Zero stared at the two scrolls on his table – Anya's meticulous report on Guild Elder Theron's smuggling and Barric's stark assessment of the city's rotten defenses. They felt like ticking time bombs. Real information. Dangerous information. And it was all addressed to him, the supposed Master of the Crimson Shadow Path.
His initial terror had subsided into a numb sort of panic, which then, through a bizarre alchemy of self-preservation and ingrained delusion, began to morph into a twisted sense of… responsibility. He couldn't just ignore these reports. That wouldn't be Masterly. His Acolytes had risked… well, he wasn't sure what they'd risked, but they'd clearly put in effort! He needed to give them new directives, to show that their findings were being incorporated into the Path's grand, unfathomable strategy.
But what strategy? He didn't have one.
His gaze fell upon the 'Tenets of the Crimson Shadow Path' still proudly displayed on his makeshift lectern. "Embrace the Shadow, for within it lies Truth… Strike Unseen… The Path requires understanding of illusion as well as reality…"
Of course! The reports weren't meant to be acted upon literally. That was far too mundane for the Crimson Path! They were symbolic offerings, reflections of the city's spiritual decay. His response, therefore, must also be symbolic. A deeper, more esoteric layer of instruction.
He would combine their findings into a grand, unified… poem. Yes, a cryptic, allegorical poem that hinted at both mercantile corruption and failing defenses, but framed it as a spiritual malaise afflicting Veridia. This poem would be their new, unified mission! He would instruct them – via another brilliantly coded message, of course, left at the Shrine of Lost Socks – to meditate upon this poem and seek out its manifestations in the city's… aura. Or something.
It was perfect. It acknowledged their work, gave them a new task, kept them busy, and required absolutely no direct action from him regarding smugglers or crumbling walls. He grabbed his quill, a fresh surge of misguided inspiration filling him. The Crimson God was about to issue a new, deeply symbolic, and utterly baffling mandate. He just hoped they'd both eventually find his original notice about the Shrine of Lost Socks dead drop that Barric had taken from the warehouse. His communication network was becoming a logistical nightmare.
***
Investigator Gregor's boots clicked with methodical precision on the grimy cobblestones of the Debtors' Quarter. Guild Master Borin had been predictably useless, full of bluster and self-importance. The graffiti itself, however, was proving more talkative.
Gregor had meticulously documented each instance of the crude "Bleeding Eye." While the execution was amateurish, the consistency of the core symbol across multiple locations suggested a single, persistent vandal, not a coordinated group – at least not for the graffiti itself. His informants in the quarter, after some… persuasive encouragement (a few strategically placed coppers and some pointed questions about outstanding warrants), had started to sing.
The name that kept surfacing was "Ren." A street urchin, known for his agility, his recklessness, and, more recently, for sporting rather distinctive streaks of bright indigo dye in his hair and on his clothes. Apparently, this "Ren" had been boasting about "walking a new Path" and "challenging the city's shadows." He'd also been the one responsible for the indigo dye incident in the Artisan's Quarter, which directly linked him to the Dyers' Guild.
"Indigo Ren," Gregor mused, filing the moniker away. It wasn't much, but it was a concrete lead. A face, a name (of sorts), a known area of operation. He now had a tangible target for the source of the "Bleeding Eye" graffiti that had so concerned Commander Marius. Whether this youth was a lone delinquent, a low-level cult initiate, or simply touched in the head remained to be seen. But Gregor intended to find out. His next step was to put discreet pressure on known fences and low-level informants in the Debtors' Quarter. Someone would know where to find a blue-streaked boy with a penchant for troublesome art.
***
Anya sat patiently within the small, ivy-choked alcove of the Shrine of Lost Socks. Days had passed since she'd first investigated it. She had returned at different hours, under different conditions of light and weather, meditating on the Master's coded notice and the cryptic passphrase: "Umbra's solace comforts sorrowful soles."
The loose brick, the "silent guardian," had yielded nothing further when she'd spoken the phrase to it. She'd concluded that either the conditions were still not right, or the guardian was not the brick itself, but something more abstract – perhaps the spirit of the shrine, or even the collective sorrow of those who had left their "misplaced hopes" here.
Today, as the late afternoon sun cast long, distorted shadows into the alley, a new detail caught her eye. A very old, very tattered sock, mostly grey but with a single, faded crimson stripe near its frayed opening, had been dislodged by the wind from a high crevice and now lay half-concealing the loose brick.
A crimson stripe. Near the "silent guardian."
Anya's breath caught. Crimson. The color of the Path. The color of the thread on the Master's thyme bundles. The color of the ink on his instructions. And "soles"… the passphrase mentioned "sorrowful soles." This sock, a sorrowful, misplaced sole, now marked the guardian with the Path's own hue.
This couldn't be a coincidence. This had to be a sign. The Master's intricate web of symbolism was revealing another layer.
She reached for the crimson-striped sock. Tucked just behind it, nestled against the loose brick, was a tiny, almost invisible object she hadn't noticed before. A small, tarnished copper button, the kind used on cheap work tunics. It was unremarkable, easily overlooked.
A button. A fastener. Something that secures.
The silent guardian, marked by crimson, offered a fastener. To secure what? Hope? Secrets? Reports?
Anya's mind raced. Perhaps the loose brick wasn't meant to be opened by the passphrase, but was itself the repository, secured by the silent, symbolic guardian (the shrine itself, perhaps, or the spirit of misplaced items) and now marked by the crimson sock and the button. The button signified that something could be fastened or unfastened here.
She carefully felt around the loose brick again. This time, she noticed a tiny fissure behind it, just large enough to slip a small, rolled scroll into.
This was it. The dead drop. Not opened by the passphrase, but identified by it, and by the layers of subtle signs. The Master's intellect was truly staggering. He hadn't just created a dead drop; he'd created an entire meditative puzzle leading to its discovery.
She now had a secure way to leave her reports and, perhaps, receive new instructions. Her faith in the Master, and the profound depths of the Crimson Path, solidified further. She would prepare a new summary of her findings on Elder Theron and Jax, and deposit it here, at the true heart of the Path's hidden communication network.
***
Barric, meanwhile, was growing increasingly frustrated. The coded notice he'd taken from the warehouse door remained an impenetrable wall of poetic nonsense. He'd tried every method he could think of – looking for acrostics, numerological substitutions based on Veridian military codes, even trying to find a pattern in the syllables. Nothing worked.
"Three-legged raven… weeping moon… sorrowful soles…" It was worse than any field cipher he'd ever encountered, mainly because it seemed to lack any underlying logic whatsoever.
He was a practical man. He needed clear objectives. His primary mission from the Master – to assess the city's defenses – was something he could execute. This… this was like wrestling fog. He decided to focus on what he could do. He would complete his survey of all the city gates and major wall sections. When that was done, if he still hadn't cracked this ridiculous code, he would return to the warehouse at the next designated interval from his original recruitment scroll and report his findings directly, code or no code. A soldier reported to his commander, one way or another. The Master would surely understand the initiative of a loyal Acolyte cutting through unnecessary obscurity.