The sea smelled of brine and smoke. Salt clung to every exposed surface of the port city before them, carried inland on the gusts of wind that rattled shutters and tugged at cloaks. Elias had never seen a city like this—fishermen unloading nets, ships leaning like slumbering giants against the docks, and merchants shouting in a dozen tongues. Torches glimmered across the wharf, their reflections dancing like fireflies on black water.
He followed Seraphina along a narrow alley, keeping his eyes on her back. Her limp had worsened overnight, but she moved with surprising agility, ducking past carts and barrels. Elias felt a pull he couldn't rationalize. He had every reason to vanish into the streets, to lose himself in the crowd, yet he didn't. Something in her—a confidence borne of necessity, the aura of someone who carried knowledge too dangerous for ordinary men—compelled him. He was no one. She, however, moved like the world itself depended on her steps.
"Why do you follow me?" Seraphina asked suddenly, glancing over her shoulder. Her eyes were bright in the dim light, reflecting the torches on the walls.
Elias hesitated, feeling the weight of the question. "Because… I can't not," he admitted quietly. "If I leave, I feel like I'm missing something important."
She nodded once, sharply. "Good. Curiosity will save your life more than obedience ever could. But don't mistake it for trust. That comes later."
Their path led them to a small, nearly hidden tavern tucked between warehouses. Inside, the warmth of a fire greeted them, and the scent of strong coffee mixed with brine. Seraphina led him to a back room, empty except for a table and a chair. On the table lay a folded letter, bound with wax and marked with a small emblem of the rising sun.
"This," she said, pressing a finger to the envelope, "is why we're here. It came two nights ago. From my master."
Elias felt a thrill in his chest. A letter, a code—something meant only for minds sharp enough to read it.
"Where did it come from?" he asked.
Seraphina shrugged. "Delivered by a merchant who doesn't know the contents. I suspect Valerius intercepted the original message, allowed it to pass, and altered parts of it for… amusement. He has a way of knowing which threads to pull."
Elias frowned. "Amusement?"
"Psychological games," she said softly, seating herself across from him. "He leaves clues. Little inconsistencies. He knows your mind will notice them, and that's exactly what he wants. Not to trap you—yet. Not immediately. First, he tests."
Elias stared at the wax seal. The emblem was familiar but subtly altered. He could feel the pattern tugging at the edges of his memory, like a familiar song played in a minor key.
"Why do you think it's tied to the Moon?" he asked.
Seraphina tapped her finger to the parchment. "The message is full of subtle references: the phases, the crescent, the waning, the full. My master's handwriting always carries a temporal rhythm. He never gives a key directly. He trusts the learner to perceive the cycles, not the words."
Elias unfolded the letter. At first glance, it seemed like a jumble of lines and dots, punctuated by faint lunar sketches in the margins. The words didn't form sentences. But beneath it, he could sense a pattern.
"Each symbol corresponds to a phase," Seraphina continued. "The crescent, the gibbous, the full, the new. Each phase marks a day. Only by arranging them in sequence can you reveal the hidden location and time."
Elias leaned closer. His eyes, sharper than ordinary, caught details most would miss: tiny scratches in the ink, faint differences in the curves of each crescent. Valerius had tampered with the message. A slight misalignment here, an imperceptible twist there—enough to make anyone less careful misread it.
He traced the sequence with his finger, murmuring under his breath. His mind worked like clockwork, aligning lunar cycles with the letters, connecting dots, marking intervals. Seraphina watched him, silent but attentive, as if his concentration could be disrupted by a single breath.
"You notice it," she said finally. "The error he planted. Most would take it at face value. But you—your memory, your eyes—see what is wrong."
Elias nodded. "So we use it against him?"
"Yes." She stood, limping slightly but moving with a calm precision. "If we follow the message exactly as it's written, we walk right into his trap. But if we account for his meddling, we gain the advantage."
Hours passed as they deciphered the letter. The Moon rose higher, pale and luminous, casting long shadows through the narrow streets. Elias realized the letter did more than mark a location; it marked a time. A ship would sail at first light, carrying something—or someone—critical. If they weren't at the docks before dawn, they would miss it.
By the time they stepped back onto the street, a plan had taken shape. They would reach the eastern pier, just beyond the warehouses, before the tide shifted. And they would do so by moving with the Moon, using its light to guide them and obscure them from Valerius's men.
The psychological game was subtle but real. He had left signs they would notice, knowing Elias's mind would obsess over them, double-checking, overthinking, perhaps hesitating. Every shadow, every altered symbol, was part of a larger trap. Yet the genius of it also gave Elias insight: by thinking like Valerius, he could anticipate what the Inquisitor expected him to do—and then do the opposite.
Night deepened. A soft breeze carried the salt of the sea and the low cries of gulls settling among the masts. Seraphina paused, looking out over the black water, then turned to him.
"You understand why you're here with me now?" she asked.
Elias hesitated. "Because… I can help?"
She shook her head. "Because you want to. That desire—that curiosity, that need to follow the puzzle—is what makes you valuable. Most would flee at the first danger. You, however… you follow knowledge where it leads. That's why you're still alive."
He swallowed. Her words were uncomfortable but true. He had wanted to disappear into the crowd countless times, but the pull of the Orb, the puzzle, and Seraphina's quiet confidence had rooted him in place.
"Tomorrow, the ship sails," she said. "And we need to be there before it does. But first, rest. The Moon guides those who are awake and attentive. The inattentive? They stumble."
Elias stared up at the crescent hanging low in the sky, tracing its curve with his eyes. He could see the faint scratches of clouds moving across its face, the subtle gradation of shadow. It wasn't just light; it was a map.
He understood then. Astrology wasn't superstition. It was timing, sequence, rhythm. The Moon's phases weren't signs of fortune; they were keys. Keys that his mind was uniquely equipped to interpret.
And somewhere across the city, Valerius smiled, knowing that Elias's attention to detail would lead him exactly where the Inquisitor wanted—but perhaps, with a mind like Elias's, not quite in the way he expected.
The night stretched on. Waves lapped against the pier far below, the wind tugged at loose shutters, and the city held its breath. By dawn, all would be revealed.