Rain fell hard over London—heavy, relentless, like the kind we'd usually see during monsoon season, though it wasn't the monsoon. I was surprised to see the sky pouring down so much water out of season. It hasn't stopped all day.
It pelted the cobblestones, drummed against iron railings, and turned the narrow alleys into glistening veins of water and grime. Horses neighed uneasily as their hooves struck slick stones, their breath steaming in the chill air. Carriages rattled by, their wheels carving muddy wakes through the pooling water.
I kept walking, slowly absorbing the beauty around me.
A young chimney sweep huddled beneath the overhang of a bookshop, cap soaked through, arms wrapped tight around his shivering frame. His face, blackened by soot and hardship, turned upward for a moment, catching the silver sheen of the downpour. No one spared him a glance.
Across the street, a lady in mourning dress struggled with her parasol, the fabric no match for the wind's fury. Her boots splashed into a puddle, staining the hem of her gown with London's grime.
In a narrow alley, a gas lamp flickered-its glass pane cracked-casting a weak orange halo onto the glistening cobbles. A mongrel dog lay curled beneath it, ribs visible, nose tucked under its tail to escape the cold.
Somewhere far off, I could hear a bell tolling - perhaps St. Martha's church though the rain swallowed the sound before it reached the heart.
My charcoal grey greatcoat was soaked through at the shoulders despite its thickness, speckled with rain that had slipped past the umbrella's edge in windblown gusts. The collar was fastened tight with a tarnished brass button . Beneath it, my once-proud burgundy waistcoat had faded with time, the silk fraying at its edges. Damp trousers clung to my legs, brushing puddles with every step, while worn leather gloves did little to keep out the chill.
It fell in steady sheets, tapping against the fabric of my umbrella like impatient fingers. I kept my head low, collar turned up, letting the rain wash the city into a blur as I walked down the streets of London to reach a specific destination.
A library in the Lumble Street.
Lumble Street sat on the edge of London, tucked behind rows of finer houses and out of sight from noble eyes. It wasn't slum land, not quite, but it wasn't the sort of street you boasted about either. The buildings were old-some centuries past their prime-with brick walls patched over timber frames and chimneys that leaned like they'd grown tired of standing straight. Most who lived here worked for others. Servants, maids, nursemaids, kitchen boys. They left early in the morning and came back after dark, when the sun had curled up and gone to sleep. No one expected much from Lumble Street, and the people didn't ask for much either. The street always smelled faintly of coal smoke and bread, and when it rained, the water ran quick through the gutters, stirring leaves and bits of cloth toward drains no one dared to unclog.
This street reminded me of my childhood. I used to wander here, hungry, soaked, with nowhere to go. People passed by like I wasn't there, just another piece of rubbish washed to the side.
Lumble Street didn't offer much-but it was the only place that had seen me at my lowest. In a way, it knew me better than anyone else ever did.
I turned the corner. The library stood in sight, its warm light a beacon behind frosted glass.
I could see the heavy wooden door, darkened by age and weather, framed by curling ivy and years of soot. The puddles were deeper here. The street dipped, and I stepped straight into the water.
It soaked through the worn leather of my boots, numbing my toes instantly. I trudged forward, each step splashing, the cold biting through my wool trousers and crawling up my legs. By the time I reached the stone steps, the bottom hem of my coat was sodden and clinging to me.
I reached for the brass handle, slick with rain, and gave the door a firm tug. It resisted, swollen slightly from damp, then groaned open with a long, reluctant creak—a sound that would've made any horror director proud. Warmth hit me like a wave. Not heat, exactly, but the stale, familiar stillness of old paper and settled dust. My boots squelched against the wooden floorboards as I stepped inside, the door sighing closed behind me. I gave my umbrella a gentle shake, droplets scattering like glass beads to the floor. My gloves were damp, and cold bit at the edges of my sleeves, but at last, I was out.
I hadn't come here out of habit. My master had summoned me—in his usual fashion, a half-legible note folded neatly inside the breast pocket of my own coat, placed there without my noticing. The hour approaches, and so must you. The books await, restless.
This forgotten library had always been his place—our meeting place. No one came here anymore. It didn't even have a librarian. The few books that hadn't been reclaimed by rot sat quietly on sagging shelves, waiting for readers who would never return. On this lowly street, the kind of people who might have once cared for books now borrowed them—not from shelves, but from their masters. The nobility, in their grand houses with private studies and polished shelves, hoarded knowledge like they did everything else. Servants read by candlelight when their lords were asleep, and the working class simply stopped reading at all.
The Grand Central Library had drawn what little interest remained—polished marble, imported mahogany, and books no one dared to touch without gloves. But not here. Not in this dim, forgotten corner of the city. Perfect for a man who despised "crowds and good lighting," as he once put it.
My boots left small puddles in my wake as I moved deeper into the reading room. Then I saw him.
My master sat at the far end of a long oak table, hunched forward with his elbows braced like he was interrogating a ghost. His coat - that same worn herringbone thing he'd had since I was a boy—hung off the back of the chair, slightly damp. The lamplight caught the sharp angles of his face—high cheekbones, hollow eyes like tarnished silver, and a single streak of grey in his otherwise dark hair that always made him look both ageless and impossibly tired. An oil lamp flickered between him and the man seated across from him.
The other figure was unmistakably of the lumble street, yet he carried himself with a quiet dignity. He wore a dark wool coat, frayed at the cuffs but neatly pressed, and a well-worn officer's cloak repurposed and tailored to fit his frame, still glistening with rain. A flat cap rested beside him on the table, revealing neatly trimmed hair and a weathered face, the kind carved by alley shadows and palace corridors alike. His sharp eyes scanned the yellowed pages of an old, leather-bound book.
As I stepped closer, my master looked up at once—eyes sharp, mouth already twisting into that familiar devil's smirk. "Well" he drawled, eyeing the water "Late and dripping—Looks like someone's emerged from a brothel. Did they toss you out mid-service?"
I sighed, peeling off my soaked gloves.
"I was walking through half the Thames to get here."
My master chuckled, "Well, you've brought the river with you. How generous."
The man across the table let out a low, rough chuckle—laced with equal parts amusement and fatigue. "Welcome back, Fenris," he said, voice gravel-worn but not unkind. "Your master's in fine spirits, as ever, boy. Must be the rain. Don't you think?" He lifted his head from the worn pages of the book, snapping his eyes sharply to mine.
I gave a slight smile. "You're looking lively yourself, Chief Mason. Especially rare to see you in the library, and on a day soaked through with rain, no less."
My master gestured toward the empty oak chair beside him at the long, polished table. The wood, darkened by time and softened by wear, gleamed faintly under the low lamp light. The chair gave a soft creak as I approached, the old library wrapping around us like a hush, broken only by the steady patter of rain against the high windows.
"Sit down son!" he said, his voice low but firm, laced with that familiar blend of weariness and warmth. "There's much to discuss, and little time to waste."
I observed the transformation—the lively spark extinguished, replaced by the practiced solemnity reserved for weighty matters.
I knew that look well—the same one he'd wear whether he was lecturing me or pretending to be solemn just to prank me. Like that time he declared the missing inkpot a "catastrophe of historic proportions," only to burst out laughing when I nearly had a heart attack. I wasn't buying it yet; he had a knack for turning the smallest things into grand performances just to see my reaction.
His eyes didn't leave mine, and for a moment, despite Chief Mason sitting across from us in unreadable silence, it felt like the room held only the two of us—master and student, caught once again in one of his theatrical preludes to whatever mattered this time.
My master and I had held countless meetings in this very library, hashing out both matters of grave importance and the trivialities of daily life with equal weight. Whether we debated the affairs of the capital or simply argued over the proper way to brew tea, this room was our refuge.
Sometimes I brought Regis along—my master's son and a constant whirlwind of questions and mischief. Chief Mason was a rarer presence, joining us only two or three times from what could I remember.
In this very library, my master had taught me how to read and write, opening doors to knowledge I never thought I'd reach. He guided me through dusty tomes on history, strategy, and every kind of wisdom that books could offer. Those hours in the library weren't just about lessons; they were the foundation of everything I am.
"Son!" my master began, voice low and grave, "I am to depart London with Chief Mason on urgent business beyond the city's reach. Our work may stretch into weeks. While we are gone, I ask that you assist my son, Regis, in overseeing the affairs of House Waeris—and there is one more matter of great importance I entrust to you."
I blinked, taken aback. I couldn't remember the last time my master had spoken to me like that—with such weight in his tone, such formality.
I glanced between the two men in the old library and muttered. "Wait… am I in trouble or getting promoted?"
No response. Master's eyes stayed locked on mine—steady, unwavering. That's when it hit me. This wasn't a prank. Whatever this was—it was real.
I dipped my head, if only to escape the weight of his stare. When he spoke again, his voice had taken on that deeper, colder edge.. "There is to be an auction at the Taylons estate, four days from now. You will attend in my place. There's a cane on the list blackwood, a relic of the ancient sovereigns of the mighty old empires. I want it. You will bring it to me. I don't care what price they ask. I don't care who wants it more. You will win it."
He paused for a moment, "Whatever it takes!"
My mouth opened before I could stop myself. "Master… I've never even been to an auction, let alone one hosted by the Taylons. I—I don't know how these things work. What if I mess it up? What if I say the wrong number or disrespect a noble with a long name and short temper?"
"You'll manage," he said, not as a comfort, but as a fact "You listen well. You watch everything. And when the moment comes—you will know what to do."
I wanted to believe him. God, I wanted to.
He rose from the chair in a single, fluid motion. Crossing the room with deliberate steps, he came to a stop before a battered cupboard—its wood darkened with age, riddled with the tiny scars of worms. A few neglected books leaned within, as if waiting to be remembered. He stared at them, unmoving.
"Just… promise you'll bring it to me. Please."
I turned my head to stare at his back—that broad, unshakable silhouette I'd grown up chasing, always just out of reach. The fear of failing him twisted in my gut. I inhaled slowly. My doubts were still there—cold and real—but his belief left no room for retreat.
"I promise!"
It was as if I'd awakened from a long sleep, one tangled in memory and dream. A hazy recollection of a meeting with the head of House Waeris, and Chief Mason—The head of lumble street. I reached through the fog in my mind—The auction house, Prince Cartler's gleaming gun, that defiant Carnade's boy. And then the cane—unremarkable at first, yet it shattered every assumption I held. Regis had bid. The prince, too. Then… nothing. Pain bloomed behind my eyes as I tried to summon the rest. When at last I opened them, the world greeted me like a stranger.
My eyes widened, and the breath caught in my throat. Where once had stood the grandeur of the auction house, there was only devastation. All that remained was ruin. Concrete dust choked the air. Shattered beams jutted from collapsed walls. The floor was split and scattered with corpses—people I remembered standing beside only hours before.