Seven months.
The study had become my command center. Maps of Backlund covered one wall, marked with pins and threads tracking the web of connections I had woven. Ledgers filled the shelves—not the false ledgers I showed inspectors, but the real ones. The ones that told the true story of Alexander Nox's ascent.
I closed my eyes and let my spirituality expand outward. Seven sat on his perch by the window, black eyes gleaming. Through him, I saw the garden, the street beyond, the carriage passing at the end of the lane. Fifty meters now. Full digestion of Crowkeeper would come any day.
Eighty-nine percent. I could feel it, like a clock ticking toward midnight.
The physical training had been brutal at first. My new body was soft—a merchant's body, used to desks and carriages, not the rigors I demanded. I had changed that. Every morning at five, rain or fog or the rare pale sunlight, I trained. Push-ups until my arms gave out. Squats until my legs burned. Runs through the garden until the servants learned not to question why their master returned drenched in sweat.
The weapon permit had taken three months and more bribes than I cared to count. But Backlund ran on bribes the way engines ran on coal. The right palms greased, the right forms stamped, and suddenly Alexander Nox, respected importer, was the proud owner of a revolver and a license to carry it in the city.
The revolver was a Webley, solid and reliable. I had bought two more since then—one hidden in the study, one in my bedroom. A man in my position, with my history, knew the value of insurance.
But the guns were toys. The real weapon was the business.
I rose from my desk and crossed to the window, looking out at the grey morning. Seven cawed softly. Seven months ago, I had fifteen thousand pounds and a small import company. Now?
Now, Nox Imports controlled eighty percent of Backlund's trade in machinery, spices, art, foodstuffs, cargo shipping, furniture, and raw materials. Eighty percent. The numbers still surprised me when I reviewed them.
I had borrowed everything I could. The fifteen thousand in the bank had been seed money—I used it as collateral for loans, leveraged those loans against future earnings, liquidated every asset the previous owner had accumulated. Nearly seven point nine million pounds, all of it poured into expansion like water into sand.
For two months, I had teetered on the edge of ruin. One missed payment would have collapsed everything. But I had played this game before. I knew how to read markets, how to predict demand, how to undercut competitors just enough to drive them out without starting a price war I couldn't finish.
And it had worked.
The business was now worth approximately one point eight billion pounds. More than most noble houses. More than some small countries. I owned warehouses across the city, shipping contracts with every major line, exclusive import rights for a dozen categories of goods.
The only problem was cash flow.
All that expansion had left me, paradoxically, nearly broke. My personal accounts held barely enough to cover household expenses. The business accounts showed healthy figures on paper, but the money was tied up in inventory, in ships at sea, in contracts that wouldn't mature for weeks.
My next paycheck—my personal draw from the business—would arrive in two weeks. Three hundred thousand pounds. Enough to breathe easy again. Until then, I lived on credit and the goodwill I had carefully cultivated.
I turned from the window and checked my appearance in the mirror. Dark suit, perfectly tailored. White shirt, stiff collar. Grey waistcoat with a subtle pattern. I looked the part of a successful merchant prince. The grey eyes that stared back at me were calm, assessing, satisfied with what they saw.
"Seven," I murmured. "Watch the house."
The crow cawed once in acknowledgment. I left the study, collected my coat and hat from Elise, and stepped into the carriage waiting at the curb.
The board meeting was at our main office in the Commercial District—a five-story building I had purchased three months ago, paid for with promises and future earnings. The carriage clattered through streets thick with morning traffic, past horse-drawn trams and costermongers' carts and the ever-present fog that gave Backlund its character.
I used the journey to review my acting principles for Crowkeeper. I had developed them carefully over the months, testing and refining:
A Crowkeeper watches from above, unseen and unremarked.
A Crowkeeper's servants are eyes and ears, not hands.
A Crowkeeper gathers information but does not act on it directly.
A Crowkeeper's power lies in knowing, not in doing.
The last one had been hardest. My instincts screamed at me to use the information Seven gathered, to act on it, to manipulate and control. But digestion required restraint. I had watched competitors make moves I could have blocked, let opportunities slip I could have seized. Each time, the potion settled a little more.
Eighty-nine percent. One more week, maybe two, and I would be ready for Sequence 8. Elegist. The name whispered possibilities.
The carriage stopped. I stepped out into the grey morning and climbed the steps to my empire.
---
The boardroom was on the top floor, windows looking out over the city's hazy skyline. Seven men waited around the long mahogany table—my directors, my partners, my creation.
They rose when I entered. I waved them back to their seats and took my place at the head of the table.
"Gentlemen. Let's begin."
The meeting followed its usual rhythm. Reports on shipments, discussions of new contracts, analysis of competitors' movements. I listened more than I spoke, letting them present their cases, probing weaknesses in their arguments, guiding discussions toward conclusions I had already reached.
Harold Simmons, my finance director, was the first to broach the subject that clearly occupied all their minds.
"Mr. Nox, I must say—we were concerned, six months ago, when you proposed the expansion plan. The numbers seemed... aggressive."
Several heads nodded.
"But I'm pleased to report," Harold continued, a rare smile crossing his lined face, "that your strategy has exceeded every projection. We now dominate categories we barely competed in before. The risk you took—"
"A calculated risk," I interrupted mildly.
"Of course. But calculated risks require courage to execute. The board wishes to formally recognize your leadership during this period."
More nods. Murmurs of agreement.
I inclined my head. "I appreciate the sentiment. But we're not finished. The expansion was phase one. Phase two is consolidation and defense. We need to make our position unassailable before our competitors regroup."
The discussion shifted to strategy. I let them talk, occasionally steering, mostly observing. These men were competent—I had chosen them carefully—but they thought in terms of markets and margins. I thought in terms of power.
When the formal agenda was exhausted, I leaned back in my chair and considered my next words carefully.
"I have a... personal question. For your thoughts, not for the minutes."
They exchanged glances but nodded.
"Before my uncle died," I said, letting the false memory lend weight to my words, "he told me something peculiar. He spoke of... supernatural abilities. Of beings called Beyonders."
Silence.
Harold's face went carefully blank. Another director, Marcus Webb, shifted in his seat. The youngest of them, Thomas Pearce, looked genuinely confused.
I continued, "I assumed it was the ravings of a dying man. But I've done some investigation since then. Small things. Questions in certain quarters. And I've found... hints. Nothing concrete. But enough to wonder."
More silence. Then Harold cleared his throat.
"Mr. Nox... how much do you actually know about this subject?"
"Almost nothing. Just what my uncle said, and fragments I've gathered. Why? Is there something to know?"
Harold exchanged a look with Marcus. After a long moment, Marcus spoke.
"There is... a world beyond the ordinary, sir. Most people never see it. But it exists. Beyonders are real. People who consume potions and gain extraordinary abilities."
I let surprise flicker across my face. "Potions? Like alchemy?"
"Something like that." Marcus leaned forward. "The easiest way to become a Beyonder is through the Churches. They have... systems. Methods. They can guide a person onto a Path."
I considered this, letting silence stretch. "Which Church would you recommend?"
Another exchanged glance. Harold answered. "You already donate to the Church of Steam and Machinery, sir. Your uncle did as well. They have a presence in Backlund. Their cathedral in St. George's Borough—Saint Hierländ Cathedral—is where you would go."
I nodded slowly, as if processing information. "And if I wanted to pursue this? Become a Beyonder? Would they help me?"
Marcus's expression grew cautious. "Mr. Nox... I should tell you something. Your uncle, Alistair, made arrangements. He signed a contract with the Church. He asked them not to introduce you to the supernatural world unless you discovered it on your own. But if you did... he wanted them to welcome you."
The words hit me with unexpected force. The false memories of Alistair—kind-faced, patient Alistair—surged up. A man who had never existed, yet whose constructed love for me was now part of my mind.
Clever. The being who sent me here had been very clever.
"He planned for this," I said quietly.
"Apparently so, sir."
I stood. "Then I think I need to visit a cathedral. Gentlemen, thank you for your time. Harold, please send the minutes to my study."
They rose as I left, murmuring farewells. I descended the stairs and stepped back into my carriage.
"Saint Hierländ Cathedral," I told the driver. "St. George's Borough."
---
The cathedral was impressive in the way all large churches are impressive—soaring ceilings, stained glass, the smell of incense and old stone. But beneath that, I felt something else. Spirituality, thick and watchful. The place was warded.
A deacon met me shortly after I entered. Middle-aged, calm eyes, the faintest trace of something beyond ordinary in his bearing.
"Mr. Nox," he said. "We've been expecting you. Please, follow me."
We walked through the cathedral to a private chapel in the rear. There, a priest waited—older, with silver hair and the kind of face that had long ago learned to reveal nothing.
"I am Father Alston," he said. "Please, sit."
I sat. He studied me for a long moment.
"You've been asking questions about Beyonders."
"I have."
"And you've learned... something?"
"I've learned enough to know I want to learn more." I met his gaze steadily. "I was told my uncle made arrangements. That if I discovered this world on my own, you would welcome me."
Father Alston nodded slowly. "Alistair Nox was a good man. He served the Church in his way. His request was... unusual, but we honored it." He paused. "You understand that once you step onto this path, there is no guaranteed return? Many who become Beyonders meet unfortunate ends."
"I understand."
"And you still wish to proceed?"
"I do."
Another long study. Then Father Alston reached into his robes and withdrew a small wooden box.
"This contains the Sequence 9 potion for the Mystery Pryer pathway. It is the path of knowledge, of magic, of understanding the hidden truths of the world. Your uncle believed it would suit you."
I looked at the box. Mystery Pryer. The Hermit pathway. Knowledge and ritual magic and eyes that saw too much.
"Before you drink," Father Alston continued, "you must take an oath. A simple one—to use your powers responsibly, not to harm the innocent, not to betray the Church's trust. It is not binding in the way some oaths are binding, but we take it seriously."
I nodded. He recited the oath; I repeated it. Simple words, easy to mean or not mean as circumstances required.
Then he opened the box.
Inside, a glass vial held a liquid that seemed to shift colors as I watched—pale blue one moment, silver the next, then something like the grey of a cloudy sky. The potion.
"There are other paths," Father Alston said. "The Church controls the Savant pathway, for those who seek knowledge of a different kind. But for you, given your uncle's wishes and your own temperament, we recommend Mystery Pryer."
I considered. Savant meant enhanced memory, practical skills, the ability to recall anything I had ever seen. Useful. But Mystery Pryer meant ritual magic, spirit communication, access to the hidden world.
"Which would you choose, if you were me?" I asked.
Father Alston's lips twitched in what might have been amusement. "I am a Mystery Pryer, Mr. Nox. I may be biased."
"Then Mystery Pryer it is."
He handed me the vial. The glass was warm against my fingers.
I hesitated.
Not visibly—my face remained calm, my hand steady. But internally, I paused. The boon system in my Sefirot was already advancing me along the Null Pathway. How would a potion from another pathway interact with that? Would they conflict? Would the boon reject the potion?
I had done divinations. Secret rituals in my study, using the methods I had learned as a Crowkeeper. Simple questions, framed carefully. Will drinking this potion kill me? The answer had been consistent: No.
Will it harm me? Unknown.
Will it advance my purposes? Yes.
It was enough. It would have to be enough.
I raised the vial and drank.
The taste was indescribable—bitter and sweet and somehow knowing, like information dissolving on my tongue. It slid down my throat and spread through my chest, and then—
Knowledge.
I knew things I hadn't known a moment before. Names of spirits, symbols of power, the correct way to draw a ritual circle. I understood, suddenly and completely, that the world was layered—physical and spiritual and something beyond both. I could feel the veil between them, thin as gossamer, waiting to be parted.
My eyes.
Something shifted behind them. I blinked, and when I opened my eyes, I could see.
Father Alston glowed. Not literally, but his spiritual body was visible to me now—a complex structure of light and energy, with something deeper at its core. The chapel walls shimmered with traces of rituals past. The air itself carried currents of power, flowing like invisible rivers.
I looked down at my own hands and saw the same. My spiritual body. My soul.
The Eyes of Mystery Prying. —the gift and curse of the Mystery Pryer. The ability to see hidden things, and the inability to stop seeing them.
Father Alston was watching me carefully. "How do you feel?"
"Overwhelmed," I admitted. It was true. The sudden influx of sensory information was... a lot.
"That will pass. You'll learn to filter it, to focus only on what matters. The eyes cannot be deactivated, but they can be... managed." He paused. "You're fortunate. Most who drink the potion for the first time require weeks of recovery. You seem to be handling it well."
I was handling it well because of the boon. I could feel the Null energy in my core, cold and calm, absorbing the shock of the new potion, integrating it. The Crowkeeper power and the Mystery Pryer power coexisted, separate but not conflicting.
For now.
"You should rest," Father Alston said. "Return home. Let the potion settle. In a few days, come back, and we'll begin your training in earnest."
I nodded, rising. "The Church... what do you expect of me now?"
"Very little, Mr. Nox. You're not required to join the Machinery Hivemind—our squad of official Beyonders. Your position in society is valuable, and we believe you're best suited to maintain it. Simply... do not harm others with your powers. Do not draw unwanted attention to the supernatural world. And if you learn anything useful, anything that might threaten the Church or the faithful, share it."
"And in return?"
"You have access to our library. To our knowledge. To guidance, when you need it." He smiled thinly. "The God of Steam and Machinery rewards those who serve in their own way. You will serve by being Alexander Nox, successful merchant. That is enough."
I left the cathedral with the grey fog curling around me and new eyes that saw through it to the spiritual currents beneath.
---
The carriage ride home was disorienting. Every person we passed left trails of spiritual light. Every building had layers—the physical structure, and then the echo of everyone who had ever lived or died within it. I had to close my eyes for most of the journey, letting the horses find their own way.
Back in my study, with the door locked and Seven on his perch, I finally let myself breathe.
I was a Mystery Pryer now. Sequence 9 of the Hermit pathway, in addition to my Crowkeeper abilities. Two pathways, advancing simultaneously.
The boon system had worked. The potion had integrated without conflict. I could feel both powers now, separate but parallel, like two streams running side by side.
I raised my hand and focused on my new abilities. Spirit Vision I already had from Crowkeeper, but this was different—deeper, more detailed. I could see my own spiritual body now, could trace the flow of energy through it.
Ritual magic knowledge filled my mind—symbols and invocations, the proper way to address spirits, the ingredients needed for various workings. I would need to practice, to test, to learn.
And the eyes. The damned eyes.
I looked in the mirror and saw myself properly for the first time since drinking. My physical reflection was normal, but beneath it, I could see my spiritual self—and within that, two distinct cores of power. One dark and cold, the Crowkeeper. One shimmering with knowledge, the Mystery Pryer.
They coexisted. They did not conflict.
For now.
I leaned back in my chair and let out a long breath. Seven cawed softly from his perch.
"Two pathways," I murmured. "Let's see how far this goes."
The Crowkeeper potion was at eighty-nine percent. A week, maybe less, and I would be ready for Sequence 8. Elegist. The ability to sense lingering emotions, to invoke sadness through art, to understand the echoes of the past.
And now the Mystery Pryer potion sat in my core, fresh and undigested. I would need to develop acting principles for it, just as I had for Crowkeeper. The Mystery Pryer sought knowledge, pried into secrets, saw what others tried to hide. That was the key. I am one who uncovers hidden truths. I am one who sees what others cannot. I am one who knows.
I closed my eyes and began to cogitate, letting the rhythm of meditation calm the chaos of new perceptions.
Outside, the fog thickened. Backlund settled into its eternal grey. And Alexander Nox, twice-born, twice-powered, sat in his study and planned.
The game was only beginning.