Lordenheim was sinking into the evening damp. Thick fog hung over the narrow streets, mixing with the smell of wet coal, sewage, and cheap tobacco. Gas lamps gave off a dim, flickering light, but could not push back the darkness that surrounded the city. In the alleys, the clatter of carriage hooves echoed, and outside the pubs, muffled laughter and deep male voices could be heard.
Andrew Everling stopped at the entrance of a tavern, officially called "Fox's Cellar," but the people of Lordenheim had long called it "The Drunken Fox." And that name suited it much better: as soon as he opened the door, a sharp mix of alcohol, spilled whiskey, and damp wood hit him.
Andrew pulled up the collar of his worn shirt, stepped inside, and walked toward the counter.
"Good evening, sir," he said carefully. "I was wondering… if there's any work here. Anything at all. I do tasks well."
The bartender, a heavy man with a tired face, looked up, studied the thin boy, and sighed.
"So, it's you… the boy people talk about?" he muttered. "They say you go around the taverns offering yourself as a mercenary, like a grown man."
He was about to shoo him away, but paused for a moment. His fingers drummed on the counter.
"Well… there is something," the bartender said slowly. "A simple job. No fighting. Just a delivery. Take these crates to Barrel Lane, to the docks, and leave them at the gate. That's it. Can you do it?"
He nodded toward a stack of small but heavy boxes by the wall.
Andrew's face lit up.
"Of course, sir. But… should I carry them, or will you give me a cart?"
The bartender looked at his thin shoulders, softened, and said,
"All right, I'll give you a cart. But remember: damage the goods — I'll take it from your pay. Break the cart — same deal."
The weight was unfamiliar. He struggled to push the cart along the slick stones of Barrel Lane, stopping often to catch his breath. It wasn't that he was weak, he just hadn't eaten in two days. The last piece of bread at home had run out.
Since his older brother Toby fell ill and could no longer work at the docks, the family was barely surviving. His mother was sick and rarely left the house. His little sister was still a child. And he forced to leave the Institute of Steam and Mechanical Sciences, was trying to help.
Without a diploma, no one would hire him. Competition among mechanics was fierce: the work paid well, so most positions went to those with experience, status, or connections.
Only mercenary work was left. Its reputation was terrible mercenaries were often seen as greedy and untrustworthy. But small jobs were sometimes given to boys like Andrew: thin, unarmed, unable to run off with the cargo, and certainly unable to resell stolen goods.
"Hope it's enough for bread," he muttered quietly as the docks finally appeared.
He left the crates at the spot he was told, but did not walk away. The rain grew heavier, the street emptied, and the thought that someone might steal the goods kept him from leaving.
"If they take them, I won't get my pay…" he sighed, sitting beside the cart.
He looked at the foggy sky, listened to the water in the harbor, and slowly drifted into sleep. His eyes closed on their own.
He woke suddenly — sharp, confident footsteps echoed between the containers. Barrel Lane street rarely saw anyone after sunset, and the sound of shoes on wet stone brought Andrew fully awake.
He jumped up, quickly tucked his shirt into his trousers, and turned to see a figure approaching.
From the fog came a tall man in neat, expensive clothes: a white shirt, brown vest, and frock coat. His black hair was slicked back. His face was pale, calm, and almost indifferent.
Andrew bowed politely, but then… pain.
Sharp, burning, as if a metal band pressed around his skull. Startled, he fell to his knees, hands pressing on the wet stone. The world blurred. The man's silhouette seemed to shake, as if viewed through hot air.
Thoughts slowed, and his heart pounded as if it would burst.
What… is happening…?
He tried to lift his head — couldn't. Tried to call for help — his tongue refused.
Somewhere inside the dull, heavy pain, he heard words. A calm, cold voice:
"Age is right. Just make sure there are no defects… Last time, a heart problem reduced the price. Too expensive."
Andrew's mind filled with fear and rage.
No… not this… organ traders… in the kingdom of Greywood, this was a death sentence…
But no one heard him.
The last sensation was a growing weight in his head, as if someone else's will pressed from inside.
Darkness fell suddenly.