Dawn crept into Storshallow, pale and tentative, as Merlin slipped from the boarding house's back door and into narrow lanes glistening with overnight dew. He carried no grand purpose—just a quiet agenda: to meet Alrick behind the cooper's workshop for his first lesson in marksmanship. Yesterday's arrangements lay fresh in his mind, and though he felt no eagerness to handle deadly tools, he recognized their necessity.
He passed a long, low shed where a horse-drawn delivery wagon clattered as stablehands readied it for morning rounds. The old mare snorted and pawed the damp stones, unbothered by Merlin's presence. Elsewhere, a mechanical carriage purred softly at a corner, its driver adjusting runic levers with practiced ease. The two modes of transport coexisted in peaceful tension—one of flesh and tradition, the other of engineered subtlety. It mirrored the city's character and, perhaps, what lay ahead for Merlin himself: old methods and new dangers entwined.
The cooper's workshop was modest—a squat building of gray stone and a sagging clay-tiled roof. It stood in a quieter part of the district, where artisans stirred slowly, their shutters still closed. Merlin followed the directions Alrick gave: three alleys east of the Red Lantern sign, then through a small yard hemmed in by tall fences. He soon found himself standing by an old well, its wooden cover half-rotten, a place forgotten by all but a few.
Alrick emerged from behind stacked barrels, nodding curtly. He wore a heavier coat this morning, and carried a cloth-wrapped bundle. "You came," he said, tone approving but brisk. He removed the cloth, revealing a simple pistol—iron-barreled, single-shot, with a wooden grip. "We'll start with handling, stances, and dry-firing. No powder just yet. Understood?"
Merlin nodded. "Understood."
He followed instructions, learning how to hold the weapon steady without trembling, how to align sights. It felt strange, yet he saw the utility. A calm hand, steady breath—these would matter if faced with an attacker. Alrick corrected his posture a few times, muttering that Merlin was "too rigid" and should relax his shoulders. They worked quietly, just the soft creak of barrels and distant hammer-on-anvil sounds drifting over the fences.
After an hour, Alrick gave a grunt of satisfaction. "Not bad for a first lesson. Tomorrow we try a blank charge—get used to recoil and noise. Pay your fee."
Merlin handed over two silver crescents, careful not to seem reluctant. He thanked Alrick and left, adjusting his vest as he stepped back into the city's arteries. The sky had brightened, vendors setting up stalls. He had time to return before the boarding house fully roused.
As he made his way home, he caught sight of a small gathering near a wall plastered with notices. Two scribes in dark robes, each bearing a satchel of rolled parchments, whispered urgently to a short, balding official wearing the Overlords' insignia on his collar. Merlin slowed, feigning interest in a fruit stall as he listened.
"…found strange markings again," one scribe said, voice low but tight. "Runes not in any of our public catalogs. We need permission to seal off the alley."
The official frowned. "Unregistered runes? Could be smugglers' code. Or worse—someone dabbling in restricted knowledge." He lowered his voice. "I'll inform the Arcanum Wardens. No civilian must see these markings until we understand their meaning."
The second scribe twisted her hands nervously. "They almost… shimmer under lanternlight. I've never seen ink behave like that."
Merlin caught a fragment of the script's description: odd loops and crescents drawn in patterns. Unregistered runes? His mind drifted back to Wintrell's studies and Viscounti's palimpsest. He knew nothing specific, but the talk of strange scripts and restricted knowledge struck a chord. He made a mental note and moved on before anyone noticed his attention.
On a side street near the boarding house, he passed the scribe's hostel where junior librarians occasionally boarded. Two young scribes, hurrying along with heavy folders, were deep in conversation. Merlin didn't intend to eavesdrop, but a phrase snagged in his mind:
"…the old Lexicon fragments—I heard Alderon mention them last night," said the first, voice hushed.
The second hissed quietly. "Careful! Those are not for common tongues. If the Overlords find out we spoke of it—"
They turned a corner and were gone. Merlin paused, frowning. Lexicon fragments? He'd never heard the term before. Something scholarly, undoubtedly. Perhaps related to the cryptic scribbles discovered in alleys? He shook his head. Now was not the time to pry. The boarding house awaited, and Mistress Halewick expected him to help with morning preparations.
Back at the boarding house, the day unfurled in its usual pattern. He assisted Annabelle, who noticed his slightly pensive mood. "Everything well?" she asked, handing him a linen cloth to wipe a table.
"Just thinking," he said, offering a gentle half-smile. "The city's always busy, full of secrets. I overheard some scribes talking about strange writings today."
Annabelle shrugged lightly, not pressing. "Scribes often gossip. Let it be. We have linens to fold."
He nodded and got to work. Yet he couldn't entirely push away the morning's hints: unfamiliar runes shimmering in alleys, talk of Lexicons and restricted knowledge. It reminded him of Wintrell's predicament—dangerous truths lurking beneath civilized veneer. If firearms were one line of defense against physical threats, what shield existed for mysteries that might bend minds or blur reality?
Around midday, Mistress Halewick returned from errands. With her came a new guest: a scholar type, by the look of her ink-stained cuffs and heavy satchel. She introduced herself as Amelia Havish, a researcher from a distant city-state. Halewick assigned Merlin to help carry her luggage.
Upstairs, as Merlin placed a trunk by the guest's bed, Amelia leaned her cane against the wall and regarded him thoughtfully. "You're Merlin, I presume? The assistant here? I've heard this house is quite well-run."
Merlin inclined his head politely. "Yes, ma'am. We strive to keep our guests comfortable."
She smiled wryly. "Comfort is one thing, knowledge another. Storshallow intrigues me. I've come to study certain restricted texts. Perhaps you've heard any rumors of odd inscriptions discovered in the city?" Her tone was casual, but her gaze keen.
Merlin hesitated. He had no reason to divulge what he'd overheard. "I'm just an assistant, ma'am. I run errands, fetch cream and candles. Scholars and scribes know far more than I."
Amelia tapped her fingers on the trunk. "A pity. Well, if you stumble upon something unusual—a note, a strange symbol—do let me know. I pay fair coin for interesting leads." She opened her satchel, showing a glimpse of well-bound notebooks and a magnifying lens. "So many secrets hidden behind ink."
He bowed out quietly, returning to the corridor. Another mention of secrets, ink, and restricted knowledge. It felt as if the city whispered hints at him from every direction. After all, he was involved—albeit tangentially—in Wintrell's affairs. Could these Lexicons or runes tie into the relics Wintrell sought? Into the cosmic mysteries hinted at by that palimpsest?
Downstairs in the parlor, Wintrell stood by the window, gazing at the street. Merlin approached, hands behind his back. The scholar glanced at him thoughtfully. "You were out early. Everything go smoothly?"
Merlin nodded. "Yes. The initial lesson with Alrick went well—no live fire yet, but I'm learning stance and handling."
"Good." Wintrell lowered his voice. "We'll need every edge we can get. Information has been scarce since the incident at Viscounti's estate. I've tried to reach a scribe who owed me a favor for certain notes, but he claims ignorance. Something's shifting in the city's scholarly circles—fear or caution, I'm not sure which."
Merlin considered telling Wintrell about the overheard whispers—unregistered runes, Lexicon fragments—but it felt premature. He wanted more concrete facts before stirring Wintrell's hopes or worries. "I'll keep my ears open. The city's always talking, in its own way."
Wintrell gave a subtle smile. "Yes, it does." He tapped the window glass lightly. "We stand at the edge of something elusive. Perhaps we must approach through different avenues—archives, private collectors, or even rumors."
Merlin left him to his thoughts and went to the kitchen, where Bertha prepared a stew. He helped chop vegetables, listening to Bertha ramble about market prices and how the spice merchant raised costs yet again. Normal concerns. Solid, tangible things: food, money, daily trade. A welcome contrast to intangible whispers of forbidden scripts and runes.
That afternoon, while delivering a pot of tea upstairs, Merlin overheard Amelia Havish muttering to herself, reading from a small note: "One must assemble keys… runic keys… layered truths…" Her voice quivered, excitement or unease coloring her words. He hurried past, pretending not to hear.
The day closed with a gentle twilight, the boarding house guests dining quietly on Bertha's stew. Merlin poured drinks and cleared plates with calm efficiency. He offered Annabelle a kind word as she arranged flowers. Betram passed through, mumbling about a new squeaky floorboard. Outside, the lamps glowed, and distant hooves of a horse-drawn coach tapped a steady rhythm.
In his attic room, before sleeping, Merlin mulled over what he'd seen and heard: stray references to "Lexicons," scribes alarmed by unknown runes, Amelia's eagerness for odd symbols, Wintrell's suspicion that knowledge was tightening behind closed doors. He knew nothing certain yet, but the city had begun to show him small puzzle pieces. The power system—this layered knowledge hidden behind inks, runes, and whispered words—remained just out of reach, a mystery waiting for the right moment to reveal itself.
He would watch, listen, and learn at his own pace. For now, he simply turned down the lamp, closed his eyes, and let Storshallow's muted lullabies carry him toward another dawn filled with quiet secrets.