Morning crept into Viremoor like a thief. Not bright, but persistent. Light pushed against the smog with slow insistence, leaking through crooked shutters and grimy glass. Septimus leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, eyes on nothing in particular.
They had a week. That’s what C. had said. A week before the shadows shifted again, before expectation found them in some new form. A week to prepare, or pretend.
Silas hadn’t come downstairs yet. Across the room, Lottie sat cross-legged on the windowsill, cradling a tin mug of something vaguely resembling coffee. She watched the sun climb its way through Viremoor’s low haze, quiet and alert.
"I don’t want to get complacent," Septimus said eventually, voice low. "If it turns out she’s unhinged and needs to be put down, I don’t wanna die tryin'. But I hate how close this is to the heart for Silas."
Lottie didn’t look away from the window. "You think he doesn’t know? That shadow’s wrapped around his ribs like a second lung. It breathes with him."
She set the mug down with a soft clink. Then turned to face him fully. Her eyes were clearer than the skyline. "Thing is, Sep... she isn’t just dangerous. She’s a version of him that never left the Church. Never broke free. All that control, all that silence, all that calculation? She’s what he might’ve become."
She let that hang in the air for a moment. Then her smile returned. “So yeah. We stay sharp. We get stronger. We stack favors and power and plans. Because when it’s time to take her down... I am going to cause an immense amount of property damage.”
She flashed him a look, something hot and certain behind her eyes, the kind of glint Septimus knew he wouldn't forget anytime soon. "I hope my fire burns for days." Her voice cooled, just for a blink. "And I’d really rather not die with a dagger in my neck just 'cause we didn’t prep."
Septimus gave her a wry smile. "Been wondering where your blistering fire was. Let’s keep stoking it. Catch a little sun while we still can."
Outside, the morning bell tolled through the waking streets. Viremoor stirred with the slow churn of morning. Gears grinding, deals whispering, secrets beginning their rounds. They stepped out into the brisk haze together. Lottie beside him, hair wild and wind-caught, the city refracting in her eyes.
Septimus looked her way. His hand twitched, but he held it still. "Suppose I ought to find us more work," he said. "Could ask Ril. But I don’t like asking."
Lottie raised an eyebrow. Half amused, half... something harder to name. "You? Not like asking? Could’ve fooled me, what with the whole yelling-down-glassworks routine last night."
She grinned wide. A flick of wind caught her scarf like a ribbon in motion. Then she softened, just slightly. "You know, you don’t have to be the one finding the work all the time. Doesn’t always have to be you carrying the weight just ’cause you’ve got the biggest shoulders."
She leaned back against the railing. Eyes flicking toward the inn above. "But if you are gonna ask Ril... maybe we don’t take a contract." Wind stirred between them. "Maybe we ask for information. She owes us that much. And I’d rather deal with black market paperwork than shadow priests any day."
Septimus nodded slowly. "Hmm... yeah. Let's see if Ril can tell us anything. Just me and you though. If it's important... we'll tell the kid."
Lottie gave him a side glance, half-sly, half-sincere, and pushed off the railing with a little hop. "So it's a just-us errand now, huh? Sounds dangerously close to a walk, Septimus."
She didn’t press, though. Just fell into step beside him, matching his stride. Adjusting straps, arranging pouches. Her hands rarely stayed still, even in motion.
The city was louder now. Carts rumbled past, merchants barked half-truths, steam hissed from pipes like alleyway warnings.
Ril’s warehouse looked unchanged. Nondescript, a little too clean, a little too watched. The sliding iron door stood cracked open a hand’s width. Inside, crates were stacked in careful rows. A pair of rough-looking porters loitered nearby, all muscle and no interest in conversation.
At the center, hunched over a ledger by a deliberately dimmed lantern, was Ril. Broad-shouldered, tall enough to meet Septimus’s eye without strain, wrapped in the same travel-worn cloak that smelled faintly of singed linen and salted smoke. Her silver-blonde hair was tied back in a utilitarian knot, and the scars across her thumb knuckle caught the low light as she turned the page.
She looked up without surprise, flint-gray eyes giving nothing away except the fact that she missed nothing. "You made more noise than usual, hammer-man."
She shut the book and set her pen down. "Whoever you sold that wolf to? Turns out, had connections with the Totemic Church," Septimus said, leaning against the wall. "I don't mind hearing if you've got work for us, but I think I'd like to talk shop just for a minute."
She leaned forward. "I don’t have a job for you. Not yet. But I do have rumors. Merchants tied to the Hearthold Foundry have been keeping things quiet. Real quiet. No official complaints, no Church whispers. Just a lot of sudden interest in private security and bulk orders for blackout cloth. Word is, some of the blacksmiths there started pulling strange light out of the steel mid-pour."
She tapped her temple. "And someone’s been buying up faulty Totemic trinkets from the market quarter. Buying in bulk. One buyer. Doesn’t haggle."
She studied him now. Not prying, just measuring the distance between what he said and what he meant. "I know you’re not just chasing coin anymore. So tell me. Am I giving you leads or problems?"
Lottie stayed quiet, just watching.
Septimus let out a low chuckle. "Now, I’m always lookin' for coin. But this..."
He slid the obsidian token onto the table. Ril’s eyes snapped to it. She didn’t touch it. Didn’t blink. But her entire posture shifted, like someone had placed a loaded pistol between them.
"Well now… isn’t that something."
She leaned back slowly, arms folding. Her gaze never left the token. "You’re dancing with ghosts, then."
One of the porters shifted. Ril waved him off without looking. He vanished without a word. "People talk about the Church like it’s a monolith. Dogma and discipline and all that rot. But there’s layers. Deep ones. That token? It opens a door you don’t get to close afterward. Whoever gave that to you? They don’t recruit. They absorb. And they don’t need coin. They buy loyalty with silence and survival."
She tapped the token gently with one knuckle. "You’re in deep now, Septimus. Which means you need to stop acting like you're still just scraping for change."
A stillness lingered between them, just for a moment. "Whatever she’s pulling you toward, watch your footing. That branch of the Church doesn’t prune bad fruit. It burns the whole orchard when things go sour."
Lottie finally leaned in, her voice low. "I think they'll be in for a surprise if they think they can burn us."
Septimus stood and reached for Ril’s hand. He shook it in earnest before taking the token back. "Thanks, Ril. Seriously. Some of us learn the hard way not to jump into a river without knowing how deep it is."
Ril stood too, her hand closing over his with a grip like old rope. Rough, reliable, and exactly as strong as she looked. "Hard way’s the only way most of us learn. But not many survive long enough to pass the lesson along."
She released his hand and nodded toward Lottie. "Keep an eye on him. Looks like someone finally put a purpose in his hands heavier than that warhammer."
Lottie gave a mock-salute, all sharp edges and flicked fingers, like she wasn’t sure if she was agreeing or daring Ril to say more. "If he trips, I’ll catch him. Or loot his boots."
Ril chuckled dryly, then added one last thing as they turned to leave. "If she ever offers you a second token, don’t take it. First one's a door. Second's a collar."
Back in the street, the city was brighter now. Vendors calling, sunlight slicing through the smog just enough to feel like warmth.
Lottie fell in beside him again, walking without speaking for a stretch. "You think Silas would’ve taken the second token?"
She didn’t ask with judgment, just curiosity. The kind that waited patiently for the truth, even if it hurt.
"Nah," Septimus said without a second thought. "I don't think he would. And he might've been offered one already, before we found him. Like a mewling kitten caught in the rain."
A quiet smile flickered across Lottie’s face. Not mocking. Just... proud, in her own way. Like she'd caught the shape of who Silas was then, and who he’d become. "He was half-drowned when we met him, wasn’t he? Little thing with too much shadow and not enough boots."
She kicked a loose stone down the cobbled path, watching it bounce like a memory. "Still. He trusts you more than he trusts most. That counts for something. Might even hold the line when things start to break."
She looked sideways at him, hair wild in the wind, expression softer than usual. "Just… don’t let him carry the whole storm. He’s not built for it like you are."
They rounded the corner back toward the inn. The upper shutters were open now. Silas leaned against the ledge, notebook in hand, watching the street below. When he saw them, he closed the book with quiet care. His nod wasn’t just acknowledgement. It was welcome. By the time they reached the front steps of the tavern, Silas was already leaning against a pillar at the stoop.
Lottie blinked, then huffed a short breath. “Really gotta start keeping bells on you.”
Silas let the corner of his mouth tilt. Not quite a grin. But not nothing, either. Septimus blinked, just once. Then shifted, letting Silas fall naturally into the middle as they started down the street. No words yet. Just the quiet reformation of motion. Lottie walked on his left, calm and unreadable. Septimus on his right, pacing with intention.
When the street thinned and the sounds of Viremoor faded enough to feel private, Septimus spoke. Low, like setting a hook. “Hey Silas. We heard a rumor about blacksmiths pulling pure light out of their steel. Hearthold Foundry.”
Silas’s steps slowed. Silas flipped open his notebook, thumbed through a few half-drawn glyphs and street maps. “I heard the name a couple of nights ago. You were asleep. Loudly.”
Septimus gave a grunt that wasn’t quite a denial.
Silas went on. “I stepped out for air. Taverns were thinning out, but a few smiths were still drinking. One mentioned a casting line at Hearthold going strange. Steel coming out too light, but still holding edge. Said it shimmered, even after cooling.”
He tapped the side of his notebook. “I remembered the name. Didn’t think much of it then. But now?”
He looked toward the street ahead. “If the alloy’s holding strength but losing weight... that’s not forging. That's an infusion. Something Totemic embedded in the structure.”
Lottie muttered, “If the anvil starts humming a lullaby, I’m setting the whole place on fire.”
Silas turned to Septimus. “If that foundry’s bleeding light into steel, either they’ve cracked something... or something cracked them.” He snapped the notebook shut. "Yes. It interests me."
Septimus nodded. "Well, Silas, my man, let’s take a gander. You watch and make sense of whatever they’re about to tell us.” He took a few big strides, then added, "But first, we can't look like mercs. Remember what I said about cleaning up well? You’re about to witness history."
Silas gave the smallest tilt of his head. "If you’re trying to blend in at a place that casts molten steel, you’ll need more than a clean collar and a wink."
Lottie cracked her neck. "Oh, let him have this. He’s earned his dramatic entrance."
The three of them reappeared an hour later at Hearthold Foundry, stepping into the cooling yard in crisp coats and fresh boots that screamed private commission.
The clerk on duty, an older woman with one eye cloudy from weld flash, sized them up quick. “You with the Bastill Cartwrights? Or private buyers?”
Lottie interjected naturally. Like she'd done this before. “Private. Fast-moving company. Need axle frames that don’t bend when a bull-tross sneezes.”
The clerk snorted and nodded. “Then you’ll want to see Crucible Five. Not normal steel. Totem-reactive. Harder, lighter, and fuses better with hardwood and treated glass, if you’re into that.”
She waved them forward, leading them toward the far end of the forge. At Crucible Five, a wiry man stood over the steel, hammering with slow, deliberate rhythm. Early thirties, burn-scarred, eyes red at the edges from weeks of smoke and sleeplessness, but focused. Sharper than he looked.
The bar on his anvil shimmered, not with heat, but with something stranger. Not red. Not white. Pale gold.
“Rollen’s our lucky one,” the clerk said, watching the forge. “He’s been like that for weeks. Barely speaks, just listens to the steel. Everything he touches lately takes better than expected. Some of it... even hums.”
A melodic hum rippled out as the hammer struck the bar. Silas stepped in behind Septimus, eyes fixed on the steel. “That’s not a natural property,” he murmured. “That’s infusion while shaping.”
Septimus nodded toward the forge. Voice light, casual. “Rollen must have quite the talent, eh? You best pay him well or I might poach him myself.”
He gestured toward Silas. “Mind if my colleague takes a closer look? Knows his way around infusions.”
The clerk waved them off. “If you can pry him loose, be my guest. Man’s near welded to that anvil.”
Silas approached slowly, gloved hand hovering just above the steel. His brow creased. “This isn’t reacting to a Totem,” he said. “It’s remembering one.”
He shifted the bar slightly. A note rang out. Clear. Unstruck. Rollen looked up, startled. The forge went quieter by degrees. Silas didn’t smile.
“That’s chronicled ore,” he said, voice low. “Structured resonance, baked into base metal. Not natural. Not safe.” He didn’t finish the thought. He didn’t need to.
The clerk narrowed her gaze. “You said you’re here for wagons, not singing swords. You changing your order?”
Septimus grinned like a man with too much coin and too many secrets. “My colleague’s just particular. Says this alloy’s perfect for a Grand Luminary’s carriage. Light enough to glide. Strong enough to preach from.” He chortled richly. "Sure, it could make great blades. But that’s not our business."
The clerk squinted. Then barked a laugh. "Grand Luminary, huh? If he’s riding wagons made of this stuff, maybe the rest of us’ll get roads that don’t eat our boots."
She closed her ledger with a thump and nodded. "You’re alright, big man. You talk like coin and move like you’ve already signed a deal. That’s close enough to real for me."
Rollen, meanwhile, returned to his work, but now, it was clear he was listening. Watching out of the corner of his eye. Some part of him wasn’t lost in the forging after all.
Silas stepped back beside Septimus, voice low and even. "The metal remembers. But the man does too. Rollen’s not just a tool. He’s a carrier. Someone gave him a recipe, and I’d wager he didn’t find it in a library."
Lottie leaned in on the other side, adjusting her soot-smeared apron with mock grace. "So do we let the poor fool hammer himself into an early grave, or do we pull the thread and see if the whole quilt unravels?"
Septimus turned to the clerk. "So you're saying he's been working nonstop for days, now? The man must be beyond fatigued, or half machine."
The clerk raised an eyebrow, then laughed, but this time with a thread of unease. "Feels like it, doesn’t it? Man barely eats, barely drinks. Sleeps right here half the time. First couple days we figured it was ambition."
She scratched the back of her neck. "Now? I don’t know. He hums along with the forge sometimes. Like he’s following a rhythm no one else can hear." Her voice lowered. "But he ain’t violent. Not sick. Just... tuned in."
She shrugged, trying to shake something off. "Far as I’m concerned, if he keeps pulling steel like this, he can talk to the Totems while he works."
Silas murmured, bone-dry. "People said the same thing about the Sentinelled Scribes, until they started carving sigil they couldn’t read into their own skin."
Lottie watched Rollen now. Not with curiosity, but like someone watching a lantern flicker just before it bursts. "He’s not all here, Sep. But something is. And it’s learning every time he swings that hammer."
There was something unspoken in her voice.
Septimus kept the charade smooth. "Before we can invest, I have to be sure we can keep up the supply for our demand. Can't have this man keel over when we have a fleet of wagons to put together. My other colleague here, you see, she's got a trained hand for handling just about any ailment. If you don't mind, perhaps we can have some words with Rollen, make sure he'll be in good health for the rest of our venture."
The clerk gave him a long, squint-eyed look. Like she was checking for the catch. Then she snorted. "You people really do act like you’ve got coin to burn."
She jerked her chin toward Rollen, who was just setting his hammer down. His arm trembled from strain. Sweat glistened on his brow. And there was a shimmer to his breath in the forge’s glow, like heat rising where it shouldn’t.
"Alright. Go on. But if he throws a punch or sings in tongues, I’m locking the door and you’re on your own." She waved them off with mock ceremony.
Rollen noticed their approach but didn’t shy away. Gaunt beneath the soot, his eyes were tired, but too alert. Like he was dreaming with his eyes open, unsure what part of him still belonged to the waking world.
He wiped his brow with a gloved hand and straightened, forcing a crooked smile. "Investors, huh? I figured. You don’t smell like slag. Or like you need the money."
His voice cracked, dry and brittle, but undeniably human. He nodded toward Lottie. "You’re the medic, then? Here to see if the machine’s still running?"
Lottie stepped in, grinning lightly. "Something like that. Let’s see if you’ve still got oil in the gears, big guy."
She began a basic exam, checking his pulse, breath, and reflex. She looked to Septimus, a flicker passed through her expression. "His aura is syncing with something. Not his own rhythm. Like he's following a drum that’s not beating here."
Rollen met Septimus’s gaze. "It started when we poured from the new ore batch. The one the clerk said we shouldn’t take, but the Foreman overrode it."
He leaned in slightly. "I didn’t ask questions. I just... wanted to make something worth remembering." His voice dropped. "I dream of the forge now. Even when I’m awake."
Rollen looked down at his hands. Turned them once, slowly. Like he wasn’t sure if they were real. Or if he was. "And I think... the forge dreams back."
Septimus kept composure. But he felt it. The kind of sentence that didn’t come from a tired man, it came from a line someone crossed and couldn’t un-cross. "Since we’re thinking of paying your weight in gold to get our project underway, perhaps I can convince the foreman to let us treat you to a proper meal. Something to keep you strong as the alloys you've been forging. What do you say?"
Rollen chuckled. A real sound. Not cracked. "Gods... a meal? With flavor?" A faint grin crossed his face. "If I say yes, you’re not gonna throw me in a carriage and drag me off to some nobleman’s spa, are you?"
Lottie chimed in. "Only if the nobleman has stew, and something stronger than quenched water."
Silas, quiet as ever, added from behind "Getting him away from the crucible is the first step. Whatever's in him... might weaken when it loses proximity."
As they approached the edge of the floor, the clerk raised an eyebrow. "You pullin' him now? Mid-shift?"
Septimus’s tone landed clean. "Only for a break. And maybe a bowl of stew."
She squinted, then waved a hand in mock defeat. "Fine, fine. But if he comes back talking like a cultist or turns into a walking sunlamp, I’m putting that on your tab."
They brought Rollen to the only place in Viremoor that wouldn’t ask questions and served things with actual salt in them. The Brass Nest. He ate slowly. Almost like he’d forgotten how. With each bite, color crept back into his face. His hands stopped trembling. His voice, when it came, no longer echoed like it was bouncing off steel walls.
Halfway through the stew, spoon halfway to his mouth, he spoke. Soft, like he didn’t know if he was allowed. “They didn’t bring the ore through standard channels. I heard the delivery man whisper to the foreman. Thought no one was listening.”
The spoon hovered mid-air. “They said it was Church-forged. From a ruined vault west of Ashen Row.” He set it down, carefully. “I don’t think it’s just steel. I think it’s listening. And I think it’s starting to learn.”
Septimus exhaled. Then leaned in, voice lowering, not gentle, but steady.
“We only went there to have this conversation.” He let the words settle. Then said it quieter. “Do you even know you’re an Aberrant?”
Rollen stiffened. His fingers clutched the spoon until they went white. A faint tremor ran through the metal. Outside, a cloud shifted over the sunlit windows. The light dimmed. And for a moment, the air in the Nest felt... still.
He didn’t look shocked or laugh. Didn’t deny. “An Aberrant…”
The word seemed to slot into place like a key turned in an old lock.
“I’ve heard the stories,” he said, voice like forge smoke. “They teach you to fear the ones who crack lanterns just by breathing wrong. They call it corruption. Ruin. Sin.”
He set the spoon down again. Slower this time, as if afraid the steel might hum in reply. “I just thought I was broken. Too many slag pits. Too many nights dreaming of heat and ash. But the steel… it listens to me now.” His eyes lifted. “I think it always could.”
There was awe in them, and fear. “So no, I didn’t know,” he whispered. “Not for sure. But I felt it.”
He drew a long breath, eyes moving between the three of them. “What do I do now? Wait for the Church to drag me off? Or wait for whatever’s in me to burn me Hollow?”
Silas leaned forward, elbows resting on the table like a man used to talking someone off a cliff. “You’re not Hollow,” he said. “You’re waking up. There’s a difference.”
Lottie was chewing thoughtfully. “And lucky for you, you stumbled into the one trio of misfits that actually knows what the hell to do with a live Aberrant.” She winked. “In a past life, Septimus might've take advantage of you. He's trying to turn a new leaf in life."
She glanced at Septimus as she said it, not unkind. "I should ask, what do you want from life, Rollen?"
Rollen stared for a long time. Long enough that the warmth seemed to bleed from the stew between them. Behind his eyes, something shifted. Like rust falling off old gears.
“No one’s ever asked me that,” he said quietly. “Not really. Not like they expected an answer worth hearing.”
He leaned back slightly, eyes on his soot-stained hands. Flexing the fingers like he wasn’t sure if they were his or something borrowed. “I was supposed to be a wheel in the works. Bang metal. Get paid. Die tired. But then...” His gaze looked distant. His voice dropped. “Then the steel started whispering like it remembered my name before I ever picked up a hammer.”
When he looked up again, his voice was steady. Honest. A little raw. “I want to make something that outlasts me. Not just a tool. Not just a shape. A memory. Something that holds the truth, of what we are, and what they tried to bury.”
His hands trembled again. This time, it wasn’t from fear. “If that makes me dangerous, so be it. But I don’t want to be used. I don’t want to be erased. I want to forge something worth remembering.”
Silas didn’t say anything. He just nodded. A quiet kind of respect. Lottie smiled like she was seeing herself in the reflection of another runaway fire.
“I’m afraid change has found you, and now you have to learn how to wield it. The Church would love to get their hands on you, make you forge Totemic relics forevermore. Maybe that’d make you happy… but I don’t know.”
She leaned back, eyes flicking toward the window. “That clerk and foreman don’t have a single clue how valuable you are. Not yet. They didn’t have someone like Silas to see what you can actually do.”
Rollen swallowed hard. It wasn’t fear. It was the weight of truth landing like a hammer on the anvil. “No… they don’t see it. They see output. Shiny product. An asset that doesn’t complain.”
He glanced sideways at Silas, eyes narrowing, not suspicious, but searching. “But he does. He saw through it. Through me. And he didn’t flinch either.”
Silas finally spoke, voice steady, laced with something like memory. “Because I’ve been there. And I was almost reshaped into something I didn’t ask to be.”
Lottie leaned back in again. “And now you’re here, having stew with three weirdos and talking about turning raw magic into legacy.” She lifted her cup. “I call that a step in the right direction.”
Rollen looked at Septimus. Eyes clear, no glow or hum. Just choice. “If you’ll help me understand this… if you’ll help me wield it, not just survive it… Then I’m with you.”
He nodded, voice quiet but sure. “Whatever you need forged… whatever memory needs preserving... I’ll do it.”
Septimus nodded slowly. He didn’t reach for his cup. He didn’t break the silence right away. “You know the foundry better than anyone, Rollen. We can go back, put the mask back up. Tell ’em we need you healthy, clear-headed, before we move forward with any orders. That should buy you time. Time to figure yourself out. And I’m not saying goodbye. We’re still in Viremoor, and someone like you’s bound to be useful.”
He let the thought settle, then added with a crooked smile. “If I were you, I’d start my own smithy. Be your own boss. I can put you in touch with a merchant who understands discretion.”
Rollen blinked once. Not dramatic, no tears. Just a tired man realizing he was allowed to imagine more.
“Start my own smithy…” he murmured. He said it like someone tasting honey for the first time after a life of ash. “Forge on my own terms. Decide what I remember. What I leave behind.”
He exhaled slowly, like the heat was finally bleeding off the anvil in his chest. “Yeah. Yeah, alright. I go back. Play the good craftsman. Tell ’em your investors want me sharp, not smoky.” A half-smile. “They won’t question it. Not if they think your coin’s still on the hook.”
He glanced toward the window, toward the silhouetted spires of Viremoor’s forges. “You set me up with that merchant, I’ll start slow. Take repairs, commission scraps, listen. When I’m ready… I’ll shape more than just steel.”
Silas leaned back, arms crossed. “Keep low. Work clean. Stay near the edge of things, not the center.”
Lottie smiled, already turning away. “And don’t explode, melt your brain, or get recruited into a secret cult. That’s our job.”
Rollen grinned now. Real, easy. “No promises.”
They walked Rollen back through the foundry gates as if nothing had changed. As if they were just investors checking a ledger. Septimus took the lead, voice calm, clipped, deliberate. The sort of tone that made men nod before they knew why.
“Health check,” he explained. “We’re investing in precision. If our smith’s not sharp, our product won’t be either.”
The clerk took the bait. The foreman hesitated. But Septimus didn’t blink, and when Silas stepped in beside him, quiet as ever, the moment held. Lottie sealed it with a grin and a muttered comment about axle strain and quality control. They promised to return in a month. Check progress. Confirm productivity. And no one questioned them. Not even the foreman.
Back at the Brass Nest, Septimus dropped into his seat and let the silence settle. “Well, Silas. Didn’t think we’d find an Aberrant who could fold light into steel, but here we are. I know we’re bleeding the lines of good and bad here, but I think we’ve done well.”
Silas, still peeling soot from the edge of his collar, didn’t look up right away. He stared into his cup of bitter tea like it might offer some kind of reading, and maybe for him, it did.
“He’s not Solshade,” Silas said at last. “Not exactly. But whatever he is… he’s close. Adjacent. Maybe even convergent.”
He finally looked up. Eyes sharp. That quiet edge drawn halfway from the sheath. “You didn’t save a man today, Septimus. You preserved a memory the Church would’ve ground down to ash and called it mercy.” He let that sit a moment longer. “And yeah. It was good. Doesn’t mean it was clean. Doesn’t mean it won’t come back to bite us.”
Lottie kicked her boots up on the bench beside him, stretching like a cat in the sun. “But when the bite comes,” she said, “we’ll bite back harder. That’s the whole point, right? Stack favors. Build a little family out of strays and strangeness.”
She looked over at Septimus. More serious now. “You’re good at that, y’know. Building something. Even if you still flinch when we say it out loud.”
The quiet stretched between them. Outside, the sounds of Viremoor filtered in. Smokestack hissing, market chatter, the low hum of something deeper under the streets.
Silas leaned back, notebook in hand. “We should follow the ore next,” he said. “West of Ashen Row. The source matters more than the symptoms now.”
Lottie grinned. “Yeah, yeah. But first… lunch. And maybe, maybe, a nap without a ghost or totemic conduit in the sheets.”
Septimus leaned forward, voice dry. “People dig in the same ground the Totems came from and wonder why they don’t feel right.”
Silas’s mouth twitched, not quite a smile, more like grim agreement passing across his face. “Ashen Row’s been scraped, mined, melted, and rebuilt a dozen times,” he said. “It used to be a quarter for smelters and prospectors. Now it’s a graveyard for projects the Church didn’t like.”
He flipped his notebook open, already sketching. “If someone’s moving Church-forged ore from that area, it means one of two things. Either they’re digging where they shouldn’t… or they’ve found something the Church buried and wants forgotten.”
Lottie stretched, arms behind her head. “And here I thought this week was gonna be restful after nearly getting mauled by a wolf and soul-blasted by a forge spirit.” She looked at Septimus, grinning wide. “But yeah. Let’s go poke the ash pile. Maybe we’ll find another haunted rock to sell back to Ril.”
Septimus tilted his head toward her. “You don’t think I’m a bad man for being greedy, right?”
Lottie’s grin faded. Not all the way. Just enough. She studied him like she was seeing something she hadn’t before. Then leaned forward, voice softer. “Nah. I don’t think you’re a bad man for being greedy. Greedy’s what keeps people alive when hope’s dead. Greedy gets you off the floor, makes you dig your heels in and say, ‘No, I deserve more than this.’ That’s not wicked. That’s survival with ambition.”
She tapped his knee with the toe of her boot. “What matters is what you do with it. If your greed feeds people, shelters strays, or spits in the face of monsters? I’ll follow that kind of greedy all the way to the edge.”
Her grin returned. “Besides, let’s be real. You’re only just greedy enough to not give everything away for free. Which means I still gotta teach you how to charge extra for charisma.”
Septimus chuckled quietly. “Then let’s make some backroom dealings with Ril. Something she can’t refuse. We need information on how to get to that ore.”
Lottie slid off the bench like a cat who just heard the rustle of a fresh catch. “Now that is the kind of greedy I can drink to.” She flicked an iron coin onto the table, grabbed her sling pouch, and grinned. “Let’s go make a deal shady enough to make a Totem Warden sweat.”