The clip-clop of the horse's hooves and the gentle rocking of the carriage were a soothing, rhythmic counterpoint to the whirlwind of calculations in Lutz's mind. He paid the driver with a silver shield, the transaction brief and anonymous, before stepping out onto the curb in a district known for its discreet gentlemen's clubs and private art galleries. The Winter Garden Salon was nestled among them, its facade just as unassuming as he remembered: a heavy, dark oak door with a polished brass handle, flanked by two well-tended bay trees in ornate pots. No sign, no indication of the wonder that lay within.
He pushed the door open and was once again enveloped by the salon's unique atmosphere. It was a bubble of cultivated calm, the air thick with the scent of old books, fine coffee, and a faint, floral perfume. The soft murmur of intellectual conversation from clusters of plush armchairs was a world away from the industrial roar of Filip's workshop or the tense silence of his own basement.
Lutz moved through the room with the casual air of a regular. His destination was the back, where the sprawling floral mural dominated the wall, a masterpiece of woven threads and botanical artistry depicting a scene of eternal spring.
Two burly men, their bulk straining the seams of their tailored suits, stood before it. Their eyes, sharp and devoid of intellectual curiosity, scanned the room.
As Lutz approached, one of them shifted his weight, a subtle block. Lutz didn't speak. He simply reached into an inner pocket and produced the green metal leaf-shaped insignia. He held it up, the strange metal seeming to reflect the salon's soft light.
The guard's eyes flicked from the insignia to Lutz's face. He gave a curt, almost imperceptible nod to his partner. In unison, they turned, not to a door, but to the mural itself. Their thick fingers, surprisingly deft, found purchase among the woven vines and flowers. With a soft, rustling sound, they pulled a section of the tapestry-like wall to the side, revealing not a doorframe, but a dark, narrow passage carved directly into the marble behind it. One of the guards gestured with his chin for Lutz to enter.
Without hesitation, Lutz stepped through the opening. The moment the vines fell back into place behind him, the civilized sounds of the salon vanished, replaced by an absolute, profound silence. The passage was pitch black, the air cool and damp, smelling of wet stone and rich, loamy earth. Only a faint, phosphorescent glow from patches of lichen on the walls provided any illumination, casting long, dancing shadows that made the corridor seem alive.
He moved forward, his footsteps unnaturally loud in the confined space. The passage sloped gently downward, a descent into the city's secret belly. After about thirty feet, it opened into a small, circular antechamber. The walls here were smooth stone, but the floor was the familiar marble inlaid with intricate floral carvings that formed a complex, spiraling pattern.
He stood at the center of the pattern, he took a steadying breath. Then, he spoke a single, clear word in the secretive tongue of Hermes.
"Open."
Just like last time, the solid marble under his feet shimmered. The carved flowers writhed and bloomed, the stone transforming into a dense, living mat of intertwined vines. With a smooth, silent motion, the entire circular platform where he stood began to descend.
The darkness of the shaft was pierced by points of bioluminescent light as he passed glowing fungi and strange, flowerless plants that pulsed with soft green and blue radiance.
Then, the descent slowed and stopped. Before him was an archway woven from living roots, dripping with glowing, pearl-like dewdrops. He stepped through.
The Winter Garden proper unfolded before him, and the sight, even for a second time, stole his breath. It was a colossal, natural cathedral hidden deep beneath St. Millom. The ceiling was a dome of exposed rock from which hung vast curtains of glowing vines, illuminating the space in a soft, ethereal twilight. The air hummed with latent spirituality. Massive, bioluminescent vines, large enough to serve as stalls, dotted the cavern floor. Kiosks were built into the bases of ancient, petrified trees, and a slow, misty stream meandered through the center, its waters shimmering with captured light.
Lutz stood for a moment at the entrance, allowing his senses to adjust. His Value Intuition hummed a constant, multi-toned chorus, pinging against stalls selling potent artifacts, rare ingredients, and raw, unrefined power. He tightened his grip on the leather bag.
The Winter Garden was a symphony of whispered secrets and shimmering light. Lutz moved through the throng of cloaked and masked figures with grace. His senses were on high alert, the constant, low-grade hum of his Value Intuition pinging against the myriad stalls. He felt the pull of the cold dread emanating from a jar containing what looked like a preserved, still-screaming face. He ignored them it. He had a specific destination in mind.
His first objective was to find Lorelei. She was his tether here, the only person in this den of mysteries who felt remotely like an anchor. He recalled her directions from their brief, charged meeting: 'Near the Stream, where the glowing moss forms a spiral on the rock face.'
He followed the meandering, misty stream, its waters glowing with captured starlight. The air grew cooler here, and the cacophony of the main bazaar softened to a murmur. Then he saw it: a large, flat-faced rock around water, covered in a thick carpet of phosphorescent moss that had been cultivated—or perhaps had grown—into a perfect, clockwise spiral. It pulsed with a gentle, greenish light.
Tucked into the alcove formed by the rock and the cavern wall was her stall. Rustic, yet meticulously organized. It wasn't a flashy kiosk like the others, but more like a small, open-air artisan's workshop that had been seamlessly integrated into the grotto. Shelves carved directly into the stone held blocks of unusual woods, spools of metallic thread, and jars of pigments that seemed to shift color in the dim light. Tools of exquisite craftsmanship—fine chisels, polished awls, a tiny anvil—were arranged on a worn but clean workbench.
And there she was. Lorelei—or Camille, as she'd introduced herself here—was focused on her work, her back partially to him. She was polishing the handle of what looked like a ritual dagger, her movements slow and practiced, a picture of concentrated calm. She wore tight dark leather trousers and a dark silk, elegant yet sturdy tunic, with leather gloves protecting her hands. Her raven-black hair was tied in a thick braid falling over her left shoulder.
Lutz didn't approach immediately. He paused a dozen yards away, partially obscured by a curtain of hanging, bell-shaped flowers that chimed softly. He watched her. He saw the focused line of her brow, the effortless grace in her hands. Here, in her element, she was different. Confident. Capable.
Shaking off the thought, he stepped out from behind the floral curtain and approached.
She must have sensed his presence, or perhaps seen his movement from the corner of her eye. She looked up from her work, her hands stilling. For a moment, her expression was that of a artisan interrupted—a flicker of neutral assessment. Then, recognition dawned, and her face softened into a warm, genuine smile. She slightly squinted her big, reflective gray eyes, making them sparkle even in the Garden's magical gloom.
"Hey," she said, setting the dagger and polishing cloth aside. "Was wondering when you'd come back 'round here." Her voice was a pleasant contrast to the Garden's hushed tones—clear and warm.
"What's up, 'Camille'" he replied, using her Winter Garden alias with slight sarcasm. He returned the smile, though his was more guarded, a carefully calibrated expression of friendly familiarity. "I find myself in need of your expertise."
"Oh? What would it be? Is it Characteristics again" she asked, peeling off her work gloves to reveal slender, soft hands.
Instead of answering with words, Lutz placed the discreet leather bag on the stall's counter. He unclasped it and, with deliberate movements, withdrew the two cases. He laid them side-by-side on the smooth, polished wood of the countertop.
Lorelei's eyebrows rose in curiosity. She reached for the first case, the one containing Boris's characteristic. She opened the latch and lifted the lid. The blue crystal lay within, inert and cool, if one concentrated, they could hear waves and smell seawater. Her expression was one of professional interest.
Then, she opened the second case.
The moment the lid lifted, the air around the stall seemed to grow colder. The malevolent aura of the Dark Horn, previously contained by the case and the isolation of the case, leaked out. Lorelei's professional curiosity vanished, replaced by a sharp intake of breath. Her eyes widened as she stared at the twisted, black horn that seemed to suck the very light into it.
She looked from the horn to Lutz, her gaze sweeping over him as if reassessing the man before her. A complex series of emotions flickered across her face: surprise, wariness, and a dawning respect.
"Wow," she breathed, her voice barely a whisper. She closed the case, as if to contain its influence. "I don't know if I should be impressed or afraid."
Lutz met her gaze, his own expression neutral. "Neither," he said, his voice low and steady. "They weren't decent fellows. And it wasn't easy either." He left the statement hanging, a bare fact without embellishment. He wouldn't tell her about the chaotic brawl on the docks for Boris's characteristic, or the desperate, bloody fight in his own home that had yielded Yevgeny's. Those stories were his alone.
Lorelei studied his face for a long moment, reading the grim truth in his eyes. The warmth in her own gaze was tempered by a flicker of concern. She leaned forward slightly, her voice dropping even further.
"You should tone it down on your 'encounters'," she said, the words a gentle but serious warning. "Fighting with Beyonders this often... it's only a matter of chance until fate deals you a bad hand. The law of Beyonder characteristics convergence is not a myth. Trouble attracts trouble."
A wry, almost weary smile touched Lutz's lips. "Oh, believe me" He said. "My life for the past months can be summed up as 'I didn't look for it.' It has a nasty habit of finding me anyway"
"It would seem being the right man in the wrong place can make all the difference in the world" He joked.
Lorelei held her gaze for a beat longer, then nodded slowly, accepting his words. The concern didn't entirely leave her eyes, but it was joined by a pragmatic acceptance. This was the world they lived in.
"Anyways," she said, steering the conversation back to the practical matter at hand. She gestured to the two cases. "So, what do you want to make these into?"
Lutz spread his hands in a gesture of honest ignorance. "I'm not sure. I don't have a great grasp on their precise effects. I was hoping you could recommend something. What would be most... useful?"
Lorelei tapped a finger on her chin, her professional demeanor fully restored. She looked from the blue crystal to the closed case holding the dark horn, her mind clearly working through possibilities. Then, a spark of inspiration lit her eyes.
"Give me a moment" She said, a hint of excitement in her voice. She turned and rummaged in a small, intricately carved wooden drawer beneath her workbench. After a moment, she straightened up, holding something in her hand.
It was a monocle.
The frame was made of a pale, iridescent metal that seemed to be neither silver nor platinum, and the lens was a single, perfectly clear piece of crystal that caught the light in a strange way. She carefully placed it over her right eye, the metal frame settling with a faint, almost inaudible click.
"Alright," she said, her voice now carrying a note of scholarly focus. "Let's see."
Lutz felt an inexplicable sense of the bizarre but he brushed it off.
"Wow, it really works," she murmured to herself, her gaze fixed on the blue crystal. She leaned in close, her head tilting as she examined it from different angles through the lens. Lutz could almost feel the delicate probing emanating from the item, it was far more sophisticated than his own blunt Value Intuition.
After a full minute of intense study, she straightened up, pushing the monocle up onto her forehead. Her expression was one of focused analysis.
"I can only have a preliminary grasp on its possible effects compared to my partner," she began, her tone that of a expert delivering a report. "But it should be along the following lines. This characteristic is from the Sailor pathway. It's closely linked to the concept of anger."
"This could manifest in the resulting artifact in either a positive or negative way," she continued. "On the positive side, it could allow the wielder to harness their own anger, to build it up and convert it into a temporary boost to physical capabilities—strength, speed, endurance. A controlled rage."
She pointed at the crystal's facets. "It also has strong aquatic elements. This could translate into an artifact that grants increased attributes when in water, increased underwater breathing, etc. Perhaps even manifesting a temporary, scale-like hardening on the skin for defense. Another possible effect is a 'slippery' quality, making the user harder to grab or restrain, like a fishy."
She met his eyes again, her expression serious. "I must emphasize, this is just a partial analysis. It may have more, subtler effects I cannot perceive. Still, the finished artifact will have these core elements manifest in different ways and to varying degrees depending on the materials used and the final form we decide on."
Lutz listened, his mind already racing, cross-referencing her analysis with his own experiences and needs. A tool that could turn his fury into tangible power, that could make him harder to hurt or catch.
"And the other one?" he asked, his gaze shifting to the closed case containing the Dark Horn. The one that felt like a piece of the Abyss itself.
Lorelei's expression grew more solemn. She lowered the monocle back over her eye and reached for the second case. This time, her movements were more cautious, as if handling a live explosive.
"This one," she said, her voice dropping to a hushed tone, "is a different kind of problem altogether."