his eyes quickly adjusting to the dim light. The air was cold and still, smelling of old wood, beeswax, and a profound, dusty silence. The hallway was narrow, with a floor of dark, wide-plank timber. A staircase swept upwards to his right. To the left was a front parlor. It was empty, but the high ceilings and a single, large window facing the street promised a sense of space.
"It's been unoccupied for six months," Albright said, his voice echoing slightly. "But as you can see, it's in sound condition. The drawing room is through here."
Lutz followed, his mind already at work. 'Nice little place, a room for receiving guests. Needs furniture. Something that looks expensive but isn't. A performance.'
He ran a hand over the stone wall. It was cold and thick. Excellent for sound insulation.
"The kitchen is at the rear," Albright continued, leading him through to a modestly sized room with a large hearth and a cold stove. "And through this door…" he opened a stout, wooden door, "...is the access to the cellar. Mind your step, the stairs are steep."
Lutz's pulse quickened. This was the moment of truth. Albright handed him a candle he had just lit.
He descended carefully. The stairs were indeed steep, carved straight into the bedrock. The air grew colder, damper. The beam of his candle swept across the space.
It was perfect.
The cellar was not large, perhaps twelve feet by twelve, but the ceiling was high enough for him to stand comfortably. The walls were the same unadorned, massive stone as the house above. The floor was packed earth. It was utterly silent; the rumble of the city above was a distant, muffled rumor. A single, small, barred window at street level let in a sliver of the twilight, illuminating dancing dust motes.
Yes, his mind whispered. 'Here. The workshop against this wall. A sturdy table for alchemy. Shelving for ingredients and artifacts. A concealed safe in the floor for the gold and the most dangerous items, like Sangefaust.'
He took his time, pretending to examine the walls for damp, tapping the stones. He was, in reality, assessing the structural integrity and planning sightlines.
"It's remarkably dry," he commented aloud, his voice calm and measured, belying the excitement coursing through him.
"Yes, the construction is superb. They built to last in those days," Albright said from the top of the stairs, clearly not eager to descend into the gloom.
Lutz allowed himself a few more moments in the sacred silence of the space, then ascended back into the kitchen, closing the heavy door behind him.
"Well?" Albright asked, his expression hopeful.
Lutz adopted a thoughtful pose, stroking his chin as he looked around the kitchen. "It has… potential," he said, deliberately underplaying his hand. "It is rather austere. It will require a significant investment in furnishings and drapery to make it habitable. The location is good, however. Quiet. Respectable."
He could see the calculation in Albright's eyes. A vacant property was a losing investment for the owner and the agency.
"The rent is quite competitive for the area, Mr. Morgan," Albright pressed. "One Gold Hammer per month. And given your evident status as a gentleman, I'm sure we could agree on a lease of six months, with an option to renew."
Lutz pretended to consider it, letting the silence stretch. He walked back into the front parlor, looking out the window at the twilight-bathed street. It was a good stage. A safe neighborhood. And it had the one thing he needed most: a secret, silent heart.
He turned back to Albright, a decisive look on his face.
"Very well. I shall take it. Let us return to your office and complete the paperwork. I would like to move in as soon as possible."