Anya moved through Veridia like a ghost with a newfound purpose. The Master's first task – "Observe its heart. Find where the true shadow festers…" – was both vast and specific, a puzzle she was determined to unlock. The "city's heart" could mean many things: its political core at the Lord's Citadel, its spiritual center at the Grand Temple, or its economic engine within the opulent halls of the various Guilds.
She decided to begin with the Merchant Guilds. They were, in many ways, the lifeblood of Veridia, their influence reaching into every corner of the city. And where great wealth accumulated, shadows often grew deep and avaricious.
For two days, she became an unseen observer. From shadowed archways opposite the Wool Merchants' Hall, she watched ostentatiously robed Guild Masters arrive in gilded carriages, their faces masks of public benevolence. She noted the private guards, more numerous and better armed than many City Watch patrols. She saw furtive exchanges in secluded courtyards, ledgers passed with nervous glances, hushed arguments behind heavy, soundproofed doors. Nothing overtly criminal, perhaps, but the scent of secrets, of deals struck in dim light, was potent.
One evening, concealed on a rooftop overlooking a private entrance to the Spice Traders' Emporium, she witnessed a Guild Elder meeting with a known underworld figure – a man named Jax, whose network controlled half the smuggling operations in the Southern Docks. Jax departed with a heavy satchel, the Elder with a smile that didn't reach his eyes.
This, Anya thought, a cold certainty settling in her, is a thread of the festering shadow. It wasn't the entirety of it, she knew, but it was a tangible piece, a manifestation of the city's corruption bleeding into its supposed heart. She made detailed notes in her mind – times, faces, routes. She would continue to observe, to gather, until the Master next called. The smudged charcoal eye on the back of her hand, though faded now, felt like a brand of commitment.
***
Zero spent those same two days in a state of oscillating euphoria and abject terror. He had a disciple! A real, no-nonsense, sword-wielding disciple who had looked him in his (hood-obscured) eyes and called him "Master." The memory sent shivers down his spine – part thrill, part sheer panic.
His elation was quickly tempered by a dawning horror: he had to do it all again. The scroll he'd given Anya mentioned "three nights from the new moon's sliver." The other scrolls in the remaining thyme bundles at Old Agnes's stall – the ones he'd clumsily acquired from Barric's perspective – carried the same instruction. Which meant, by his own convoluted design, another potential recruit was due at the Warehouse of Silent Shadows in just two more nights.
"Two more nights!" he muttered, pacing his tiny room. "I'm not ready! The Sanctum needs… more ambiance! My pronouncements were… adequate, but they could be more unfathomable!"
His first act was to revisit the warehouse, this time with a slightly larger, albeit still cheap and smoky, lantern. He rearranged the crates into what he felt was a more "enigmatically asymmetrical" configuration. He even found a relatively intact wooden plank and propped it against two smaller crates to create a crude lectern, upon which he could place a copy of his 'Tenets of the Crimson Shadow Path' (if he ever dared show it to anyone).
He then focused on his 'Masterly' delivery. He practiced speaking slowly, pausing for long, meaningful silences. He tried to cultivate a stare that was both piercing and distant. Mostly, he just looked like he was trying to remember what he was supposed to say next.
"The shadows," he'd intone to his dusty wall, "are… mutable. They… uh… shift. Like… shifty things." He groaned. This was harder than writing the lore. Being the Master was exhausting. He briefly considered just leaving town, faking his own demise, anything to avoid another midnight meeting in a terrifyingly large, dark warehouse with someone who might carry an even bigger sword than Anya.
But then he'd remember the look in Anya's eyes – or what he imagined was the look in her eyes, given he mostly saw her hood. Respect. Acceptance. Belief. It was a heady, addictive feeling, a stark contrast to the dismissive anonymity of his daily life as Clerk Zero. He had to see it through. The Crimson God (himself, apparently) demanded it.
***
Barric, meanwhile, spent his time with a soldier's pragmatism. He had his rendezvous coordinates and time. The intervening days were for preparation. He cleaned and oiled his old Watch sword and the simple, unadorned steel buckler he favored. He mended a tear in his worn leather jerkin. He walked the perimeter of the Southern Docks, familiarizing himself with the layout, the escape routes, the likely ambush points – old habits died hard.
He didn't waste time trying to decipher hidden meanings in drain covers or temple spires. The notice had led him to the thyme bundle; the thyme bundle had given him instructions. He would follow those instructions directly. He wasn't looking for subtle signs; he was preparing for a meeting that might be a recruitment, a test, or a trap.
His main concern was the nature of this 'Master' and the 'Crimson Path.' If it was a genuine order dedicated to a just cause, however shadowy, he would offer his strength and loyalty. If it was a band of thugs or deluded fanatics, he would extricate himself, forcefully if necessary. He carried the faded notice and the tiny scroll tucked securely. He was ready for whatever awaited him at the Warehouse of Silent Shadows. He just hoped it offered something more honorable than Captain Valerius's City Watch.
***
Elsewhere in Veridia, other threads continued to stir, unaware of the drama unfolding around a dusty warehouse and some badly written scrolls.
Ren, emboldened by his "Path-guided" escape from the Bleeding Skulls, had decided that confronting "lesser shadows" was clearly part of his training. He was currently trying to "liberate" what he believed were "improperly acquired funds" (a few coppers from a street performer's hat) to "further the Path's work" (buy himself a meat bun). This resulted in a frantic chase through the Tailors' Quarter, his agility once again allowing him to narrowly evade two irate constables. He was convinced the Path was smiling upon him.
Argent, having concluded the Philosophical Discussion Society was a dead end, had moved on to investigating fringe alchemical circles. He'd heard whispers of a new, unsanctioned group attempting to transmute belief itself into tangible energy – a concept disturbingly close to his own disgraced theories. He was meticulously cross-referencing alchemical symbols with the 'Bleeding Eye,' convinced a connection was imminent.
And Whisper, from her web of informants, received a curious snippet: unusual, furtive activity reported around a specific disused warehouse in the Southern Docks. And separate reports of a tall, silver-haired swordswoman asking discreet questions about illicit dealings within the Merchant Guilds. Interesting, but unconnected. For now. The city was always full of whispers; her task was to find the ones that sang a coherent song.