"They couldn't have opted for better lighting?"

"Stop whining, Laurent."

Not having my pocket watch to keep the time was wearing on my nerves. I found it in the unconscious tensing of my fingers; in the long, punctual sighs that dug their way out of me; and the slow loudening of the scuff of my boots. I knew I was losing my nerve, and I did my best to reign it in— but recent events had worn my discipline to a thin trickle of what it once was. I felt on the verge of pulling out hairs.

The seemingly endless number of shadowed alcoves wasn’t doing me any wonders either.

We arrived at a metal staircase next, grafted into the mottled concrete wall, it rose up and above the towering stacks of boxes, leading to an enclosed room. Dimly lit windows were present on each of the three sides facing outwards. Clara started up the stairs wordlessly, Arthur behind her. After a moment of hesitation, I followed. Each step we took, I silently cringed, the staircase was old— really old— or just horribly neglected in recent years. Each time we took a step, the steps would ominously rattle, or give a slight, near imperceptible tremor that unsteadied us.

The three of us quickly reached the top, and after another moment, we stepped into the room beyond. The place was a mess; papers and journals were haphazardly strewn across a table that stretched around the bend of the room; large latticed windows sat above those, gazing out at the sea of storage containers; a dilapidated, crooked, hunching chair lay abandoned; boxes took up a large portion of the wall that didn’t have a window, some where open, others were closed, many of them were of different sizes, and didn’t feature the bold, black text the crates outside had. Thankfully, it was also seemingly abandoned for the time being.

Something prickled like ice on the edge of my perception, and I paused. Clara split from us, wandering to the table and beginning to sift through the documents. Arthur continued looking around, looking a little lost. Urging myself back to action— I couldn’t place the source of the sensation— I made sure the door was shut behind us. I tried to find a way to lock it, but there wasn’t one.

Frowning, I stepped away from the door, examining the rest of the room. Beyond the office-like interior, there wasn’t much more of note; the floor was still patchwork concrete; the heat was a little better, but not by much; any and all sources of lighting were still bulbs on strings hanging freely from the ceiling, dripping waxen muddled light on everything; the low hum of electricity I couldn’t read any of the papers strewn across the counter— but I could make out the appearance of a table filled with words, followed by numbers. Bookkeeping, probably. What was left of my pride prevented me from holding it farther from my face to read it like an old crone.

“I thought we were finding our things?” I quietly spoke up, turning away.

Clara didn’t stop rummaging through the papers. “We are. This is a bookkeeping office.”

“So if they’ve thrown our stuff somewhere—“ Arthur piped up, voice cheery with realization “— we’ll find it here!”

“… Yes,” Clara admitted. She shot me a look I couldn’t decipher. All I could make out was a brief scrunching of her tan face. I motioned towards my eyes and shrugged. She waved a hand through the air. Arthur looked at us strangely. I gave up on the papers, and turned to the boxes that occupied the wall. I motioned Arthur over.

“Help me search the bigger boxes.” I gave a wary glance at the larger ones, bigger than my torso and gave them a tentative push. They didn’t budge. “I can’t move them on my own. I’ll start looking through the smaller ones— see if there’s something we can use.”

“Surprisingly good call, Laurent,” Clara chimed, though her voice lacked the indignation she initially met me with. I glanced back to see her hunched over the table, quickly— but slow for her— scanning the pages for something. Her expression wasn’t as scrunched with tension as before— she wasn’t relaxed, no, we all had good enough sense not to let our guard down in such a place— but I could tell the tiredness was getting at her. I glanced at Arthur as he carefully lowered boxes to the ground. He was moving slower, not tired— but the situation was wearing at him. My face probably looked the same, if not worse.

Exhaustion dragged at my limbs— held at bay earlier by adrenaline— and logically I knew that even here wasn’t safe, but it presented enough illusion of safety that I’d begun to crash. I grit my teeth, focusing on the ache within my eyes and the boxes in front of me.

“… Given up on berating me at every turn?” I muttered. My voice lacked the energy for anything truly biting. “Here I thought that our wonderful Eigenlicht would continue trumpeting my incompetency at every turn.”

“There’s no use repeating what’s already been taken as fact.” Clara dryly replied. Arthur looked like he wanted to say something, but chose not to. “It isn’t necessary.”

I didn’t have the heart to respond, so I focused on the small box in front of me. I tugged off the lid, setting it to the floor and dug within.

A tiny voice in my mind berated me for just shoving my hands in before making sure it was safe— What if the box had been crammed with snakes?— I ignored it. How assuring to know that the nonsensical side of me was still working despite everything. I was going to sleep for a week after this. Paranoia spoke up, and I tuned it out.

The box was filled with useless stuff; strips of mottled metal bundled together like hay— I couldn’t read the labels; heavy curved bands that seemingly went around objects much larger than my head; metal cables that were bent and rusted; old brooms— why were there old brooms? To cut a long list short, all of it was horribly unhelpful.

Again— like an icicle dripping onto my nape— a sharp prickle of ice bloomed on the edge of my senses. This time, I stilled, searching temporarily abandoned as I perked up, looking around for its source. I ignored the voice that said something wasn’t right— that we should leave before we discovered its source— the feeling hadn’t been exactly unpleasant. It felt like waves lapping at a shore, soft and welcoming, like a cousin greeting another.

“Elle?” Arthur glanced my way. “What’s wrong?”

“I felt something strange—“ I paused, finding a way to phrase it in a way that wouldn’t put them on immediate alert “— like my ether, but not mine. Not someone else’s, either.”

“How do you know that?” Clara asked, her gaze had spun towards the longer corners of the room, watching. Arthur tilted his head, brows furrowed.

“Another person’s ether feels contained. Trapped,” I rattled off a textbook memory, trying to focus on the sensation, but it had passed. I couldn’t pick it out from the sludge of other sensory detail. “You almost never feel it in common occurrence— and when you do, its fleeting. What I just felt… was something akin to a breeze of something else.”

Clara pursed her lips, falling silent. Arthur spoke up, “Does it feel cold?”

“Yes.”

“I can sorta feel it— like it isn’t really strong or anything— it feels really similar to your magic though, Elle. It doesn’t feel angry or anything.”

“You can sense intent?” I narrowed my eyes at him. That was news. I’d never heard of ether carrying intent from their source.

“Well— like— not really, but like it’s kinda—“ a look of deep thinking overcame him “— like it’s hard to describe. It’s just a feeling.”

“Can you glean anything else?” Clara asked.

“I don’t think so— I have to listen pretty hard to find out.”

“Then the plan?” I shot a look at Clara. “Stick around and find out?”

Clara’s gaze fell, tracing along the table she’d occupied. She’d only gotten through about half. “I’ll trust both your judgments. But we’re out at the first sign of danger. Are you able to pick up on it again?”

I frowned, shaking my head. “No.”

“Alright. Let’s not dally any longer than we have to.”

That was our cue to continue our self-assigned tasks. I continued searching through the smaller boxes, finding more and more useless knick-knacks; the cracked wooden handle of something; haphazardly stacked murky, empty glass vials that fell deeper into the crate when my hand brushed them; unlabeled glass jars stained dark and oily, holding something inside; lids and containers that didn’t match up with each other; distorted sticks of metal that were obviously bent and unusable. I scoffed, this was less a bookkeeping office and more a hoarder’s den.

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“I thought this was a sorting office?” I muttered, scowling.

“Probably just stuff they’ve taken off people, Laurent,” Clara called from the other side of the room.

“Can you even see the contents from over there?”

“Yes. I can. Expression stuff.”

My frown deepened, and I didn’t turn, focusing on my task. “I don’t see how that applies.”

“My Shroud Encompasses the room— naturally that includes whatever’s in it.”

“That seems like a horrible stretch of the word.”

“What are you— a linguist?” Clara’s voice still felt flat and tired. “Take it up with the people who declared my Expression.”

“What?”

“What?”

“I— I thought you declared your own Expression— when it comes up…?” Arthur tried.

“… Take it up with whoever determined my Expression, then.” She groaned, and a large shuffle of papers were dumped somewhere. “The records are clean.”

“… Did you really think they’d keep records of their crimes in an unlocked office?”

“Elle,” Arthur chided. “It was worth a try.”

“How much longer before we decide to cut our losses?”

“A little longer,” Clara strained. “Then we’ll leave.”

My lips pursed, and I held my criticism. We were all stressed, no use picking flaws she probably already knew. Conversation died, replaced by the echoing silent hum of distant machinery. After a while, Arthur joined me, starting at the other end of the line of crates we’d made, checking the one’s he’d placed down. I did my best to pick up the pace, feeling for the shape rather than trying to examine every single detail— we were still on a time limit, after all. I still wanted to search for the source of the sensation— but a sensory spell would’ve taken both too long and been too draining in my current state.

“Elle,” Arthur lightly called. I glanced up, and he was holding something in his hands. “Do you know what these are?”

I walked over. “Are they enchanted? Hand them here.”

Arthur placed two spheres into my hand, each about the size of a marble, their surfaces murky gray like storm clouds. They felt light— unnaturally so, and after a moment, I tossed one up. As the stone reached the apex of the throw, it slowed, floating down and into my waiting hand like a feather. I handed them back to Arthur. “Conventional Feather stones. If you have one on you, it’ll slow your fall.”

“Oh— really?” Arthur perked up. “That’s really cool.”

“Mhmm.” I turned back to my task. “Though— you should be careful. Feather stones only support one person, and they’re usually single use. The gem doesn’t have enough ether for sustained usages. They’re more an emergency item than anything else.” Arthur looked a little disappointed at that, but put them back into the boxes all the same.

Clara piped up from across the room, “You should probably take those.”

“Why?”

“Nothing in those boxes are on record. Which means they’re likely stolen from others.”

“Others?”

“Did you think we were the only people they’ve kidnapped?”

“I thought you said they didn’t kidnap people—“

“— I said they didn’t kill people.”

Arthur’s voice was subdued. “Then… then there are other people here? That were kidnapped?”

“… No,” Clara responded absently. “I checked.”

“I— okay…”

I quickly refocused the subject, clearing my throat despite the pain. “Eigenlicht is saying you should take the Feather stones in case we need them.”

“I— yeah— I know, I know…” After a hesitant moment, Arthur gently scooped the Feather stones into his pocket, before slowly beginning to dig through the crates again. I stilled, my hand closing on a familiar strip of cloth— I’d been about to walk away. I tugged, found it stuck, and tugged again after bracing myself against the crate.

“I think I found our things,” I said. I gave another tug, before finally pulling up the strap of my bag from the bottom of the box— objects clattered and settled in the box— but it was undoubtedly my bag. From the weight, it seemed everything was still inside. I’d check later. Arthur and Clara came over, glancing into the crate.

“Oh. Yeah that looks like our stuff.” The three of us crowded around, wordlessly agreeing not to look too hard at each others things. I found my Focuses, my cloak— the former I slid into my sleeves and pockets. I didn’t find my warmth charm, though.

“Oh! I found my Compass!” Arthur cried.

“What?” Clara narrowed her eyes.

“My compass— look!” He presented the dull bronze glass sphere that he’d bought from that charlatan of a merchant— well, I bought, but I didn’t like to think about the fact that I willingly bought it for him. I never intended to— just, I had caved when I saw his hopeful expression.

“It’s some gimmicky artifact he bought earlier today,” I tiredly supplied to Clara’s confused look, resisting the sudden urge to sigh. “Supposedly it was an early design by Gemspinner Alma.”

“It is!” Arthur exclaimed. “Iwerj wouldn’t lie.”

“That merchant was scamming you, Arthur.”

“Not everyone’s as bad as you think they are, Elle.”

“I— you know what— “ Clara shook her head “— I’m not gonna ask. We have bigger things to worry about.”

“Surprisingly good call, Eigenlicht,” I quietly echoed, gaze down. Clara snorted, fastening a pouch to her hip.

I settled my bag on my shoulder, made sure my Focuses were properly stored, and moved to fasten on my cloak. Then, without warning, a blaring alarm cut through the silent din of machinery. Loud and shrill, Intruders, it seemed to wail.

Arthur stilled, head swiveling towards the window, where the light had brightened into a stale, sustained red. Clara continued her task, seemingly unaffected by the sudden change, and I inwardly sighed. I knew we couldn’t stay undetected forever, but some part of me hoped for it regardless.

Then Clara perked up, spinning, still setting objects into her pockets. “Someone’s coming.”

“Who?” Arthur and I rushed to follow her towards the door.

“Someone who can Shroud— feels like. They’re moving far too fast for it to be normal.”

Scabs. I swallowed down the nausea, winced at the rasp in my throat, did my best to calm my heart, and readjusted my grip on my wand. “Coming towards us?”

“What do we do?” Arthur’s voice was tense.

“Beelining towards us, actually.” Clara marched towards the door, pulling it open and peeking out.

Ice bloomed along the edge of my perception, and for a moment, I forgot where I was. There was something fascinating about the sensation; like having my attention caught by something unexpected; like being able to watch a snowflake form; watching frost as it rippled across a still pond. I spotted it then: a small box innocuously placed at the edge of a crate near the door, hidden behind it when we opened it, hidden behind a shadow of boxes when we closed it. It emanated a shrill chill, quietly whistling to me like singing frost.

My thoughts suspended, caught like a fly in amber, as it simultaneously placed and flickered between what and how and why: Vitrine gems. Incredibly potent little gemstones— Vitrine gems were among some of the highest sought after components for spells. They possessed a frankly ridiculous ether-to-size ratio— only outpaced by substances that weren’t even verified to exist. Things like dragon hearts, leviathan blood— all sorts of mythical creatures that never existed. Vitrine gems were in high demand— not only because of their capabilities, but because of how horribly rare they were. A single gem the size of my palm could probably buy several homes closer to the palace and still have a good chunk leftover. In practice, even many of the most prestigious mages died without the chance to work with one.

The singular point against the gems in practical use were their volatility. They were liable to explode if improperly handled or exposed to conflicting elements— which usually wouldn’t be a problem a box wouldn’t fix, if a single gem wasn’t enough to obliterate a mansion.

Regardless, most people understood the regulations surrounding them, and actively did their best to steer clear. Mishandling them could have disastrous effects. Vitrine gems were regarded with either dogmatic pursuit, or steady-eyed caution. I was of the latter. Usually. When I’d gotten more than six hours of sleep across seventy-two hours. And when my brain wasn’t frying itself from Burnout.

I didn’t give myself the time to ask why Virgulta would leave such horribly potent things here, or even who they stole it off of— a moment of carelessness, of a false sense of security? It didn’t matter. I wanted to take advantage of it all the same. Desperation and exhaustion had begun sliding me very quickly into the category of the first.

“How soon?” I paused, eyes flickering back to that box. Rationale tiptoed the line between should and should not. The same voice that goaded me past the corpse in the dream, solemnly repeating: Your Oath. My Shade’s insidious voice crept back in: We’re running out of time. My internal voice of reason, subverting Talon’s stern instruction: Do not hesitate. I spared a glance towards Clara and Arthur. They were both turned away, halfway out the door.

Clara’s gaze cut back, appraising. “I thought you wanted to leave, Laurent?”

I scowled, before beginning to follow her. She turned down the stairs, leaving my view. On the way out, I grabbed the little wooden box, shoving it into a pocket of my cloak. The worry that they’d explode in my bag was a distant thing, drowned out by their promise, by everything that could go right if I had them.

In hindsight, I could safely say that the decision wasn’t one I was remotely in any state to make.

But what was done was done, and so, with the Vitrine gems securely in my bag, I stumbled down the stairs in my rush to catch up with Clara and Arthur, who’d made it to the bottom. Clara spared me a glance, and Arthur shot me a look that could only be called concerned.

I flashed them a scowl. “What?”

“… Nothing,” Clara muttered, swiveling towards a line of crates at the end. “We need to go— anyway. The person—“

“— Found ya,” cut in. We turned, steps aborted, to see a man, wiry and tall, in a ruffled coat and scarf, looking dangerously solemn, face etched with a million little pale scars that stood out on his half-burnt face. In his hand, point hovering above the ground and catching the dry red light, was a spear.

Scabs.

“Needa pay you back for what you did to Patches,” he drawled, stepping forward.