The Imperial capital did not appear as a beacon of hope, but as a mountain of smouldering coal beneath the driving rain. Altdorf. The largest city in the Old World. Seat of the Throne, the Colleges of Magic, the Cathedral of Sigmar, and the School of Engineers. Geneviève, standing on a muddy ridge threekilometress from the walls, looked upon it with a mixture of respect and revulsion.
The city walls were black, thirty meters high, bristling with cannons that looked like iron gargoyles. Beyond the fortifications, a forest of Gothic spires, industrial smokestacks, and steep roofs huddled in frantic disorder, as if the buildings themselves were fighting for a breath of air. But the most unsettling thing was the light. There was no warm glow of torches; from the windows of the Colleges of Magic, flashes of green, blue, and amethyst light pierced the low mist rising from the River Reik, giving the city the appearance of a corpse galvanised by unnatural energies.
Geneviève touched her side. The wound under her armpit had closed, leaving a pink, sensitive scar, but the poison on the Harvester's blade had left her with a persistent nausea and the taste of copper in her mouth. "We've arrived, Duraz," she whispered to the horse, whose coat was now encrusted with dried mud. "Now comes the hard part. Not entering, but surviving within."
Before reaching the gates themselves, they had to cross the Mud City. It was a vast refugee camp that had grown like a parasitic fungus against the outer walls. Thousands of tattered tents, shacks made of stolen crates, and broken wagons. The mud here reached the knee. The despair was tangible. Men with hollow eyes sat in the mire, too weak to shush the rats running between their feet. Doom-preachers screamed that the End Times had arrived.
Geneviève advanced on horseback, a tower of grey metal in a sea of rags. No one dared stop her. Her stature and the bastard sword strapped to her saddle were deterrent enough for common thieves. But she could not bring Duraz inside. A dwarven warhorse was too recognisable, and the city stables would be either guarded or requisitioned by the army.
She found a half-ruined stone structure on the edge of the camp—an old temple of Taal (the god of nature) now used as a clandestine stable by a large man with an eye patch and a wooden leg. Gunter the Mute. Gunter asked no questions when Geneviève placed a heavy pouch of gold Imperial crowns (taken from the mill bandits) into his hand. He looked at Duraz's teeth, nodded with professional respect, and pointed to a stall in the back—far from the road, dry and clean. Geneviève spent ten minutes whispering to the horse, forehead to forehead. "Don't eat anyone unless they try to steal you," she ordered him gently. "I'll be back soon." Duraz snorted, giving her an affectionate headbutt that would have broken her nose if she hadn't been wearing her helm.
Geneviève proceeded on foot toward the South Gate. The queue to enter was motionless. A cordon of Greatswords—the elite guard in polished plate armour and flamboyant feathers—blocked the access. But they were not the problem. In front of the gate, beneath a waxed awning, stood three figures. Two Witch Hunters with their wide-brimmed hats and ready pistols. And a Wizard of the Light Order.
The Wizard wore elaborate white robes and carried a staff topped with a prismatic lens. Every person wishing to enter had to pass before the lens. Geneviève watched as the Wizard pointed the staff toward a merchant. The lens glowed with white light. "Pass," the Wizard said in a bored voice. The next was a pale man who was coughing. The lens glowed a violent red. "Corruption!" the Wizard yelled. The Witch Hunters did not hesitate. One fired point-blank. The man fell into the mud, dead. "Next!"
Geneviève stopped in the shadow of a turnip cart. She could not pass. Her nature, blessed by the Lady, would appear in the lens as an explosion of pure magic. She would be mistaken for a witch or a demon in disguise. She had to find another way.
She turned back toward the river. The Reik flowed black and fast, carrying debris and corpses toward the ocean. The river walls were high, but there were minor entrances: the sewer sluices (unthinkable to swim upstream inarmourr), the commercial docks (guarded), and... the plague ferries.
A small, rotting wooden pier, isolated from the others, served the boats that carried the dead out of the city to be burned and brought in medical supplies—or so they claimed. A flat barge was about to depart for the interior, loaded with barrels of quicklime and crates of herbs. The ferryman was a figure wrapped in a black waxed cloak, wearing the beak-mask of a plague doctor.
Geneviève approached. "I take no passengers," the man croaked through his mask. "Only lime for the mass graves."
"I am a soldier," Geneviève said, disguising her voice into a hoarse wheeze. She wrapped herself in hegreyay cloak, feigning a limp. "I have the Red Fever. I must reach the Hospital of Shallya inside the walls before I die."
The ferryman hesitated. Red Fever was contagious and lethal. No one wanted to be near the infected. Geneviève dropped a gold coin onto the wet wood of the pier. "For the risk."
The gold shimmered in the dark. Greed won over fear, as it always did in Marienburg and Altdorf. "Sit at the stern, far from me," the man ordered, kicking the coin toward himself. "And if you die before we arrive, I'm tossing you in the water. I don't want my boat becoming a hearse."
The crossing was silent and tense. They passed beneath the enormous iron grate of the River Gate. The sentries on the walls looked down, saw the yellow and black plague flag on the boat, and turned away, spitting for good luck. No one inspected death.
The boat docked in a secondary canal in the poor district, the Dockland. Geneviève disembarked with difficulty, maintaining her act as a dying soldier until the ferry moved off into the mist. As soon as she was alone in a dark alley, she straightened up.
Altdorf, seen from the inside, was even worse. The buildings were so tall and close that they almost completely blocked out the sky. The alleys were canyons of damp brick smelling of piss and boiled cabbage. There was a curfew. The streets were deserted, save for the Reikswatch patrols passing every half hour with lanterns and halberds.
Geneviève moved through the shadows, looking for a sign. The black diary mentioned a contact point for the Grey Circle: an apothecary shop called "The Shrieking Mandrake," near the execution square. But first, she needed a refuge. Not an inn—too exposed to inspections. She needed a hole.
She found an abandoned cellar beneath a burned-out tannery. The door was off its hinges, the interior full of rats and rotting hides. Perfect. The smell would mask any trace. She sat on an overturned crate, removing her helm for the first time in hours. The cellar air was cold. She pulled a piece of dry bread and hard cheese from her pouch. She ate mechanically, staring into the dark.
She was inside. In the heart of the Empire. But she felt more alone here, surrounded by half a million souls, than in the crystal desert of Crow's Peak. Out there, some monsters wanted to kill her. Here, there was an entire civilisation that would burn her if they knew what she truly was.
A sound of heavy footsteps above her head. Hobnailed boots on the cobblestones. A patrol. Geneviève stopped chewing. Her hand went to the hilt of her sword. The steps stopped. Muffled voices. Then they resumed, moving away. Geneviève exhaled slowly.
Tomorrow, she would seek the Mandrake. Tomorrow,w she would begin to uncover the roofs of Altdorf to see what worms crawled beneath. She put her helm back on. Even in sleep, she could not afford to have a face.
Dawn over Altdorf did not bring light, but only a different shade ogreyay. The city woke to the brutal sound of the bells from the Cathedral of Sigmar—a metallic din that seemed intent on hammering faith into the heads of the still-sleeping citizens. Geneviève opened her eyes in the darkness of the abandoned cellar. She felt stiff. The moisture from the stones had seeped into her bones during the night, and the old wound beneath her armpit throbbed—a constant reminder that her immortality had its limits.
She stood up, shaking the straw from her cloak. There was no water for washing, nor any breakfast. She chewed on a piece of liquorice root to trick her hunger and clean her teeth. She stepped out into the alley just as the city began to move. Altdorf by day was a maddened anthill. The narrow streets filled instantly with carts, peddlers screaming the prices of eels and cabbages, and Reikswatch patrols shoving through the crowd with the shafts of their halberds. Geneviève submerged herself in the human flow. Her height allowed her to see over the heads of most people, but she kept her gaze low, hidden by her helm and hood. She walked with a heavy stride, one hand always near the hilt of her common sword, mimicking the posture of the many unemployed mercenaries infesting the capital.
Her destination was in the Reikerbahn district, an area known for its fourth-ratetheatress, brothels, and shops selling "remedies" that the official Church did not approve of. She found the sign after an hour of walking through alleys that smelled of sulfur and stale spices. "The Shrieking Mandrake." The wooden sign depicted an anthropomorphic root with a face contorted in a scream of agony. The paint was peeling, but the bars on the windows were new and sturdy.
Geneviève stopped before the dusty display window. Inside, glass jars contained things floating in yellow liquid: triton eyes, mummified fingers, two-headed snakes. She pushed the door. A silver bell rang with a crystalline chime, far too delicate for such a place.
The interior was narrow and suffocating. The air was saturated with sickly sweet scents—opiated incense to cover the smell of chemical decomposition. Behind the high counter, a man was pounding something in a bronze mortar. He was small, bald, with thick lenses in his glasses that grotesquely enlarged his watery eyes. He wore an apron stained with substances of every colour. Herr Groll.
"Closed," the man croaked without looking up. "Come back after noon. Or never, if the tax collector returns."
Geneviève advanced to the counter. Her shadow covered the man's workbench. "I am not here for taxes," she said, her voice filtered through the visor. "I am here for a special delivery."
Groll stopped. He looked up, squinting behind his lenses. "I'm not expecting deliveries. Go away, soldier. We only sell corn powder and cough syrup here."
Geneviève rested her metal-gloved hand on the counter. With her index finger, she slowly traced the symbol she had seen in the diary and on the sergeant's paper: the circle with the broken line. Groll stiffened. The pestle fell from his hand with a dull thud. He looked at Geneviève with a new intensity. Not fear, but calculation. "Ah. A... pilgrim of the Circle. You are early. The batch is not yet refined."
The man wiped his hands on his apron and walked around the counter, locking the door and turning the sign to "Closed." "Did Master Vane send you? I thought they used mute couriers."
Geneviève nodded imperceptibly, letting the man fill the gaps with his own assumptions. "Vane had... technical problems. I am here to ensure the supply chain is not broken."
Groll gestured and led her into the backroom through a beaded curtain. If the shop was unsettling, the backroom was a nightmare laboratory. Copper stills boiled over blue flames. Glass tubes connected vats containing red and black liquids. But the worst part was the back wall. It was covered in cages. Small cages. Inside, there were no animals. There were wood sprites (small glowing spirits), a bound and gagged goblin, and what looked like a piece of living flesh pulsing autonomously in a saline solution.
Groll went to an iron safe. "I extracted the serum from the 'donors' at Untergard," the apothecary said with professional pride, pulling out a crystal vial containing a dark red liquid, thick as syrup. "It is potent. Young blood, full of terror. The nobles love it. They say it erases wrinkles better than any cream and restoresvigourr to... tired appetites."
Geneviève felt a wave of disgust so strong she had to clench her fists to keep from drawing her sword and decapitating the man instantly. This wasn't a ritual to summon demons. Or at least, not only that. It was a drug. The Grey Circle was bleeding commoners dry to sell vitality to the decadent aristocracy of Altdorf. Refined cannibalism.
"And the champion?" Geneviève asked, keeping her voice steady. "The diary mentioned a priority order. Blood of a Saint."
Groll chuckled nervously. "Ah, that. Ambitious, isn't it? The Grand Master wants it for Geheimnisnacht. He says a drop of that not only restores youth but grants true immortality. No more decay." The man drew closer to her, lowering his voice conspiratorially. "They say they've found one. Or rather, a trail. A woman who shines like a star ccomesfrom the West. The Harvesters are tightening a net around her right now."
Geneviève froze. They were talking about her. "Where are the special goods to be delivered?" she asked.
Groll looked at her, puzzled. "But you should know. At the Glass Palace. At Count Von Korda's ball. That is where the main exchange will take place tonight."
Suddenly, Groll froze. He looked at Geneviève'sarmourr. "Wait a moment," he murmured, backing toward a table where a loaded crossbow lay. "Vane uses flesh constructs as guards. Or Harvesters in leather suits. You... you wear Dwarven steel."
Genevièvrealiseded the act was over. Groll snatched the crossbow. Geneviève didn't give him time to aim. She kicked the heavy workbench separating them. The table overturned, smashing into the apothecary and pinning him to the wall amidst broken glass and spilt acids. The crossbow fired; the bolt embedded itself in the ceiling.
Geneviève leapt over the overturned table. She seized Groll by the collar of his apron and lifted him, the man's feet kicking uselessly among the glass shards. "You're right, Groll," she growled, lifting her visor to show him her grey and pitiless eyes. "I don't work for Vane. I am the technical problem."
"Mercy!" Groll shrieked. "I'm just a merchant! I follow orders!"
"You sell the lives of others in bottles," Geneviève said. "Count Von Korda. Is he the head of the Circle?"
"No! No! He is just a client! A high-ranking member! The leader... no one has ever seen the Grand Master's face! He always wears a silver mask! Please!"
Geneviève tightened her grip. "How do I enter the Glass Palace? Is there a ball tonight?"
"Yes! A masquerade! For the eve of the Imperial festival! You need an invitation! Or... or a delivery!" Groll pointed with a trembling hand to a black lacquered wooden box on the floor. "That... that is the delivery for tonight. Troll gland extract for vigour. The servants are coming to collect it in an hour!"
Geneviève looked at the box. Then she looked at Groll. She couldn't leave him alive. As soon as she left, he would warn the Circle. But to kill him in cold blood... As she hesitated, Groll, seeing an opening, pulled a hidden vial from his sleeve and smashed it against Geneviève's breastplate. A green gas exploded from the vial. Geneviève instinctively held her breath and closed her eyes, but the gas was corrosive. She felt the skin of her neck burn as if touched by a red-hot iron. Groll wrenched himself free and ran toward the back door.
Geneviève couldn't chase him blindly in that laboratory full of volatile substances. She grabbed a heavy jar from the counter blindly and hurled it in the direction of the fleeing footsteps. The jar struck Groll in the back of the head with a sickening CRACK. The apothecary fell forward, knocking over a shelf of unstable acids. The liquidsare mixed. White smoke began to rise from the man's body, who screamed once before melting into a silent chemical horror.
Geneviève opened her eyes, watering from the residual gas. Groll was dead. The lab was beginning to fill with toxic fumes. She had to move fast. She went to the black box. She opened it. Inside were vials on red velvet. She emptied the box, tossing the vials into the cold fireplace. Then she took a courier's cloak and mask hanging from a hook: a plague doctor's mask, ironically appropriate for this sick city.
She heard the sound of a carriage stopping in the back alley. The Count's servants. Geneviève put on the beak mask. She covered her armour with the long cloak. She took the empty box. She stepped out the back door, leaving behind the laboratory as it began to catch fire from the chemical reaction.
Two men in scarlet and gold livery were waiting for her near a black, crestless carriage. "You're late, Groll," said one of the servants, looking at the masked figure with contempt.
Geneviève did not speak. She simply shoved the box into the man's arms and climbed into the carriage without asking permission, sitting in the shadows. The servants exchanged a look, but they did not dare argue with one of the "alchemists."
The carriage set off, jolting over the cobblestones. Geneviève looked out the darkened window. She was going to the ball. Not as Cinderella, but as the Stroke of Midnight. Tonight, Count Von Korda would find that "saint's blood" has a very bitter taste.