Zero lurked. There was no other word for it. He was huddled in the narrow, refuse-choked gap between a leaning cooper's shed and the crumbling outer wall of Blind Alley, a position that offered a skewed, partial view of Old Agnes's herb stall. It smelled strongly of rotten cabbage and despair. His cheap cloak, pulled high, did little to ward off the damp chill or the feeling of being utterly, conspicuously out of place.
He'd returned to Blind Alley under the guise of needing more "medicinal herbs," his heart a frantic drum against his ribs. He had to see if his brilliant dead drop system was working. What if someone had already taken all the special thyme bundles? What if Old Agnes had thrown them out? What if a rival shadow organization (that only existed in his head) had deciphered his plan and stolen his recruits? The possibilities for failure were endless and excruciating.
He'd been there for nearly an hour, enduring the suspicious stares of alley denizens and the relentless assault on his nostrils, when he saw her.
It was the woman from the alley behind the Stone Masons' guild house. The one with the silver hair and the deadly sword practice. Anya.
Zero's breath hitched. His carefully constructed 'Master' persona, already fragile, threatened to shatter. Her? Here? Had she followed him? Did she know? He shrank further into the shadows, convinced his flimsy disguise was useless.
***
Anya approached Old Agnes's stall with the same quiet intensity she brought to her sword forms. She had observed the stall for two days now. She'd seen the nervous young man in the cheap cloak (Zero) furtively adding more crimson-threaded thyme bundles when he thought the old woman wasn't looking. His clumsiness had initially made her wary – he seemed more like a frightened apprentice than a seasoned operative of a hidden Path. But perhaps that was the point? A deliberate misdirection? Or perhaps the Path used even the inept to achieve its ends. The crimson thread was the consistent factor.
She would test it.
"Good day, Grandmother," Anya said, her voice calm and even, pitched to carry just enough for the old woman to hear without alerting the entire alley.
Old Agnes squinted up at her. "Eh? More thyme, is it? Or lookin' for somethin' stronger, dearie?"
Anya paused. This was the moment. She recited the phrase Zero had agonized over, the one he'd mumbled at Agnes earlier: "Do the silent lilies bloom crimson in the deepest shade?"
Old Agnes blinked, then cackled, a dry, rattling sound. "Lilies? Still with the lilies! Told that other young whelp, lilies are bad for the joints! You youngsters and your fancy notions. Want herbs, or poetry?"
Anya's expression didn't change, but a flicker of… something – not disappointment, more like recalibration – passed through her. The phrase was clearly not a standard recognition code for this vendor. Perhaps it was a test of her own conviction, to see if she would be deterred by an uncomprehending intermediary. Or perhaps the true signal was more subtle.
Her gaze went to the bundles of thyme tied with crimson thread, slightly separated from the other herbs. She pointed. "I will take three of those. The ones… with the red thread."
Old Agnes followed her gesture, grumbling. "Red thread, blue thread, makes no difference to the thyme. Still two coppers a bunch, special or not." She thrust three of Zero's carefully prepared bundles towards Anya.
Anya paid the coins, her fingers brushing the rough paper of the bundles. They felt… ordinary. Yet, the crimson thread, the context, Zero's earlier furtive actions… it all pointed to something more. She gave a slight nod to Old Agnes and retreated from the stall, melting back into the alley's gloom.
***
Zero watched, heart in his throat, as Anya spoke to Old Agnes. He couldn't hear the words, but he saw Agnes's initial confusion, then Anya pointing directly at his special bundles. She knew! His mind reeled. She must have deciphered the deeper meaning! She didn't even need the coded phrase! She saw the true mark of the Path!
He saw her pay, take three bundles, and depart. Three! A significant number in many esoteric traditions! This was beyond his wildest dreams. His plan, so fraught with potential for disaster, had worked flawlessly! The first recruit had not only found the dead drop but had demonstrated uncanny perception in identifying the correct items. This Anya was clearly a chosen one, perfectly attuned to the subtle currents of the Crimson Shadow Path.
A wave of triumphant, slightly hysterical relief washed over him, almost making him giddy. He, Zero, the nobody clerk, was now officially a shadow mastermind with a perceptive (and probably deadly) follower. Now he just had to wait for her to read the scroll and prepare for their first meeting. He hoped he'd remembered to specify which dilapidated warehouse.
***
Anya found a secluded alcove in a forgotten corner of the Scribe's Quarter, the scent of old parchment strangely comforting. With precise movements, she unfastened the crimson thread from one of the thyme bundles. Tucked within the dried herbs, as she had suspected, was a tiny, tightly rolled scroll, no bigger than her little finger.
She carefully unrolled it. The script was small, cramped, and surprisingly neat, written in the same crimson-tinged ink as the symbol on the original notice.
"The Path recognizes your keen sight. The first veil is lifted. Three nights from the new moon's sliver, when the clock tower of Veridia strikes its highest zenith, seek the Warehouse of Silent Shadows by the Southern Docks – the third from the old Salt Pier, marked by the broken raven weather vane. Come alone. Be watchful. The Master awaits those who dare to walk further into the crimson shade."
Anya read it twice, her expression thoughtful. "Keen sight…" A test of observation, then. The crimson thread, the specific bundles. She had passed.
"Three nights from the new moon's sliver…" That would be in five days. A specific time and place. This was concrete.
"Warehouse of Silent Shadows… third from the old Salt Pier… broken raven weather vane." Clear, if ominous, directions. The Southern Docks were a rough, largely lawless area. A fitting place for a clandestine meeting.
"Come alone. Be watchful." Standard precautions for any secret rendezvous.
"The Master awaits…"
So, there was a Master. This wasn't just a decentralized network of philosophical rebels. There was a guiding intelligence, a figurehead. This was what she sought – not just a path, but a teacher, a leader, someone who could potentially offer her the means to her ends.
The instructions were direct, almost mundane in their specificity, yet cloaked in the Path's dramatic language. It was a strange dichotomy, but it didn't deter her. This was the next step. The first true trial, beyond mere observation.
She re-rolled the tiny scroll, a cold resolve settling within her. Five days. She would be there. She would meet this Master. And she would see if the Crimson Path truly held the power she so desperately needed.