The encounter with Hasan had crystallized Lutz's purpose, transforming the act of furnishing his house from a chore of establishing a cover into the deliberate construction of his primary weapon: the persona of James Morgan.
His first stop was 'Oakheart & Co.,' the furniture maker he had noted earlier. The smell of sawdust, linseed oil, and beeswax was a comforting, solid scent. A burly craftsman with forearms like knotted wood approached him.
"Looking for something specific, sir?" the man asked, his eyes briefly appreciating the quality of Lutz's unusual suit.
"I am furnishing a terrace on Vesper Lane," Lutz announced, his voice carrying the effortless confidence of a man who had never worried about cost. "It's quite bare. I require the essentials, but they must have… character. Nothing mass-produced. I want to feel the history in the grain."
The story, he thought. James Morgan, the scion of a fallen house, would surround himself with objects that whisper of a grander past, even if he has to buy them himself.
He moved through the showroom, his Marauder's eye for value and authenticity assessing each piece. For the front parlor, the public face of his home, he selected a heavy, oak writing desk with intricate claw-and-ball feet. It was imposing and spoke of business.
"This will do," he stated. "And I'll need a chair to match. Something with a high back, leather upholstery. A gentleman's chair."
Next, he chose a pair of armchairs for guests, upholstered in a deep burgundy velvet. They were plush, inviting, but not overly comfortable—perfect for short, controlled conversations. A low, walnut coffee table and a tall, glass-fronted bookcase completed the set for the room.
'The bookcase must be filled.' he made a mental note. 'Not with my real texts, but with impressive-looking volumes on economics, Feysacian history, and maybe some poetry. More props.'
The craftsman was following him now, a ledger in hand, scribbling furiously. The sum was already climbing.
They moved to the dining area, a small nook off the kitchen. Here, Lutz was more pragmatic but no less discerning. He chose a solid, rectangular table of dark mahogany, large enough to seat six. He paired it with four high-backed chairs.
"For the bedroom," Lutz continued, leading the way. He bypassed the simpler frames and went straight for a grand, four-poster bed made of dark, carved wood. It was excessive, almost theatrical.
'James Morgan doesn't just sleep' Lutz thought with a private smirk. 'He retires. He dreams ambitious dreams in a bed fit for a minor lord. The frivolity is the point.'
He added a matching heavy wardrobe and a tall chest of drawers. The sheer bulk of the furniture would make the room feel lived-in, permanent, and most importantly, it would deaden sound.
The final bill at Oakheart was a staggering twelve Gold Hammers. Lutz didn't flinch. He counted out the coins from his new wallet, the heavy clink of each one a satisfying sound of investment. The craftsman's eyes widened slightly; he was used to haggling.
"A pleasure, Mr. Morgan," the man said, his tone now one of deep respect. "We'll have it delivered and placed by this afternoon."
"Please see that you do," Lutz said with a polite nod.
His next destination was a establishment called 'The Gilded Hearth,' which specialized in all the accoutrements of a household. Here, he became a whirlwind of domestic acquisition. He bought a full set of copper-bottomed cookware for the kitchen, along with ceramic jars for flour, sugar, and tea. He selected a service for six in fine, white porcelain with a simple gold rim, and a matching set of crystal tumblers.
'I have no intention of hosting a dinner party.' he mused 'But the potential must be visible. It suggests a man building a life, not just hiding in a room.'
He moved to the linens, running his fingers over the fabrics. He chose heavy, brocade curtains for the parlor and his bedroom, in deep blues and golds, to block out the curious twilight and prying eyes. For the bed, he selected sheets of soft, high-thread-count cotton and a thick, wool-stuffed duvet. The simple, tactile pleasure of these items was a novelty. In Indaw Harbor, warmth was a luxury; here, it was a commodity to be purchased.
His final, and most deliberate, stop was an art gallery, 'The Twilight Canvas.' The owner, a slender man with a dramatic mustache, looked up from a ledger as the bell chimed.
"Ah, a new patron! Welcome, welcome!" the man effused, his eyes lighting up at Lutz's attire.
"I am seeking art," Lutz declared, his gaze sweeping over the walls. "Something that speaks to ambition. To the meeting of old and new."
He wasn't just buying decoration; he was buying a backdrop that reinforced his story. He bypassed the pastoral scenes and stern portraits of long-dead generals. His eyes fell on a large, dramatic oil painting. It depicted the St. Millom skyline at the peak of the "Gilded Dusk," the orange and violet sky a riot of color, with the stark black silhouette of the Twilight Hall on one side and the rising steel skeleton of the Steam Cathedral on the other.
"This one," Lutz said, pointing. "It captures the city's… tension, don't you think?"
"A magnificent choice, sir!" the gallery owner gushed. "A statement piece! It speaks of a man who understands the tendency of the times."
Lutz also selected a smaller, more abstract piece, all swirling, metallic colors that evoked gears and smoke. It was modern, slightly jarring, and would suggest an appreciation for the new industrial age. A perfect complement to the first.
The art pieces added another five Hammers to his day's expenditure. As he finalized the purchase, arranging for the paintings to be delivered and hung, he did a quick mental tally.
Oakheart: Twelve. The Gilded Hearth: three for kitchenware, linens, and curtains. The art: five. Twenty Hammers total.
He paid the gallery owner, the transaction further lightening his wallet but solidifying his presence. He now stood in the center of the shop, the owner bowing him out.
"Thank you for your patronage, Mr. Morgan! Your home will be the envy of Vesper Lane!"
Lutz offered a final, polished smile and stepped back out into the twilight. The initial frenzy of acquisition was over. He felt a strange emptiness, the comedown after a performance. He had just spent a small fortune—enough to support a middle-class family for 3 or 4 years—in a single morning. The sheer, audacious wastefulness of it should have sickened the part of him that had scrambled for coppers in the harbor.
But it didn't. Instead, a cold, hard satisfaction settled in him. He walked back towards Vesper Lane, his mind clear.
He thought of the heavy desk where he would draft business proposals. The lavish bed where he would sleep, and hopefully, dream without nightmares. The fine china that would sit unused in a cabinet, a silent promise of a social life he would never truly cultivate. The paintings that would stare down at his charade, a constant reminder of the world he was infiltrating.
He arrived back at 17 Vesper Lane just as the first delivery wagon from Oakheart & Co. was pulling up. He unlocked the black door and stood aside as the burly craftsman and his assistants began hauling in the heavy pieces of furniture. The empty, echoing house began to fill with the sounds of grunting men and scraping wood.
Lutz directed them with calm authority, pointing where the desk should go in the parlor, where the bed should be positioned. With each piece placed, the house became less of a shell and more of a set. It was becoming real.
When the last of the furniture was in place and the men had left, he was alone again. The silence returned, but it was different now. It was a furnished silence, a curated quiet. He walked from room to room, his footsteps muffled by the new rugs he'd purchased. He ran a hand over the smooth, cool surface of the mahogany dining table. He looked at his reflection in the glass door of the new bookcase.
He had reduced his funds from 610 to 590 Gold Hammers. A staggering sum was now tied up in wood, fabric, and paint. But as he looked around the transformed ground floor, he didn't see an expense. He saw an investment. He saw a fortress of respectability, built to conceal the secret laboratory in the earth below.
The finality of the Oakheart furniture's placement had been like the setting of a foundation stone. The house had weight, substance. But it was the subsequent deliveries that began to breathe life, or rather, the illusion of life, into the stone shell of 17 Vesper Lane.
The men from 'The Gilded Hearth' arrived next, their arms laden with boxes and crates. Lutz directed them with the same efficient calm, his mind a precise ledger of where each item belonged.
The copper pots and pans, he thought, watching them be hung on hooks beside the hearth or placed in the cupboards. Not for lavish meals, but for the occasional, visible act of cooking. A single man preparing a simple supper is a normal, uninteresting sight. A man who never uses his kitchen is a man with secrets.
He unwrapped the porcelain service himself, the china whispering as he lifted each piece. Plate by plate, saucer by saucer, he filled the glass-fronted cabinet in the dining nook. The simple gold rims gleamed in the twilight filtering through the window.
Next came the linens. He made the four-poster bed himself, the process strangely meditative. He smoothed the soft, high-thread-count cotton sheets, then layered the thick, heavy duvet. It was a far cry from the thin, scratchy blankets and flea-infested straw pallets of his past. He ran a hand over the burgundy velvet of the armchairs in the parlor, feeling the plush depth. He hung the heavy brocade curtains, their weight and density pulling the fabric into solemn, light-devouring folds. As each window was shrouded, the house grew darker, quieter, more insulated from the outside world. It was no longer just a house; it was a sanctum, a stage set for a single, continuous performance.
The final delivery was the art pieces. The man from 'The Twilight Canvas' arrived, carefully carrying the two framed paintings. Lutz had him hang the large, dramatic cityscape on the main wall of the parlor, directly opposite the writing desk. It dominated the room, a constant, beautiful reminder of the city's dual nature—the ancient stone of the Twilight Hall and the rising iron of the Steam Gospel. It was a conversation piece for a conversation that would never happen.
The smaller, abstract piece he had hung in the hallway, a splash of modern, metallic confusion to balance the traditional solidity of the oak furniture. It was a nod to the future, a hint that James Morgan was not entirely mired in the past.
When the last delivery man had been paid and had departed, Lutz performed the now-familiar ritual of locking and bolting the heavy black door. The thud of the bolt sliding home was the true signal that the day's performance was over.
He stood in the center of his parlor and did a slow turn. He laughed with a chuckle.
'Hehe... Looking good innit?'
The transformation was absolute. The echoing emptiness had been replaced by a curated, almost theatrical domesticity. The air smelled of new wood, fresh linen, and oil paint. It was a convincing facade. Anyone walking in would see the home of a prosperous, if slightly eccentric, young gentleman with ambitious tastes.
'I always wanted to have a house like this, guess it's come true.'
'And they would see nothing of the man who sleeps with a stiletto under his pillow.'
The performance, however, demanded consistency.
He changed out of the pastel amber suit, hanging it carefully in the new wardrobe, and donned a set of his older, more conservative clothes. It was a subtle shift back towards anonymity. He left the house, the lock clicking behind him, and walked to a modest, well-regarded tavern he had spotted earlier, 'The Grumbling Giant.'
The interior was warm, loud, and smelled of roasting meat and ale. He took a seat in a corner, ordering a simple meal of stew, dark bread, and a tankard of the local stout. As he ate, he let the conversations of the city wash over him—complaints about Steam Gospel taxes, gossip about noble families, talk of the booming industries in the eastern districts. He was a sponge, absorbing the texture of St. Millom life, filing away names and frustrations for future use.
Returning to Vesper Lane as the city's peculiar twilight deepened into a velvety, star-dusted night, he felt the familiar tension return.
He moved through the darkened rooms, his footsteps silent on the rugs. He checked the locks on the windows, the bolt on the door. He stood for a long moment in the parlor, the massive painting a dark shape in the gloom, the city it depicted sleeping just beyond the walls. Then, he descended into the basement.
The contrast was jarring. Above, everything was ordered, furnished, a lie built for public consumption. Down here, in the cold, packed-earth silence, was the unvarnished truth. His leather bag sat in the corner, a Pandora's box of absolute fortune. The stones were bare, the air tasted of damp earth and potential.
He simply stood there, in the heart of his real purpose, letting the silence of the earth ground him.
Finally, he ascended, sealing the basement door behind him. The climb to the first floor felt like a transition between worlds.
He took a quick shower and washed his teeth in the bathroom, then headed for the second floor.
He entered his new bedroom and lit the gas lamp. The four-poster bed loomed in the dim light, a monumental piece of furniture that seemed to swallow the room. He undressed in front of his wardrobe, folding his clothes with the automatic precision of a soldier. He slid Creed under his pillow, its cool presence a familiar comfort.
Then he lay down on the new bed. The mattress was impossibly soft, the duvet a weightless warmth. It was the most physically comfortable he had been since his transmigration.
He stared up at the dark canopy of the bed, listening. The house, for all its new furnishings, was still a stranger. It creaked and settled, each noise a question mark. The distant toll of a bell from the Twilight Hall marked the passage of the church's patrols.
In the profound quiet, the events of the day replayed themself—the flash of the amber suit in the haberdasher's mirror, the vile sneer on Hasan's face, the grateful tears of the old woman.
He had built a life today. James Morgan was no longer just a name on a document; he was a resident, a consumer, a face in the crowd.
As sleep finally began to pull at the edges of his consciousness, the last clear thought that formed was not of survival, or vengeance, or even his vow.
I am home.