Bloody hell! I needed to figure out what to do about the gate – and fast. The thug hadn’t come to his senses or returned yet. The worst part of situation was that I couldn’t distinguish one type of energy from another. Everything with an air or water base looked pale and similar in the soft blue-green spectrum. Only lightning, thanks to its fire component, had a brighter violet hue. For gifted energy practitioners with a developed third eye, differentiating them would have been easy, but the ointment I was using didn’t offer that kind of clarity.

Still, I had a point of reference!

I threw my travel bag to the ground and pulled out a small box of stones from my satchel. Each one was stored in its own compartment and had a distinct glow, except for the ether and mist stones that had been drained on the train. Bright red for fire, nearly black for metal, and gray for earth – those could be ruled out immediately. Water…

I took a water stone from the box and brought it close to the gate’s handle. Unlikely. It wasn’t lightning either. Air again?

The glow of the air stone was remarkably similar to the energy surrounding not just the gate’s handle but the entire fence. Damn it, just a basic signaling spell? Hopefully, it wouldn’t chop my hand off. I returned the box to my bag but kept a glowing green garnet bead in my left hand. If I sustained physical damage, I could at least use its raw energy for some quick recovery.

My hand rested on the gate’s handle, and I pressed. The gate clicked with its rusty lock, creaked on its long-neglected hinges, and opened. A sharp prick of foreign energy shot through my hand, but it wasn’t more than that. Relieved, I grabbed my travel bag and stepped onto the gravel path.

The pedestrian path wound alongside the driveway but was in a sorry state. Weeds of all kinds pushed their way up through the gravel, reaching for the sun. A pair of spiky thistles had grown so large that I had to step off the path to avoid them – right near some red energy spots hidden in the grass that radiated fire magic. And that wasn’t the only trap.

The garden – or rather, the park, as it was too vast to be called a garden – glowed with magic. Even in the middle of the path, I encountered powerful circles etched with seals of somber metal energy and dark-red magma magic. The house felt like it was under siege, and the warning from that strange man earlier no longer seemed so ridiculous. It was clear that ordinary people weren’t meant to enter these grounds.

Adding to the ominous atmosphere was a large plywood sign stuck in the middle of the path. Faded red paint scrawled across it read: “Get lost while you’re still alive!!!” In smaller text beneath it, the words: “Leaving the path is dangerous to your life. Regular clients know what to do.”

Beyond the sign began a minefield of small seals glowing with a kaleidoscope of energies.

Walking straight down the path wasn’t an option, but if there were regular clients… I looked closer.

On the right, in the tall grass, there was a faint gap, as though a trail had once been there. It led to an old oak tree, and it was the only direction free of ground seals.

Reaching the tree, I spotted another gap that brought me directly to the grand porch, with its thick columns and a massive balcony on the second floor. Damn it, this Smith guy was either in serious trouble or a full-blown paranoid! There were seals even on the porch. The clear path was no more than a meter and a half wide, and the door itself radiated an unpleasant blue energy – especially the bronze door knocker.

Still, no one would attach an offensive spell to a knocker. It was likely another signaling spell, like the one on the gate. Most knockers are shaped like large rings held in the mouth of some grotesque beast, but Harry’s knocker was a literal hammer hanging from a ring. It struck a plate that depicted an anvil.

I knocked three times and heard the sound echo through the house, amplified by magic.

I waited. And waited. Eventually, I knocked again… and again. Entering a wizard’s home uninvited wasn’t just impolite – It was downright dangerous. But the ointment’s effect was wearing off, and the knocker’s glow had almost completely faded.

Taking a deep breath, I decided to risk it and pushed open the massive doors.

"Sir Harry!" I called out, my voice echoing through the dusty hall. There wasn’t much light in the entryway. The double doors, which likely led to a grand hall, were shut. On either side of the doors, staircases spread out like the wings of a predatory bird, curving upward to the second floor. My attention was caught by a faint, blurry figure with a bluish glow on the right staircase.

"Sir Harry Smith?" I repeated, uncertain.

The blue blur shot out a beam of the same color. It instantly wrapped around my legs and yanked upward so fast that I dropped my travel bag and barely managed to hold on to my satchel before flipping upside down. Then an invisible force tore the satchel from my grip as well.

"Careful!" I shouted instinctively.

To my surprise, the man who caught me listened. My satchel didn’t slam into the floor, which would have been disastrous for the glass vials inside. Instead, it floated gently down.

"Sir Harry…" I tried again, hoping it was him.

"The very same. But I don’t know you!"

The blue blur solidified into the form of a tall, thin man with a shaggy beard and a shiny bald head. The wizard was dressed simply, in a plain shirt and rough work pants held up by suspenders. He gave a sharp flick of his outstretched hand, sending me swinging up and down violently. The movement dislodged my grandfather’s dagger from the inside pocket of my coat, and it clattered to the floor.

The wizard extended his left hand toward it with interest. I saw his energy try to wrap around the dagger, but it resisted and stayed where it was.

"A warlock?" he muttered. "You don’t look like one…"

"My grandfather was a warlock," I admitted quickly. "Gregor Kinkaid. I’m Duncan. You examined me five years ago."

The same force that had grabbed my legs now seized my arms and stretched them downward, carrying me closer to the wizard. My body stopped about half a meter away from him, still hanging upside down. Harry scrutinized my chest, rotated my body slightly in midair, and finally set me upright on the floor.

"Looks like you’ve been keeping busy. One rune broken, working on the second. Impressive." He nodded approvingly. "Sorry about the rough welcome, boy. I’ve got a bit of a… conflict going on."

"I noticed. A man outside ‘strongly advised’ me not to come in."

"Advised, did he?" Harry raised an eyebrow. "That bastard’s scared off everyone he could, and anyone he couldn’t, his master took care of! What’s that crap under your eyes? Can’t make sense of it."

"Ointment to see what’s hidden," I explained.

"Ah, classic warlock education. Next time, try putting it on your third eye."

"My third eye’s closed."

"Try it!" Harry said insistently.

Not wanting to upset the wizard, I opened the ring, scraped out the remaining ointment with my pinky, and brought it toward my forehead.

"Lower," Harry corrected immediately.

"I know. The spot’s just above the brows," I replied, applying the ointment to the proper point.

Almost instantly, the world blossomed into sharper, more vivid colors. The elemental hues gained clarity, and even Harry’s form changed. A small blue glow appeared where his third eye should be, green energy shone where his spiritual core resided, and gray light radiated from his elemental source. All three key energy nodes were open and brimming with power.

"Impressive," I whispered, awed.

"See? All it took was using it correctly!" Harry smirked. "Right, gather up your stuff and let’s head to the kitchen. I’ll treat you to some chamomile tea and baked potatoes. That’s all I’ve got, unfortunately."

I bent down to grab my travel bag and satchel, but froze mid-motion. Through the cracks in the grand hall’s doors, I could see powerful streams of magic leaking out. Gray earth energy shifted into nearly black metal, only to transform into a vivid blue ether. What kind of monstrous spell could radiate that power?

"Come on already," Harry grumbled. "It’s not like you haven’t seen places of power before."

"There are three elements in there…" I murmured, unable to tear my eyes away.

"It hasn’t fully formed yet," Harry replied dismissively.

It was becoming clearer what was happening here. If the wizard was trying to awaken his own place of power, it made sense that competitors would attempt to sabotage him. The only thing that puzzled me was that I’d never heard of such a complex ritual being conducted by a single person. Sir Harry Smith was either a genius or a madman – or maybe a bit of both.

The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

"Should you really be stepping away?" I asked, complying with the wizard’s instruction to follow him.

"Pfft... I’ve been playing with it for a year," he replied, leading me toward the kitchen. "An hour or two won’t make much of a difference."

"A year?! That means you haven’t left the house in a year?"

"And how do you think I’ve been growing potatoes and gathering chamomile?" he retorted. "The bastards scared off all my suppliers too. I’d kill for some bacon and a couple of eggs."

"Why not get some chickens, then?" I suggested.

"I did have chickens – until a fox got into the coop. I prepared seriously for this ritual," Harry grumbled.

We entered a spacious, bright, but slightly dusty kitchen. It looked like it could host a banquet for a hundred people, but signs of activity were limited to the gas stove and one corner of the table. The wizard grabbed a ladle, scooped water from a wooden barrel, and filled the kettle.

"They cut off my water and gas as soon as they realized what I was doing. The well in the backyard and a few cylinders in the basement keep me going. Same with the electricity – they cut that too. Even blocked the sewer line. They even tried to summon me to court, but for some reason, they stopped. No idea why."

Harry lit the stove and set the kettle on it.

"Hungry?"

"I last ate on the train," I admitted.

"Then grab a knife. We’re peeling potatoes. Your grandfather was good at this. How’s the old fart doing, anyway?" Harry handed me a short kitchen knife.

"He’s dead. Killed," I replied, my tone somber.

"Damn… Sorry, boy. I… I’ve been out of touch with people for a while. I’ve been putting off moments like this. So, what brings you to me? How can I help?"

"It’s a long story," I said. "I can tell you while we peel the potatoes."

"Hmm! Go on then!"

"One question first – how much longer will the ritual take?" I quickly clarified, hoping to avoid being hoisted upside down again. "I just want to know how open I can be. If the ritual’s ongoing, you won’t exactly have a chance to spill the beans to anyone."

"A month. Give or take a week," Harry said, waving off the concern.

I told him everything. Harry turned out to be quite emotional. He cursed furiously when I described my grandfather’s rise, swore vividly at Simon, laughed heartily at my escape from the train, and recommended tracking down and thrashing the street gang that had tried to mug me.

"You know who I feel the sorriest for in this whole mess?" he asked as the kettle began to whistle.

"Who?"

"Bryce. You’ve dropped quite the headache into his lap. Well done, by the way, for clarifying about the ritual. If I had the chance, I’d definitely have ratted you out to him."

"Thanks for your honesty," I said dryly.

"Don’t mention it," Harry waved me off, pouring the boiled water over crushed chamomile in the teapot. "What exactly do you want from me? To track down your Simon?"

"No," I surprised him. "I wanted to learn about the balance of power here in the city. And I wanted to figure out what caught Ferrish’s attention about Simon. My uncle mentioned that his dagger reacted to vampires."

"I don’t deal with bloodsuckers," Harry said quickly, distancing himself from the topic. "And as for the city’s power structure, I’ve been out of the loop for nearly a year."

Harry’s potatoes… Well, they were something else. As it turned out, he had been "feeding" them with magic – not blood, but earth energy – which gave them a distinctly peculiar flavor, like road dust. The chamomile tea, however, was surprisingly decent.

The wizard allowed me to stay the night, giving me time to rest after my journey and think over my next steps. I confessed that I had brought a small fortune with me, which he strongly advised me not to carry around. Then again, he also didn’t recommend staying in the city either. According to Harry, Baron Fairburn was an influential bastard, and picking a fight with him without a proper patron was foolish. Harry himself would have gladly acted as my patron, but for now, his abilities were severely limited.

So, I was assigned one of the mansion’s dusty rooms and a much-needed bed, where I welcomed the morning – though it was a rather late one, to be honest.

A note lay on the floor, clearly slid under the door by Harry:

"Don’t go into the hall!!! Call for me. If I don’t answer, I’m busy. Potatoes are on the stove."

I made a mental note to buy him some meat.

After calling for Harry a few times and receiving no response, I left a note of my own in the kitchen, letting him know I was heading into the city. But before leaving, I sorted through my satchel, packing the unnecessary items into my travel bag: the stones, half the potions, and an undershirt with sewn-in banknotes. I kept only £200 in cash with me – a sum that was easily ten times the average monthly wage of a descent worker in Avoc.

The only significant item of value that I didn’t leave behind was the baron’s ring. I figured it might come in handy, but instead of wearing it, I strung it on a cord alongside my signaling amulet.

Once more, I called for Harry, and this time I heard his voice from behind a closed door.

"One more hour!"

"I’m heading into the city," I shouted back.

"Don’t stir up trouble," came his sage advice.

I paused by the gate, even waving toward the house where Fairburn’s men were holed up. I had hoped to settle things peacefully, but no one came out, so I continued on toward the nearby square where Harry had mentioned cabs gathered.

There were about ten idle vehicles there; it was that time of day when no one was in much of a hurry. The second cabbie I approached recognized the establishment I named in Pubsate.

Unsurprisingly, the "Commode" turned out to be a pawnshop of middling quality. Or perhaps I was just biased – it was my first time in such a place, so I couldn’t help but look around with curiosity. The shop was packed with all sorts of items: watches, kitchen utensils, furniture, weapons, and even works of art.

Patrick Mallory turned out to be a large, rotund man with the cheerful smile of a favorite uncle and small, oily eyes. He immediately pegged me as an outsider and set to work on me. Clearly, I needed to change my clothes.

Mallory assured me that the streets of Farnell were rife with dangers and that only a reliable firearm could keep me safe. He then attempted to sell me a revolver that had been outdated for at least half a century. In response, I showed him my own pistol, and the shopkeeper immediately quieted down. Then, hoping to catch him off guard, I casually mentioned my fear of vampires.

The man perked up instantly, launching into a sales pitch for a wooden crucifix, thrice blessed by the bishop himself. It was a bargain at just one pound, he claimed.

I bought the cross. Building contacts, after all, required a bit of give-and-take.

Asking direct questions about the city’s shadow community – or vampires specifically – might have scared him off. So, I left the pawnshop no wiser than when I had entered.

The next item on my agenda was finding a place to stay, but life had other plans for me. Pubsate was a district known for cheap entertainment, so during the day, the streets were mostly empty – just the occasional passerby, workers, or completely unhinged partygoers stumbling around. The streets didn’t come alive until the evening.

That said, a couple of sturdy-looking fellows immediately started tailing me. When I stopped by a pub, so did they. I took a step forward – they followed.

"Gentlemen," I asked directly, "whose interests are you representing?"

Who knew what had drawn their attention to me? Maybe they were just common thugs.

"Huh? We… uh…" one of them stammered.

"We’re just here, not botherin’ anyone," the other chimed in. "Keep movin’."

"Apologies, but I’m already where I need to be," I said, gesturing toward the pub. "You’re free to move along; I won’t keep you."

"Well, we’re here too!" the first one declared, puffing out his chest.

"Then by all means, go ahead," I said, pointing toward the pub’s doors.

An awkward silence hung between us.

"Let’s not kid ourselves – you’re following me. Why don’t you just tell me who sent you and arrange a meeting with them? That would save us all some trouble."

"What?" the thugs said in unison, clearly baffled.

"There’s always a way to settle things peacefully," I continued. "And then there’s no need to hide bodies from the police."

"What bodies?!" blurted the first one, his voice rising slightly.

"Not live ones, surely. The live ones will just walk away," I said matter-of-factly. "So, gentlemen, what will it be?"

The two men, who had been visibly tense, suddenly relaxed. I followed their gaze over my shoulder and turned to see what had caused the shift.

Storming down the sidewalk with the fury of a thousand devils was none other than Martin Belor, with two more enforcers trailing behind him. We were still separated by a fair distance, and it seemed he was afraid I might run. But running from a predator only triggers its hunting instincts.

"Mr. Belor!" I called out, waving cheerfully. To make matters worse for him, I began walking toward him.

Martin slowed his pace, clearly wary. I scanned the surroundings with my peripheral vision and adjusted my stride so that we would meet directly in front of another establishment. Judging by the female mannequins in overly revealing dresses on display in the windows, it definitely wasn’t a pub where someone could drag me out easily. It might have been a specialized boutique or a salon. I hoped men weren’t barred from entry. The well-maintained exterior and tasteful decor spoke of a certain status.

"Sir," Martin spat the word like it was poison, clearly in no mood for pleasantries.

"I’ve been informed about the disagreement between Sir Harry and Lord Fairburn," I said calmly. "You can assure your employer that I have no intention of interfering. However, I do need some time to find alternative accommodations. I hope to be done by evening. For now, if you’ll excuse me…"

I turned ninety degrees, took a step toward the door, and pressed the button for the electric doorbell. If no one answered, I’d likely be smeared across the pavement in short order.

No one answered immediately, so I pressed the button again under Martin’s increasingly irritated glare. He shoved his hat back on his head and furrowed his brow, clearly trying to decide what to do.

Thankfully, before his thoughts settled on a violent course of action, the door opened. Unfortunately, the man who opened it gave off the kind of vibe that suggested a painful death awaited those who crossed him.

The bruiser, dressed in a vest with a loosened tie around his thick neck, was bigger than anyone present, including Martin’s enforcers.

"The girls are sleeping," he grunted.

Damn it. The dresses in the window suddenly clicked in my head: I’d walked right into a brothel.

"Surely this problem can be resolved?" I asked, holding up a five-pound note. It was the first thing my fingers found in my pocket, but I would’ve offered more if needed.

"All of 'em?" the bruiser asked, raising an eyebrow.

I turned back to the stunned group behind me.

"Let them pay for themselves," I said with a shrug.

"Entry’s a fiver," the bruiser declared.

I handed him the note, squeezed past him with as much dignity as I could muster, and stepped inside.

None of Belor’s men followed me, but I couldn’t shake the unease about what lay ahead. My immediate future was suddenly looking rather uncertain.