Elira
The watchmaker's shop was easy to miss. Tucked between a bakery that smelled of burnt rye and a pawnbroker's with a broken sign, it had no proper storefront — only a brass plaque etched with the words H. Dalvern & Sons – Chronometry and Repair and a door that complained loudly when she pushed it open.
A tiny bell rang above her head, the sound swallowed quickly by the dense, ticking silence inside.
Dozens of pocket watches hung from hooks on the walls. Some ticked softly, others not at all. A grandfather clock dominated the far corner, its pendulum swinging with deliberate precision. The air smelled faintly of oil and polished brass.
"Miss Vance?"
The man behind the counter was older than she expected — wiry, with spectacles perched halfway down his nose and a face lined by the patience of someone who spent most of his life peering at gears. He wiped his hands on a cloth and gestured for her to sit.
"Harrows Ledger," Elira said, offering a polite smile. "I'm here about the interview we arranged last week."
"Yes, yes. The new escapement," Dalvern muttered, already rummaging through a drawer. "They call it the 'Ardent Balance.' Supposed to lose less than three seconds a day. Not that most people care — they're too busy losing hours to factories."
Elira scribbled the quote down — a good line for a sidebar — then looked around the cramped shop again. On one shelf sat a row of broken timepieces, each neatly labeled with a slip of paper: Spring cracked. Gear jammed. Owner never returned. One was tagged simply, Found near canal.
"Where did that one come from?" she asked, nodding at the last.
Dalvern glanced up. "That? River constables brought it in. Thought I might identify the owner."
"Was it one of the bodies they pulled out?" she asked carefully.
The watchmaker's brows furrowed. "Bodies?"
"You didn't hear? Three in the last month. All with the same—" She stopped herself. Too direct, Elira. "—similar circumstances."
Dalvern stared at the watch for a long moment. "Could be. I never saw the owner. Odd piece, though." He lifted it gently, setting it on the counter. "Older make. Feysac origin, I'd wager. And this engraving — see here?"
The back of the case bore a faint mark: a circle split into eight radiating lines. Not quite a compass, but close.
Something in Elira's chest tightened. "Does it mean anything?"
Dalvern shook his head. "Not to me." He pushed the watch toward her. "But if you're writing about clocks, this one tells more stories than most."
She left the shop fifteen minutes later, notebook heavier with scribbles. She hadn't expected much from the interview — yet now she had a possible connection: a canal corpse and a broken compass. It was a thread. Thin, but worth tugging.
---
Marr
Rain had returned by midday, a thin, cold drizzle that left the cobblestones slick and the air metallic. Inspector Marr stood beneath a narrow iron bridge, watching the water lap lazily against the canal wall. The latest victim lay on a stretcher nearby, covered to the chin with a canvas sheet.
"Same as the others," said Sergeant Holst, his boots squelching as he approached. "No water in the lungs. Cause of death uncertain. But look here."
He lifted the victim's left wrist. The mark was there — shallow, deliberate, freshly carved. Marr crouched closer, tracing the pattern with his eyes. Eight lines radiating from a circle, but not evenly spaced. It wasn't a compass. It wasn't even symmetrical.
"Any identification?" Marr asked.
"Name's Tomas Ewell. Dockworker. Thirty-two. No family."
Marr straightened, gaze drifting across the canal. Barge traffic was light today, the rain keeping most commerce inland. Still, he couldn't shake the thought that the water itself was part of the story — not just a place to dump bodies.
"Third body in three weeks," Holst said, lowering his voice. "And not a whisper from the higher-ups. You'd think someone'd care."
"Someone does," Marr said quietly. His fingers brushed against the sealed envelope still tucked inside his coat. "Just not for the reasons we'd like."
A gull screamed overhead. Somewhere in the distance, a tram bell clanged. And beneath it all, the water kept moving, silent and patient.
"Sir?" Holst's voice broke through his thoughts. "Do you think this is the same man? Or…"
"Or a group," Marr finished for him. "If it's a group, they're disciplined. No pattern in where the bodies turn up. No links between victims. Except…" He glanced at the mark again. "Except this."
He didn't mention the letter at the station — a single sheet slipped anonymously under his office door that morning. It contained no threats, no demands. Just a phrase, written in elegant ink:
"Names must be written before they can be crossed."
---
Ilven
The monastery bell tolled the hour, its deep voice rolling across the courtyard like distant thunder. Brother Ilven moved slowly through the archives, fingertips brushing along the spines of books that had not been opened in generations.
He had locked the door behind him this time.
The scroll he found that morning was still on the table, unfurled beneath the steady glow of a lantern. Its ink was older than the monastery itself, its language a bastardization of three dialects long extinct. He had spent hours piecing together fragments.
"The Ferryman writes the names of the living.
He forgets none.
He forgives none."
It was nonsense — superstition dressed as scripture. And yet the symbol etched above those words matched the one from the canal bodies perfectly. That could not be coincidence.
"Brother Ilven."
The voice startled him. Abbot Rhenar stood at the threshold, a heavy cloak draped around his narrow shoulders. His expression was calm, but his eyes were wary.
"You've been reading forbidden texts," the abbot said softly.
Ilven bowed his head. "I had no intention of disobedience. But the mark — it has appeared again."
Rhenar's gaze flickered to the scroll. "It should not exist at all. The Nameless Star cult was purged three centuries ago."
"Then why is its symbol on the dead?" Ilven asked.
The abbot did not answer. Instead, he stepped forward, rolled the parchment, and slid it into the wide sleeve of his robe. "Some knowledge is best left buried. Trust in the Light, Brother Ilven. Curiosity can cost a soul its shape."
Ilven watched as the abbot departed, the heavy door closing behind him. The room felt colder now, emptier. But he could still see the words in his mind.
He forgets none. He forgives none.
---
Elira (Later That Night)
The newsroom smelled of ink and boiled coffee, and the clatter of printing presses downstairs echoed faintly through the floorboards. Elira sat at her desk long after most of the others had gone home, a single gaslamp casting tired light across her notes.
Bread prices. Dock strikes. Watchmakers. Dead men in canals. A mark that wasn't a compass.
And one phrase scribbled in the corner of a page: Ferryman's Ledger.
She underlined it twice. Then once more.
The rain had stopped outside, but the streets were still slick and empty. Somewhere far off, the midnight bell of Saint Ruel tolled, and Elira felt a strange heaviness settle in her chest.
She didn't know why — but she was certain of one thing.
She was not the only one following the thread.