Backlund never truly slept.
But at midnight, it pretended to.
Along the river, factory furnaces dimmed, leaving only dull red glows leaking from chimneys like wounds that refused to close. Fog rolled in from the Tussock, thick and heavy, carrying soot and the metallic promise of rain. Gas lamps burned low, their halos smeared into sickly yellow blots that barely held back the dark.
Elaric walked alone.
Three days of preparation clung to him like borrowed armor.
A second-hand wool coat, too large at the shoulders.
A flat cap pulled low.
A cheap knife—sharp, but honest.
A tin of lamp oil hidden inside his coat.
Pathetic defenses.
Better than none.
The Bridge of Three Spires rose ahead, arching over the river like the spine of some ancient beast. Gothic towers clawed at the fog, their silhouettes broken by missing saints and headless gargoyles. Once, stained-glass lanterns had turned the bridge into a ribbon of color.
Now only a handful of gas lamps remained.
The rest were dark.
Elaric stepped onto the stone.
Tap… tap…
His footsteps were swallowed by damp air. Ember Sense tugged at him constantly now, a low, insistent thrum behind the eyes.
Dying flames everywhere.
A beggar curled beneath the first arch, breath fluttering like a guttering wick.
A rat convulsing near a drainage slit, poison working through its veins.
Farther off—a hopeful proposal about to be rejected, joy collapsing into bitterness.
He ignored them.
Tonight, distraction meant death.
At the midpoint, beneath the central spire, he stopped.
Iron groaned overhead as a weather vane turned in a wind he couldn't feel.
Fog thickened until the river vanished below, leaving only the sound of water moving through blackness.
He was early.
Intentionally.
Elaric leaned against the parapet, cold stone seeping through his coat. One hand curled around the tarot deck in his pocket. The other rested near the knife.
Minutes stretched.
Then—
Ember Sense flared.
Sharp.
Violent.
Someone was coming.
Not from either bank.
From above.
THUD.
A shape dropped from the spire's shadow, landing twenty feet away without a sound. Tall. Broad-shouldered. A long black greatcoat flared like wings before settling.
A hood concealed the face.
Metal glinted beneath the coat—chains.
The figure straightened slowly.
"You're smaller than I expected," a deep voice said calmly. "The ember chooses strange vessels."
Elaric swallowed. "You're the Hanged Man?"
A soft chuckle.
"One of them. The card turns, boy. Sometimes upright. Sometimes reversed."
A pause.
"Tonight, it hangs inverted."
He stepped into the circle of a gas lamp.
The hood fell back.
Storm-colored eyes. Sharp features. A pale scar cutting from temple to mouth. An iron pendant shaped like a gallows hung at his throat.
Ember Sense recoiled.
Not dead.
Not alive.
Suspended.
Sequence 7… or higher.
"My name is Leonard Mitchell," the man said. "Former captain of the Church of the Lord of Storms' special operations. Former Nighthawk."
Recognition hit like a hammer.
Leonard Mitchell.
The Hanged Man.
One of the Fool's companions.
Leonard smiled faintly, reading it on Elaric's face.
"You know parts of the story," he said. "But stories end. People don't."
He drew a brass pocket watch. The glass was cracked. The hands frozen at 11:58.
"Four years ago, this stopped. Not broken—stopped."
He closed it.
"Similar anomalies are appearing. Seers seeing burning threads. Corpses with eyes reduced to ash."
Leonard's gaze sharpened.
"All pointing to you."
Elaric's fingers tightened. "And the Gathering wants what I carry?"
"The Gathering is divided." Leonard stepped closer. "Some think you're salvation. Some think you're a bomb. And a few…"
His voice lowered.
"…think the Fool's solution was just another cage."
Silence pressed in.
"I was sent to bring you in," Leonard said. "Alive. Preferably willing."
"You knew Klein," Elaric said suddenly.
Something flickered.
"I did."
"Then you know the price he paid."
Leonard nodded. "And I know anchors erode."
He extended his hand.
"Come to Trier. Justice. The Magician. The Sun. Let them judge."
Before Elaric could answer—
Ember Sense screamed.
From behind.
Fog churned at the western end of the bridge. Shapes emerged—four cloaked figures. One carried a dark bronze lantern.
Identical.
Leonard cursed. "Cultists of the Unquenchable Flame."
Crimson light spilled from the lantern.
"Yield the vessel," a rasp called. "The ember must burn unbound."
Leonard moved.
CLANG—!
Chains erupted from his sleeves—black iron links snapping through the air, barbed hooks biting deep. One cultist was yanked forward, crashing onto stone.
"RUN!" Leonard shouted. "South bank!"
Elaric didn't hesitate.
A cultist swung the lantern toward him.
Spark Ignition.
FSSS—!
Elaric hurled the flame—not at the man—
—but the glass.
BOOM.
Crimson fire imploded inward.
The cultist screamed as the lantern consumed its bearer.
Elaric ran.
Stone blurred beneath his feet. Fog screamed. Chains clashed with fire behind him, reality itself flinching with every impact.
He burst into the southern alleys—
—and nearly collided with a black carriage.
The door flew open.
"Inside!"
Justice.
He dove.
The door slammed. Horses screamed. The carriage lurched forward.
Through the rear window, Elaric saw Leonard retreating, chains weaving a living barrier. One cultist lay broken. Another burned.
Then fog swallowed the bridge.
Inside the carriage, Justice lifted her veil.
Beautiful. Severe. Eyes like fresh blood.
"Audrey…" Elaric breathed.
She smiled faintly. "Welcome to what remains of the Tarot Club, little ember."
The carriage turned west—toward rails, toward Trier.
Behind them, the Bridge of Three Spires burned.
And in Elaric's chest—
Thump.
The ember flared brighter.
The hunt had begun.
But for the first time—
He wasn't alone.