Anya's focus remained locked on the Spice Traders' Emporium. The clandestine meeting she'd witnessed between Guild Elder Theron and the smuggler Jax felt like a raw nerve exposed in the city's seemingly placid flesh. The Master's directive to find where "the true shadow festers" resonated strongly here. This wasn't just petty corruption; it hinted at a deeper rot within the heart of Veridia's commerce.
Over the next few days, she adopted different personas to observe the Emporium's periphery. One day, she was a quiet seamstress mending garments in a doorway opposite, her eyes missing nothing. Another, a street vendor selling dried fruit, her ears attuned to every passing whisper. She noted the comings and goings of Elder Theron, the discreet arrival of Jax's known associates, the way certain ledgers were handled with more secrecy than others by nervous-looking clerks.
Her patience yielded a small, significant detail. She observed a specific, unmarked crate being loaded onto a cart from the Emporium's rear loading bay late one evening, under Theron's direct supervision and with Jax's men providing unsubtle security. The crate was identical to several she had previously seen being unloaded at a nondescript warehouse near the Southern Docks – a warehouse Jax was known to use. This specific crate, however, bore a tiny, almost invisible symbol chalked on its underside: a stylized serpent coiled around a spice bloom. It was almost certainly a smuggler's mark, insignificant to most. To Anya, guided by the Master's vague but profound instruction, it was a clear indicator of the festering shadow, a tangible link in the chain of corruption. She sketched the symbol carefully into her memory. This was something worth reporting.
***
Barric, true to his word and his nature, began his assessment of Veridia's defenses with the methodical diligence of a seasoned quartermaster taking inventory. He started with the Old North Gate, one of the city's most ancient and, in his opinion, most neglected entry points. He spent hours observing, appearing as nothing more than a grizzled man out for a long walk.
He noted the crumbling mortar in the gatehouse walls, the way two of the ballistae on the ramparts were rusted and clearly inoperable, the laxity of the guards on duty – more interested in a game of dice than watching the road. He saw a supply wagon pass through unchallenged, its driver exchanging a familiar nod and a small pouch with the gate sergeant. Bribery, plain and simple. A clear "crack where integrity has failed."
Over the subsequent days, he surveyed other sections of the city walls, the lesser-used postern gates, the Watch patrols in the outer districts. The pattern was depressingly consistent: understaffing, poor maintenance, and an air of apathy or outright corruption. He saw Watchmen sleeping on duty, equipment left unsecured, known undesirables passing freely through checkpoints with a well-placed coin.
Each observation, each noted vulnerability, he mentally filed under the Master's directive: "Understand the city's vulnerabilities… where the foundations are rotten." The Master, with his profound insight, had clearly perceived this decay from afar. Barric's task was to provide the ground-level details, the proof. He felt a grim satisfaction in the work. This was a proper mission, with a clear objective, unlike the hollow duties he'd performed for years under compromised commanders. He was serving a higher, albeit shadowed, purpose now.
***
Zero, in his cramped room, was grappling with the terrifying reality of having not one, but two active disciples. Disciples who would, presumably, be reporting to him. He had no idea what they might report, or what he was supposed to do with their reports.
His immediate solution, as always, was to retreat into the comforting structure of invented lore and protocols.
"Communication," he muttered, pacing. "Acolytes need to communicate with the Master. And… with each other? What if they meet? Do they have a secret handshake? A code word?"
He spent an afternoon designing an elaborate sequence of subtle finger taps and eyelid flutters that would, in theory, allow acolytes of the Crimson Shadow Path to recognize each other silently. It was incredibly complex and would likely be mistaken for a nervous tic by anyone not privy to its (non-existent) deeper meaning.
Then he tackled mission reports. His disciples couldn't just tell him things. That was too mundane. They needed to submit their findings in a suitably cryptic manner. He decided on another dead drop – a loose brick in the wall of a forgotten shrine to some minor deity of lost socks, located in an equally forgotten alley. Acolytes would leave their reports – written on tiny scrolls, of course – tucked behind the brick. He'd check it… occasionally. When he felt brave enough.
He carefully drew a map to this new dead drop, adding suitably mysterious symbols and vague instructions about approaching it only "when the moon weeps for the forgotten." He made two copies, intending to give them to Anya and Barric at their next (agonizingly anticipated) meetings. This, he felt, was proactive leadership. He was building an organization. A terrifying, accidental, and increasingly complicated organization.
***
Ren, meanwhile, continued his enthusiastic but misguided crusade. His "liberation" of the street performer's coppers had resulted in a rather nasty chase that ended with him accidentally knocking over a dyer's cart, sending torrents of vivid indigo dye washing down a narrow lane in the Artisan's Quarter. He'd escaped, of course – the Path protected! – but not before being liberally splashed himself.
Now, sporting several rather alarming blue streaks in his hair and on his clothes, he was convinced this was another sign. Indigo was a deep, shadowy blue, after all. And the chaos he'd caused had certainly made the silence of the usually bustling lane "scream" for a while. He was clearly on the right track, disrupting the mundane, revealing hidden currents!
He was currently trying to decipher the "message" in the way the spilled dye had pooled around a drain grating – it vaguely resembled a claw, which he decided must be a symbol of a corrupt guild (The Dyers' Guild, obviously!) that the Path wanted him to investigate next. His methods were unorthodox, his interpretations… unique. But his fervor was undeniable. He was an agent of change, a shadow of righteous chaos, and he was having the time of his life, even if he was still mostly hungry. The blue streaks, he decided, were his first 'Mark of the Path,' bestowed by circumstance.