The Explorer's Union stood at the heart of Ironclad District, a squat, fortress-like building of dark stone and iron braces. Its windows were reinforced with brass latticework, and above the entrance hung a sign depicting a crossed compass and sword. The cobblestones here were uneven, scarred from the constant movement of heavy wagons that hauled supplies for expeditions beyond the walls.
As Silas approached, he passed vendors hawking gear: rusted goggles, reinforced gloves, and leather maps that promised "Guaranteed Accurate Fallen Lands Routes!" A group of children in patched coats huddled near a steam grate for warmth, while across the street, a Nightwatch patrol questioned a man near a boarded-up apothecary.
The Union's heavy oak doors creaked as Silas pushed them open. Inside, the air smelled of damp leather, metal polish, and faint traces of gunpowder. The stone floor was worn smooth by countless boots. To the left, a wide bulletin board displayed maps and mission postings. One map caught his eye: a faded diagram of the city walls with black ink marking territories beyond labeled Dead Hollow, Fogmire Ridge, and The Weeping Grove.
At the counter stood a woman in a brown leather coat, hair pulled into a tight braid. Her sleeves were rolled up, revealing muscular forearms streaked with old scars. She glanced at Silas with sharp, assessing eyes.
"Need something, boy?" she asked, voice low and gravelly.
"Uh, yeah. I'm with The Cogwheel Gazette." Silas forced his best nervous smile. "Heard some explorers just got back. My boss sent me to, you know, ask a few questions."
"Reporters." She shook her head and jabbed a thumb toward a side door. "Try your luck in the mess hall. They're drowning stories in cheap whiskey."
"Thanks." Silas turned toward the door but hesitated. "Sorry, what's your name?"
"Lieutenant Darya Quinn," she said, already turning back to her paperwork. "Nightwatch liaison. Don't bother lying to me again."
Silas's pulse spiked. She knew? He hadn't even tried to hide his purpose, yet she'd read him like a book. He swallowed hard and pushed through the side door, the distant murmur of voices drawing him toward the explorers' tales.
His instincts whispered that something was off about the woman behind the counter. She hadn't just dismissed him with the usual disdain for reporters—she'd seen through his nervous act in seconds.
Lieutenant Darya Quinn... he repeated the name in his mind, the weight of her stare lingering on his skin. Keeping his expression neutral, he triggered a discrete system scan.
[Analysis Activated – Cost: 0.2 p]
The response came almost instantly:
[Subject: Darya Quinn – Wielder detected. Chronicle: Inspector, First Order.]
Silas's stomach twisted into a knot. A Wielder. Right here. And a Nightwatch liaison at that.
His pulse quickened as cold dread coiled around his chest. What is a Nightwatch liaison doing here in the Explorer's Union? This made his mind race. The Nightwatch rarely mingled with the Union, at least not openly. Their job was to guard the city, not inquire about expeditions beyond the walls.
He didn't dare linger. With practiced ease, he adjusted his expression to one of casual indifference, gave a polite nod toward the counter, and pushed through the door. His footsteps slowed only once he was out of her line of sight.
The door creaked shut behind him, sealing him within the dimly lit confines of the Union's mess hall. The air was thick with the pungent mix of unwashed bodies, stale beer, and woodsmoke. The room was large but oppressive, with low ceilings supported by thick, iron-bolted beams. Brass lanterns swayed overhead, casting erratic shadows across the stone walls.
A dozen tables filled the space, most of them occupied by grim-faced explorers nursing their drinks or muttering among themselves. Their clothes were worn and stained with mud and ash. Silas instinctively cataloged the details: torn coats, patched gear, eyes that stared into nothing. These are people who've seen the Fallen Lands up close.
Near the back, three men sat huddled over a bottle of amber liquid, their voices loud with the kind of forced cheer that came only after surviving something harrowing. One of them had a bandage wrapped around his head; another's arm was splinted with rough strips of wood. Silas made his way toward them, weaving between chairs while maintaining his limp.
As he approached, he caught snippets of their conversation.
"...damn fog thicker than a death shroud, I tell ya. One minute, we were seeing the ridge clear as day; next, the ground was gone beneath us."
"It wasn't the fog that took Isaac," the bandaged man said, voice hoarse. "Something moved in it. Big. Fast. Didn't even scream."
The third man—older, with a silver streak in his beard—noticed Silas and straightened. "Oi, kid. You lost?"
Silas forced a sheepish smile and raised his hands in mock surrender. "Not lost. Just curious. I'm with The Cogwheel Gazette. My boss said you just came back from an expedition?"
"Bloody reporters," the bandaged man muttered, turning back to his drink.
"Hey, I'm not here to bother you," Silas said quickly. "Just looking for a few good stories. Maybe help make sure the city knows what kind of dangers are out there." He pulled a small notebook from his coat and held it up. "Anything interesting happen on your trip?"
The older man's gaze hardened. "Define 'interesting'."
"Strange sightings. Unusual sounds." Silas hesitated before adding, "The kind of things the citizens might care about."
The older man rubbed his temple, "Aye," he said after a long pause. "We saw something. Out near Fogmire Ridge."
"Fogmire?" Silas's pulse quickened. That was one of the locations he'd seen on the map earlier. "What exactly?"
The man leaned closer, his breath sour with whiskey. "A light. Deep in the mist. Green, faint, but it moved. We followed it for maybe half a klick, but it stayed just ahead. Then... the ground shook. Trees bent without snapping. And Isaac was gone."
"Gone how?" Silas asked, voice low.
"Just… gone." The man's hands trembled. "No sound. No trace. One second he was beside me, the next, empty air."
Silas scribbled down the details, his mind racing. A green light… movement in the mist… and something powerful enough to bend trees. The pieces didn't fit. But the Nightwatch liaison's presence suddenly made more sense.
"Thanks," Silas said, tucking the notebook away. He turned to leave, but the older man grabbed his wrist.
"Kid," he whispered, eyes bloodshot and wide. "Don't go near the Ridge. Whatever's out there—it sees you before you see it."
Silas swallowed hard and nodded. Outside, the fog pressed against the windows like pale, watching faces.
Silas lingered a moment longer, watching the tension etched into the older explorer's face. The man's grip, though rough and unsteady from drink, held a weight born from genuine fear. Fogmire Ridge, Silas thought, the name now carrying a sinister edge. He gave a small nod, murmured a quick thanks, and gently pried his wrist free.
As he turned away, his mind stirred with curiosity. These men had ventured beyond the safety of Evergarde's walls, into the corrupted wilderness where few dared to tread. They'd seen what lurked in the mist—things the average citizen only heard about in hushed rumors.
Time for a little insight.
He slowed his steps, pretending to adjust his coat, and activated the scan.
[Analysis Activated – Cost: 0.6 p – Multiple Targets Detected]
The system responded almost immediately. Faint static crackled through his mind, followed by fragmented impressions: the crack of gunfire, the metallic taste of fear, and the oppressive stillness of thick mist. Then, the results materialized:
Arden Cross – Second Order Chronicle: Pathfinder
Garrick Venn – First Order Chronicle: Fogcaller
Elric Downs – First Order Chronicle: Vanguard
Silas's heart skipped a beat. A Second Order Chronicle. Arden Cross, the older one with the silver-streaked beard, was more than a seasoned explorer. And from the system's summary, their abilities complemented each other, forming a well-rounded team perfectly suited for survival in the Fallen Lands.
No wonder they came back alive.
He stole a final glance at the trio. Cross was whispering something to Garrick, whose bandaged head lolled slightly as he nodded. Elric leaned back in his chair, eyes closed, lips moving as though reciting a prayer. These weren't ordinary adventurers—they were professionals. Survivors of a nightmare landscape.
The Explorer's Union wasn't just a gathering place for daredevils; it was a brotherhood of those who had braved the mist and returned to tell the tale. Their job was to chart fallen cities, map corrupted lands, and maintain what fragile connections still existed with distant, fog-shrouded enclaves. They ventured into places where death came quickly and painlessly—if one was lucky.
Silas remembered the stories whispered in Evergarde's streets: The explorers lived on the edge of the abyss. Monsters, curses, and ancient traps were daily threats. Death is a mercy out there, the older folk often said. To be an explorer is to gamble with your soul.
Yet, paradoxically, they were some of the most respected figures in the city. Even the Nightwatch afforded them courtesy, and officials ensured they received the best rations, equipment, and medical care available. Few dared to join their ranks, despite the allure of glory. It was said that once you crossed into the Fallen Lands, you left part of yourself behind.
"Kid."
Silas froze. The voice came from behind him. Slowly, he turned. Arden Cross stood there, swaying slightly but still emanating the kind of alertness that came from years of survival. His eyes, sharp beneath the haze of drink, fixed on Silas with unsettling intensity.
"You been listening too long," Cross said, voice gravelly. "Or maybe you're just too curious for your own good."
"I… I was just leaving," Silas stammered, forcing a nervous chuckle. "Didn't want to interrupt."
Cross's gaze flicked toward the door, then back to Silas. "Yeah? You got what you came for?"
Silas hesitated. "Mostly. My boss just wanted a survivor's account. Fogmire Ridge sounds like a nightmare."
"Nightmare." Cross huffed a bitter laugh. "That what you're gonna write? Call it a nightmare so folks can read about it over breakfast?"
"I don't write the headlines," Silas said, voice low.
Cross leaned closer, the scent of whiskey and gunpowder thick on his breath. "The Fallen Lands ain't a bedtime story, boy. And the thing we saw at the Ridge? It wasn't just a nightmare. It was watching us. Learning." He jabbed a finger at Silas's chest. "Remember that when you write your piece."
Silas forced himself to nod. "I will."
Cross held his stare for a moment longer, then turned away, muttering to his companions. Silas exhaled shakily and headed for the door. His heart pounded as he stepped back into the street, the cool mist like a damp shroud against his skin.
The Nightwatch liaison. The explorers. The green light at Fogmire Ridge.
Silas trudged through the fog-laden streets, his mind still reeling from the day's revelations. The green light at Fogmire Ridge. The explorers with complementary Chronicles. The Nightwatch liaison with an Inspector Chronicle—why was she stationed at the Union? And why would the Nightwatch, whose duty was to guard Evergarde's walls, be so interested in explorers who ventured outside those very walls?
He rubbed his temples as he walked, the chill mist clinging to his skin. Too many threads. Too many unanswered questions. Instinct told him it all connected somehow, but the pattern remained just beyond his reach.
The distant clang of a steam engine bell brought him back to the present. He found himself in Rustwick Lane, a narrow street lined with crooked, brick-fronted shops. The apothecary was just ahead—a squat building with soot-streaked windows and a faded sign painted in neat, looping letters:
Grayson's Apothecary – Remedies for Body and Mind
A lantern hung outside the door, its brass frame dulled by time. Silas stepped inside, a bell above the door chiming softly.
The air changed the moment he crossed the threshold. The metallic tang of coal smoke vanished, replaced by the sharp scents of dried herbs, alcohol, and medicinal tinctures. Shelves lined the walls, cluttered with glass jars, parchment-labeled vials, and small potted plants with curling leaves. Behind the counter stood a young man who looked barely older than Silas. His blond hair was slicked back, though a stubborn lock fell across his forehead. He wore a dark vest over a white shirt with rolled-up sleeves and held a small brass scoop as he measured a fine green powder into a paper pouch.
"Evening," the young man greeted without looking up. His voice was smooth, but there was an alertness beneath the casual tone. "Headache? Cough? Or something stronger?"
"Evening," Silas said, stepping closer. "Just need some basic supplies. Antiseptic, gauze. Maybe something for pain."
The apothecary met his gaze then, his pale blue eyes sharp. "Planning a wilderness expedition?"
Silas gave a tight smile. "Nothing that exciting. Just a precaution. Got banged up last night during that mess at Sable Court."
The apothecary's eyebrows lifted slightly. "The cult thing?"
"Yeah," Silas said, leaning against the counter. "Saw it up close. A monster broke through the wall. Nearly killed me."
The young man whistled softly. "You're lucky. Most don't walk away from something like that." He turned and grabbed a small glass jar from the shelf. "Here—willowbark tonic. Good for pain. And some antiseptic salve. Five crow-gilds."
Silas's lips twitched at the price. Five? For common supplies? He reached for the coins, then paused. Let's see who I'm dealing with first.
He triggered a discrete system scan.
[Analysis Activated – Cost: 0.2 p]
The result appeared with surprising speed:
[Subject: Elias Grayson – Wielder Detected. Chronicle: Pharmacist, First Order.]
Silas's breath caught, though he kept his expression neutral. Another Wielder. The outer city was beginning to feel far more crowded with the wielders than he'd ever imagined.
"Everything alright?" Elias asked, eyeing him curiously.
"Yeah," Silas said quickly. "Just… remembering the monster. Makes me jumpy."
The apothecary gave a sympathetic nod. "Fogborn beasts do that. Seen a few during supply runs near the wall. Don't trust the fog, friend. It sees what you don't."
Silas forced a laugh. "Yeah, I'm learning that."
He paid the five crow-gilds, tucked the supplies into his satchel, and left with a polite nod. Outside, the mist had thickened, muffling the sounds of factory bells and distant footsteps. Silas walked briskly to the corner bakery, bought a loaf of coarse bread and a wedge of pale cheese, and headed home.