The letter lay on the floor near the door, its edge just touching the thin strip of morning light creeping through the gap beneath the frame. Amir stood a few steps away from it.
Thirty minutes had passed. He hadn't moved. Hadn't bent down. Hadn't even tried to open it. His eyes stayed fixed on the envelope as if it might suddenly explain itself if he stared long enough.
A knock broke the silence.
Sharp. Amir flinched slightly, the sound cutting through the quiet of the apartment. For a moment he didn't move. Then the knock came again, lighter this time. He exhaled and walked toward the door, the wooden floor creaking beneath his feet. The letter remained where it was, untouched on the floor. Amir slid the latch aside and opened the door. A newspaper boy stood in the hallway, a bundle of papers tucked under one arm.
"Paper, sir."
Amir blinked once, then reached out and took one. With his other hand he pulled a small coin from his pocket and handed it over.
Five iron.
The boy nodded quickly. Thank you, sir. He turned and hurried down the hallway, already calling out toward the next apartment. Amir closed the door again and slid the latch back into place.The apartment returned to its quiet. The letter was still on the floor. Amir stepped past it and unfolded the newspaper as he walked back into the room, the pages rustling softly in his hands. Ink smudged faintly across his fingers as he flipped through the columns.
Most of it was the usual.
A report from the mining districts spoke of a cave-in at the Lower Blackshaft Mine. Four miners were still trapped underground while rescue crews worked through the night, though officials warned the tunnels were unstable. Another column described steelworkers gathering outside a foundry in the industrial quarter, protesting extended night shifts. Cog Watchers had dispersed the crowd before sunrise. Further down the page, a dock foreman had been arrested on smuggling charges after Cog Watchers discovered several shipments of refined iron missing from harbor records. Amir turned the page. A smaller report mentioned Rail Cogs breaking up a fight between freight laborers at Central Station after an argument over unpaid wages turned violent. Below that, the council had approved construction of a new smelting plant in the northern district despite complaints from residents about smoke and ash choking the streets. Amir skimmed past the lines without much interest.
Then his eyes stopped. The headline was larger than the rest.
King Valerius The Second Fully Recovered
For weeks the palace gates had remained closed while rumors spread across the republic that the king's life hung by a thread. Those rumors have now been silenced. Royal physicians confirmed yesterday that His Majesty, King Valerius II, has made a complete recovery and has resumed his duties within the palace. In a statement released shortly after, the crown announced a grand banquet to be held later this week, inviting noble houses and distinguished families from across the Iron Republic. Sources within the palace describe the event not only as a celebration of the king's return to health, but as a declaration that the throne remains firmly in his grasp. The investigation into the recent assassination attempt remains ongoing. His Majesty, according to court officials, intends to address the matter personally.
Amir read the lines once Then again.
His thoughts drifted elsewhere.
Seraphina.
If the king had recovered, the palace would already be alive with preparations. Carriages arriving through the gates. Nobles gathering beneath chandeliers. Servants rushing through corridors with armfuls of silverware and wine. She would be there. A small, genuine smile touched Amir's face.
Good. He hoped she was doing well. The newspaper lowered slowly in his hands. Near the door, the letter still lay on the floor
Amir folded the newspaper and set it on the wooden counter beside the stove. The letter still lay near the door where it had been pushed through the narrow gap sometime during the night. He looked at it without moving. Ten minutes passed before he finally let out a quiet breath. If I'm not a fortune teller, he thought, then this must be from the Cog Master. But is it worth opening? Part of him wanted to leave it there. Another part insisted he should open it anyway, even if it turned out to be pointless. Amir walked over and bent down, picking the envelope up. It was plain. No seal, no signature, only his address written across the front in neat strokes. Strange. Is this actually from him? He tore it open and pulled out the single slip of paper inside. Three words stared back at him. THE GRINDING BEANS. Amir frowned and turned the paper over once, then again, checking for hidden writing or some second message. Nothing. For a moment he wondered if someone was playing a prank on him. Then the name settled in his mind. The café. Amir exhaled slowly. "That place again," he murmured under his breath. "I really can't guess what that man is thinking." He adjusted his flat cap, crouched near the door, and pulled on his shoes. "I should apologize as well," he muttered. A moment later he opened the door and stepped into the building's stairwell. The narrow stairs twisted downward, the walls damp with condensation. Gas lamps flickered weakly at each landing as he descended, his boots echoing against the metal steps. The ground floor opened into the small shared courtyard. A communal water pump stood in the middle beside a few benches that had long since rotted into splintered wood. The same woman was there again, filling a bucket, her face lined with the same quiet exhaustion. She didn't look up when Amir passed. He pushed through the heavy iron gate and stepped out onto the street.