The first false promise of dawn seeped through the shutters, turning the room's darkness from pitch-black to bruised gray.
Anthony had slept barely three hours.
His body demanded rest; his mind refused it. Calculations churned relentlessly—coin flow, exposure thresholds, spiritual limits. The bloodline's acceleration granted faster recovery, yes, but it sharpened hunger alongside it. A low, constant gnaw that honed focus rather than dulled it.
Routine held.
He rose, shrugging into the threadbare coat. The hood went up, muting the starkness of his white hair and softening features that still carried traces of something… elevated. He rubbed ash from the stove across his cheeks and hands, smearing aristocratic lines into weary laborer grit.
Slum camouflage.
Liam stirred on his pallet, eyes cracking open. "Brother… leaving already?"
"Stay inside," Anthony said, fastening the coat. "Lock the door. No outings—no matter what you hear."
The boy sat up, blanket pooling around his waist. Worry pinched his face, echoing yesterday's clinginess. "But what if something happens? Like the muggers—"
"Obey."
The word cut cleanly.
Then—measured reassurance, deliberately deployed.
"I'll return with food," Anthony added. "Better than yesterday's scraps."
Hunger worked faster than comfort.
Liam's expression brightened a fraction. He nodded, though his fingers tightened in the blanket. "Be careful. Please."
Anthony pocketed the last soli coin and the dagger. The lock clicked shut behind him.
Test: isolation obedience. Passed.
Attachment deepening—useful for loyalty. Dangerous if unmanaged. Monitor closely.
The tenement's stairwell groaned underfoot, damp plaster sweating onto his sleeves. Arguments murmured behind thin walls. Somewhere, a child cried.
Mrs. Greaves' door creaked open as he passed.
"Reid boy!" The landlady's beady eyes gleamed. "Rent's due end of week. No excuses!"
He nodded once. No engagement. Gossip would propagate regardless.
Outside, East Borough air struck like a slap—fog heavy with coal dust and river rot. The Thames pulsed nearby, sluggish and brown, like a diseased vein.
Anthony headed west, toward the docks.
Mud sucked at his boots. Carts rattled past. Vendors barked prices—"Fresh eels! Two pence!"—while horse manure mixed with the faint, cruel sweetness of bread baking somewhere far beyond his reach.
**Scheme review.**
Persona: wandering poet-healer, blessed by the Evernight Goddess.
Target demographic: dockhands, factory workers finishing night shifts.
Problem: insomnia, pain, recurring nightmares.
Solution: Midnight Poet induction—light dream overlays, restful imagery.
Duration: four to six hours.
Charge: two to three coppers.
Limits: one tavern today.
Abort conditions: resistance, alertness spike, spiritual recoil.
Low risk. High turnover.
The docks emerged from the fog—masts stabbing skyward like skeletal fingers. Ships groaned against piers, unloading spice, tea, timber from distant colonies. Dockhands swarmed the wharf, muscles straining, eyes hollowed by exhaustion.
Tar. Fish. Sweat.
Anthony scanned without staring.
Taverns clustered near the piers: *The Rusty Hook*, *Salty Mermaid*—too lively. He chose *The Anchor's Rest*. Dim. Soot-blackened ceiling. Favored by men too tired to talk loudly.
Inside, the air was thick with ale and muttered misery. A dozen patrons slumped at scarred tables.
Perfect.
Anthony took a corner stool at the bar.
The barkeep—one-eyed, hook-handed—grunted. "Ale or out."
"Copper for water."
The coin slid across the wood.
Anthony listened.
"…machines rattlin' in me skull…"
"…haven't slept proper in weeks…"
"…see the foreman every time I close me eyes…"
Insomnia everywhere.
Time.
He approached a lone dockhand—grizzled, forties, eyes bloodshot, posture folded inward like something half-broken.
"Stranger," Anthony said softly. "Sleepless nights plague you?"
The man eyed him warily, then snorted. "What's it to ya?"
"I'm a poet-healer," Anthony murmured, leaning closer. "Blessed by the Goddess's midnight grace. A copper or two buys verses that ease the mind. Bring real sleep."
"Quackery."
"Free sample."
Anthony recited softly—no power yet.
"…in night's embrace, the weary find repose…"
Curiosity flickered.
"Fine," the dockhand muttered. "Two coppers if it works."
They shifted to a shadowed alcove.
Anthony focused.
Whispers coiled.
*Waves of calm on shadowed shores,*
*Dreams unfold, pain ignores.*
*Sleep descends like gentle rain—*
*Rest renews, breaks the chain.*
Power flowed—gentle, precise.
The man's eyes glazed. Anthony layered a light dream: warm beds, quiet seas, pain loosening its grip.
Minutes later, the dockhand exhaled deeply.
"…By the Goddess," he whispered. "Feels like I slept proper."
Three coppers clinked into Anthony's palm. "Name's Tom. I'll tell the lads."
Success.
Drain minimal—bloodline already smoothing the ache away.
Word spread.
A factory woman next—nightmares of grinding gears.
An old sailor—storms and screaming rigging.
A young loader—back aflame from hauling crates.
Verses adjusted. Effects consistent.
Nine coppers in under an hour.
Then—
A lean man approached. Thirties. Sharp eyes. Clothes too clean.
"Heard you ease minds," he said. "Three coppers."
Alarm stirred faintly.
They sat.
Anthony began—
*Shadows weave a tranquil—*
Resistance slammed back.
Not brute force. Something subtler. A spiritual barrier.
The man frowned. "Feels wrong. Like someone pokin' round me skull."
Latent Beyonder. Low sequence. Untrained—but not blind.
Abort.
Anthony disengaged instantly, switching to mundane verse. "The Goddess's will varies. Sometimes words alone suffice."
He refunded a copper.
The man hesitated, then left.
Risk logged. Mitigation successful.
Anthony exited shortly after.
Outside, the fog thinned. Coin counted discreetly.
Ten coppers net.
Daily projection: twenty to thirty coppers rotating taverns.
Weekly: soli-level income.
Scalable. Sustainable.
Next—provisions.
Dockside markets buzzed. Anthony bought rye bread, hard cheese, smoked fish. Haggled the price down with soft-spoken charm.
Herb stalls followed.
Common bundles at first—then deeper finds. Midnight-bloom petals. Dreamweed root. Cheap. Legal. Useful.
Three coppers gone. Potion groundwork laid.
By midday, he returned home.
Liam opened the door immediately, eyes widening at the food.
"Cheese? Real cheese?!"
They ate together. Slowly. Evenly.
"Any visitors?" Anthony asked.
"No. Stayed locked."
Good.
Evening settled.
Coins clinked into the jar—fifteen coppers now.
Anthony sorted herbs, thoughts aligning.
Dreams to coin.
Coin to strength.
Whispers purred approval.
Far away, Evelyn Nightshade stared into a scrying mirror. Fog and docks shimmered faintly within.
"Alive," she murmured. "And scheming."
A shadow slipped free at her command.
The net tightened.