"What's this?" Arthur Hebrew turned George Cavendish's pillow over and over. After ensuring there was nothing else hidden, he sat back on his bed, mulling over the address on the note. Tapler Street—he'd only been there earlier that day. House number 114 was deep within the slums. In times like these, both wealth and poverty could drive people mad. Even in the seemingly polished city of Brighton, there were shadows lurking in its corners. The stretch of Tapler Street leading to the southern gate was the epitome of such darkness.
Earlier, Arthur had ventured as far as a crumbling house at number 16—one of the brighter sections of the street—and even with Old Ford accompanying him, he wasn't sure he would have dared to go deeper.
Begging corpses lying dead on the roadside, merchants being looted by roaming gangs, streetwalkers painted in garish makeup—none of these were rare sights. Neither the city's enforcers nor the judicial authorities dared set foot in this area. And as for the council, which only concerned itself with nobles and grand policy-making? They wouldn't care less.
Why would George Cavendish go to such a place? And what did "Nighthawk" mean? Arthur rubbed his temples. Asking questions was his nature, but overthinking was not. Nothing would be clearer until he went there himself. However, it was already late tonight. Heading to Tapler Street at this hour would be like delivering a lamb into the wolves' den.
Could this have something to do with the scars George bore on his face back then? Arthur had a vague suspicion.
"Tomorrow, then," Arthur said, looking at his reflection in the mirror. A timid figure hugged its knees, gazing back at him. Hearing Lizzy calling him for dinner downstairs, Arthur let out a deep breath. He rapped his chest, urging his frail heart to harden. For the sake of his newfound family, he had to find a way to grow stronger.
The next morning, Arthur put on a clean shirt and left the house without hesitation. He didn't even consider any sort of disguise, hurriedly jogging toward Tapler Street. It was still early, and the local hoodlums and vagrants were likely still recovering from their hangovers. Morning seemed to be the safest time to venture there.
Arthur took a different route today, heading east along Etzikri Street, turning at the intersection with Clemont Street, and continuing onto the eastern side of the city. Unlike yesterday, when he had walked a brighter section, reaching number 114 required taking another path.
Entering this side of Tapler Street, the atmosphere changed immediately. The walls on either side were smeared with unknown substances, graffiti filled with obscenities, and crude caricatures of Brighton City nobles with bold red crosses over their faces. Arthur couldn't even tell if the buildings were homes or shops.
In an alleyway nearby, three men wearing leather jackets, their faces smeared with grease and dirt, watched Arthur intently. One of them was smoking a Starfire Grass cigarette.
Despite its beautiful and fantastical name, Starfire Grass was an illegal herb on the southern continent. While originally intended for medicinal use, it was discovered that when lit, the smoke briefly numbed the brain. It became popular in Brighton's dark corners, especially in the deep slums of the East District, where its effects on the nervous system were sought after.
The man leaning against the wall took a deep drag, then flicked the butt to the ground. With a nod, the three began to trail Arthur.
Arthur quickly noticed the strange men shadowing him. Though such encounters weren't uncommon in Tapler Street, he still felt a chill. This was the first time he had ventured into this side, and he couldn't help but wonder—what on earth was George doing here?
The men picked up their pace, grinning as they closed in. Arthur broke into a run, but he couldn't shake them off. When he reached number 136, two men appeared ahead, blocking his path, while the third sealed off his retreat. The surrounding houses remained eerily silent, their doors firmly shut.
"Well, little lord," one of the greasy men sneered, blowing smoke into Arthur's face. "What are you doing in a place like this? Do you even know where you are?" He grabbed Arthur by the neck, pinning him in place, while another reached into his pockets, determined to rob him of every penny.
Arthur, however, had little money on him. It was usually Katerina who handled expenses. Arthur stood still, allowing the men to ransack him, knowing resistance might provoke them further. He was terrified they might be armed with firearms or other lethal weapons. Having witnessed a shooting up close at the age of seven, Arthur had a lingering fear of such violence. While he longed to grow strong and seek revenge, his growing maturity made him ever more cautious.
When the man searching his pockets came up empty-handed, his expression darkened. "Not a single coin?" he roared, kneeing Arthur in the stomach and forcing him to double over. A sharp elbow to the back followed.
The other two joined in the beating, leaving Arthur bruised and battered in no time. Gritting his teeth, Arthur took advantage of a momentary lapse in the grip around his neck, shoving past the men in front and making a desperate dash toward number 114.
The three thugs were stunned for a moment before cursing and chasing after him.
Though Arthur's injuries slowed him down, his youthful stamina allowed him to maintain a lead. Upon reaching number 114, he grabbed the railings of the basement staircase, using the momentum to swing himself toward the door below. The men stopped abruptly at the house's front entrance, but Arthur didn't dare pause to question why. He banged furiously on the basement's iron door.
A small window in the center of the door slid open, revealing a pair of eyes scrutinizing him.
"Who are you?" boomed a voice as loud as a bell, startling Arthur into silence.
Unsure how to respond, Arthur recalled the note and hesitantly said, "Nighthawk?"
The booming voice fell silent. The eyes behind the door bore into Arthur's. After what felt like an eternity, the window slammed shut, and the door creaked open.
The man who emerged was a towering giant, his frame so massive that Arthur wondered if he might be part boar or elephant. Without a word, the giant scanned the surroundings to ensure they weren't followed, then motioned for Arthur to enter.
Arthur hesitated but stepped inside, realizing too late that the three thugs hadn't dared to follow. Was this place even more dangerous than the streets? Swallowing nervously, Arthur took in his surroundings. The dim basement was lit only by a single yellowed lamp above the door, its light barely illuminating a meter beyond.
The giant walked deeper into the shadows, murmuring to someone. Arthur couldn't make out the words.
Moments later, the giant returned, and behind him was a hulking figure covered in blue fur.
Arthur's knees buckled, cold sweat pouring down his back.
It was a massive blue-furred wolf, wearing gold-rimmed glasses. He bared his sharp teeth in a grin, towering over Arthur with a commanding presence.
"You," the wolf said in impeccable human Common, his tone cold and clipped. "Do you know who I am?"
"I am Nighthawk."