Umbra lived in shadows, but shadows needed light to hide inside.
By day, I poured dust off books and wiped cracked clocks in the shop. Customers rarely came, which was fine. When they did, I smiled thin, sold them scraps, and let them walk out believing they'd seen everything. The crooked bell coughed each time, patient with lies.
Jonas worked in the yards. His size made hauling stone and wood look effortless. Children followed him sometimes, daring each other to poke his arm, laughing when he didn't flinch. He let them. A wall didn't scare children. A wall let them play beside it.
Mara kept to the dojo. She drilled her students hard, wooden swords cracking against palms, shins, ribs. But after each strike, she corrected stances, adjusted shoulders, muttered encouragement. The children came back, even bruised, because she made them believe steel could live in their bones.
To the city, we were normal. To each other, we were Umbra.
---
At night, in the back room, the masks slipped back on.
The candle burned between us, wax dripping slow. The ledger filled line by line. Each coin stolen back, each stall protected, each whisper sown.
But between plans, we spoke like people.
Jonas asked once, "Why antiques?"
I shrugged. "Because people expect them to be forgotten."
He nodded, accepting the answer like stone accepts weight.
Mara smirked. "And because you like the sound of your own mystery."
"Maybe," I admitted.
She almost laughed, then hid it behind sharpening her blade.
---
The Lexicon pulsed faintly when we talked, as if it listened. Pages turned, not with strategies, but with something else. Threads binding.
Umbra wasn't just a mask anymore. It was becoming a face.
---
But shadows can't stay unnoticed forever.
That week, I felt it—a pressure on the air, heavier than Veyra's collectors. Eyes watching corners. Boots following alleys. The corps had begun to sniff.
The Lexicon warmed, uneasy.
Umbra was growing teeth. The city had begun to believe in us.
And that meant others had begun to fear.