The bells of Luthmere rang thirteen times.
They were not meant to.
The city's clocks,wound by meticulous hands,
struck only twelve to mark the midnight hour,
but somewhere between twelve and an uninvited thirteenth chime,the air grew heavy,
and the fog thickened as if trying to sound smoother the sound.
Cassian vale stopped mid-step,his gloved
fingers tightened on the strap of his satchel.
The cobblestons beneath his boots were slick
with mist,there edges glithing faintly under the
gaslamps.Across the street,the shadows of airship drifted slowly overhead,it's swallowed the smog.
It's too late for anyone respectable to be wandering these streets — and Cassian knew better than to call himself respectable.
He had been following a trail of loose pages for the last hour. It began at the back entrance of the Second Hand Press on Bramble Lane — an old printshop whose owner owed debts to people who made debts disappear — and had wound its way into the city's older quarter, where the bricks sweated with damp and the street names had been scraped off the signs.
The latest page lay in front of him now, caught against a drain grate. He knelt and pulled it free, careful not to tear the brittle paper. The ink had smudged, but the text was still readable:
"…and on the thirteenth bell, the Nameless One stirs…"
A gust of cold air hissed through the alley.
Cassian straightened slowly.
Someone was watching him.
He turned, but the fog had swallowed everything beyond the nearest lamp. For a moment, he thought he saw the outline of a man — tall, with a coat that hung too long and a wide-brimmed hat — but when the mist curled away, there was only the glimmer of wet cobblestone.
Then came the footsteps.
Slow. Uneven. Dragging, as though the man wore boots filled with water.
Cassian's heart quickened. He reached into his coat and found the comforting shape of his fountain pen — heavier than most, fitted with a sharpened nib. Not much of a weapon, but it was what he had.
The footsteps stopped just beyond the light.
"Cassian Vale," a voice rasped.
The figure stepped forward. His face was pale and drawn, eyes sunken, lips the color of ashes. His coat was torn in places, the lining stiff with old blood. In one trembling hand, he held a folded scrap of parchment.
Before Cassian could speak, the man lurched closer and pressed the parchment into his palm. His breath smelled faintly of ink.
"They will come for you," he whispered. "Because you carry… part of it."
Cassian looked down. The parchment was blank.
When he looked up again, the man's eyes had rolled back, and he began to fall. Cassian caught him, but the body was too light, too cold — like holding a coat stuffed with snow.
The thirteenth bell rang again.
And the man in Cassian's arms vanished, leaving only ash where he had stood. I