The evening mist clung to Belltaine's streets, winding through the stone buildings and steel railings like a ghost reluctant to leave. The city still carried the scars of war—its wounds woven into the fabric of its people, into the stiff-backed bureaucrats who acted as though they could hold the city's pride together through sheer posture alone.
Impheil moved through the thinning crowd, his pace unhurried, his presence slipping in and out of focus like a man who belonged just enough to not be noticed. The air was thick with the scent of coal smoke and damp stone, the remnants of the day settling into the night.
He had never cared much for nationalism, but he knew its value. People who clung too tightly to the past became predictable, their choices dictated by history rather than the present. And predictable people were easy to manipulate.
With each turn, the streets grew quieter, shifting from the grand avenues of industry to the more subdued residential quarters. He took a side street, avoiding the brighter gas lamps, his steps eventually leading him to an unassuming building nestled between a failing bookshop and a tailor's shop long past its prime.
His apartment.
A rented flat, temporary by nature but secure enough for now. It was the kind of place no one really noticed.
With a quick glance over his shoulder, ensuring he hadn't drawn any unnecessary attention, he slipped inside. The door closed with a soft click, the muffled sounds of the city fading behind it.
His thoughts, however, were not on Belltaine's past, but on the estate—and the guest within it.
The parasites nestled within Graham Constantine's household were already working, feeding him fragments of conversation, minor exchanges between staff, and, most importantly, the presence of a guest who had been waiting for two hours.
Impheil idly flicked open his pocket watch, running a thumb over the glass surface as he absorbed the murmured whispers of the estate's staff. The maids were puzzled by the visitor's patience, noting how he had waited without complaint, his expression neutral, unbothered.
His name: Edwin Arkwright.
Impheil clicked his tongue softly.
The name didn't immediately ring a bell, but that wasn't unusual. Some of the most powerful people weren't the ones who held titles—but the ones who knew how to navigate the spaces between them.
More interesting were the details surrounding Edwin. The staff weren't sure how to categorize him, which meant one of two things
He was new to these circles and was very good at staying unnoticed.
And then there was Graham's treatment of him.
Two hours of waiting wasn't an accident. That wasn't just a delay—it was a power play. Graham was testing Edwin's patience, making it clear who dictated the pace of the meeting.
But the meeting still happened.
And that meant Edwin had something Graham wanted. Or, perhaps more concerning, Graham had something Edwin couldn't afford to ignore.
That was the real tell. Because a man like Graham Constantine wouldn't entertain someone he could afford to dismiss entirely.
Impheil snapped his watch shut with a soft click, letting the thought settle.
So, Edwin. What exactly are you?
…
The meeting lasted forty minutes. Not rushed, but not drawn out either. That, in itself, was valuable information.
When Edwin finally emerged, the estate staff barely had time to exchange glances before he was already walking towards the gates. His pace was measured and controlled. No signs of frustration or satisfaction.
A man measuring something. Weighing his options.
That told Impheil a lot.
Men dismissed or rejected left differently. There would be stiffness in their shoulders, tension in their movements. But Edwin? He left thoughtful.
That meant the negotiation wasn't truly over. Whether Edwin got what he wanted or not, he still walked away with something valuable.
Then came the next detail.
Edwin hadn't arrived in his own carriage.
He had hired one.
Impheil's fingers tapped against his pocket watch.
That wasn't the move of a man who lacked wealth or resources. No, that was a choice—a subtle one, but a choice nonetheless.
Why?
Did Edwin not want people knowing where he had come from? Or did Edwin not want people knowing where he was going next?
Either way, it was a classic move for someone who operated between factions. A man who kept his dealings separate, ensuring no one could draw a clean thread through his movements.
But the most interesting detail?
Graham Constantine did not leave the estate with him.
Impheil resisted the urge to smirk.
A man like Edwin Arkwright wouldn't have come here for something minor. He had been made to wait two hours. He had endured it without complaint. And he had left without an immediate, obvious result.
That meant one of three things: the deal was still in motion, with its final terms yet to be sealed; Edwin had walked away with something useful, even if it wasn't the outcome he originally sought; or the dynamic between them had subtly shifted—no outright victor, but an exchange that left both parties reconsidering their positions.
All three possibilities pointed to something worth investigating.
Impheil exhaled softly, adjusting his gloves.
Time to take a closer look.
He pulled a sheet of paper from his desk, writing down a single name:
Edwin Arkwright.
Then, flicking open his pocket watch once more, he noted the time.
Time to make my next move.
Impheil leaned back in his chair, tapping a finger idly against the casing of his black gothic pocket watch as he let his thoughts settle. Edwin Arkwright had left the Constantine estate with no clear victory, but neither did he seem defeated. That alone was enough to make him worth following up on.
The question was how.
His usual approach—burrowing into the gaps of society, letting whispers and rumors guide him—was already in motion. His worms embedded in the estate's staff would pick up any lingering comments or secondhand speculation. But Edwin was not part of the estate. He was an outsider, a player in his own right. To learn more, Impheil would need to move beyond passive observation.
He flicked open his black gothic pocket watch again, watching the second hand glide along its path.
The first step was straightforward: trace Edwin's movements.
…
By the time Edwin had left the Constantine estate, the night had grown deeper, but Belltaine was far from asleep. The administrative districts had quieted, their bureaucrats tucked away in their homes, but the city's social circles, its underground dealings, and it's night markets thrived in the dim glow of gas lamps.
And Edwin? He had taken a hired carriage.
Not his own.
That fact alone spoke volumes. A man of his standing should have had a personal vehicle, an escort, some sign of status. But instead, he had opted for the anonymity of a rented ride. Not a mistake. A choice.
Impheil smiled faintly as he stepped out into the cool night air.
The first rule of following someone who doesn't want to be followed?
Start with the people who don't know they're part of the trail.
The carriage drivers.
Impheil took his time weaving through Belltaine's main streets, shifting his presence as needed. His steps carried a casual weight, blending into the late-night crowd with the ease of someone who belonged but could never quite be remembered.
The carriages clustered near the estates and wealthier districts, their drivers loitering in idle conversations, waiting for their next passengers or simply passing the time. The smell of damp leather, horse sweat, and lingering tobacco hung in the air.
Impheil's gaze flicked across the gathered men, measuring them. Most were younger, restless, eager for fares that paid well. Not the sort to offer details unless coin was involved. Others, older, more seasoned, had the tired patience of men who had spent years ferrying the self-important from place to place.
And then, there was one in particular. Mid-fifties, weathered face, arms crossed as he leaned against his carriage, smoking a cheap cigar that had burned down almost to the stub. He wasn't in a rush. That meant he was either waiting for a long-term client… or he'd already made enough tonight to afford the slow hours.
Perfect.
Impheil approached, his movements unhurried, his expression carrying the easy camaraderie of someone accustomed to late-night streets. He stopped just a little away, exhaling as if stretching his shoulders after a long walk.
"Slow night?" he mused, glancing at the half-finished cigar.
The driver gave him a side-eye, taking another pull before answering. "Busy earlier. Not so much now."
Impheil hummed, glancing at the other drivers. "Yeah, I imagine most of the big earners are inside, enjoying their whiskey while you lot get the pleasure of waiting on 'em."
The man gave a short, dry chuckle. "That's the job."
Impheil tilted his head slightly. "Get any difficult ones tonight?"
The driver snorted. "Always."
He let the silence stretch just enough before continuing, his tone casual. "Had a friend mention someone was looking for a carriage—real quiet type. Paid well but didn't seem the sort who usually needed to rent one. Ring any bells?"
The driver exhaled, tapping his cigar against the side of the carriage. "Yeah, him."
Impheil watched his body language, the subtle way the man shifted his weight, considering how much to say.
"Took him down toward the eastern quarters. Didn't say much, just gave the place and let me do the driving." He shook his head slightly. "Paid well, though. Too well for someone using a rented ride."
Impheil's smile was faint but amused. "Always suspicious when someone's too generous."
The driver huffed, giving a knowing look. "Yeah. Too generous or too cheap, both tell you something."
Impheil nodded, tucking his hands into his pockets. "You notice anything else? The way he acted, how he carried himself?"
The driver furrowed his brows slightly, thinking. "Polite, but not the usual kind of polite. Not noble-born polite—none of that stiff posture and expectation of being served. More like someone used to talking, but not wasting words. Careful, you know?"
That was useful.
Impheil's fingers absently traced the edge of his pocket watch in his coat. "Sounds like the kind who's careful where he's seen, too."
The driver gave him another considering glance but didn't press.
Impheil took the cue. He wasn't about to push too hard. Just enough to get what he needed.
"Well, appreciate the chat," he said, offering a small nod. "Stay safe out here."
The driver grunted in acknowledgment, already returning to his quiet waiting.
As Impheil walked away, his mind sorted through the new information.
Eastern quarters. A rented ride. Overpaid the driver just to keep things simple. A man who didn't want any loose ends but wasn't desperate enough to disappear completely.
Not sloppy, but not perfect either.
…
The eastern part of Belltaine was a curious place. Not quite the slums, not quite the merchant districts. It was a mix of wealth and decay, where once-grand buildings had been repurposed into private clubs, underground dealings, and the kind of social gatherings where money and influence mixed freely with crime and secrecy.
A man like Edwin would fit in well here.
The trail wasn't perfect—Impheil hadn't followed Edwin directly, and the man could have easily slipped into a side street or changed locations. But that was fine. He didn't need to find Edwin immediately.
He just needed to know where he liked to be.
A place where Edwin felt comfortable would tell him more than any single conversation.
So, Impheil took his time.
He wove through Belltaine's streets like an afterthought, letting the city breathe around him. The cobbled roads were slick with lingering mist, the gas lamps overhead casting pale pools of light onto uneven stone. The smell of coal, damp wood, and the faint bite of industrial oil clung to the air.
He moved without hurry, stopping where the city slowed—places where men and women spoke without thinking, where the weight of drink and routine loosened their tongues. A corner café where clerks and bureaucrats murmured of ledgers that didn't quite match their budgets. A betting hall where whispers of "special patrons" traveled faster than the dice on the tables. A tobacconist's shop where the owner's eyes were always a little too sharp, taking stock of who came and went with measured precision.
Beltaine spoke in murmurs, in half-finished sentences and deliberate pauses.
And he had always been good at listening.
The trick wasn't in what they said, but in what they hesitated to say. A casual remark about a generous patron who never lingered. A passing comment about a man who "preferred to keep things neat." Someone, somewhere, always knew something—they just didn't realize it.
And eventually, a pattern emerged.
A name.
Not Edwin Arkwright.
But Mr. Ashwood.
Impheil's lips curled, something resembling amusement flickering at the edges of his thoughts.
An alias. Of course.
It wasn't uncommon. Men in these circles rarely kept just one name—they built layers, masks upon masks, each meant for a different audience. A different deal.
But "Mr. Ashwood" had weight in the eastern quarters. Enough to be remembered, but not enough to be common.
That was interesting.
Tracing his way through the winding streets, Impheil found himself before a particular club—a refined yet discreet establishment tucked between two unassuming buildings. The entrance was unmarked, save for a polished brass handle and a small, unlit lantern hanging just above the door.
Not the kind of place just anyone could enter.
And if Mr. Ashwood had been seen here before, then Impheil had his next destination.
The only question now was how to step inside without announcing himself.
The club was no raucous gambling den or smoky tavern. It was quiet, controlled—the kind of establishment where men of wealth and ambition came to negotiate under the gentle hum of conversation and clinking glasses. No deals were signed here, only spoken into existence. No names were ever uttered too loudly, but every guest was someone who knew someone else.
Gaining entry wasn't as simple as walking through the door.
A single glance told Impheil that much. The doorman, a broad-shouldered man with the stance of someone accustomed to sizing up threats, wasn't just there for decoration. He watched every guest, subtly noting who arrived alone, who exchanged words with whom, who lingered too long.
It wasn't an open club. It was a network.
Fortunately, Impheil was good at appearing as if he belonged.
He adjusted the cuff of his sleeve, straightened his lapel—not an exaggerated motion, just enough to appear as if he was preparing for an expected entry rather than attempting to blend in. He studied the crowd, his gaze catching on a small group making their way toward the entrance—three men, well-dressed but not ostentatiously so, their conversation carrying the quiet ease of familiarity.
Impheil took one smooth step forward, seamlessly falling into step behind them.
Not too close to draw attention. Not too far to seem like a stray.
As they neared the entrance, he let his fingers brush against the outer rim of his pocket watch, activating a barely perceptible ripple of Deceit—a soft nudge at the edge of perception, a subtle trick of presence.
A doorman with trained eyes wouldn't fall for something blatant. But a moment of misdirection, a small mental push—the suggestion that Impheil was simply another familiar face in the stream of accepted patrons—was more than enough.
The doorman's gaze flicked over the group, pausing on him for a fraction of a second.
Impheil met his eyes without hesitation. A brief, silent exchange. The kind that determined whether one belonged or not.
Then, just as quickly, the man's attention moved on.
He barely spared Impheil another glance.
And just like that, he was in.
Inside, the air carried the weight of old money—aged brandy, cigars, polished wood, and the quiet arrogance of men who believed themselves untouchable. Conversations drifted through the space like smoke, hushed but heavy, layered with the subtle cadence of negotiations, boasts, and veiled threats.
Impheil moved through it like a shadow, present but unnoticed. Not because he forced himself to be invisible—no, that would draw attention. Instead, he embraced the rhythm of the place, the effortless blending of presence and absence that only those truly accustomed to this world could manage.
And there, seated in a quiet corner, was Edwin Arkwright.
Or rather, Mr. Ashwood.
Impheil's lips twitched, barely suppressing the smirk that threatened to form.
Mr. Ashwood.
Not extravagant, not dramatic—just respectable enough to carry weight in the right circles, but vague enough to mean absolutely nothing. A name designed to slip into conversations without raising eyebrows. The kind of alias that smelled like fine leather and quiet transactions.
The kind of name a man gave when he wanted to be known, but not remembered. He lampooned.
Impheil absently swirled the amber liquid in his glass, watching the way it caught the low lighting. He had seen men like this before, the ones who played at importance without revealing their true hand.
Hell, maybe I should start calling myself Mr. Candlelight or Baron Ivory, see if that gets me anywhere. Certainly better than "Rocket." He still hadn't forgiven whoever came up with that one. Something about it brought him vague memories.
He cast another glance toward Edwin, studying the way he carried himself. Not stiff like nobility, not loose like a gambler. He is measured and controlled. A man used to dealing with people, but not one who sought the limelight.
Alright, Mr. Ashwood. What exactly are you hiding?
He didn't move toward Edwin immediately. That would be reckless.
Besides, a man like that? You didn't approach him like some overeager fool. You didn't sidle up to him at the bar and throw out some vague insinuations about "common interests." That was how amateurs got burned. No, a man like Edwin Arkwright—or Ashwood, or whatever name he was using this week—was best understood before he was engaged. Because the real game wasn't just about deals—it was about knowing when and where to make them.
Instead, he positioned himself with a clear line of sight, his body angled in the practiced nonchalance of someone who had nowhere to be, but all the time in the world to be there.
And then, he watched.
Edwin was engaged in quiet conversation with another man—older, sharp-eyed, dressed well but not too well. The sort of man who had influence, but not the kind that came with noble titles or bureaucratic appointments.
A seller, perhaps. Or a middleman.
Impheil studied them both, letting the details fill in the blanks.
Edwin's posture. The mark of a man used to being in command, of knowing he held the better hand in a deal. His movements were deliberate, his voice low but firm. He didn't waste words, and his expression—casually unreadable—suggested that whatever was being discussed, it was business.
The other man, however, was different. He wasn't nervous, but he wasn't entirely comfortable either. He held himself well, but there was an underlying tension—the kind of tension that came from knowing you were sitting across from someone who could dictate the terms.
Impheil took a slow sip of his drink.
So Edwin wasn't just here for leisure. This wasn't casual networking or an evening escape from prying eyes.
This was a transaction.
Impheil leaned back slightly, fingers tapping idly against the rim of his glass as he listened. Not to the words—those were too distant to catch—but to the rhythm of the conversation.
Deals weren't just spoken. They were revealed in posture, in pauses, in the weight of an exchanged glance.
…
The two men were deep in discussion, their words too quiet to catch from this distance. But body language? That told him enough.
Edwin barely moved, save for the occasional slow gesture—a man in control of the pace. The other man, by contrast, shifted in his seat occasionally, his fingers tapping against the side of his glass in subtle impatience. Not enough to indicate nervousness, but enough to show that he was aware of his position.
Negotiations were happening.
That meant there was something Edwin wanted.
Impheil's lips curled slightly. He had been right—Edwin had left the Constantine estate without open frustration because he still had something in play.
Whatever he had failed to get from Graham, he was now looking for here.
But what exactly?
As if answering his unspoken question, the other man finally leaned forward, lowering his voice. Edwin tilted his head slightly, his expression remaining unchanged, but the subtle shift in his posture betrayed interest.
Impheil took another slow sip of his drink, using the motion to conceal the way he narrowed his eyes, focusing on Edwin's lips.
He wasn't just watching.
He was reading.
The dim lighting and the steady murmur of conversation made it difficult to catch everything, but Impheil was patient. He let the words filter in, catching fragments where he could.
"…arrival… behind schedule…"
"…not from Feysac…"
"…adjustments need to be made…"
That was interesting.
Not cargo. Not goods. People.
Someone was supposed to be here by now, and they weren't.
Impheil's fingers tapped idly against his glass as he considered the implications.
If this was just some routine arrangement, it wouldn't be discussed in quiet corners with deliberately lowered voices. Whoever was supposed to arrive wasn't someone who could just hop off a train and stroll into Belltaine unnoticed. If they were late, it meant either their travel had been disrupted or they were taking extra precautions to avoid unwanted attention.
And Edwin wasn't panicking.
That was the real tell. He wasn't frustrated, wasn't snapping at the man in front of him for incompetence. He was simply gathering information, weighing his options. Whoever was coming wasn't disposable. Not just another errand boy. Their arrival mattered.
Impheil leaned back slightly in his chair, letting his gaze drift across the room without ever settling.
So, Mr. Ashwood—you can't get what you want from Graham, but someone else might be able to bring it to you.
The question was: who?
Impheil weighed his options carefully. He could wait for the conversation to end, trail Edwin when he left, see where the threads led. But that was a passive approach. Edwin would leave eventually, but if Impheil wanted to control the pace of the investigation, he needed to push things forward.
A subtle misstep by Edwin could reveal far more than merely watching from the sidelines.
Time to test the waters.
He finished his drink, letting the last sip roll over his tongue before setting the glass down with an absent clink.
Then, he stood.
With practiced ease, he adjusted his cuffs, straightened his coat, and wove his way through the room—casual, unhurried, a man merely stretching his legs.
Impheil didn't wait for an opportunity—he made it.
His steps were casual as he maneuvered through the club, the air thick with the scent of aged brandy and the quiet hum of power plays in motion. Edwin remained engaged in conversation, but the otherr—the informant, seller, whatever his exact role was—had let his guard down just enough.
Perfect.
As Impheil passed their table, he let the shift of the room's movement do half the work for him. A slight adjustment to his stride, the carefully-timed dip of a shoulder as he maneuvered through the narrow space—and then, just as he brushed past the informant's side, his fingers ghosted over the man's coat pocket.
A flick of motion.
Got it.
The man barely reacted, too engaged in his talk with Edwin to register anything beyond a faint disturbance in the air. No tension, no glance downward. The best kind of theft—the kind that never made itself known.
Impheil didn't slow.
As he rounded the corner of the bar, he slipped the stolen item into his coat, his fingers brushing over the edges as he identified what he had taken.
A key.
And a folded piece of parchment.
His lips twitched. Even better.
A key was always useful—but a note? A note could be anything.
He made his way back to his seat, casually adjusting his cuff as he sat. He didn't check the parchment immediately. He let his posture settle, let his presence slip back into the background. From the corner of his vision, he could still see Edwin speaking with the informant, their exchange slow and deliberate.
They hadn't noticed anything.
His fingers deftly unfolded the parchment under the table, hidden by the dim lighting and the shadows cast by the heavy wood. His eyes flicked across the words.
"Storage: Eastern Docks. Red Warehouse. Sunday."
Impheil exhaled through his nose, amused.
A location. A time. And, if the key was anything to go by—access to whatever was inside.
He didn't know what Edwin was waiting for in Belltaine, but this? This was a step closer to finding out.
His grip on the key tightened slightly before he tucked it away, his mind already spinning through the possibilities.
He had what he needed.
Now, it was just a matter of deciding how he would use it.