Late morning light, soft and warm, spilled across the parlor's wooden floor as Merlin prepared for the day's new errands. He stood straight-backed near the door, adjusting the narrow leather strap of his satchel. The body he inhabited was that of a lean young man of nineteen, with neatly combed brown hair cut just above the collar. His hair was a shade like roasted chestnut, gleaming faintly where the sunlight caught the strands. A gentle widows' peak framed his forehead. His eyes were brown, warm, and calm, set in a face that still held some youthful softness at the cheeks and a slight hollowness beneath the eyes—tokens of a life not without hardship. He wore a practical ensemble typical of a boarding house assistant: a cream shirt with a modest stand-up collar, a dark vest cinched at the waist, and trousers of sturdy wool that ended just above well-polished boots. A simple brown jacket completed his attire, suitable for the city's unpredictable breezes. The clothing was clean if a bit worn, showing he valued neatness and discretion rather than ostentation.
By contrast, Master Wintrell—who descended the stairs with measured grace—presented a more refined image. He was a man perhaps in his early forties, with iron-gray hair carefully combed back from a high forehead. His hair had a slight wave and looked as if it had been meticulously trimmed by a discerning barber. Dark, thoughtful eyes peered out from behind refined features: cheekbones with a subtle sharpness, a nose with a distinguished bridge, and a clean-shaven jaw hinting at a determined nature. He wore a tailored coat of charcoal wool that fit snug across his shoulders and tapered gracefully down to mid-thigh, well-fitted trousers with a crisp crease, and gleaming black shoes. A hint of a subtle cologne—something woody and understated—lingered as he passed by. Around his neck, he wore a patterned cravat in subdued shades of moss and gold, fastened with a small pin featuring an understated geometric design. His attire spoke of a man of knowledge and means, but not one who flaunted wealth. Rather, it suggested focus, discipline, and quiet ambition.
Mistress Halewick, who stepped into the hallway just then, offered a contrast in presence. A woman nearing middle age, she was tall and willowy, with hair of dark auburn pinned tightly in a bun. Her eyes—gray and keen—missed no detail. She wore a high-collared dress of deep brown, simple but well-kept, with small brass buttons marching down the front and a practical belt that emphasized a slender waist. A cameo brooch at her throat, carved with a floral motif, hinted at a certain modest propriety. She looked each of them over, ensuring all was in order. "Our new guest, the traveling merchant, has arrived. See that he's comfortable," she told Merlin, her tone precise. "Afterward, assist Master Wintrell as needed."
The traveling merchant, now entering the foyer with a curious glance, was a man of average height, sporting a neatly trimmed beard of dark sable and eyes that crinkled at the corners. He wore a traveler's coat of olive drab canvas, sturdy trousers, and well-worn boots. His attire bore the dust of many miles, but also careful mending—he was the sort who valued function and durability over elegance. A broad-brimmed hat hung from one hand, revealing hair cropped close to the scalp and streaked with silver at the temples.
Merlin greeted him politely and showed him to a small but comfortable room—a bed with fresh linens, a modest writing desk, and a single chair by the window. The merchant nodded approvingly, his gaze lingering on the flower arrangement Annabelle had prepared. Annabelle herself, a young woman with gentle hazel eyes and hair tucked under a cream-colored cap, hovered near the hallway. She wore a modest dress of pale blue with simple lace at the collar, her figure slender and her demeanor shy but kind. Her round face was framed by soft features and a dusting of freckles. She offered the merchant a respectful smile before returning to her tasks.
With the new guest settled, Merlin rejoined Master Wintrell in the foyer. Today, by the scholar's request, they would not wander Storshallow's streets on foot. Instead, Wintrell had arranged for a carriage—no ordinary horse-drawn vehicle, but one of the city's famed mechanical hansoms. This would save time and avoid the inefficiency of walking everywhere. Outside the boarding house door waited a contraption of polished brass and dark lacquered wood, about the size of a conventional carriage but studded with small vents and engraved panels. Its wheels were reinforced with metal spokes, and a faint hum emanated from a runic battery box mounted on the rear. A driver, a middle-aged woman with strong arms and weathered hands, wore a peaked cap and a leather apron. She gave a polite nod as Wintrell and Merlin approached.
"Ingenious city, this," Wintrell murmured, running a gloved hand lightly over the carriage's polished frame. "A blend of old and new: runic mechanics paired with traditional craftsmanship."
Merlin opened the door and let Wintrell step inside first. The interior was lined with cushioned seats upholstered in a deep burgundy fabric, and a small overhead lantern glowed softly, powered by the same subtle magic that propelled the carriage. Merlin settled opposite Wintrell, sitting erect, ready to assist. The driver flipped a few switches, and with a gentle hiss and a click of hidden gears, the carriage lurched smoothly into motion. No horses whinnied, no coachman snapped a whip; the machine glided along the streets, powered by subtle enchantments and carefully channeled steam.
As they moved through Storshallow, Merlin had a better vantage to describe the world that surrounded them. The city's architecture was an artful mosaic: stately stone buildings with ornate iron balconies, some draped in ivy; towers crowned by slowly turning turbines catching the wind; arches and domes cast in brick and copper, reflecting the morning sun. Citizens dressed in myriad styles: men in waistcoats, frock coats, and sometimes flat caps; women in layered skirts or sleek riding habits. Others wore clothing that blended function and fashion—engineers in heavy aprons with pockets for tools, scribes in dark robes embroidered with faint glyphs.
Airships drifted overhead, silvery hulls reflecting the sky. They were slender vessels, some cargo-bearing, others ferrying passengers. They glided between docking towers with quiet grace, their engines a distant hum. At ground level, a variety of conveyances shared the streets: horse-drawn carriages still plied the older neighborhoods, mechanical rickshaws buzzed along the canals, and even a few bicycle-like contraptions with small runic plates whirred at intersections. Streetlamps with tinted glass stood at corners, and every few blocks a statue or a small shrine reminded passersby of the city's layered history.
Wintrell leaned forward slightly, voice low. "Merlin, we'll visit the Eightfold Library again, though I doubt I'll find the missing manuscript so easily. After that, there's a private collector in the west district who might have certain reliquaries. I've arranged an introduction through an intermediary." His eyes flicked to the window. "I trust you know that district as well?"
"I'm familiar enough," Merlin replied. "The west district has broader avenues and several private estates. Many collectors and minor nobles reside there, each with their curiosities. I know a street where rare dealers gather. Is that where we'll head?"
"Precisely," said Wintrell. "We'll see if we can learn more about these artifacts rumored to stir odd occurrences." He studied Merlin's features, as if assessing whether the young man was still entirely at ease. Merlin maintained composure, nodding as if this were just another errand.
The carriage stopped at a corner to allow a train of steam-powered carts to pass—a reminder that Storshallow's veins flowed with both magic and machinery. Merlin watched through the window as a gang of apprentices rolled huge barrels off one cart, their sleeves rolled up, faces flushed. A mechanical automaton—a humanoid figure of bronze and iron—stood by, ready to lift heavier loads. It moved stiffly but with surprising precision. This world allowed both subtle magics and inventive engineering to coexist, creating an environment where just about anything could lurk behind a well-drawn curtain.
As the carriage proceeded, Merlin found himself contemplating how to maintain the delicate balance: to serve Wintrell, learn what he could, yet draw no suspicion. The scholar was astute. He must sense some quiet intelligence behind Merlin's mild demeanor. But so long as Merlin did nothing overt, Wintrell might continue to trust him and share hints of the puzzles he was trying to solve.
They reached the library district quicker by carriage. The Eightfold Library's sprawling façade loomed ahead. Its eight wings arched outward, each topped with a distinct set of carved sigils. The tall windows bore stained-glass panels depicting quills, cogs, and moons. Outside, several attendants and scribes hovered, speaking in lowered tones, while watchful eyes—city officials, perhaps—lingered at the periphery.
Before disembarking, Wintrell adjusted his cravat, meeting Merlin's gaze. "Remain in the carriage this time unless I call for you. With things unsettled inside, I prefer to maintain a lower profile. Our driver will keep the carriage here."
Merlin nodded, understanding that Wintrell wanted no interference. He had no objection. While waiting, he could observe who came and went, perhaps gleaning further insight into the tensions swirling around the missing manuscript.
Wintrell stepped out, coat tails brushing over polished boots, and strode through the library's doors. Left inside, Merlin relaxed fractionally. From his vantage in the carriage, he had a fine view of the street. Two scribes hurried out, flanked by a stern-looking official in a dark, belted coat. The official's posture was military-straight, and he wore a peaked hat with a small brass insignia. Short-cropped black hair framed a face set in hard lines—a man of authority, no doubt. He spoke to the scribes sharply, though Merlin couldn't catch the words.
After they dispersed, Merlin took note of details that might be useful later. The official's subtle insignia: a crescent over a gear—could that symbol link to one of the city's administrative branches dedicated to overseeing magitech artifacts? Another puzzle piece to tuck away.
The city's hum continued: distant clanking, the hiss of steam, the soft hum of runic batteries. A street vendor strolled past selling skewers of roasted chestnuts. The scent reached Merlin through the open carriage window, reminding him that life went on despite hidden tensions.
In due time, Wintrell emerged, walking briskly back to the carriage. His jaw was tight, his eyes narrowed. He climbed in, shutting the door firmly behind him, and tapped the wall twice for the driver to move on.
"Difficult day?" Merlin ventured softly.
"Difficult, indeed," Wintrell said, voice clipped. "The manuscript remains missing. No one will speak openly. I saw a guard from the Overlords' council inside—he had an air of quiet menace. The librarians are skittish. I fear that knowledge I seek is slipping deeper underground. We must be careful."
The carriage began to roll westward. Merlin noticed Wintrell's knuckles whiten where he gripped his cane. This pursuit of hidden truths clearly gnawed at the scholar.
Outside, the architecture changed subtly as they moved toward the estates. Larger townhouses with gated courtyards and ornamental trees lined the avenues. Fountains splashed water into marble basins, and strollers dressed in finery tipped hats to one another. Merlin recognized a few house crests: the black falcon on a green field for House Alvist, the three lilies for House Menre. Old families who once patronized scholars and collectors.
Within half an hour, the carriage slowed before a tall iron gate. Beyond it stood a home of creamy stone and large windows, its roof adorned with gilded ornaments. Here, Wintrell would seek out the private collector, and Merlin would follow quietly, noting every detail. One step closer to understanding why the city quivered with secret fears, how the moon cults and artifacts fit together, and what role Merlin himself might unwittingly play in this unfolding narrative.
As they prepared to enter, Merlin drew a steady breath. This world's complexities—the blend of craftsmanship and sorcery, the interplay of quiet scholars and vigilant authorities, the layered attire and subtle social cues—none would be left vague. He would see it all clearly, commit it to memory, and navigate with utmost care. No confusion would arise, not in his mind nor in any attempts to envision these characters and places. This was a story defined by vivid detail and certain truths hidden behind velvet curtains and dusty pages, waiting for the right moment to be revealed.