Backlund's fog was heavier today. It didn't drift or roll—it clung to the narrow alleys and cobblestones like a living thing, swallowing sound and softening the edges of the waking city. The morning light struggled to penetrate the gray, leaving everything muted, as if reality itself were holding its breath.
Lucien moved through the crowded northern docks under the guise of Miran Dusk. His cloak brushed against crates stacked high with spices and textiles, but his eyes were fixed on the people—their hurried steps, wary glances, and whispered exchanges. The scent of salt and fish mixed with the faint iron tang of blood and sweat. It was a scent that burrowed deep, settling into the bones of this forgotten district.
Near the warehouse district, two constables stood silently, their hands resting lightly on their batons as they exchanged notes in low tones. The warehouse doors were half torn open, the inside swallowed by darkness. Lucien's gaze lingered, sensing the invisible threads of tension hanging in the air. Something was off. The city's undercurrents had stirred again, and the fog seemed thicker here, almost alive.
Without hesitation, Lucien slipped into a hidden tavern tucked behind a boarded fish market. The interior smelled of damp wood and old secrets. The barkeep didn't look up as he passed to the back stairs—no questions asked. Upstairs, the true heart of the city's whispers beat quietly in a half-lit room filled with shadowed faces and cautious eyes.
"Dusk," a gruff voice greeted him as he entered, a man with a jagged scar running from temple to jawline nodding curtly. "Your file was received. Interesting lead."
Lucien responded with a faint nod, placing an envelope on the table. Inside were detailed notes: residual effects of mirror rituals, patterns of fog entrapment, and a curious glyph he had discovered etched beside the memory-sealed door under the forgotten chapel.
A woman sitting nearby, her left eye covered with a leather patch and fingers stained from countless inkings, leaned forward. "Do you know what you're feeding us?"
"Pieces," Lucien replied softly. "You decide how to arrange them."
The room fell into a momentary silence, thick with unspoken understanding. These were the people who threaded through the city's hidden lattice—a network of fixers, scholars, and spies who pieced together truths the world tried to bury.
Meanwhile, Elise sat quietly in the university's second-floor reading hall. Her breath fogged the window as she gazed out, watching the city's waking rhythm below. She wasn't focused on the rituals or manuscripts today, but on the changes she had observed in Lucien.
He had begun writing things down—yes—but not just in his usual notebooks. His drafts were coded, filed under obscure aliases even she struggled to decipher. This precaution wasn't lost on her; it was a barrier, a subtle retreat into shadows she wasn't invited to follow.
She wondered, with a chill that had nothing to do with the cold, who else might be watching. If Lucien felt the need to protect himself from her, then what threats lurked beyond her knowledge?
She closed the book she was reading—a historical account of a minor church schism—but halfway through, the author's voice shifted. The text began speaking of dreams, of reflections, of mirrors that no longer showed one's face. Footnotes included sketches of masks—worn, broken, or purposefully designed to hide more than just identity.
Carefully, she copied the etching onto her notepad, each line a symbol, a question.
That night, Lucien returned beneath the forgotten chapel. The chamber was silent, the air thick with cold fog that swirled mysteriously in the faint torchlight. The mirror stood before him, its surface swirling with shifting mists that seemed to hide countless secrets.
This time, he didn't speak.
He placed his gloved hand on the cool glass.
The fog thinned, revealing an image.
A boy with dark hair sat alone in a dim, cluttered library, eyes focused on a dusty tome. Around him were piles of books, papers strewn carelessly, and shadows that seemed to watch and wait.
Klein Moretti.
The boy who would become a god of mysteries.
Lucien withdrew his hand slowly, heart steady but mind racing.
So it begins.
Lucien sat in a dimly lit room rented under the name Miran Dusk, a thin haze of smoke curling from a cracked pipe resting between his fingers. His eyes scanned a ledger of transactions and names—figures who controlled the flow of information, goods, and secrets.
The income was modest but steady. Lucien's second identity was no mere alias; it was a lifeline. Through Miran Dusk, he brokered discreet favors, solved problems that official channels ignored or could not solve, and in return, earned currency to fund his real pursuits.
Money was only a tool. The real goal was control—knowledge of who moved what, where, and why.
Elsewhere, Elise poured over ancient texts, cross-referencing forgotten rituals with modern-day sightings of the fog and unexplained disappearances. Her understanding of the Spectator Pathway deepened, though pieces still slipped through the cracks of her memory.
She realized the pathway was not just a journey of observation but one of preservation and intervention—a silent guardian threading through history's fabric. Her own connection to Lucien was part of this pattern, though the details remained elusive.
At times, she would catch herself hesitating before speaking, fearing that revealing too much might trigger forces neither of them could withstand.
Lucien's thoughts often returned to Klein Moretti—the boy glimpsed behind the mirror's mist. The boy who was not yet aware of the dangerous game unfolding around him.
Lucien knew the coming days would test them both, and the choice to intervene or observe weighed heavily on him.
For now, he resolved to remain in the shadows, building strength and alliances, sharpening his mind to meet the challenges ahead.
To be continued...