Early morning light stretched itself thin over Storshallow, laying gentle amber streaks on the sill of Merlin's attic window. From that small vantage point, he watched the city stir. The baker's boy emerged with baskets of fresh bread, calling quiet greetings to neighbors. A lamplighter descended from a last, lingering lantern, tucking his wand away for the day. The hush before the daily roar was broken only by soft footsteps and distant clinks of distant workshops shaking off their slumber.
Downstairs, Mistress Halewick's boarding house hummed with a subdued energy. In the kitchen, Bertha rolled dough for pastries, flour dusting her apron and arms, and Annabelle arranged a few wildflowers in a squat vase for the breakfast table. Betram hammered a loose window latch into place, grumbling under his breath about the damp air making everything swell.
Merlin stood before the small mirror in his attic room, adjusting his collar and cuffs. He had slept fitfully. The day before had been thick with implication: Master Wintrell's investigations, whispered rumors on a canal bridge, and that half-forgotten sign in the cellar. He could not deny it; he was drawn to these mysteries like a moth to a candle's glow. Yet he must remain cautious, working invisibly at the edges of things. He smoothed his hair, nodded at his reflection—a calm and unremarkable young man—and descended the narrow staircase.
In the small dining room, he found Mistress Halewick already pacing, arms folded. She wore her usual severe dress, hair pinned back, her gaze resting on every speck of dust. When she saw Merlin, she beckoned him closer and lowered her voice. "Our scholar rises soon. See that he has what he needs. Today I have a new guest arriving just after noon—a traveling merchant, I believe. I want no distractions. You understand?"
Merlin dipped his head. "Of course, Mistress. Everything will be orderly."
Halewick nodded curtly. "Good. And Merlin—Master Wintrell pays well. Make sure he wants for nothing." With that, she swept into the hall to inspect something else. Always in motion, that woman, as if seeking any flaw to fix before it became known to the world.
Annabelle entered, carrying a small tray of jam pots, her expression thoughtful. She glanced toward Merlin, eyes briefly meeting his. Her voice was gentle: "Everything all right? You seemed quieter than usual yesterday."
Merlin paused, considering his words. He couldn't reveal the storm inside him, the tangle of secrets and tension he felt pressing on the city's quiet face. Instead, he gave a reassuring, if subtle, smile. "I'm fine. Just thinking about all these travelers. They bring stories, and I suppose I wonder what the truth is behind their words."
Annabelle studied him for a moment, then nodded. "We all wonder," she said quietly, setting the jam pots on the table. "But best not to dwell too deep. Some truths cause more harm than comfort." With that, she returned to her morning tasks, leaving Merlin to mull over her words.
Soon enough, Master Wintrell appeared at the head of the stairs, immaculate as ever in a tailored coat and a crisp cravat. He surveyed the dining room as if it were a manuscript needing correct interpretation. Merlin offered him fresh bread, a poached egg, and the black tea he favored. The scholar accepted these provisions with a small, curt nod.
"Today," Wintrell said between sips of tea, "I intend to return to the Eightfold Library. There are certain records I wish to cross-reference. I may also require a foray into a market district to locate old charts—maps that might show the city before the Overlords rebuilt half of it." He eyed Merlin steadily. "You know where one might find antiquarians, yes?"
Merlin inclined his head. "There's a lane near the northern docks, Master Wintrell, known for old shops dealing in maps and oddities. A modest walk from the library district, though a bit out of the way." He recalled glimpses from the body's memories: a cramped street with faded signboards, where old men sold yellowed maps and cracked lenses.
"Excellent," Wintrell replied. "We'll attend the library first, then make our way there. Be ready to depart shortly." He returned his attention to his plate, methodically buttering bread as if each motion had scholarly significance.
Merlin excused himself to prepare for the day's tasks. He retrieved a small leather satchel to carry any parcels Wintrell might acquire. As he passed through the corridor, he overheard Betram complaining to Mistress Halewick about odd sounds in the cellar at night—scratching, like a trapped animal, or something else. Mistress Halewick dismissed it sharply, insisting rats or loose beams. Merlin slowed, heart tensing, remembering the strange symbol he'd noticed. The cellar beckoned like an unanswered riddle, but he must not show too much interest. Another time, perhaps.
Within the hour, Merlin and Wintrell stepped out into a morning warmed by golden light and the distant hum of commerce. They made their way toward the Eightfold Library, where scribes and scholars gathered in murmuring knots near the entrance. An apprentice hurried past with an armful of scrolls, nearly colliding with them, muttering apologies. The air smelled faintly of dust and old ink.
Wintrell vanished into the library's east wing once more, leaving Merlin to wait in the main hall. Today felt different—tenser. Merlin noticed more attendants in burgundy cloaks than yesterday, and they seemed preoccupied. He caught snatches of hushed conversation:
"—a missing manuscript from the sealed archives—"
"—no record of who had clearance—"
"—the Scribe Alderon is furious—"
A missing manuscript. Merlin wondered if this had any connection to Wintrell's research. He had no proof, of course, and it would be unwise to inquire. Still, he stored the detail away like a squirrel hiding a nut.
As Merlin lingered near a corner of the hall, the young library assistant he'd spoken to the day before approached cautiously. The assistant's eyes were tired, and he tugged nervously at his quill behind his ear. "You're waiting for Master Wintrell again, are you not?"
Merlin nodded. "Yes. Is something troubling you?"
The assistant lowered his voice, glancing around. "There's been… some difficulty in the archives. I'm not sure what he's after, but if he's looking for old records—" He hesitated. "Just be careful. The librarians are on edge, and strangers asking too many questions draw notice."
Merlin gave a polite, understanding nod. "I'm only here to assist him. I have no interest in causing a stir."
"Even so," the assistant persisted, "these texts—some of them… Well, let's just say not all that rests in ink and parchment is meant to see daylight. This city guards secrets the way a body might guard a wound."
With that cryptic warning, the assistant hurried off, leaving Merlin to consider the weight of those words. If a missing manuscript had the scribes anxious, it might concern precisely the sort of strange knowledge that Wintrell sought. What would the scholar do if he learned of this breach? Would he become more cautious, or seize the opportunity?
Before long, Wintrell emerged, frowning slightly. Merlin noted the tension in his shoulders, the way he flexed his gloved hands. The scholar's eyes were hooded, as if guarding new insights. He nodded curtly at Merlin and led the way out without a word. Only when they were back in the street's mild bustle did he speak.
"Something is amiss," Wintrell said softly, voice almost lost under the clatter of a passing cart. "The scribes are agitated. I couldn't access one of the documents I sought—claimed it was misplaced. I've no desire to point fingers, but either there's incompetence or something more deliberate at work."
Merlin feigned mild surprise. "Misplaced? That's unusual. The librarians strike me as meticulous."
"Indeed," Wintrell replied. He studied Merlin as if weighing how much to say. "We'll proceed to the antiquarian shops now. Old maps may shed light on how Storshallow's districts evolved. Some changes in city layout correspond suspiciously with certain… phenomena, if one knows where to look."
Merlin guided him northward, weaving through streets where ordinary life blossomed: a cobbler setting out polished boots, a pair of children giggling as they chased each other around a fountain, a woman selling pears from a wicker basket. This normality felt almost eerie, as if the city presented an innocent face to hide its darker undercurrents.
When they reached the antiquarian quarter, the atmosphere shifted. The narrow lane was quieter, the buildings older, their signs hand-painted and faded. Lamps of tinted glass cast subtle colors on worn paving stones. A shop called "Merrivale's Maps & Curios" caught Wintrell's eye. Its window displayed rolled charts tied with twine, antique sextants, and a brass compass shimmering in stray sunlight.
Inside, dust motes swirled in amber light. Shelves creaked with age, and the proprietor—an elderly man with round spectacles and frayed cuffs—looked up slowly from a ledger. His voice was soft and scratchy. "Good day, sirs. Looking for something particular?"
Wintrell took the lead, describing old cartographic records of Storshallow, especially from the era before the Overlords' renovations. The proprietor scratched his chin, rummaging through drawers until he produced a few curled maps. Merlin hovered in the background, eyes drifting over curious items: a fragment of stained glass marked with arcane sigils, a carved wooden figurine bearing that familiar triple-crescent motif. Every oddity seemed to whisper: there is more here than meets the eye.
As Wintrell examined maps and asked quiet, pointed questions, Merlin gleaned hints: certain areas of the city had once been marshland, others had hosted shrines and temples long since razed. Some neighborhoods aligned curiously with lunar events recorded in old almanacs. The proprietor answered just enough to earn his coin, but not enough to betray any personal beliefs. He looked glad to pass the old parchment to Wintrell and be done with the transaction.
Stepping outside again, Wintrell carried a small tube containing the rolled maps. He appeared satisfied, if guarded. "We have another piece of the puzzle," he murmured. "This evening, I'll examine these in my room. Tomorrow, I may ask more of you, Merlin. You've proven resourceful and discreet—two qualities I value highly."
Merlin kept his countenance composed. "I am pleased to be of service, Master Wintrell."
They started back, the afternoon shadows lengthening. As they neared the boarding house district, Merlin spotted something that made his heart skip: a group of city officials dressed in dark coats, talking quietly with a scribe he recognized from the library. They glanced furtively at passersby, and though Merlin dared not stare, he sensed tension in their huddle. The city watch, perhaps, or some private enforcers, investigating the missing manuscript—or the rumors beneath the canal's surface.
For now, Merlin remained outwardly calm, a servant guiding a scholar. He would return to the boarding house and dutifully perform his chores, serve supper to the new merchant guest, and say nothing of the day's discoveries. But inside, he held each clue close, assembling a mental mosaic: missing manuscripts, old shrines, rumors in the cellar, whispered sightings under bridges, and artifacts that might bend reality's edges.
By the time they approached Halewick's door, the sky bore a gentle rose hue and the breeze tasted faintly of autumn leaves. Merlin helped Wintrell with his coat and politely excused himself. He knew he must be patient—he was but a thread in this tapestry. Yet each day brought him closer to understanding what truly lay behind Storshallow's polished façade, and what fate awaited those who dared unravel its secrets.