It was dark when they came to my alley—well, as dark as it ever got in the City of Light. Two men, both cloaked and hooded, their faces obscured. The first arrived not long after I returned from my evening scavenging, and the second shortly thereafter. At first, they only spoke, though their voices carried a tension sharp enough to pierce the air. I couldn’t understand the language, nor did I need to. After so many cycles surviving the streets, I’d learned to stay out of sight when trouble brewed.

The conversation didn’t last. Words, it seemed, weren’t enough. The argument escalated quickly, and one man drew a knife. The other dodged back, narrowly avoiding the blade, and retaliated with a weapon of his own. The fight was brief and clumsy, neither man skilled enough to turn the odds in his favor. In a knife fight, no one truly wins. One man eventually overpowered the other, but his victory was fleeting—his wounds were too severe. By the end, both were dead.

I waited, crouched on the rooftop, watching for any sign of movement below. When the alley remained still, I lowered myself onto the pile of broken crates and discarded furniture. Leaving anything behind would be foolish—if the watch bothered to venture into this forgotten gap between a bookstore and a pastry shop, they’d ask questions no one wanted to answer.

The first man’s purse was unexpectedly heavy, the weight of silver marks unmistakable. I’d count them later. The second man’s purse was lighter but far more valuable, holding at least thirty golden talons. I stripped both bodies of anything useful: boots, tattered shirts and cloaks, the knives they’d fought with, belts, and—curiously—a matching pair of books, one from each man. Hidden in the lining of the first man’s cloak, I found another pouch of coins, this one filled with gold.

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Several hours later, after counting every coin and hiding the bodies as best I could, I found myself in an unfamiliar predicament. I was wealthier than I had ever dreamed, with absolutely no idea what to do about it. Sure, I had already used a bit to buy food, but a single silver mark could keep me fed for a year. The fortune before me felt unreal, a puzzle for another day.

With no plan for the gold, I turned my attention to the books. Identical in appearance, they were bound in dark leather, each embossed with the same unsettling symbol: an eye encased in a pentagon, with strange markings at each of its points. Curiosity compelled me to open one.

Though my reading skills were remnants of a better life, they had faded with time. I managed to make out the bold, solitary words printed on each page, though their meanings were a mystery. Page after page, the pattern repeated—single, unfamiliar words, presented starkly. Despite the differences in page order, both books shared much of the same content.

I flipped to a random page, curiosity giving way to a reckless impulse. Carefully, I tried to sound out one of the strange words. “Mor-tih-vecks,” I whispered. Then again, with more certainty: “Mortivex.”

The moment the word left my lips, a sharp ache bloomed in my head, radiating behind my eyes. My forehead burned as if seared by an invisible flame. Panic rose, but I had no time to act. Darkness rushed in, and I crumpled where I sat, unconscious before I hit the ground.