I counted the coins three times before I believed the number.
Fifteen copper pieces. That's what we had left after paying Mrs. Marsh for the week. The coins sat in a small pile on the windowsill, catching the morning light. Three days of brutal work, and this was what remained. I pushed them around with one finger, watching them clink against each other, trying to figure out how to make them last.
"That's not enough for another week," Kaal said from his bed. He was rubbing his back—the injury still bothered him, especially in the mornings.
"I know."
"So what do we do?"
I scooped the coins into my pocket, feeling their weight settle against my leg. "We work. We survive. And tonight, we visit the bookshop."
The decision had been made, but saying it out loud still made my stomach clench. We were going to walk into whatever Vera had offered us, knowing it was illegal, knowing it could get us killed, knowing we had no real choice if we wanted answers.
The morning air was cold enough to sting. I could smell coal smoke and fish, the usual Port Vedas perfume, mixed with something sharper—rotting seaweed, maybe. The Stacks were already awake, people moving through the narrow streets with the tired shuffle of another workday starting.
Mrs. Marsh caught us before we left.
"Wait." She was holding a basket. "I need a favor. There's a herbalist near the market—Widow Chen's stall. I need this filled." She held out a piece of paper with a list written in careful script. "For my cough. It's getting worse."
I'd noticed. The wet, rattling sound coming from her room at night.
"Of course," I said, taking the basket and the list. "We'll go before work."
She pressed three copper coins into my palm. "For the herbs. And thank you."
The coins were warm from her hand. I pocketed them, feeling guilty for the flash of relief. Three more copper. Three more days of food, maybe.
---
The market was already busy when we arrived. Vendors were setting up stalls, arranging goods, calling out to early shoppers. The smell hit me first—spices and incense mixing with less pleasant odors. Sweat. Animals. Spoiled produce in the alleys between stalls.
"Widow Chen," Kaal said, pointing.
The stall was small, tucked between a fishmonger and someone selling secondhand clothes. An elderly woman sat behind a table covered in small cloth bags, dried plants hanging from the canopy above her. Her face was deeply lined, her hair pure white, but her hands moved with steady precision as she measured out herbs for a customer.
We waited. The customer—a young mother with a crying infant—paid and left. Widow Chen's eyes found us immediately.
"New faces," she said. Her voice was rough, like gravel grinding. "What do you need?"
I handed her Mrs. Marsh's list. She examined it, her lips moving slightly as she read.
"Agnes sent you." Not a question. "Her cough is bad this year. The factory air. Kills them all eventually." She began selecting bags from her stock, weighing small amounts on a brass scale. "This will help. Won't cure it, but it'll help."
I watched her work. The movements were practiced, economical. No wasted motion. She tied the bags with quick knots, arranged them in our basket, then pulled out an unmarked bottle.
"This too. Not on the list, but she needs it. Tincture for the inflammation." Widow Chen's eyes were sharp on my face. "Tell her to take it twice daily. Morning and night. No more, no less."
"How much?" I asked, mentally calculating.
"Three copper for the herbs on the list. The tincture..." She paused, studying us. "No charge. Agnes has been kind to me over the years. Tell her we're even now."
The unexpected generosity caught me off guard. "Thank you."
"Don't thank me yet. That tincture is strong. She takes too much, it'll make things worse." Widow Chen wrapped the bottle carefully in cloth. "You're the ones staying with her. The mysterious arrivals."
I felt ice settle in my chest. "How did you—"
"Everyone knows everything in the Stacks. We watch. We remember." She placed the wrapped bottle in the basket. "Be careful, boys. People are asking questions about you. Not just that investigator woman. Others."
"What others?"
But she was already turning to help a new customer, dismissing us with a wave of her weathered hand.
---
We made it to the docks with ten minutes to spare. Hendricks was already organizing Team Three, his clipboard out, checking names.
"Lucian. Kaal. You're on Warehouse Two today. Sorting incoming cargo from the *Morning Tide*. Should be straightforward."
Should be. I was learning that 'should be' rarely meant 'was.'
The *Morning Tide* had arrived from somewhere called Desi Bay, carrying what the manifest listed as "general goods and sundries." In practice, that meant a chaotic mixture of crates containing anything from pottery to preserved foods to what looked suspiciously like someone's entire household packed for transport.
"This is going to take all day," Marcus muttered, staring at the cargo hold. He was the tall, lanky one on our team, with arms that seemed too long for his body. "Who packs like this?"
"People fleeing debt, mostly," Thomas said. He was examining the manifest with a frown. "Or avoiding questions. See these marks? That means the cargo was loaded fast, no proper inventory."
We started hauling. The crates were awkward more than heavy, poorly balanced and difficult to grip. My back complained with every lift, muscles still tender from three days of labor that my body hadn't fully adapted to yet.
Around mid-morning, we found something strange.
A crate about three feet square, made of wood that was darker than the others. No markings at all. Just smooth, dark wood that felt wrong somehow. Too smooth. Too cold, even in the warm warehouse.
"Thomas," I called. "What do we do with this one?"
He came over, consulted his manifest, frowned. "It's not listed."
"At all?"
"At all." He pulled out a piece of chalk, marking a large X on the crate's side. "That goes in the quarantine section. We'll report it to Galvin at lunch."
"What's the quarantine section?" Kaal asked.
"Where we put things that don't belong. Contraband, damaged goods, or..." Thomas gestured at the unmarked crate. "Things that make experienced dock workers nervous."
We moved the crate carefully to a corner of the warehouse marked with yellow paint. As I set it down, my hand brushed against the wood and I felt something. A vibration, almost. Like the wood itself was humming at a frequency just below hearing.
I jerked my hand back.
"You felt it too," Kaal said quietly. He'd gone pale.
"Yeah."
We didn't touch it again.
---
Lunch was the usual watery stew, but today there was also bread—actual fresh bread, not the hard stuff we'd been eating. Someone said it was a holiday in the Intis Republic, and their merchant ships always brought extra rations on holidays.
I didn't care about the reason. I just ate the bread slowly, savoring the softness, the faint sweetness. Small pleasures mattered more now.
Darius didn't join us today. Instead, I noticed him at a table across the warehouse, deep in conversation with a woman I didn't recognize. She was older, maybe fifty, with gray hair and the kind of formal clothes that suggested she wasn't a dock worker.
"Who's that?" I asked Thomas, who was sitting across from me.
He glanced over. "Mrs. Aldridge. She runs a boarding house in the Colonial Quarter. Sometimes comes around looking for workers who want better accommodations." He took a bite of bread. "Darius helps her sometimes. Finding reliable tenants, checking references. Makes a few extra copper on the side."
I watched their conversation. Darius was listening more than talking, nodding occasionally, his expression serious.
"He seems to know everyone," Kaal observed.
"He does. Been here three years, worked his way up from basic labor to... whatever he does now." Thomas lowered his voice. "Some say he's an information broker. Others say he works for the Harbor Authority on the side. Personally, I think he just helps people because he's good at it."
The bell rang. We returned to work.
---
The afternoon dragged. More crates, more sorting, more questions marked on Thomas's manifest that would probably never get answered. My mind kept drifting to the evening ahead, to the bookshop, to whatever waited for us there.
Around three, something happened that drove all other thoughts from my head.
A church official entered the warehouse. Not one of the robed figures we'd seen before, but someone different. He wore gray clothes that looked almost military, with a silver badge pinned to his chest—the same eye-behind-a-door symbol I'd seen on the Evernight church guards.
"Inspection," he announced. His voice carried authority. "Everyone continues working. I'm here to verify cargo manifests."
He moved through the warehouse systematically, checking crates against some kind of list. When he reached the quarantine section, he paused.
I was close enough to watch. He pulled out that same brass instrument I'd seen before—the detection device with multiple lenses and a built-in compass. He pointed it at the unmarked crate we'd found.
The needle on the compass spun wildly. The lenses clicked and rotated. And the official's expression went from routine boredom to sharp attention in an instant.
"Everyone clear this section," he ordered. "Now."
We moved back. The official pulled out a different tool—a silver rod with symbols etched along its length. He touched it to the crate, and I saw light flare briefly where metal met wood.
The humming I'd felt earlier intensified. I could hear it now, a low vibration that set my teeth on edge.
The official made notes in a small book, then turned to Hendricks. "This crate is confiscated. Church of the Evernight will send a team to collect it within the hour. No one touches it until then. Understood?"
"Understood," Hendricks said.
The official left, walking quickly, like he couldn't wait to be away from whatever that crate contained.
"Well," Marcus said into the silence. "That was unsettling."
"Back to work," Hendricks said. But his hand kept drifting to the knife at his belt, and he positioned himself where he could watch the quarantine section.
---
Galvin released us ten minutes early.
"Get out," he said, handing over our wages. "Church team is arriving soon and they don't like witnesses. Go home, forget what you saw, and don't discuss it with anyone. Clear?"
"Clear," I said, pocketing my five copper coins.
We left quickly, but I looked back once at the warehouse. A black carriage had pulled up to the entrance, horses stamping nervously. Three figures in dark robes were climbing down, carrying what looked like a reinforced chest.
Whatever was in that crate, the church was taking it seriously.
"We should go," Kaal said, pulling at my sleeve.
He was right. We shouldn't be here, shouldn't be seen watching. We turned and walked away, mixing into the stream of workers heading home.
But I couldn't shake the memory of that humming vibration, the way the compass had spun, the light flaring where silver touched wood. The world kept reminding me that normal rules didn't apply here. That danger wore many faces, some of them hidden in ordinary cargo holds.
---
We stopped at Mrs. Marsh's building to drop off the herbs. She was home early, sitting in the common kitchen with a cup of tea, looking exhausted.
"How was your day?" she asked, then immediately coughed—that wet, rattling sound.
"Fine," I lied, handing her the basket. "Widow Chen said to take the tincture twice daily. No more, no less."
Mrs. Marsh examined the bottle, her eyes widening slightly. "She gave you the expensive one."
"She said to tell you you're even now."
"That's..." Mrs. Marsh's voice caught. "That's very kind." She was quiet for a moment, then looked at us. "You boys are good people. I'm glad you're staying here."
The words sat warm in my chest, unexpected and valuable. "We're glad you took us in."
She waved us off, embarrassed. "Go on. You probably have plans for the evening."
We did. I'd been trying not to think about them.
---
The Colonial Quarter looked different in the early evening light. Cleaner. Wealthier. The buildings here were painted, maintained, fronted with small gardens that seemed impossibly luxurious compared to the Stacks.
Gas lamps lined every street, already lit despite the lingering daylight. People walked past in clothes that cost more than I'd earn in a month. I felt deeply out of place in my work-stained shirt and canvas trousers.
"We don't belong here," Kaal muttered.
"No one's stopping us."
But I felt it too. The weight of invisible boundaries, the way wealthier pedestrians gave us slightly wider berth, the suspicious glances from shopkeepers.
We found Antiquarian Pursuits on a side street near the church district. The shop was narrow, squeezed between a tailor and a tea house, with a painted sign showing an open book and a magnifying glass.
The windows were full of books—old ones, leather-bound, their spines marked with symbols I didn't recognize. A small brass bell hung above the door.
I reached for the handle, then stopped.
"Are we sure about this?" I asked.
Kaal looked at me. His face was pale, uncertain, but determined. "No. But we're doing it anyway."
I pushed the door open.
The bell chimed—a clear, crystalline note that seemed to hang in the air longer than it should have. The smell hit me immediately: old paper, leather, dust, and something else. Incense, maybe, or herbs.
The shop interior was dim, lit by oil lamps that cast warm circles of light. Bookshelves lined every wall, reaching to the ceiling, packed so tightly that some volumes were stacked horizontally above the vertical ones. A narrow aisle led deeper into the shop.
"Hello?" I called.
No response. Just the tick of a clock somewhere in the back.
We moved forward carefully. The aisle opened into a small circular space with a desk at the center. Behind the desk, more bookshelves formed alcoves, each one shadowed and mysterious.
A man emerged from one of the alcoves. He was perhaps sixty, with iron-gray hair and spectacles perched on a long nose. He wore a vest over a white shirt, sleeves rolled to his elbows, and moved with the careful precision of someone who'd spent decades navigating cramped spaces.
"We're about to close," he said. Then he actually looked at us, and something changed in his expression. "But then again, you're not here to browse, are you?"
"Vera sent us," I said. My mouth was dry. "She said to ask for Mr. Solis."
"Did she." He studied us for a long moment, then moved to the shop door, flipping the sign to 'CLOSED' and locking it with a key from his pocket. "You're the new ones. The Released. Lucian and Kaal."
"How did you know our names?"
"Because Vera is thorough, and I pay attention." He gestured toward the back of the shop. "Come. We have things to discuss, and walls here have ears."
He led us through a door hidden behind a bookshelf, down a narrow staircase that smelled of earth and mildew. At the bottom was another door, this one marked with symbols that reminded me uncomfortably of the ones on that mysterious crate.
Mr. Solis touched the door with his palm. The symbols flared briefly with pale light, then the door swung open.
"After you," he said.
I exchanged a glance with Kaal. We'd come this far. Turning back now would solve nothing.
I stepped through the door into a room that shouldn't exist.
It was larger than the shop above, that was my first thought. Much larger. The ceiling was high, supported by stone pillars carved with more of those symbols. The walls were lined with glass cases containing objects I couldn't identify—crystals, strange instruments, what looked like preserved specimens in jars.
In the center of the room was a large table covered with papers, books, and what might have been star charts.
"Welcome," Mr. Solis said, closing the door behind us, "to the real bookshop."
A woman was sitting at the table. She looked up as we entered, and I recognized her immediately: the same woman from my dreams. Dark hair, Asian features, young. She smiled slightly when she saw my expression.
"So you did see me," she said. "In the gray space. I thought I felt someone watching."
"You're—" I started.
"Like you. Released. Confused. Looking for answers." She stood, extending a hand. "My name is Mei. Or at least, that's what it is now. I've been here for eight months."
I shook her hand automatically, my mind reeling. The shared dreams were real. The connection was real.
Everything was real.
"Sit down," Mr. Solis said, gesturing to chairs around the table. "We have much to discuss. Starting with what you are, why you're here, and what pathways might kill you if you're not careful."
I sat. The chair was solid, real, grounding. Kaal sat beside me, his shoulder pressed against mine—a reminder that I wasn't alone in this.
On the table in front of me, I saw a book lying open. The page showed a diagram of what looked like a human figure surrounded by symbols and text in a language I couldn't read. But there was a title in English at the top of the page:
*The Hunter Pathway: Sequence 9 - Hunter*
Beneath it, a detailed illustration showed a figure in motion, eyes sharp, hands steady on a rifle. Around the figure were notes in small script:
*Enhanced perception. Tracking. Combat instincts. Danger sense. Foundation of the Red Priest pathway group.*
I stared at the page, feeling something click into place in my mind. The clarity I'd felt during work. The enhanced awareness. The way I'd anticipated problems before they occurred.
Not stress response. Not adaptation.
Something else entirely.
"You've already started manifesting," Mr. Solis said, noticing where I was looking. "Even without the potion. That's unusual but not unheard of. The Released sometimes carry... echoes. Fragments of what they might become."
I looked up at him, at Mei, at the impossible room full of impossible things.
"I need to understand," I said. The words came out rough, almost desperate. "Everything. From the beginning."
Mr. Solis smiled faintly. "Then we'll start with the most important question: Do you know what a Beyonder is?"
"Only what we've overheard," Kaal said.
"Good. Then we won't have to correct misconceptions." Mr. Solis pulled out a chair and sat, steepling his fingers. "Let me tell you about the pathways, about power, and about the price you'll pay for understanding. And then, if you still want to proceed, we'll discuss what happens next."
The clock somewhere in the shop above chimed seven times. Outside, Port Vedas continued its evening routine, unaware that two confused souls were about to step onto a path they couldn't fully comprehend.
But I was ready. Terrified, uncertain, but ready.
It was time to learn what I could become.
---
**End of Chapter 5**