The train station pulsed with the quiet chaos of early morning, the iron-framed roof trapping the mingling scents of coal, damp stone, and fresh-baked bread. Steam hissed from beneath the massive locomotives, curling into the air like restless specters. Merchants called out their wares, their voices competing with the clatter of luggage wheels and the rhythmic march of polished boots against the platform. A distant whistle cut through the din, sharp and commanding—the herald of an approaching train.
I moved through the throng with practiced ease, weaving between travelers burdened with trunks and porters maneuvering crates marked for distant destinations. The city's heartbeat was strongest here, where departures and arrivals intersected, where faces change with each passing hour.
I strode toward the ticket inspector, the rhythmic tap of my boots against the platform lost beneath the murmur of early morning travelers. As I neared, he spoke up, his voice carrying the practiced monotony of routine.
"Good morning. Allow me a moment to check your ticket."
I handed him my slip without ceremony. He barely glanced up at first, fingers moving with the efficiency of someone who had done this a thousand times before. But then his eyes flickered over the name printed on the parchment, and his demeanor shifted.
For a moment, something unreadable passed through his expression—respect, perhaps, or wariness. Then, just as quickly, he nodded and returned the ticket.
"Safe travels, Sir."
I boarded train number 347, moving through its narrow corridors, the scent of aged wood and polished brass filling my lungs. My steps slowed as I reached the fourth carriage, my fingers grazing the cool metal of the engraved brass plate before pushing the door open.
Inside, a man sat with a newspaper in hand, posture deliberately composed. His presence didn't simply occupy the space—it claimed it. Every inch of him, from the subtle ease of his grip to the measured way he turned the page, suggested a careful awareness of his surroundings.
I took my seat opposite him without a word, pulling out a book as the train lurched forward. The rhythmic clatter of wheels against the tracks filled the silence between us, steady and unbroken, like the ticking of some invisible clock.
Days passed in this quiet monotony, the journey stretching across landscapes that shifted from rolling countryside to dense forests, from quiet villages to sprawling towns. Then, finally, the skyline sharpened.
"Westmere."
The name settled on my tongue like a weight, the capital's jagged spires piercing the sky in stark defiance. The air carried a different edge here—crisp, charged with an unspoken urgency. This was a city that never slept, where power and ambition thrived in equal measure.
Beyond the station's arched glass windows, the famed harbor unfolded in a tapestry of movement. Ships, their sails taut against the morning breeze, swayed in a restless dance at the docks. Seagulls cried above the water, their calls lost amidst the din of merchants haggling over cargo, of dockworkers shouting orders, of carriages rattling down the stone-paved streets. The scent of salt and industry clung to the wind, an unmistakable signature of a city that pulsed with life.
I stepped off the train, adjusted my grip on the briefcase and let my gaze sweep over the sprawling city before me.
The air carried the scent of coal and damp earth, mingling with the distant aroma of roasted chestnuts from a street vendor's cart. Gas lamps flickered against the encroaching dusk, their dim glow casting elongated shadows along the cobbled streets. The weight of expectation settled over my shoulders like an old, familiar cloak—unshakable, suffocating.
At the station's entrance, a sleek carriage awaited, its lacquered surface reflecting the dimming light. A footman stood beside it, his posture rigid, a silent sentinel awaiting my arrival. He inclined his head in wordless acknowledgment the moment our eyes met, the crisp precision of his movement betraying years of discipline.
As I approached, a figure darted into my path—a boy, no older than ten, clad in the threadbare attire of a commoner. His shoulder brushed against mine, his movement swift yet deliberate.
"Ah. My apologies, Sir," he said, his voice smooth, practiced.
And then he was gone.
A creeping sense of unease clawed at my gut. My fingers instinctively brushed against my coat, searching for that which should have been there—only to find emptiness.
Damn it!
My eyes snapped up, locking onto the boy's retreating form as he wove through the crowd. Without hesitation, I surged forward, the echo of my boots lost amid the cacophony of the bustling station.
"Hey, stop right there!" I called out, my voice slicing through the noise.
He didn't stop. Instead, he quickened his pace, slipping between pedestrians with an agility honed by experience. I pressed on, relentless, ignoring the startled glances of passersby.
The chase led me through the winding streets until the crowd thinned, giving way to a narrow, dimly lit alley. The moment I stepped into its confines, I halted.
The boy had stopped. But he was no longer alone.
Three men loomed over him, their forms half-shrouded by the flickering gaslight. The one at the center, broad-shouldered and thick-necked, cracked his knuckles with deliberate menace.
"Well, well. Looks like the brat brought company."
The thug drawled, his lips curling into a sneer.
The boy stiffened but said nothing. His eyes flicked toward me—wariness and something akin to desperation flickering in their depths.
The thug took a step forward, his boots grinding against the dirt-streaked cobblestones.
"Hand over everything you've got, or else—"
"Or else what?" I interrupted, my tone calm, measured. "You'll kill me?"
The man blinked, momentarily thrown off by my lack of fear, before scowling.
"Maybe, maybe not. Depends on my mood. But if you keep runnin' that mouth, I'll—"
"Hah…" I exhaled, shaking my head. "Some things never change, do they?"
"What the hell are you—"
"Alfred."
At the sound of my voice, footsteps emerged softly from the shadows behind me. A figure stepped into the edge of the lamplight—Alfred.
He had been following me ever since I departed for the train station, silently trailing all the way to Westmere. My father had drilled it into him—to remain close, to accompany me wherever I went, seen or unseen.
"Yes, master," came the quiet reply—a voice low, composed, and devoid of hesitation.
"Wound them—deep enough to haunt, but not enough to end them. Let the pain become a memory they'll never silence."
My tone was calm, composed—yet beneath it lay a blade of frost, sharp and unforgiving.
"Understood."
Without another word, he moved. A blur of motion, precise and lethal. The air cracked with the impact of fists and muffled cries of pain. The three men barely had time to react before Alfred reduced them to writhing figures on the damp ground.
While he dealt with them, I closed the distance to the boy. He attempted to flee once more, but I caught his wrist in an iron grip.
"Oh-ho, you're not going anywhere. Not until you answer my questions."
The boy swallowed hard. "I… I don't know what you mean, Sir."
"Don't play coy with me. You know exactly what I'm talking about."
My grip on his wrist tightened ever so slightly.
"I-I was just—"
"If you don't start talking, you might end up on the wrong side of the gallows. Do you have any idea how much danger you're in right now?"
His eyes widened slightly. "Pardon? G-gallows?"
I hummed. "You didn't realize I was a nobleman, did you?"
The blood drained from his face. "I-I was just told to steal it! I was told you were a rich merchant, nothing more!"
I tilted my head. "Who told you so?"
"I don't know his name! I swear! He just gave me a bag of coins and pointed you out from afar. Said I needed to swipe an envelope from your pocket and bring it to the fighting arena."
What the boy had stolen was an envelope I had discovered buried deep within my father's office, hidden beneath layers of forgotten paperwork and dust-laden records. It bore my name, written in a hand both familiar and distant, yet what lay inside was no mere letter. No, it was something far more enigmatic—a ciphered message, veiled in layers of deliberate obscurity. A puzzle that refused to yield its secrets at first glance.
Only three people could have known of its existence: my father, myself—and perhaps the man who had visited us under the shroud of night.
But it seemed now that he had not come alone.
When Alfred struck that man down, I had assumed the threat was eliminated. Yet the truth was far more insidious. That man had not been alone. There had been another.
I realized it when I pulled the letter from my coat pocket, seeking better light to study its intricate patterns. The memory returned, sharp and unwelcome: a sensation at the nape of my neck, a subtle prickle of awareness—someone watching me. I had brushed it off then, chalking it up to nerves frayed by recent events.
But now, in the stillness that followed, the truth surfaced with chilling clarity.
Someone had been there.
He had known of the letter—not by chance, nor idle curiosity, but with deliberate intent.
The cipher itself was intricate, its construction meticulous, designed to thwart any casual attempt at unveiling its meaning. Without the specific context, even the most seasoned cryptographers would have struggled. Perhaps they would have failed entirely.
And yet, someone had tried to steal it.
Which could only mean one thing:
Someone else knew the letter existed.
"Haa..." I exhaled, releasing the boy's wrist. "Lead the way to that fighting arena."
He hesitated. "You… you're not going to kill me?"
"Not yet."
From behind me, Alfred's voice broke the tense silence.
"Master, I've finished here."
I glanced over my shoulder, taking in the sight of the groaning men sprawled across the alleyway, barely clinging to consciousness.
"Good." I said simply.