00:40 a.m. - At Bench Room, Silverwyn Riverbank, Dawnspire.
The adapter hums like a tame bee. The charge light holds steady. Ryan breathes, shoulders loose at last.
(Anywhere there's a wheel or wind, I can feed this brick. No more dying to go home and wait seven days. Good. Live here. Work here. Teach here.)
He pulls the laptop closer, careful not to tug the cord. He opens a folder and taps a local copy—drawings, primers, the sort of books he hoarded like food. He flips to a slim text on bonds.
Ryan (to himself, bright): "We start with sticks and balls. Not real sticks. Not real balls. Just pictures. Bonds are hands two things use to hold each other."
He thumbs a note file open to scaffold words the clerks can copy.
Ryan (soft laugh): "Metallurgy next. Then heat and pressure. Then… the earth is not a plate on turtle backs, folks. It is a ball. Please don't burn me for it."
(They will make faces. Big eyes. Some will argue. Some will smile. A few will spit. We write it in short words. We draw. We make it useful.)
Boots pound the yard planks. The bench room door jumps. Aidan bursts in, hair a mess for once, Sariel two steps behind, cloak wet at the hem. A runner gasps outside, hands on knees.
Aidan (reeling): "The line's gone."
Ryan blinks. The hum does not change. His stomach drops.
Ryan (steady, thin): "Which line."
Aidan (pacing, voice rough): "Nibs. Tooling. Jigs. Someone walked the whole pen line out the south gate at change. And a set of engine papers from the chest."
Sariel lays three wrappers on the bench, edges neat even with her hands shaking.
Sariel (clipped): "Outer door lock is clean. Inner hinge pin lifted. No scrape. Porter's shaft pin missing. The chest's seal looked whole, but the seam wax is wrong. Recast, not original. They had time. They had help."
Aidan looks at the laptop light as if it might judge him.
Aidan (flat): "I didn't post a night watch in the east aisle. I took them to the barracks for bread while the wheel slid. I thought—"
Ryan lifts a hand.
Ryan (quiet, to Aidan): "We hold. We fix. Who knew the engine prints were in that chest."
Sariel answers without looking up.
Sariel (audit voice): "Seven people. You drew them. I filed. Aemond saw a draft. Bromar checked the cylinder plate size. Murdock saw the small cylinder note two weeks ago. Ressa copied the index of sheets. And… the clerk from Kestrel who vouched the receipt when we sealed the chest for the inspector."
Aidan's eyes cut to her.
Aidan (sharp): "The clerk. Name."
Sariel (precise): "Marcelline placed a junior—Perri—days ago to watch, not to touch. Perri is solid. The Kestrel clerk last night was not Perri."
Ryan watches the runners' mud, the tempo of their breath. He hears no lies in Sariel's cadence. He looks past them into the yard, mind spinning old maps of where each hand stood the last weeks. Faces, habits. He pulls Saren's shape forward—lean, quick, good with records, always nearby when wrappers changed bins. He remembers the knife of Saren's eyes when Odrik's name came up in tavern talk. He remembers the silence, neat as a clip.
(You worked my nib line. You watched our counters. You stood near doors. You are a shadow that likes coin songs. I don't have proof. Yet.)
Ryan rubs his thumb on the slate's edge.
Ryan (soft): "Close the south gate. Check the wheelhouse pin box for a fresh gap. Count rope cuts on the rear wall. Look at the yard sledge—does it have the feel of new weight on old ruts."
Aidan nods and moves.
Aidan (taking control): "Do it. Sariel, pull the sign-out board to the bench. Copy it twice. Lock tools. Nobody leaves without show and tell."
Sariel is already writing, lines even as a plumb bob.
Sariel (without heat): "I want pairs. Two-person sign. No one alone in aisles. I need Elric on the floor at first bell."
Ryan catches Aidan's eye. It slides right over him, then returns, unfocused. Safe from spotlight strips his edges off in Aidan's mind.
(Use the blind. Be the ghost that helps. Be the eyes.)
The runner straightens, breath back.
Runner (blurting): "Foreman Tobyn saw new lashes on the east gate skid this afternoon. Fresh polish. No chalk marks. Could be from a push-out."
Aidan clenches his jaw.
Aidan (grim): "We hold the yard. We close our mouths. We don't give a single rival a story."
Ryan nods. He kills the laptop screen, leaves the adapter hum to do its quiet work. He slips the slate under his arm.
Ryan (to Sariel): "Give me the wrapper list for the last three days. The ones you rejected. The ones you kept. I'll be near Saren at bell. I'll ask him small things. Annoying things."
Sariel looks up, eyes cool.
Sariel (measured): "If Saren is clean, we keep him. If he is not, we keep him close until we know the chain. Do not break him and lose the link."
Ryan smiles without teeth.
Ryan (honest): "I'll use words, not fists."
Aidan pulls the door, and the four of them spill into the cold.
06:10 a.m. - At Press Line, Technologia Yard, Dawnspire.
Snowmelt runs in threads along the cobbles. The line sits strange. Gaps where jigs should rest. Aidan plants crews like stakes—pairs at posts, porters on doors, Bromar loud as a brass bell near the forge to look busy and scare casual eyes. Sariel strings boards and pins notices: two‑person sign, no boxes move without a countermark, sign-out sheets copied every two hours.
Ryan ties on an apron. Apprentice Elric in a sea of steel. He glances once at the steam chest safe, the seal looks good. His fingers itch to pull it. He keeps his eyes normal.
Saren moves near the feed bins, hands quick, sleeves neat. He counts blanks, lips moving with the tally. Solid work. Calm. Too calm.
Ryan drifts close with a crate, shoulder brushing shoulder.
Ryan (cheery, harmless): "Morning, Saren. Cold in the teeth."
Saren's eyes flick to the apron tag, to the face. No memory. No weight.
Saren (dry): "Cold is honest. Unlike these bins. Short by three. Someone can't count."
Ryan laughs and leans a little, as if to share warmth.
Ryan (friendly): "Tell me where you were when the bell rang last night. I missed the bread. My own fault. I want to hate the right person."
Saren's mouth twitches.
Saren (wry): "I was in my bed, dreaming of hot stew. Here before dawn. Ask Mira at the gate. She likes to note who lingers. Why. You?"
Ryan scratches his neck like a fool.
Ryan (self-mock): "I was at the wheel with the Boss. Big wood one near the river. We made the brick hum. It sings. Tiny, but sings. You like songs, Saren?"
Saren's gaze hooks for a beat on the word wheel. Then he smiles with only half his face.
Saren (light): "I prefer coins to sing. And doors that close when told. Wheels are for oxen."
Ryan keeps his own smile lazy. He tips a bin and watches Saren's hands shift. No tremble. Nails clean. But the left glove has a dark scuff at the web between thumb and finger—the sort of burn rope leaves.
Ryan (idly nosy): "You bind a crate last night? That mark looks like the rope in the east aisle. It always bites there. I hate those loops."
Saren looks at his glove like he only now feels it.
Saren (dismissive): "Pulled a cart handle in the morning. The one with the crack. It rubs. You talk too much for a cold hour."
Ryan chuckles and nods like a man who always talks too much.
Ryan (conspiratorial): "True. Brain runs hot. Help me then. Which jig set do you like for C‑27? The far one pulls the nibs wrong. Off center. The near one is right."
Saren answers without a breath's pause.
Saren (precise): "Near one. The far one is Stoneveil copy. You can tell by the shallow ridge on the third pin pad. They gouged the original when they cast their mold."
Ryan watches him while he says Stoneveil. No flicker of shame. No thrill of a traitor. Just a workman's scorn.
Ryan (open): "You know their work ugly by the nick."
Saren shrugs.
Saren (plain): "I know all ugly by the nick. That is my craft."
Sariel's boots tap behind them. She checks the bins, the seal cord, the board where two hands now sign each move. She looks at Saren's glove once. She makes no comment. She holds up a wrapper under the light.
Sariel (cool): "Countermark is true. Rewrap with double stamp. Elric, you and Saren run the first dozen. I want pull and feel before sun-high."
Ryan nods. Saren nods. They fall into work. The rhythm comes back—a press hiss, a stamp, a soft clink like hail on tin. Ryan lets silence kick a while. Then he pokes again, gentle, dumb.
Ryan (curious child): "You ever take the river stairs? I like the quiet there. Clean smell sometimes. Not sewer."
Saren flicks a glance.
Saren (guards up): "Sometimes."
Ryan flips a nib, checks its slit.
Ryan (chatty): "You drink at the Black Gull? I heard they smell like fish oil and ash."
Saren snorts.
Saren (dry): "You really are new."
Ryan grins.
Ryan (persistent): "Where do you spend your silver then? Not on food—the stew is a crime."
Saren's eyes crease, a true small smile.
Saren (honest): "Wine at Mira's uncle's. He waters it, but it's warm by the stove. Sometimes I buy paper for my sister's boy to draw. He makes horses look like kings."
Ryan pockets that truth like a nail.
(He has a sister. A boy. He buys paper. Either he is careful with lies, or I poke soft spots and he gives me small truths to hide a larger one.)
Aidan's voice ripples the yard without a shout. He walks the line and pins a note at the end post.
Aidan (business): "We have a loss. We have a job. We will make our work so clean that a thief holding it looks dirty. Two‑person sign. No blame on the floor until we hold rope to the right neck. Eat. Work. Pair up."
He moves on, heavy with the new wall he must be.
Ryan slides a finished dozen to Sariel. She weighs one in her hand, tests it on a scrap. The line holds. Good. Ryan turns back to Saren and lowers his voice.
Ryan (low, friendly): "Walk me out after bell. I want to buy warm water at the bath. Talk more. I need a friend who knows which vendor cheats least."
Saren watches him, cool eyes measuring.
Saren (even): "You ask too many questions for a man who stamps and files."
Ryan meets his gaze and lets a piece of truth leak.
Ryan (soft): "I'm scared of being dumb. I like learning. It helps my hands. That's all."
Saren nods, a small concession.
Saren (agreeing): "I will walk. You bring coin. I know a kettle where water is hot and nobody steals your sandals."
Sariel drifts back, papers in hand.
Sariel (low to Ryan): "If you catch scent, do not tug. Bring me the whole cloth. We pull together."
Ryan's eyes stay on the tray.
Ryan (quiet): "Understood."
07:30 p.m. - At Bath Kettle, Rope‑Walk Lane, Dawnspire.
Steam hangs low in the rafters. Wet wood and cheap herbs. The water is not clean like home, but it beats the city stink. Ryan hates the flavor of the bread he bought outside. He chews anyway.
(One day we fix soups. For now, soap and hot water. Teach hands to wash. Small wins.)
Saren sits on the bench, boots under his knees. His hands are neat. No rope burn visible now, he changed gloves during shift. Noted.
Ryan drops another pebble.
Ryan (casual): "Funny thing. Murdock told me the engine sheet with cylinder notes had a tiny nick in the corner. Copyists leave fingerprints. A nick here. A smudge there. If someone copied them last week, the new smudge is clean. No ash. No age. Right?"
Saren lets a breath out through his nose.
Saren (careful): "If someone did that, they are bold. Or protected. Or both."
Ryan tilts his head.
Ryan (lazy): "You think Stoneveil pays for bold. Or Kestrel. Or some other crow."
Saren lifts a shoulder.
Saren (thoughtful): "Crows pick when meat lies easy. This meat had a ward. Someone lifted the ward. Then crows came. That is my guess."
Ryan watches the little lines around Saren's eyes. He looks tired, not cornered. He sips hot water and lets the heat talk to his sore hands.
Ryan (soft): "I'll walk you home."
Saren ties his boots and stands.
Saren (accepting): "Fine. You keep asking. We keep walking. Maybe you run out of questions."
Ryan smiles and pulls his cloak.
(Keep him close. Notice his nights. Ask about nothing until it makes a shape. Don't scare the fox. Feed him warm water and small trust. Build a map from his steps. Then choose the cut.)
They step into the cold lane. The city breathes ash and broth. Far off, the river whispers. The adapter hum will still be humming, a small tame god in a wooden room, turning water to work.
Ryan bumps Saren's shoulder like a man who wants a friend and not a hunt.
Ryan (teasing): "So. Horses like kings. You bring the boy to the yard one day. I will show him a wheel that sings."
Saren snorts, a real sound, and for a moment, the line between spy and man blurs.
Saren (amused): "If the wheel sings, I'll bring a cup for its coin."
Ryan laughs, easy on the skin, eyes hard underneath.
(You'll bring more than a cup, friend. You'll bring me a thread. I will pull it when Sariel's hands are ready on the rope.)