The rain had returned, but it wasn't the cleansing sort. It was a greasy, soot-laden drizzle that turned the streets of Cherwood into slick black ribbons. Inside the clock shop, the air was thick enough to chew. The sweet, rotting scent from the iron-bound chest had intensified, mingling with the sharp, medicinal fumes of the absinthe Egmont was now drinking like water.
Victor descended from his attic, his grey greatcoat buttoned to the chin. He didn't go to the coal bucket. Instead, he walked directly to the workbench and placed his hand—rough, calloused, and steady—on the lid of the chest.
Egmont jerked awake from a semi-stupor, his eyes bloodshot and wild. "Get away from it! It's not ready!"
"It will never be ready, Mr. Egmont," Victor said, his voice a low, chilling baritone that cut through the old man's panic. "The Black Nails are coming. They plan to burn this shop by Friday to hide the theft of whatever is inside that box. You're not working on a clock anymore; you're working on your own coffin."
Egmont's breath hitched. He looked at the boarded-up window, then back at Victor. The intensity in the young man's eyes—that cold, focused Anakin-like gaze—seemed to peel away the old man's last defenses.
"I can't open it," Egmont whispered, a tear carving a clean path through the grime on his cheek. "It's a Fourth Epoch lock... it doesn't need a key. It needs... it needs blood. Not just any blood. The blood of someone who knows how to track the mechanism."
Victor narrowed his eyes. The Hunter pathway. It's a lock designed for a Hunter.
"The Nails will kill you whether you open it or not," Victor said, leaning in. "But I can get you out. I know the back alleys better than any gang member. I know which floorboards will hold and which will break. I can lead you to the East Borough docks where you can disappear."
"And what do you want?" Egmont asked, his voice trembling. "My gold? The shop?"
"I want the contents of that chest," Victor replied flatly. "And I want a reference. You know people in the docks—the ones who need 'scouts' and 'messengers.' You're going to give me a name. I'm tired of being a ghost."
It was a cold, hard negotiation. Victor was using the old man's impending death as a wedge to secure his own future. It wasn't noble, but in the sludge of Backlund, nobility was a luxury that led to the river.
Egmont laughed, a dry, rattling sound. "You're a demon, Victor. A beautiful, starving demon. Fine. The chest contains a diary and a set of lead plates. They say it belonged to a general under the Blood Emperor. If you can get me to the 'Leaky Cask' tavern at the docks, it's yours. I only want my life."
"Deal," Victor said. He pulled out his steel carving knives and began to sharpen them on his whetstone, the shhh-shhh sound filling the room like a countdown. "Now, tell me about the lock."
As Egmont explained the intricate, blood-sensitive mechanism, Victor felt the Hunter potion in his veins surge. It wasn't just physical strength; it was an intuitive understanding of traps and puzzles. He realized that his "Acting" as a scavenger and a scout had nearly finalized his digestion of the Sequence 9 potion. He was on the verge of becoming something more.
Outside, the sound of boots echoed on the pavement. Not the rhythmic tread of the police, but the heavy, irregular steps of men who were trying to be quiet.
They're early, Victor thought, his senses sharpening to a razor edge. The hunt has begun.
"Under the floorboards," Victor commanded, pointing to the cellar entrance. "Now. Don't take anything but your coat."
"But the shop—"
"The shop is already ash," Victor interrupted, his blue eyes flashing. "Decide. The brass or your breath?"
Egmont scrambled into the cellar. Victor didn't follow him immediately. He stayed in the shadows of the shop floor, watching the front door. He saw the flicker of a match through the glass—a torch being lit.
He didn't feel fear. He felt a strange, icy calm. He was a scavenger who had just found a way to become a hunter. He checked the bronze medal in his pocket. It was burning hot now, a silent resonance that seemed to vibrate with the mechanical ticking of the clocks.
He slipped into the shadows as the first bottle of incendiary oil shattered against the front door. The orange glow of the fire began to eat away at the Cherwood order, and in the heat, Victor Sauron began to grin.