The five days leading up to the meeting were, for Zero, a masterclass in escalating panic elegantly disguised (he hoped) as profound, masterly preparation. His tiny room became a whirlwind of frantic, ill-conceived activity. The dilapidated warehouse by the Southern Docks, which he'd grandly dubbed the 'Sanctum of Silent Shadows' in his head, loomed large in his anxieties.
His first priority was ambiance. The warehouse was vast and filthy. Cleaning all of it was impossible. So, he focused his efforts on one relatively stable corner, near the crate he'd designated his 'Throne of Whispers.' He spent an afternoon with a borrowed, threadbare broom, creating a small, vaguely less dusty patch. The result was a tiny island of slightly-less-grime in an ocean of filth, which he felt radiated minimalist austerity. He also dragged over a few more broken crates to suggest… enigmatic purpose.
Then there was his attire. The cheap, mildewed cloak was a start, but it lacked gravitas. He attempted to modify the disastrous leather mask he'd made earlier, trying to attach the obsidian shard to its forehead with clumsy stitches and a prayer. The shard promptly fell off. He settled for ensuring the cloak's hood could be pulled very, very low.
His biggest challenge was scripting his words. What did an ancient, unfathomable Master say to his first, keenly perceptive recruit? He filled several sheets of parchment with potential pronouncements, ranging from the deeply philosophical ("The shadow does not merely conceal, child; it reveals the hollowness of light.") to the vaguely threatening ("Tread carefully, for the Path is paved with the shards of broken certainties."). He practiced them in front of his cracked mirror, trying for a deep, resonant tone. He mostly sounded like he had a sore throat.
He also obsessed over the 'Mark of the Path' he'd so casually mentioned in the scroll. What was the Mark of the Path? He hadn't invented one yet! In a fit of inspiration (or desperation), he decided it would be a temporary mark, something aspirants would receive upon acceptance. He found an old charcoal stick and practiced drawing the Bleeding Eye symbol on the back of his hand. It smudged easily and looked rather like a child's messy drawing of a startled spider. This, he decided, would be a secret mark, revealed only at the right moment.
By the fifth day, Zero was a wreck. He'd barely slept, fueled by stale tea and mounting terror. He kept re-reading the copy of the tiny scroll he'd sent Anya. "The Master awaits…" He, Clerk Zero, was that Master. The thought was still, fundamentally, unbelievable. Tonight, the illusion would face its first real test.
***
Anya used the five days with cold, methodical precision. Her first act was reconnaissance. From the shadowed rooftops overlooking the Southern Docks, she studied the designated warehouse – the third from the old Salt Pier, its broken raven weather vane a stark silhouette against the often-grey sky. She noted its points of access, potential escape routes, and the general patterns of activity in the docklands – mostly legitimate dockworkers during the day, shiftier elements after dark.
She observed the warehouse at different times, including the specified hour of the 'moon's zenith' (which, she calculated, simply meant midnight). She saw no obvious signs of habitation or regular use, which fit the profile of a clandestine meeting place. One afternoon, she noticed a faint plume of dust rising from a ventilation slit near one corner – as if someone had been ineptly sweeping. A sign of recent, discreet preparation? she wondered. Or merely the wind disturbing decades of grime? The Path was subtle.
Her own preparations were internal and external. She spent hours in her secluded alley, honing her sword forms, pushing her body and senses to their peak. She ate sparingly, ensuring her mind remained sharp. She acquired a dark, nondescript travelling cloak, better than her usual worn tunic for blending into the docklands' shadows. She also procured a whetstone to ensure her blade was razor-sharp, and a small vial of potent, fast-acting numbing poison she'd inherited from her order's lore – a last resort, but a prudent one when walking into the unknown.
She felt no fear, only a focused anticipation. This 'Master' and his 'Crimson Path' represented a deviation from her solitary quest for vengeance, a potential alliance, a source of power or knowledge she currently lacked. If they were legitimate, she would be a valuable asset. If they were a threat, or a fraud, she would deal with them accordingly. The notice had spoken of truth in shadow. Tonight, she intended to find some.
***
Barric's search for the Bleeding Eye had led him on a frustrating tour of Veridia's underbelly and its more sanctimonious facades. The Imperial Crest at the Hall of Justice still felt significant, but it offered no clear path forward. The crimson-threaded thyme bundles at Old Agnes's stall in Blind Alley were a more tangible lead.
On the third day after finding the notice, driven by a soldier's impatience for inaction, he'd returned to Blind Alley. He'd approached Old Agnes, not with a coded phrase he didn't understand, but with a direct, if gruff, request. "The thyme," he'd said, pointing at the crimson-tied bundles. "I'll take two."
The old woman had sold them without comment, same as she sold to everyone. Inside, he'd found the tiny scrolls.
"The Path recognizes your keen sight…" His sight? He'd just pointed. Still, the instructions for a meeting at a warehouse by the Southern Docks were clear. It was movement. It was a rendezvous. It felt like a summons, an assignment, something his soldier's soul understood.
The timing, however, was for "three nights from the new moon's sliver." That was still two nights away, according to his calculations. He would use the time to scout the Southern Docks. He knew the area from his days on patrol – dangerous, poorly lit, a haven for smugglers and worse. A fitting place for a group that operated in shadows. He felt a grim sense of purpose solidify within him. He would answer this summons.
***
Ren, meanwhile, interpreted his 'success' with the Bleeding Skull gang as a clear sign that the Crimson Path demanded bold, proactive engagement with the city's darkness. He spent the next few days looking for more "tests." He scaled the treacherous, gargoyle-adorned towers of the abandoned Nightwatch Keep, convinced a clue to the Path's deeper mysteries must be hidden at its summit (he found only pigeon droppings and a loose roof tile). He 'liberated' a loaf of bread from a notoriously corrupt merchant's stall, telling himself it was "reclaiming resources for the Path's righteous work" (it was mostly because he was hungry).
His daredevil antics and increasingly brazen petty thefts were starting to earn him a minor, unwanted reputation in the Debtors' Quarter as either an incredibly lucky fool or a budding troublemaker. He attributed his near-misses and narrow escapes to the Path's unwavering protection. He hadn't found another clear symbol like the red-tear skull, but he felt connected, energized, part of something vast and thrilling. He just wished the Path would give him another clear sign of where to go next.
***
The fifth night arrived, heavy with the scent of rain and the distant tang of the salt sea. The new moon was a barely perceptible sliver, lost behind a thick veil of clouds. Zero stood in his room, his cheap cloak wrapped around him. He'd re-read his 'Masterly Pronouncements' until his eyes ached. He'd checked the single, slightly less dusty corner of the warehouse three times that day, each visit increasing his terror.
This was it. The culmination of his elaborate, terrifying fantasy.
Anya, cloaked and silent, moved through the darkened streets towards the Southern Docks, her senses heightened, her hand never far from the hilt of her sword. The time was approaching.
The Master awaited. Or at least, someone claiming to be.