Isaac walked through the fog-covered streets of New Aldmoor, his coat pulled tight against the bitter wind. The city was alive with the hum of machinery, the clatter of carriages, and the distant clang of metal from the industrial district. But for all its noise, New Aldmoor was a city of secrets, and Isaac knew better than anyone that the loudest parts of the city were often the least interesting.
His breath fogged in front of him as he made his way toward the rendezvous point—a dingy tavern tucked away in a part of town few dared to venture after dark. The sign hanging above the door was faded and cracked, barely legible, but Isaac didn't need to read it to know where he was. This was The Brass Lantern, a place where whispers held more weight than coin.
He pushed open the heavy wooden door, stepping into the warm, smoke-filled room. The low murmur of conversation quieted for a moment as the regulars glanced his way. Isaac wasn't an unfamiliar face here, but even in this den of thieves, his reputation followed him. A few muttered greetings met him as he crossed the room, heading for the shadowed booth in the back where his informant waited.
The man sitting in the booth was as nondescript as they came—short, balding, and wrapped in a threadbare coat that had seen better days. Isaac slid into the seat opposite him, and the man didn't look up right away. Instead, he toyed with the brim of his hat, his fingers twitching nervously.
"Got what I asked for?" Isaac said, keeping his voice low.
The man, known only as Tobin, finally met his gaze. His eyes were sharp, but there was fear behind them, the kind of fear Isaac had learned to recognize. Tobin was a low-level thug, an information broker who sold scraps to the highest bidder. He wasn't the type to get involved in anything dangerous unless he had no other choice..
Tobin nodded slowly, reaching into his coat and pulling out a folded piece of paper. "I got what you wanted," he said, his voice just above a whisper. "But it ain't pretty, Isaac. You're stepping into something big here."
Isaac raised an eyebrow, taking the paper but not unfolding it yet. "Big? You don't usually care about the scale of a job, Tobin. What's different about this one?"
Tobin glanced around the room, his paranoia palpable. He leaned in closer, lowering his voice. "You ever hear of the Tarot Society?"
The name made Isaac pause for a split second, but he quickly masked any reaction. He had heard of them—rumors, mostly. Whispers of a hidden organization that pulled the strings behind New Aldmoor's power structure. But those rumors had always felt too distant, too vague to concern him.
"I've heard the stories," Isaac replied coolly. "But stories are all they are. Why should I care?"
Tobin's fingers drummed nervously on the table. "Because the stories ain't stories, Isaac. They're real. And Bransfield? He wasn't just some rich industrialist. He was connected to them—deeply connected. I poked around where I shouldn't have, and now... they're watching me. Watching us."
Isaac unfolded the paper and scanned the contents. It was a list of names, dates, and locations—meetings, transactions, all tied to Edward Bransfield and a few other high-profile figures in the city. But what caught Isaac's attention was a single symbol scrawled in the margins—a simple drawing of a card,
The Emperor.
"The Tarot Society?" Isaac mused, his mind already working through the implications. "You think they had something to do with Bransfield's death?"
Tobin nodded vigorously. "I don't just think it, I know it. And they're covering it up. The guards closed the case too quickly. No way they didn't know what was going on. But you—" he pointed a shaky finger at Isaac, "you're in a different league. They know you, Isaac. They know you're too smart to miss the clues."
Isaac leaned back in his seat, considering the information. If what Tobin was saying was true, then Bransfield's murder wasn't just another high-society squabble. It was something much bigger, something tied to the very fabric of New Aldmoor's power structure. And the Tarot Society? If they were real, and as powerful as Tobin claimed, then getting involved meant stepping into a world far more dangerous than any case he'd taken on before.
"You're telling me they're pulling the strings," Isaac said slowly, tapping the table. "And they want me to back off."
Tobin swallowed hard. "Exactly. They don't like outsiders poking around in their business. You follow this too far, Isaac, and they'll come for you. They don't make threats lightly."
Isaac studied the paper again, his mind racing. He wasn't the type to scare easily, but even he understood the gravity of what Tobin was suggesting. The Tarot Society was no myth. It was real, and it was dangerous. But that only made him more intrigued. The challenge, the puzzle—it was exactly the kind of case he lived for.
"They sent someone to follow me, didn't they?" Isaac asked, his voice calm despite the tension in the air.
Tobin hesitated, then nodded. "Yeah. Some low-level thug. They wanted to keep an eye on you, see what you were up to. But here's the thing, Isaac—no way they'd send a nobody to trail you unless they were desperate. They're scared."
Isaac smirked. "Scared of me?"
Tobin nodded again. "You're one of the best, Isaac. They know it. And if they're resorting to hiring someone like me to get information on you... it means they're worried. They don't make moves unless they have to."
Isaac let out a slow breath, leaning back against the booth. This was more than he had bargained for, but it wasn't the first time he had been warned off a case. The difference was, this time, the warning came from an organization with enough power to topple empires without anyone realizing they had done it.
The Tarot Society—real, hidden, and now in his sights.
Isaac stood, slipping the paper into his coat pocket. "Thanks for the tip, Tobin. But I think I'll be following this one to the end."
Tobin's eyes widened with fear. "Isaac, you don't understand. These people—"
"They're not invincible," Isaac interrupted, his tone firm. "They can bleed like anyone else."
Without another word, Isaac turned and walked out of the tavern, the cold night air hitting him like a slap. The fog had thickened, but his path was clear. Bransfield's death wasn't just another puzzle—it was a piece of a much larger game. And if the Tarot Society thought they could scare him off, they were sorely mistaken.
He wasn't going to back down. Not now, not when the real game had just begun.