Barric stared at the coded notice Investigator Gregor had inadvertently led him to believe was a current directive for Acolytes of the Crimson Path (the one Zero had actually intended for Anya regarding the Shrine of Lost Socks, which Barric had taken from the warehouse door). Days of trying to apply military decryption techniques to phrases like "three-legged raven" and "weeping moon" had yielded nothing but headaches and a growing suspicion that the Master's intellect operated on a plane far removed from practical field communications.
However, one phrase had stuck in his pragmatic mind: "…the forgotten alcove where misplaced hopes find solace…" While the rest was esoteric fog, this felt like a potential location. A soldier needed tangible objectives, not just poetic riddles.
He began his search methodically. He didn't wander aimlessly. He started with the oldest district records he could access through a former Watch contact now working as a clerk (for a small fee), looking for lists of decommissioned shrines or forgotten public spaces. He cross-referenced this with inquiries amongst the city's beggars and street vendors – people who knew the hidden corners and forgotten histories of Veridia better than any scribe.
"An alcove for lost hopes?" an old woman selling roasted chestnuts near the Weavers' Quarter had cackled. "Sounds like Old Aggie's Sock Shrine, back of Cobbler's Alley. Folk leave their holey grief there, hoping for a miracle or a matched pair, poor sods."
Cobbler's Alley. Weavers' Quarter. Soles. The cryptic phrase from the notice, "Umbra's solace comforts sorrowful soles," suddenly clicked in Barric's mind, not as a passphrase, but as a literal, if punning, pointer. The Master was clever. Obscure, but clever.
He found the Shrine of Lost Socks easily enough – a pathetic, ivy-strangled nook smelling faintly of mildew and despair. And there, tucked behind the loose brick that Anya had also identified, Barric found not a new coded message, but a small, neatly rolled scroll tied with crimson thread. It was Zero's allegorical poem-mandate.
He unrolled it and read, his brow furrowed in concentration.
"The Serpent Coils in Halls of Gold,
Where Scales of Trust are Falsely Sold.
The Walls of Pride, on Dust They Stand,
While Crimson Tears Weep O'er the Land…"
Barric was no poet. He read it not for its literary merit (which was, frankly, abysmal) but for actionable intelligence, for orders. He broke it down like a field directive.
"Serpent Coils in Halls of Gold, Where Scales of Trust are Falsely Sold." Clear enough. Corruption in places of wealth and commerce. Likely the Merchant Guilds, perhaps the City Treasury. Objective: Investigate, identify, possibly… neutralize the serpents.
"The Walls of Pride, on Dust They Stand." This resonated with his own recent findings. The city's defenses were crumbling, its prideful walls structurally unsound and poorly manned. Objective: Continue assessment, identify critical weaknesses, perhaps prepare for… defensive action or targeted repair under the Path's guidance.
"While Crimson Tears Weep O'er the Land." The Bleeding Eye. The Path's sorrow and anger at these failings. This was the overarching justification for their actions.
The rest of the poem was more flowery nonsense about "fractured truths" and the "city's discordant soul," which he largely dismissed as motivational filler or perhaps coded references for more esoterically-minded Acolytes. But the core imperatives seemed clear to his soldier's mind: Root out corruption in financial institutions and rectify the city's defensive failings.
These were concrete missions. This was a strategy he could understand, far better than chasing three-legged ravens. The Master, through this poetic decree, had laid out a two-pronged operation. Barric now had his orders. He would begin by focusing on the "Walls of Pride," as that aligned with his existing reconnaissance. He would identify the most critical points of decay and await further, hopefully more direct, instructions on how the Path intended to address them.
***
Investigator Gregor's hunt for "Indigo Ren" had escalated. The scrap of indigo cloth was a tangible clue. His informants, now thoroughly motivated, had provided a surprisingly detailed profile of the elusive youth: his acrobatic skill, his favored rooftop routes, his recent obsession with drawing bleeding eye symbols, and his rather public confrontation with the Dyers' Guild.
Gregor wasn't interested in making a public spectacle, but Ren's evasiveness and the increasing boldness of the "Bleeding Eye" graffiti – now appearing in more prominent locations, almost like taunts – forced his hand. He decided a more visible operation was needed, not just to catch Ren, but to send a message that the City Watch would not tolerate the activities of this apparent new cult.
He chose the bustling Tri-Market Square, a known daytime haunt for street performers, pickpockets, and, occasionally, Ren himself when hunger drove him to seek "opportunities." Gregor deployed his men in a wider, more overt net, hoping to spook Ren into revealing himself or making a mistake.
It worked, after a fashion.
Ren, perched on the awning of a bakery and contemplating the "symbolic corruption" of a merchant aggressively haggling over the price of saffron, spotted the increased Watch presence. Uniformed guards, plainclothes officers trying too hard to look casual – the signs were obvious to his street-honed senses. The Path was testing him again!
Instead of fleeing discreetly, Ren, fueled by a potent combination of youthful arrogance and unwavering faith in his Path-bestowed luck, decided on a grand gesture. He leapt from the awning onto a nearby fruit cart, sending apples and oranges flying.
"Citizens of Veridia!" he yelled, grabbing a particularly bruised apple and brandishing it. "Your eyes are closed to the shadows that fester! The Crimson Path sees all! The Bleeding Eye weeps for your ignorance!"
With that, he hurled the apple at the nearest Watch sergeant, then, using the ensuing chaos, vaulted onto a stack of crates, scrawled a hasty Bleeding Eye on a nearby wall with a piece of charcoal he now carried everywhere, and disappeared into the panicked crowd, his indigo streaks a fleeting banner of defiance.
Shoppers screamed. Merchants bellowed. The Watchmen converged, tripping over overturned baskets and each other. Investigator Gregor, arriving at the scene of the pandemonium, felt a muscle twitch in his jaw.
The boy hadn't been caught. But he had just publicly declared allegiance to a "Crimson Path" and invoked the "Bleeding Eye" while committing a blatant act of civic disorder. The incident would be all over the city by nightfall. This wasn't just vandalism anymore. This was public incitement by a self-proclaimed member of a potentially dangerous, symbolically-driven group. Commander Marius would need to be briefed immediately. The investigation had just taken on a far more serious dimension.
***
Zero, meanwhile, had spent a miserable afternoon trying to subtly dispose of Anya's second, highly detailed report on Elder Theron and Jax. Burning it in his tiny room risked setting the whole tavern ablaze. Tearing it up and scattering it in different refuse bins felt too much like actual spycraft and made him nervous.
He finally settled on eating it.
Chewing the tough parchment, which tasted faintly of dust and Anya's serious intent, he decided that being a shadow mastermind involved far more unpleasant bodily functions than the stories ever suggested. He washed it down with stale tea, hoping the Path's profound mysteries wouldn't cause indigestion. He still had Barric's report on city defenses hidden under a loose floorboard, a problem for another day. For now, one crisis at a time.