The repair to the back window was crude—a jagged piece of plywood nailed over the frame—but it served its purpose. It kept out the biting wind of Cherwood, though it could do nothing to settle the mounting tension inside the clock shop. Victor spent the morning mopping up the thief's blood, his movements precise and mechanical. He didn't feel revulsion; he felt a clinical curiosity.
The Hunter must know when the environment is poisoned, Victor thought, his eyes tracking the way the light hit the iron-bound chest on Egmont's workbench. And this shop is becoming a terminal patient.
Mr. Egmont hadn't spoken since the break-in. He sat hunched over the chest, his tools clicking frantically against the iron seals. He looked as if he hadn't slept in forty-eight hours. His eyes were bloodshot, and his skin had taken on a waxy, translucent quality.
"Mr. Egmont," Victor said, his voice a low, steady baritone that cut through the silence. "The coal in the cellar is low. And the smell coming from that chest... it's changing."
It was true. The ozone scent was gone, replaced by something heavier, more visceral. It smelled of ancient dust and a faint, sweet rot—the smell of a tomb that had been opened to the damp Backlund air.
Egmont didn't look up. "It's none of your concern, boy. Go to the market. Get more coal. And get me a bottle of absinthe. The strong kind."
Victor wiped his hands on his apron. He knew he was being pushed away, but a Hunter doesn't leave a trail just because the brush gets thick. He needed to know what was in that chest, not out of greed, but for survival. If Egmont died or was taken, Victor would lose his base, his cover, and his meager supply of black bread.
"I'll get the coal," Victor replied, pulling on his grey greatcoat. "But the men in the dark caps are back. They're not on the bench anymore. They're at the corner of the apothecary, watching the chimney. They know you're working late."
This was a half-lie. Victor had seen shadows, but he hadn't confirmed they were the same men. However, his Hunter instinct told him that a predator who loses a scouting party—the thief from last night—always sends a stronger pack.
Egmont finally looked up. His face was a mask of terror and exhaustion. "The Iron and Blood Cross... they are impatient. They don't understand that these seals are not mechanical. They are... historical."
Victor left the shop, the cold fog of Backlund hitting his face like a damp rag. He headed toward the East Borough border, where coal was cheaper and information was more plentiful. As he walked, he practiced his "Acting"—blending into the crowd, becoming just another laborer in a heavy coat, yet keeping his senses wide.
He stopped at a street-side stall to buy a penny's worth of roasted chestnuts. It was a luxury, but the warmth in his pockets helped his hands stay nimble.
"Hear about the clockmaker?" the chestnut vendor muttered, more to himself than to Victor. "They say he's found something from the Fourth Epoch. Something that bleeds when you touch it."
Victor's ears sharpened. Rumors are spreading through the sludge. Someone is intentionally poisoning Egmont's reputation to justify a raid.
He didn't engage. He moved on, picking up a sack of coal and the absinthe. On his way back, he took a detour through a narrow alley behind the apothecary. He saw them—three men, not police, but hardened criminals with the tattoos of the Black Nails on their necks. They were talking to a man in a better suit, someone who looked like a disgraced secretary.
"Miller wants it by Friday," the man in the suit said. "If the old man hasn't cracked it, burn the shop. The smoke will hide the extraction."
Victor's blood ran cold. The threat was no longer theoretical. He had forty-eight hours before his "burrow" was turned into a funeral pyre.
The Hunter is being hunted, Victor realized, his grip tightening on the coal sack. But the best hunters know how to lead their pursuers into a different kind of trap.
He returned to the shop and went straight to the attic. He didn't tell Egmont about the threat yet. He needed to prepare his own "opening." He pulled out his steel carving knives and his whetstone. He sat in the dark, the constant ticking of the clocks below sounding like a countdown.
He reached into his pocket and touched the bronze medal. It was silent, but the heat was back—a dull, thrumming warmth that seemed to pulse in sync with the sweetness of the rot he had smelled from the chest.
I am not just Victor Sauron, he whispered. I am the one who survives the fire.
He had the base, he had the tools, and he had the information. Now, he had to decide if he was going to save the old man, or simply scavenge what was left when the smoke cleared.
He bit into a chestnut, the hot, starchy center providing a burst of energy to his Hunter potion. He felt the cold fire in his eyes—the Anakin intensity that signaled he was no longer a victim.
He lay down on the hard floor, the grey greatcoat pulled tight. Tomorrow, he would negotiate one last time with Mr. Egmont. He would offer a way out, but it wouldn't be for free. A scavenger never does anything for free.