The last stretch of road to Viremoor slithered between stubborn hills and copper-leafed trees, autumn clawing for purchase even as winter circled like a hawk. Septimus walked point, boots crunching through gravel half-swallowed by wagon ruts and rain.
The merchant behind him was thin, talkative, flush with coin and lacking any steel. He rambled about harvest yields and late shipments. Septimus listened with one ear, the other trained on the faint, electric whisper that teased at his skin.
The Totem was near. He could feel it before he saw it. Static on his nerves. Mana rising faint in his blood like a kettle just shy of the whistle.
Septimus slowed for half a step. Just half. But enough. The city hadn’t changed, not really. Smoke, stone, and that damn Totem stabbing the sky like it always had. But somewhere beneath all that steel and steam, a ruin still waited. Buried deep. Or maybe not deep enough.
The city rose in black-iron silhouette against a pale, soot-washed sky. Chimneys like blunt fingers stabbed upward. Bridges of gear-forged steel arched across alleys and rivers alike, and at the center of it all, rooted like an anchor, stood the Totem.
Colossal. Laced with luminous crystal veins that pulsed like it still had a heart somewhere deep underground. Repeater spires blinked red from its flanks, humming as they stretched its aura across the trade quarter.
He didn’t slow down. Didn’t need to. He caught Lottie out of the corner of his eye, kicking a pebble and catching it again, like even her boredom needed rhythm, humming some old tavern song under her breath. Silas walked quietly, but there was something looser in his spine. Less hunted. More whole.
The city was a beast, breathing steam and steel. But it was their beast now.
At the gate, a uniformed city watch sergeant flagged the caravan with a raised hand and a professional squint. Her armor bore the green and brass sigils of Totemic enforcement, and her fingers rested on the haft of a shocklance like it was a habit more than a threat.
"Name, business, and anyone carrying an active crystal or an Aberrant tag, speak now," she said. Not unkindly. Just tired. Efficient. Viremoor protocol.
Septimus stepped forward, hammer strapped across his back, armor scuffed but presentable. He spoke plainly, with the edge of charm he was still learning to wield instead of weaponize.
"Septimus. Just escorting this merchant into town, that’s all."
The Sergeant gave him a once-over. Shoulders like quarried stone, a face that looked like it had been carved to endure rather than impress. Her gaze flicked past him to Lottie, who gave a wind-warmed smile, and then to Silas.
"And you? You marked?"
Silas nodded, voice steady. "Yes, ma’am. Aberrant registration through the eastern pass. My tag should read ‘Solshade.’"
The Sergeant’s pen hovered briefly before scratching across the ledger.
“Right. Aberrant visitors are restricted from the inner sanctum of the central shrine. You’re permitted in the merchant quarter and outer city, provided you keep your energy stable and aura suppressed.”
Her eyes flicked to Silas with professional disinterest.
“New mandate came down from Councilman Voss himself. The Totemic Church wants things tighter after that incident in Duskwater.”
She looked to all three now, voice sharpening slightly. “Any surge events or civilian complaints—
and I’ll be writing your names in a less polite column,” she finished.
Septimus inclined his head. Not apologetic, just recognizing the only kind of law Viremoor respected. Cold, exact, unyielding.
The Sergeant snapped her ledger closed.
"Welcome to Viremoor. Keep it clean."
The gates opened with a heavy groan of gears and chain. Behind him, the merchant exhaled loud and relieved, nudging Septimus with a grateful murmur.
"I’ll send work your way if I hear any. You’re not bad, stranger."
Septimus didn’t look back. "We’ll be around a few days. Reach out if you need capable hands."
The Sergeant caught his eye one last time. There was something flickering there. Recognition, maybe. Or just the weariness of someone who’d seen too many men walk in heavy and leave empty.
"Capable hands are in short supply," she said, "And Viremoor burns through them like pitch. Don’t disappear."
Then she was gone, onto the next traveler. Another name. Another problem.
They passed through the gates and into the belly of the city. The change was instant.
The air grew warmer, denser with the Totem’s hum. Like the earth itself was holding its breath. The towering obelisk loomed over everything, its black-stone body shot through with roots of faintly glowing crystal.
Even from blocks away, the Totem's presence pressed against the skin like weather. Like fate. Steam hissed from the depot in sharp blasts. Bells rang from shifting work crews. Shrines and fountains glimmered under flickering Totemic lanterns.
Lottie let out a slow exhale. Her fingers flicked idly, catching the edges of a breeze no one else could feel. She smiled like someone seeing a familiar streetlamp after a long walk home.
Silas stood taller, straighter. His shadow moved with him now, not behind.
Almost like it wanted to be seen.
"Feels like I’m not breathing someone else’s air anymore," he murmured.
Septimus didn’t answer, but he agreed.
They stood just inside the city gates, a thin band of sun catching on Lottie’s braid as she turned, already drifting toward the merchant quarter. Septimus watched her walk like he always did, half-relieved, or half-ready to chase. He adjusted the strap on his shoulder, the weight of coin and meat from the boar hunt settling heavier than expected.
“Well,” he said, eyes still on her, “we’ve got coin, and we’ve got meat. Personally, I’m content to let chaos find us…” He trailed off.
Lottie had spun on her heel, grin cocked, waiting for him to finish.
“…but you two probably have things you wanna do.”
She beamed. “You know me. I want something hot that isn’t cooked on a stick. Maybe a bath. Some incense. Wine, if I’m lucky.”
Silas stood a few paces off, still pale from recent events, but steadier now “Ink. Glass. A workshop that doesn’t end with me in shackles.” He blinked. “Also a bath.”
Lottie pointed toward the skyline, where the Earth Totem carved the horizon in half.
“We’re this close to the biggest damn Totem we’ve seen. I’ll behave,” she said, mock-innocent. “But I am going to walk the base. If I vanish, assume communion. Not kidnapping.”
She unclipped a flask from her belt and tossed it to Septimus. Belt-worn, well-loved, still half-full “In case chaos gets impatient.”
“Silas?” she called.
He hesitated, then nodded. “After the bath.”
Septimus dug out Silas’s share of the coin and handed it over without a word. The kid took it like it might burn through his palm.
“Get what you need. Room. Ink. Sleep. You’ve earned it.”
Silas managed a crooked grin. “If she sets something on fire, I’m disavowing both of you.”
Then he was gone, vanishing into the crowd like a shadow learning how to walk in daylight. Septimus watched until the movement swallowed him. Then he turned toward the spire.
Lottie was already halfway up the stairs, climbing without ceremony. The Totem loomed above her, taller than anything else in Viremoor. A column of black-veined crystal wrapped in silence and power. Iron pylons flanked it, humming like tuning forks trying to hold the world still. She didn’t hear him catch up. She didn’t need to.
“Would you look at that,” she murmured, hand hovering near the ward line. “I can feel it. My blood just sang.”
Two Sentinels stood near the top of the stairs. Ancient constructs, shaped not in man’s image, but something older. Predatory. Their muzzles jagged. Their eyes faintly lit like kiln-coal. They didn’t breathe. They didn’t shift. Whatever command had shaped them was buried with the bones of whoever gave it.
And yet, they stood.
A nearby city watchmen delivered the warning without looking up. Flat voice. Rehearsed rhythm.
“Visitors are free to observe from the base platform. Do not touch the ward. Do not linger past sundown.”
Lottie smiled sweetly and lowered her hand. “No touching. No problem.”
She turned to Septimus, eyes gleaming. “What do you think they’d do if I wreathed myself in flame right here and started dancing?”
He gave a breath of laughter, dry as gravel. “You’re a real firestarter, aren’t you?”
He leaned against the low back wall, gaze rising to the impossible height of the Totem “I wonder how we’d be doing without these things.”
Lottie dropped into a crouch beside him, elbows on her knees. Her voice came quieter now. “Probably starving in a ditch. Or worse. Bored.”
The Totem pulsed, low and steady. Septimus felt it through his boots, through his ribs, through that old place inside him where fire once lived and silence took its place.
“It’s weird,” she said, still watching the spire. “You get close enough and it feels like it’s giving you permission. Like you could unravel if you wanted to.”
Septimus exhaled through his nose. He didn’t look at her.
“I think they pretended long enough to survive,” he said. “Still are.”
It wasn’t an answer. But it was all he had. Lottie didn’t push. She never did when it counted.
A few travelers passed behind them, leaving coins at the base of the ward. The Sentinels didn’t move.
The hum held steady. And for a moment, Viremoor felt like a city holding its breath.
Septimus let it. Just this once. He let the silence stretch. It carried weight, not absence. After a while, he tilted his head toward her.
“I still don’t think anyone has all the answers,” he said. “At least your powers are acceptable to the common folk. And you know I get by, despite not being as flashy or cute as you.”
He didn’t wait for the quip she was clearly chewing on. Just kept his eyes forward.
“If you’d met me ten years ago… like, if I was Silas’s age, do you think you’d’ve reached out? Shown me there’s more to life than grifting and stealing?”
Lottie looked over. Her face shifted. The grin dropped. What replaced it was quiet, a crooked little smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes.
“I think,” she said slowly, “I would’ve punched you in the face.”
She let it hang, just long enough to sting. “And then I would’ve made you buy me soup. And then maybe, just maybe, I’d’ve told you the world isn’t just about clawing your way through it.”
Her eyes returned to the Totem. Her voice dropped again, still firm but no longer teasing. “But yeah. I think I would’ve reached out. Probably. I’ve always had a thing for lost causes.”
She reached up and ruffled his hair. It was a stretch, even standing on her toes. Didn’t stop her from trying.
“And anyway,” she added, “who says I didn’t meet you ten years ago? Maybe I just wasn’t loud enough yet to make you hear me.”
Below, the clock tower chimed the hour. A slow, resonant toll that echoed up through the city’s ribs. The Totem answered. A low, deliberate pulse. Heavier than before. And for one long beat, it felt like the whole city was listening. Then it passed.
Lottie stood, brushing her palms against her trousers. "C'mon, old man. Let’s go find Silas before he gets adopted by some scholar’s guild and disappears into a library for the next decade."
Septimus peeled off the wall with a grunt. "Yeah, yeah. Need a warm meal and a good soak anyway."
Lottie’s grin returned, flint-edged, but with warmth behind it. "Let’s find someplace that serves both, yeah? If we’re lucky, maybe they even play music that doesn’t sound like someone strangling a bagpipe."
They made their way down the wide, weather-slicked stairs. The hum of the Totem softened behind them, fading into the background like a heartbeat too big to carry into dinner.
Viremoor spread before them in slow-breathing dusk.
Streetlamps guttered to life with flickers of enchanted flame. The cobblestones, slick from earlier rain, mirrored the lanternlight like a broken sky.
A hawker’s voice called from a nearby corner. "Flooding near Duskwater! Totem Blight suspected!"
No one really stopped to listen.
The scent of roasted venison rolled down from tavern row. Rich, heavy with garlic and thick gravy. It curled through the alleys like a promise, and for now, it was more compelling than warnings. More real, too.
Just kept walking beside her. For once, it felt like enough.
The Brass Nest caught the evening light like an ember tucked between buildings. Brass-etched signage swung gently in the wind, and through high-set windows spilled the glow of a hearth, softened by lute music and the low clatter of mugs and spoons. It was the kind of place where mercs rubbed elbows with merchants, and no one asked who you were if you didn’t make them.
Septimus stepped through the door with Lottie at his side and breathed in the warmth like it had been waiting for them. Heavy timber beams. Stew thick in the air. Voices that rumbled without menace.
He spotted Silas near the fire, journal open in front of him, pen hovering mid-word. The younger man looked up, caught their eyes, and gave a tired but genuine smile as he scooted over on the bench. Lottie flipped a coin toward the bar without breaking stride.
"First round’s on me," she said, then glanced over her shoulder at Septimus with a crooked grin. "Second round’s on you, since I didn’t have to post bail."
She flopped down beside Silas, the coin clinking somewhere behind her. Her voice lowered slightly. "We made it here in one piece. That counts for something."
It did. Not that any of them said it twice. By the third round, the tension had worn down into the kind of comfort that only came with firelight and alcohol.
Silas had given up trying to defend his drink from Lottie’s casual thievery and was letting her "sample" it with increasing boldness.
Septimus leaned closer, mug in hand.
"Want me to tell you about the Totem, Silas?" he asked dryly. "It’s a big rock. Lotta grumpy faces guarding it."
Silas, cheeks flushed from his second drink, as Lottie was halfway into his third stifled a soft laugh. He tapped his pen against the edge of the journal but didn’t look down.
"You know," he said, "you might be the first person to offer me a lecture that doesn’t sound like it was pulled from the Book of Blazing Ordinances."
He leaned back in his chair, the firelight catching in his eyes. "Please. Enlighten me. What’s the grand truth about the giant glowing rock that turns people into either righteous zealots or complete lunatics?"
Lottie raised her mug. "Careful, Silas. You’re about to get the Septimus School of Theology. Tuition’s cheap, but it’ll cost you your optimism."
Septimus leaned back as if granted permission to finally say something he’d been holding too long.
"Well," he said, "they’re the crown of every city, town, or halfway-stable outpost. Whoever controls the Totem controls everything around it. Mana, safety, reputation, and law."
He took a long drink. "And those lucky enough to sit under its glow? They get privileges the rest of us can’t even dream of."
His voice didn’t sharpen, but it didn’t soften either.
"I think it’s unfair you’re not allowed closer. You ain’t bad people. You should be allowed to recharge your mana like the rest of us."
He shrugged. "Anyway. That’s what I think. You can call it a theory or whatever."
Silas didn’t write. He just watched Septimus. Quiet, eyes reflective, like the words were puzzle pieces falling into a shape he’d been missing.
"…You know," Silas said at last, "most people flinch when they say the word Totem near me. Even when they’re being nice, it’s always from a distance. Or with someone watching."
He looked up. Met Septimus’s gaze without blinking. "You just said it outright. Like it’s obvious. Like we deserve it."
Lottie had folded sideways on the bench, stealing another sip from Silas’s cup without shame.
She stretched, limbs loose, and gave a theatrical sigh. "Of course he said that. Septimus has opinions, but he doesn’t have lies."
She leaned her chin on her fist. "And anyway, the whole ‘Totems are sacred, keep your hands off’ thing? Only applies to people who don’t get to write the rules."
She flicked a finger in the air. "What’s that old line you used, Sep? ‘Gatekeepers always got a back gate.’"
Silas cracked a smile. Small, but real.
"Thanks," he said, "For saying it like it was obvious."
Septimus glanced at his drink.
"Lottie could start a huge fire and no one would bat an eye," he said. "But you make some shadow puppets and suddenly everyone loses their minds. That’s what turns people like that cultist we fought. They weren’t born like that."
Lottie raised an eyebrow. "Hey now. My fires are tasteful. Inspiring, even."
She grinned. "No one’s ever accused me of summoning ancient horrors, just torching the occasional bandit camp or stewpot."
Silas chuckled, but there was weight behind it. "You’re not wrong, though. That cultist… he was made. Told he was a monster enough times that he believed it. Then someone came along and told him he could be more than a monster, if he gave up everything else first."
He swirled what remained of his drink, watching the amber tilt toward the firelight. "I don’t want to be more than I am. I just want the same chance to grow."
Lottie nodded, solemn. "And you’ve got us. That’s a start. Even if Sep growls about it the whole way."
She bumped her shoulder against Septimus’s, grin rising again. "But you’ll protect him, won’t you, grumpy-pants?"
Septimus sighed. "Ah, I suppose. We all deserve a fair shot. Even if we’re just a dynamic trio of a reformed bandit, a circus act, and a friendly ghost."
Lottie snorted hard enough to nearly spill her drink. “Circus act? Excuse you! I’m a performance artist with elemental flair, thank you very much."
Silas raised his glass, something dry in his expression. "To the reformed, the ridiculous, and the residual."
Lottie clinked her mug against his with approval. "Not bad, spooky."
Then she turned to Septimus, mock serious. "Alright, if we’re handing out labels, what would you call yourself, oh hammer-wielding hero, slayer of hogs?"
Silas didn’t even look up. "Former highwayman turned reluctant dad figure."
Lottie’s grin widened. "Ooooh. That’s it. Papa Sep. It’s canon now."
Silas took a sip, deadpan. “We should probably stop before he kills us with kindness. Or a warhammer."
All that Septimus could do is break out Lottie's flask and drain it in response. Laughter stirred around their table, soft and genuine. The fire crackled. A lute plucked its way through an old sea shanty. And for a little while, the road behind them fell quiet.
Warmth held in the wood. And the three of them sat together, not as fugitives, not as mercenaries. But as something closer to home.
The light in Viremoor didn’t rise. It crept. A bleached, coastal haze filtered through the gear-forged skyline, slicking the cobbles with salt and yesterday’s soot.
Septimus pulled his coat tighter, boots striking a steady rhythm through the waking din. Carriages groaned past, their wheels iron-braced and mud-bitten. Distant hammers rang from the industrial tier, echoing off smokestacks like the heartbeat of a city that never stopped building. And never stopped burning. He passed a hawker shouting about salted meats. Another peddled dew-washed herbs out of a cracked tin box.
The bulletin boards offered the usual. Courier work, security details, a bounty on some half-mad preacher screaming about crystal rot. But Septimus wasn’t looking for ink on a wall. He was listening.
That’s when he saw her.
A voice carried across the yard. Not loud. Just precise. The kind that made people listen without realizing they were doing it. Broad-shouldered, tall enough to meet his eye without craning, wrapped in a travel-worn cloak that smelled faintly of singed linen and salted smoke.
She was adjusting the muzzle on a stocky bull tross. The kind of draft beast you didn’t see much anymore. Low to the ground, barrel-chested, its breath came in steady grunts as it stamped against the harness. Big as a forge cart, twice as patient, and more valuable than half the men working the yard.
Still talking to someone else. Septimus caught the words “last-minute escort,” and “no names, no flags.”
That was enough. He didn’t hesitate. Just stepped into her shadow and offered his voice like a coin.
“Morning. Heard a few words on the wind that I couldn’t ignore. Came in yesterday out of Stonehollow, merchant in tow. We're between jobs."
He paused, just long enough to be deliberate. “Thought we might make some business together. What do you say?”
She didn’t blink. Not until he mentioned Stonehollow. Then she turned fully, eyes a flat, flint-gray that gave nothing away except the fact that she missed nothing. The sigils inked on her arms weren’t decorative.
Septimus knew enough to recognize the trader marks. Totemic, black-market, and some not seen outside Viremoor’s inner circles. Symbols that weren’t learned. They were earned.
She studied him for a moment, then grunted, low and approving. “You carry yourself like someone who doesn’t flinch when things go sideways.”
She unhooked a case from her cart and laid it flat on a nearby crate. Leather-wrapped, reinforced with copper bands. When she opened it, three crystal vials shimmered inside. One pulsing with Air, one glowing soft with Fire, and the third… shifting. Oil-slick hues that refused to settle. Hybrid-charged, maybe. Or something worse.
“I’ve got a delivery that can’t go through proper channels. East Viremoor border. Half-day ride. No guards. No paperwork. Just get it there and don’t let the case break.” she said, closing the lid with a soft click.
“And if you open it,” she added, flat as iron, “you die. Just so we’re clear.”
Septimus didn’t flinch.
“Let’s shake on it,” he said, “I’m hoping we’ll make a good impression when we return. Where can I find you this evening for the handoff?”
She stepped forward and clasped his forearm in a grip like iron. Scarred palm. One old cut crossing the thumb knuckle.
It wasn’t a greeting. It was a pact.
“If you make it back, take the signed crest scroll to the south docks. Third warehouse. Ask for Ril.”
The name landed with the weight of something unspoken. Not a title. Not a code. Just a quiet warning wrapped in one casual syllable.
“If I’m not there, leave it with my warehouse foreman named Brannic.”
She looked to the case, then slid it toward him. It hummed quietly in his hands. Not inert.
“Don’t let it get too hot. Don’t let it get too cold. Keep it upright. Don’t let it touch seawater. Don’t drop it. Don’t open it. Don’t be late.”
Her brow furrowed in thought. “And don’t trust anyone who says they’re expecting it. The buyer won’t speak to you. Just hand it to the green-eyed courier at the east pillar and walk away,"
She gave a sharp whistle. The tross snorted, muscles twitching. Then she turned and vanished. Already swallowed by the churn of early trade and the fog-stitched wind, like she’d never been there at all.
Septimus stood still for a long moment, fingers curled around the case, listening to the hum beneath the leather. He didn’t like jobs with too many instructions. But he liked the kind with clear rules.
And Ril had made herself very clear.
The case hummed against his ribs as he moved through the waking streets of Viremoor.
It wasn't hot. Not cold. Just on the verge of something dangerous. The kind of hum that didn’t breathe… But still felt alive in the marrow.
The city was already in motion. Bells rang from the harbor. Carts clattered over damp cobbles. A hawker shouted about Totemic Lamps, another peddled dew-washed herbs out of a cracked tin box. Somewhere, a forge coughed smoke into the fog-heavy sky.
Septimus adjusted the weight under his arm, eyes scanning for the others. He found Lottie first. Cross-legged on a stone stoop, boots unlaced, hair in wind-blown chaos. She was eating bread with fig jam like she’d always been there, waiting. She looked up with a grin that said trouble.
“You’ve got that look again, Sep,” she said. “The ‘we got ourselves into something interesting’ look.”
The corner of his mouth moved but he didn’t deny it. A few paces later, he spotted Silas, half-shadowed beside a rain barrel, cloak drawn tight, a closed book under one arm. He didn’t ask what was in the case.
Just watched it for a moment, then said, “It’s humming. That’s rarely a good thing.”
Septimus nodded and shifted his grip. “Alright, here’s the job. We carry this like it’s a newborn and walk light. East border. Look for a green-eyed courier. Hand it off, say nothing, walk away.”
He pointed down the morning path. “Then we report back to the docks. Warehouse, south pier. Ask for someone named Ril.”
Lottie finished the last bite of jam-drenched bread and hopped up, wiping her hands on her trousers. “So we’re babysitting a glowing rock and handing it to a stranger with pretty eyes?”
She stretched with a groan, “I can work with that. Just as long as it doesn’t scream or explode mid-hand-off.”
Silas stepped beside him, gaze fixed on the case like he was listening for something under the hum. “I’ll keep an eye on it. If it hums louder, we stop. If it vibrates, we drop it.” His voice lowered, calm as stone. “If it sings, we run.”
They moved toward the east gate together. The path was already crowding. Traders, messengers, and bounty hunters. Guards glanced at their papers, waved them through without a word.
Fog clung low, curling around boots and wagon wheels, blurring the treeline ahead like a half-formed thought.
Septimus hesitated, then passed the case to Silas. “Here. If trouble finds us, me and Lottie'll handle it. You stay clear unless things go real sideways.”
Silas took the case with both hands, cradling it like it might shatter from a wrong look. He nodded once. “I’ll stay back. Call if you need me.”
His voice stayed quiet and measured. Like shadow settling where it belonged.
Lottie didn’t say much. She fell into rhythm beside Septimus, fingers twitching in the passing breeze like they were reading its intent.
“I’ll take left,” she said, “If something twitches in the grass, I’ll twist its ears off.”
She shot him a grin, then scanned the trail again, shoulders loose but focused. They moved fast, steady and deliberate, just enough pace to stay ahead of trouble without drawing fresh eyes. The road narrowed into a damp, tree-lined path. Septimus’s boots left faint imprints where stone gave way to earth.
Lottie slowed. She crouched near the brush, eyes narrowing. “Three passed this way. Two light-footed. One dragging something heavy. Not boars.”
Septimus looked on ahead. The tracks veered too close to their rendezvous point for comfort. “Ah, you know. Dragging boars is just a great pastime you’ll never let me live down.”
He cracked his knuckles and stepped into the trail’s center. “How do you feel about being the wind in my sails? Drop in on anyone dumb enough to think they can take me in a brawl?”
Lottie’s smile widened into something almost wicked. She tightened the wraps around her fists. “Oh, I live for that kind of teamwork.”
She dropped low and slipped into the underbrush. With silent precision, she was a flame waiting for its cue to leap.
Behind them, Silas slowed, giving space. One hand rested against the crystal case on his back, the other loose at his side, ready.
He didn’t raise his voice, “If they try to take it, they’ll regret the choice.”
Septimus kept walking, eyes forward. The road might not have turned yet, but the air was shifting. The kind of shift you learn to feel, not see. Something was coming, and whatever it was, it wouldn’t get past them easy. Septimus didn’t break stride. But his fingers flexed once at his side, loosening, testing.
Then he heard it. A metallic click. Subtle, but sloppy. A crossbow. Poorly oiled. Not shouldered by a professional. He exhaled through his nose. Then raised his voice just enough to carry.
“Oh no,” he drawled, tone flat, “Here I am, traveling all alone.”
Two figures stepped from the woods like they’d been waiting for applause. One blocked the road up ahead, leather armor scuffed and patched, a heavy crossbow cradled in twitchy hands. The second came from the side, stepping light, twin blades catching the fog-light. Flankers. Sloppy ones. Just scraps of men, ragged mouths and hungrier eyes.
The one with the crossbow grinned, all gums and misplaced confidence. “Tough luck, traveler. That case your little shadow’s carrying? Looks heavy. Bet he’s not half as fast as you. So. What’s it gonna be?”
He stepped closer, boot grinding gravel like punctuation. “You gonna be smart, or do I open you up and check your insides for a Totem spark?”
Behind the trees, the wind stirred. Lottie dropped from the canopy like a thundercrack. She landed hard. One boot slamming into the crossbowman’s ribs with air-forced speed. Her fist followed before he could recover. Quick, sharp, and mean. He staggered, breath punched from his lungs, stumbling as she slid into stance.
“You said something about checking insides?”
The bandit fumbled the crossbow and fired in panic. The bolt thudded into Lottie’s side with a solid crack, drawing blood. She didn’t go down. Just hissed and rolled her shoulder.
On the other flank, Silas raised a hand.
“You want the case?” He hissed, “Come take it.”
Darkness coiled from his fingers and surged forward. It snared the sword-wielding bandit, dragging at his limbs. The man snarled and hurled a dagger.
It sailed wide.
That was enough. Septimus charged. He saw the bolt in Lottie’s side. Felt something old rise in his chest, hot and final.
“You’ll regret doing that,” he growled.
The hammer came down like judgment. The blow struck the crossbowman’s shoulder. The force flung him into a tree. Blood sprayed across the dirt. He dropped to one knee,, gasping. The wound pulsed. Then he fell.
Behind them, Silas moved. A pulse of shadow surged from his form. It clenched cold around the sword-bandit. Tight, jagged, and deliberate. The man recoiled in terror.
Lottie launched herself into the air. Wind coiled around her boots. Mid-air, she flicked her wrist. Air followed, sharp and fast. The stone cracked into the bandit’s ribs like a slingbolt. He screamed. Stumbled. Blood followed.
The bandits were finished. They just didn’t know it yet. The crossbowman twitched and tried to rise.
He didn’t make it.
Septimus stepped in. Brought the hammer, clean and final. The skull cracked. The body went still.
The sword-bandit saw it happen. Then he broke.
“I—I don’t want trouble!” he stammered, dropping his blade. “The boss said you’d be easy!”
Septimus walked toward him. Hammer slick with blood.
“Give me your boss’s name,” he said. “And maybe you’ll live.”
The bandit backed away, trembling.
“G-Gorlik! He runs a barge at the south piers! Said to scare you, not fight! Swear to the Totems! I didn’t want this!”
“Thanks.”
The hammer fell before the plea could finish. It didn’t take strength. Just the decision. Lottie didn’t flinch.
But she turned away.
“Well. That’s one less snake in the grass.”
Silas watched Septimus for a long moment. Unreadable.
“I’m not judging,” he said, “But I hope we never find out how many times you’ve done that before.”
Septimus knelt. Wiped the blood from his weapon with the man’s cloak.
“We’re not paid to deal with Gorlik,” he muttered, “But the name might help. If more of his kind show up.”
He looked down the path. “Let’s deliver the package.”
Silas gave a quiet nod, slipping the crystal case back beneath his coat. “Let’s not keep the green-eyed courier waiting.”
Lottie adjusted the scarf around her neck, movements tight with the echo of pain. She didn’t complain, but her breath hitched once when her hand brushed too close to the crossbow wound.
“And maybe next time,” she muttered, “they’ll think twice before pointing weapons at the three of us.”
They walked on. The trees thinned. The checkpoint came into view. A timbered post no larger than a farm shed, manned by a single courier leaning against a spear like he was half-asleep.
He perked up fast. Green eyes flicked over the group, locked on the case, then settled into something alert. He straightened. “You the delivery crew from Ril?”
Septimus stepped forward. “We are. You the courier?”
The man nodded and held out both hands. “Let’s see the goods.”
Silas unfastened the case and passed it over without a word. The courier inspected the seal, ran his fingers over the lock, and checked a faint inscription etched beneath the leather. Whatever it said, it satisfied him. He tucked it under his cloak.
“Good. You’re done here. Ril will want confirmation. You’ll find her where you left her.”
And just like that, he vanished into the trees without so much as a backward glance. The silence that followed wasn’t heavy. But it was watching.
Septimus glanced sideways at Lottie. Just for a second. Long enough to see the tight set of her jaw. The way her hand stayed too close to her ribs. He looked away before she noticed.
“Hard part’s done,” he said. “There’s ten Rudims waiting for us at the warehouse.”
Lottie’s smile was slow. Crooked. Tired. “Now that’s a number I like to hear. Glad to see your silver tongue’s still sharper than your warhammer.”
She bumped his shoulder as they walked, just enough to count.
Silas walked in silence, hands tucked in his coat, eyes on the dirt road.
“You made the right call back there,” he said, eventually.
They walked the rest of the way to the docks without words. The wind carried the scent of sea-brine, tar, and hot iron. Crates lined the piers. Runners yelled back and forth from flat-bottomed boats. Somewhere, a gull cried, angry at nothing.
Ril was already there. Arms crossed, back against a crate, ledgers stacked like a wall. When she saw them, she stepped forward. Didn’t speak right away. Just plucked the crest scroll from Septimus’s hand, broke the seal, and skimmed it.
“Courier confirmed delivery,” she said. “But this? This is the pass. It tells me you didn’t crack the case, didn’t panic, didn’t vanish.”
She looked up. One brow lifted. “More importantly, it tells me you came back. That’s the part most people fail.”
She tossed Septimus a small, reinforced pouch. The clink said everything.
“Ten Rudys, as agreed. And if you’re not the sort to bolt after one payday, I might have more work. Quiet kind. Think on it.”
She didn’t wait for a response. She turned and went back to her books.
Outside, Septimus stepped into the wind and let the city stretch out ahead of them again. He loosened the drawstring just enough to glance inside. Hex-shaped coins. Dark iron, edges worn smooth. A pale seam of bone set through each face. Honest money.
He cinched the pouch shut.
“Merchants on their own turf are tougher than I thought,” he muttered. “But coin talks. And if we’re gonna get stronger, we’ll need more of it. Iron greases the right palms. That means answers, for the questions you two keep carrying.”
Silas adjusted his sleeve, tucking the coin purse into his coat. “We’ve been walking a line. Now we’re starting to leave a mark. Coin helps. But enough coin in the right hands? That moves doors.”
Lottie pulled her scarf a little tighter. Her gaze drifted toward the market quarter. “We just made a name for ourselves. Quiet one. But I’d bet someone already heard. We keep this up? We’ll have options.”
She grinned, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes. “And don’t worry, Sep. I’ll spend it responsibly. Like... three drinks instead of five.”
The wind stirred again, tugging at cloaks and hair. Septimus looked up. The sky was dimming already.
“Couple hours before nightfall,” he said, “Let’s get a little shopping in while we still have daylight to spend.”
Lottie perked up like a storm catching its second wind.
“Finally,” she said, bumping her shoulder into Septimus. “Let’s get you something better than whatever those boots are made of. Regret?”
She led them through the market without waiting for a reply. Quick feet. Head high. Ducking beneath laundry lines, weaving past stalls patched in sun-faded canvas and stubborn repairs. The air carried metal and herbs. Too many bodies packed too tight. Drums beat faintly from deeper in, pulsing like a distant heart.
Septimus kept to essentials. A reinforced satchel insert for Silas. Treated leather with locking compartments, built to keep infused items from rattling loose. A pair of heat-resistant gloves for Lottie. Grip-woven. Crystal-lined. Made to handle fire without melting. He handed them over without a word.
Lottie slid them on, flexing each finger like they’d been waiting for this moment. Then she snapped a low air-punch. The gust cracked sharp. Two kids across the street yelped and laughed, ducking behind a crate.
Lottie grinned wide, “Oh yeah. These’ll do just fine.”
Septimus gave the smallest of smiles. Just one corner of his mouth. “I’m glad you like them.”
Silas turned the insert in his hands, eyebrows twitching slightly as he ran a thumb along the stitchwork. Then, quietly, he began to rearrange his pack. Everything in its place.
“I’ll reinforce the straps later,” he muttered. “It’ll protect the case. I appreciate it.”
Septimus gave a faint nod. “Don’t mention it. You needed it.”
Silas glanced down. Then softly, “Strange. I don’t think I’ve ever been given something that wasn’t meant to chain me to something else.”
No reply. Just silence that didn’t need to be filled.
Lottie spent her share on a compact salve kit. One-use tins of burn balm, clotting dust, and something labeled cooling gel. She also bought a braided anklet from a street vendor. Glinted faintly when the light caught it. Soft sound when it brushed her boot.
“It’s wind-touched,” the seller said.
And that was enough. They finished as the sun dipped behind the cracked Totem. Shadows stretched long across the quarter. The crowd thinned. The drums faded. Septimus tightened the strap on one of his gloves, the stitching starting to come loose where heat met hide and looked at them. Battered, bruised, but upright.
“All right,” he said, “We’ve got dinner, coin, and bruises. I’d call that a good haul.”
Lottie grinned, “For our next stop, let’s find firelight, strong drink, and hopefully less blood.”
Septimus settled in at the tavern that night, firelight low, boots off, elbows braced against the edge of the table. His voice stayed quiet.
“Hey. Let me know if you need help with that wound of yours,” he said, eyes still on the grain of the wood. “I don’t want it to fester.”
Across the table, Lottie glanced up. Firelight moved in her eyes. She looked more tired than she’d ever admit. Her half-smile came crooked but real. She brushed a hand lightly over the bandaged strip at her ribs.
“For someone who acts like he just wants a drink and a nap, you worry an awful lot,” she said, soft enough not to mock.
Her gaze dropped slightly, and her voice followed. “But I’m okay. Just sore. You got any of that salve kit left? Might sting less if you’re the one doing it.”
She tilted her head, moved her arm aside. Quiet permission, given without fanfare. By the hearth, Silas sat cross-legged in the fire’s edge. Journal open, a sentence trailing unfinished down the page. He was listening, but not intruding.
Septimus nodded and reached into the satchel at his side. “Yeah. Got one tonic left too. Healer in the last town gave it to me. Said to use it if one of you two got hit—again.”
The last word had a sharper edge than he meant. Habit, not intention. Back when he ran with crews, Septimus would snap when someone went down. Called them weak. Said they’d slowed the job. It was easier than admitting he gave a damn. He’s quieter now. Still angry. But learning.
“I need you both in one piece is all,” he muttered. “Bad for business.”
Lottie watched him sort through cloth and glass. The smallest grin tugged at her lips.
“Wouldn’t want to ruin the company brand,” she murmured.
Then she nodded, slower this time.
“Go ahead,” she said, voice lower still, “It’s not just a bruise. That bolt got in close. Hurts like hell.”
She tried to play it light, but her voice frayed at the edges. “I’ll live. But I won’t pretend it didn’t rattle me.” The smile returned, softer now. “Besides... I trust your hands more than mine right now.” Her gaze held steady. “Y’know, I think Silas and I would’ve both been dead if you hadn’t been there. You always show up when it matters.”
No teasing this time. Just truth. Settled low in the firelight.
Silas shifted slightly at the edge of the hearth.
“We all did our part,” he mumbled. “But yeah... thanks, Septimus.”
Septimus crouched beside her. Cloth in one hand. Tonic in the other. No armor now. No hammer. Just steady hands, worn by years, not gentleness. Lottie winced as he checked under the wrap.
“Not broken... I think,” she muttered, “But it burns.”
He uncorked the tonic. The scent rose quick. Pine resin, grain alcohol, something faintly metallic. He soaked the cloth and pressed it gently to her side. No glow. No pulse of power. Just warmth, deep and slow, spreading beneath her skin like a coal catching flame. His binding was firm. Exact. Not clinical, but careful. Not just to stop bruising, but to offer something steadier than words.
Lottie’s breath hitched, then evened.
“That’s... better,” she said, “Damn good job for a bandit.”
He didn’t answer. Just a small nod, hands already folding the kit back down. The tonic worked quiet magic. Her ribs still ached, but the edge was dulled. Her shoulders sank. Her posture eased.
“Still stings,” she muttered, tugging her shirt back down. “But I don’t feel like I’m gonna crack in half anymore.”
She bumped his leg with her foot, just enough to be felt. “You’re not so bad at this whole ‘taking care of people’ thing.”
He didn’t speak. Just let the weight of that land in the silence between them. The firelight cast gold across the floorboards. Outside, the moon climbed.
Septimus cleared his throat. “I say we go for a second round. To good company.”
Lottie raised a brow, already halfway to her mug. “To good company. And marginally better bedside manner.”
Silas raised his own halfway, still seated, but smiling now. “And to not dying in the woods again.”
Their mugs met with a low thock of well-worn tin. For once, there were no cultists. No broken doors. No blood to wash off the floor. Just firelight. Laughter. And the weight of coin in their pockets. The kind of night the Frontier rarely gave. Septimus looked at them both. One curled into quiet pages, the other already teasing her second drink.
And for a moment, he let himself believe this could last.