Lucian woke in the dark, long before the estate staff began their morning routines. The heavy velvet curtains blocked the weak dawn light. Outside his tall windows, the sea threw its weight against the coastal cliffs. The water sounded flat and heavy today. The sharp wind of the previous day had finally exhausted itself overnight, leaving behind a cold, creeping dampness.
That ocean moisture seeped into the stone foundations and settled deep inside the wooden beams of Vale House.
A specific, heavy reality anchored his thoughts the moment he opened his eyes. He almost had everything required to brew the Sequence 9 Criminal potion.
He already possessed the core characteristic safely locked inside the study. The remaining formula demanded a few highly specific items. Seventy milliliters of blood from a Savage Dog. Sixty milliliters from a Murderous Black Crow. A piece of ill-gotten gain or a crime trophy. Ten drops of tears from a victim.
I just need to finish the list and swallow the madness.
He washed his face with cold water from the porcelain basin and dressed in simple, dark clothing. He walked down the carpeted corridor. A mourning house operated under a stifling, unnatural gravity. The few servants already awake moved with exaggerated care.
The clatter of coal grates and kitchen pans stayed completely muted. Everyone waited in silence for the new master to dictate the daily mood.
Lucian let himself into the study. The room smelled strongly of pipe tobacco, old paper, and sea salt. He sat at the massive mahogany desk and placed a small glass vial near the inkwell.
He had searched the room late last night and located a perfectly viable trophy. His father maintained a small wooden box buried beneath the main ledger shelves in the false-bottom cabinet. The box contained an assortment of seemingly worthless junk. A cracked wax seal. A bent brass watch key. A cheap iron ring missing its centerpiece.
Tucked at the very bottom sat a tarnished brass gaming token. A brief note written in his father's precise handwriting rested right next to it.
'Taken off a knife-man from the East Pier. Kept as a reminder.'
The token held absolutely zero financial value. It fit the occult formula perfectly.
Lucian looked at the empty glass vial.
Finding the right victim is going to be miserable.
He needed tears. The Abyss pathway demanded rigid adherence to its twisted rules. If he used a false victim, the potion might fail entirely. It might violently mutate him on the spot. He needed absolute certainty.
He went down the list of people he knew.
His parents died in a sudden maritime disaster. They held zero connection to his own personal actions. Tomas Rill died by another man's blade. Using a random terrified servant felt incredibly risky. The ritual logic demanded a direct, undeniable thread between the crime and the suffering.
He paused and considered the strict legal definitions of the Loen Kingdom.
The original Lucian had locked his bedroom door, swallowed a massive dose of laudanum, and tried to end his own life. The kingdom technically considered suicide a criminal offense.
He committed the crime.
He suffered the harm.
He occupies both roles perfectly.
The realization carried a grim, heavy weight. Lucian opened the top drawer and unfolded the official harbor report regarding the shipwreck. He needed to surface the residual grief buried deep inside his inherited flesh.
He read the names printed in stark black ink. He read the dry, clinical language reducing his entire family history to weather patterns, shipping routes, and recovered personal effects.
The sorrow hit him like a physical blow. He remembered his mother's hand resting gently on his shoulder. He remembered his father looking over a complicated shipping ledger late at night in this exact room. The sharp, overwhelming smell of wet rope and salt water flooded his lungs. A profound, suffocating sense of loss swelled upward from his chest and burned his eyes.
The first tear fell. Lucian quickly caught it with the rim of the glass vial.
He sat in the quiet study and slowly collected ten drops.
He put a small cork in the glass and wiped his face with the back of his hand. He set the vial down next to the brass token.
Three items secured. Two left to buy.
A heavy thump sounded against the study door. The thick wood swung open. Bran trotted into the room with his tail wagging. The massive black dog crossed the rug, stopped at the desk, and sniffed the empty air. Bran then rested his chin heavily on Lucian's knee and looked up with large, deeply expectant eyes.
"You already ate breakfast," Lucian told him.
Bran whined and nudged Lucian's hand with a wet nose.
"I refuse to involve you in this." Lucian scratched the dog behind the ears. "You are completely unsuited for the Abyss pathway. You demand bacon every single morning. You sleep fourteen hours a day on a silk cushion. Adding demonic powers to your schedule would simply create a lazier menace."
Bran let out a long, dramatic huff. He collapsed onto the patterned rug, went completely limp, and refused to look at him. The animal managed to look profoundly insulted by the rejection.
Lucian smiled faintly and stood up.
Harwin knocked on the open door frame a few minutes later. They ate a quick breakfast in the dining room. Harwin kept quiet. Lucian deeply appreciated the silence.
They walked outside together. The morning sky looked like a solid sheet of pale tin. The carriage waiting in the drive matched Lucian's instructions exactly. It lacked any family crests or Vale colors. The driver wore a completely anonymous grey coat.
Bran stood at the top of the stone steps. He stared at the carriage with clear suspicion.
"Guard the house," Lucian said.
Bran gave a sharp bark and sat down firmly on the top step.
The ride into Pritz Harbor passed quickly. The port woke up early. Heavy wooden carts rattled over the uneven cobblestones. Men shouted hoarse orders across the busy piers. The air smelled strongly of rotting fish, hot tar, coal smoke, and wet timber.
Harwin sat opposite Lucian. The older man watched the passing streets for a while before turning his attention inward.
"You seem to know exactly where we are going today."
"I know enough to get inside the shop and leave quickly," Lucian replied.
"Madame Vey handled your father's private business for years," Harwin warned smoothly. "She always provides results. She is also incredibly dangerous."
"I fully expect her to be."
The carriage rolled deeper into the harbor. The iron-rimmed wheels rattled loudly over the uneven stone. Lucian watched the passing streets and mentally weighed the exact size of his inheritance.
He understood the ledgers perfectly now. He controlled roughly sixty thousand gold pounds in liquid reserves. That massive sum sat scattered across standard bank accounts, iron warehouse strongboxes, and the illegal supply channels his father had successfully hidden from the public eye.
The physical properties pushed the total value well past one hundred and ten thousand pounds. He owned the estate on the cliff, the private landing, a fleet of active merchant ships, and several lucrative cargo shares. It was an astonishing amount of money. It could easily buy absolute silence, extreme loyalty, and incredibly competent guards.
It is also completely vulnerable.
The entire fortune relied heavily on the illusion of strength. The second the harbor realized the new master lacked the teeth to defend his territory, his enemies would strip the estate down to the bone.
The carriage eventually slowed near the edge of Brine Market. The district sat far enough inland to muffle the deafening roar of the main docks. The heavy scent of salt, rotting fish, and wet rope still saturated the damp air.
The outer streets maintained a thin veneer of working-class respectability. Old women sat on wooden stools behind folding tables. They sold dry bundles of bitter herbs, cloudy bottles of lamp oil, and dented tins of preserved food.
Cracked glass jars filled with questionable tonics sat displayed in dusty shop windows. Desperate dockworkers handed over their meager coins for paper packets of dried roots, hoping to cure bad lungs, weak blood, or the crushing exhaustion of harbor life.
The deeper alleys completely abandoned that polite act. The cobblestones remained permanently slick with a foul, oily dampness. Shop shutters stayed tightly bolted across the narrow windows despite the early morning hour. Several heavy wooden doors lacked any identifying signs.
Men in thick wool coats exchanged small parcels in the shadows. They moved quickly and strictly avoided making eye contact with anyone else.
The smell of mundane herbs faded entirely. The air here smelled heavily of melting wax, old rotting wood, and things sealed tightly in glass because their actual scent was too dangerous to breathe.
The entire district felt like a place that had once tried to pass for an ordinary market before finally growing exhausted by the lie.
Lucian looked at Harwin.
"Wait in the carriage."
Harwin frowned. "I should accompany you."
"I need to handle this without Vale House standing right behind me."
"If things go poorly, I am coming through that door," Harwin stated firmly.
"Understood."
Lucian walked down the narrow lane. He found the back door described in the black book. It sat under a stained, rotting canvas awning. He knocked using the exact short rhythm his father had recorded.
The heavy wooden door opened a few inches.
Madame Vey stood in the gap. She was small, white-haired, and deeply lined by decades of age. She clenched a thin pipe between her teeth. Her sharp eyes scanned his plain clothes, evaluated his posture, and checked the empty space behind him. She noticed everything in a single second.
"Vale," she said. Her voice sounded like dry gravel grinding together.
"Lucian Vale."
She pulled the door open the rest of the way. "I recognize the jawline. I heard the grim news about your father. The whole harbor loves a fresh tragedy."
"Half the coast heard the news."
She took a slow drag from her pipe and exhaled a thick cloud of smoke. "Your father usually sent older, significantly uglier men to run his quiet errands."
"My father is permanently unavailable. I am running the estate now."
She barked out a short, coughing laugh and stepped aside. She gestured him inside.
The back room smelled strongly of dried blood, bitter herbs, and copper. Dusty wooden shelves covered the walls from floor to ceiling. Unlabeled glass bottles, brown paper packets, and small iron cages filled every available space.
A stuffed lizard with entirely too many eyes sat on a top shelf. The room lacked theatrical skulls and fake mystical displays. It belonged to a serious professional who knew the actual cost of magic.
Vey walked behind a scarred wooden counter. "What do you want, young master?"
Lucian pulled a small scrap of paper from his pocket and placed it on the counter. He had burned the rest of his notes back home. This paper held only two specific lines.
Vey picked it up. She adjusted a pair of wire spectacles on her nose.
"Savage Dog blood. Seventy milliliters. Murderous Black Crow blood. Sixty." She lowered the paper and looked at him over the rim of her glasses. "That is a very heavy order for a boy still wearing his mourning clothes."
"I need the materials pure."
"People asking for these specific items usually intend to ruin someone else's life." She tapped the paper against the wood. "Or they intend to completely destroy their own soul. Sometimes both."
"I am paying for the materials," Lucian said evenly. "I prefer to skip the moral commentary."
A genuine, crooked smile touched her wrinkled mouth. "You sound exactly like him when he lost his temper."
"I will survive the comparison. Do you have the stock?"
Vey turned toward the shelves behind her. "Savage Dogs are common enough. They scavenge the coast and take fingers off stupid dockhands. Murderous Black Crows are much worse. They are spiteful, highly intelligent birds with a taste for human eyes. Yes, I keep preserved stock."
Of course she does.
"How old is the stock?" Lucian asked.
"Good enough for whatever foul ritual you plan to run."
She took down two small glass vials. She held them up to the lantern light, wiped the thick dust off the glass with a rag, and set them on the counter. The dark liquid sloshed heavily inside the containers.
Lucian kept his hands resting calmly at his sides.
"Anything else?" Vey asked. She watched his eyes closely.
"No."
He had deliberately split the formula up. Vey knew he wanted two highly dangerous ingredients. She lacked the context to guess his actual pathway.
Her eyes narrowed slightly in appreciation. "You learned how to keep your mouth shut."
"I try."
"Most fools tell me their entire tragic life story before I even unroll the wrapping paper," she muttered. She pulled a sheet of oiled paper from under the counter. "They lie so badly I usually charge them extra just for listening."
"Name the price."
"Twenty-five pounds."
Lucian calculated the Brine Market rates in his head. "For two simple vials of blood?"
Vey blew a thick cloud of smoke toward the ceiling. "Go catch your own crow."
"We both know I lack the time for that."
He pulled the cash from his coat pocket and counted out the notes. Vey counted the money a second time, rubbing each bill between her thumb and forefinger. She wrapped the vials in the oiled paper, tied the parcel securely with string, and pushed it across the scarred wood.
She kept her hand resting on the paper for a long moment. "Whatever you are building down there on the coast, keep your cleverness under strict control. The harbor eats clever boys."
Lucian picked up the package. "I will keep that in mind."
The walk back to the carriage went quickly. Harwin sat waiting with the window curtain drawn back just enough to monitor the street.
The carriage lurched into motion the second Lucian closed the door.
"Did she have the items?" Harwin asked.
"Yes."
"Any trouble?"
"She overcharged me and acted like she was doing me a massive personal favor."
"Standard practice for Vey," Harwin noted calmly.
Back at the estate, Lucian carried the parcel directly into the study and locked the heavy oak door. He unpacked the padded sleeves. He arranged everything on the mahogany desk with precise, careful movements.
The wrapped characteristic.
The brass gaming token.
The glass vial holding ten teardrops.
Seventy milliliters of Savage Dog blood.
Sixty milliliters of Murderous Black Crow blood.
He finally had it all. The complete Sequence 9 Criminal formula sat right in front of him.
He stared at the collection of mundane and ugly objects. He had wanted this moment. He wanted the exact point where endless reading and desperate planning finally transformed into concrete power.
Bran pushed the study door open with his nose.
The dog trotted over to the desk. He stood up on his hind legs and placed his massive front paws directly on the edge of the wood to inspect the ingredients. He sniffed the vial of dog blood. He froze, completely stiffened, and turned his head to give Lucian a look of profound, deeply concerned betrayal.
"It is from an entirely different dog," Lucian promised him.
Bran seemed unconvinced. He moved to the crow blood and let out a violent sneeze. He then looked at the brass gaming token, leaned his heavy head forward, and opened his jaws to eat it.
Lucian quickly placed his palm flat over the metal coin. "Absolutely not."
Bran dropped back down to all fours. He whined loudly and stared at the desk drawer. He maintained unbroken eye contact until Lucian finally pulled out a dried meat treat and tossed it across the room. Bran caught it in midair and trotted over to the hearth, completely satisfied with his successful extortion.
Lucian let out a quiet breath.
The room felt completely still. The house continued its quiet routine below. His enemies continued plotting in the harbor down the hill.
He gathered the items carefully. He placed them inside the desk drawer and turned the iron key.