The wind scratched against the glass panes of the workshop like fingernails dragging across parchment. Outside, the rooftops of Larkstem curled into mist and smoke, the moonlight bending strangely as if unwilling to shine on this part of the city.
Inside, Corwin stood over the central worktable, every inch of the surface consumed by scattered diagrams, curled scrolls, and fragments of ancient alloy. The letter lay folded at the center, weighted by a sphere of polished obsidian that had once crowned a ceremonial distiller.
A slow breath escaped him.
He had seen something last night—more than the shapes on the map or the glyphs in the margins. It came to him not through vision but through sensation, an ache behind the ribs, as if the parchment itself had exhaled a whisper.
"Complete the Circuit. Awaken the Ash."
Across from him, Liran tightened the straps of his chestplate. It wasn't real armor, not the kind a soldier might wear. It had been forged from scraps of carriage steel and reinforced with resin soaked in tinctures designed to repel corrosion—Corwin's improvisation. They couldn't afford real protection, so they'd rely on clever alchemy and what scraps the world forgot.
Ashra had taken over the far side of the room, hunched over a cluster of spindly brass needles arranged in concentric arcs, each vibrating faintly with unseen energy. She'd discovered the remnants of a scribing compass used by the old guilds and had been trying—unsuccessfully—to attune it to the map they'd recovered from the ruins near the southern cliffs.
"You're quiet tonight," Liran said without looking up. "Even for you."
Corwin's eyes didn't leave the parchment. "Something's changed. The map… the seal on the letter—it's reacting to something. The last few glyphs are glowing. Dim, but it wasn't like that yesterday."
Ashra let out a sharp breath. "You think it's time-locked?"
"I think it's watching us back."
That silenced the room.
Even Liran, ever practical, paused mid-buckle. "Then it knows what we've done. Where we've gone."
Corwin finally looked up. "Or what we're about to do."
A chill swept through the workshop, and the sigil on the wax—the Ouroboros—flickered like it had caught fire for the briefest heartbeat.
Ashra stood. Her eyes were sharper now, focused. "We've gathered what we could. Broken tomes. Scraps of lore. We've made allies. Some dead, some probably wishing they were. So what are we waiting for, Corwin? We have the names of three lost circuit fragments. One of them is supposed to be buried under the old watermill past the Norrish Border."
Corwin didn't answer immediately. His hand hovered over the seal, then lowered to rest beside it. "We're not ready. Not fully. The Carrion Order's watching the river routes now. I overheard two merchants whispering about burnt caravans near the Dust Hollow. Someone's closing the noose."
"You want to wait?" Liran asked, low and careful. "Or is this something else?"
Corwin glanced at him, a tired smile playing at the edge of his mouth. "I want to be sure I'm not walking us into a story someone else wrote."
That answer seemed to satisfy no one—and yet, there was understanding in the silence that followed.
A knock sounded. Three soft raps. A pause. Then two more.
The coded rhythm. One they hadn't used since the tunnels under the northern chapel.
Liran was already moving, hand near his concealed blade.
Ashra's fingers hovered over a small vial of copper-green powder.
Corwin opened the door.
A figure stepped inside—cloaked in soot-drenched grey, their face obscured by a tinted half-mask of lacquered bone. In their hand: a sealed envelope, crimson-edged and bound in thread sewn with alchemical symbols.
"From the outer circle," the figure rasped. "Hester's contact in the Moth Quarter finally sent word."
Corwin took the envelope. It was heavy with something inside—not just parchment.
The messenger bowed once and vanished back into the fog.
Ashra looked like she might chase them, but Corwin had already opened the envelope. Inside: a torn page from a much older volume, marked with the same ink patterns they'd seen before in the ruins.
At the top: "The Fourth Thread: Initiation Through Ash."
And beneath that, scrawled in hurried script:
"You are not the only ones who remember. The Circuit awakens. The Carrion stir."
Corwin set the page down slowly. The seal on their original letter flared again, and for a brief moment, they all heard it.
A voice.
No louder than a whisper.
From nowhere.
From everywhere.
"The first gate will not open willingly."