Panic, Zero discovered, was a poor substitute for sleep. He awoke – or rather, transitioned from a state of anxious, semi-conscious fretting to full, wide-eyed alertness – with the grey light of dawn filtering through his window. His grand plans from the night before, involving shadowed sanctums and enigmatic pronouncements, now seemed utterly ludicrous under the harsh light of day.
Right. Practicalities. He couldn't just imagine a hidden base into existence. He needed a physical location. Somewhere secluded, appropriately atmospheric, and, most importantly, free. His meager earnings as a clerk barely covered rent and noodles; leasing a suitably ominous lair was out of the question.
He spent the morning reviewing city sector maps he'd 'borrowed' from the archives, cross-referencing them with lists of derelict properties and condemned zones. His archival skills, usually employed for mind-numbing bureaucracy, felt strangely thrilling when applied to finding a secret headquarters. He identified a few possibilities: an abandoned textile mill near the polluted Sump River, a collapsed section of the old catacombs rumoured to be haunted (extra points for atmosphere, negative points for potential actual ghosts), and a cluster of forgotten warehouses down by the disused southern docks.
The warehouses seemed the most promising – remote enough to be ignored, dilapidated enough to be plausibly accessible. Steeling himself, Zero decided some reconnaissance was in order. If he was going to be a Master of Shadows, he at least needed to know his territory.
He purchased a cheap, dark grey cloak from a stall in the Rag Market later that day. The fabric was rough, smelled faintly of mildew, and was probably woven more from hope than actual thread, but wearing it, hood pulled low, made him feel fractionally more like the part. It also helped hide his face as he skulked through the more dilapidated parts of the southern docklands.
The warehouses were even more decrepit up close than the maps suggested. Many had collapsed roofs, walls scarred by fire and neglect. The air hung heavy with the smell of salt, decay, and something vaguely fishy. Perfect.
He found one warehouse slightly more intact than the others, its large loading doors warped but still hanging on rusted hinges. Heart pounding – a mix of excitement at finding a potential 'lair' and terror of being caught trespassing – Zero slipped through a gap where the wood had rotted away.
Inside, dust hung thick in the air, illuminated by beams of light lancing through holes in the ceiling. Piles of debris littered the floor – broken crates, frayed ropes, unidentifiable lumps covered in grime. It was vast, echoing, and utterly filthy.
Yes, he thought, a genuine spark of enthusiasm cutting through his anxiety. This could work. Dark corners, high rafters for dramatic entrances… needs cleaning, though. He imagined himself perched atop a stack of crates, cloaked and mysterious, addressing his assembled followers. The image immediately deflated as he pictured himself sneezing violently from the dust or slipping off the rotten wood.
He spent an hour cautiously exploring, identifying potential meeting spots (a slightly cleaner corner shielded by fallen timbers), escape routes (a boarded-up window leading to a narrow alley), and hazards (a large, ominous hole in the floor leading to murky water below). He even found a mostly intact crate that could serve as a makeshift throne or table. It wasn't much, but it felt like progress. A tangible step.
As he was leaving, feeling slightly bolder, he nearly collided with a pair of rough-looking dockworkers emerging from an adjacent alley. They gave him a suspicious glare, their eyes lingering on his cheap, conspicuous cloak.
"Oi! What're you doin' pokin' 'round 'ere, Needle-nose?" one of them growled, spitting onto the cobblestones.
Zero froze. His carefully constructed 'Master' persona evaporated instantly, replaced by raw panic. "N-nothing!" he squeaked, his voice several octaves higher than intended. "Just… looking! Lost! I mean, I was lost! Looking for… directions!"
The dockworkers exchanged unimpressed glances. "Well, get lost somewhere else," the other one grunted, gesturing vaguely. "This ain't a place for sightseein'."
Zero didn't need telling twice. He practically ran, stumbling over loose stones, his face burning with humiliation. So much for the enigmatic Master of Shadows. He was just Clerk Zero in a mouldy cloak, scared off by a bit of casual hostility. The gap between his fantasy and his reality yawned wider than ever.
***
Miles away, in the labyrinthine alleys of the Debtors' Quarter, hunger gnawed at Ren's belly. It was a familiar sensation, a dull ache that had been his companion for most of his seventeen years. He moved through the crowded, refuse-strewn pathways with a practiced lightness, his lithe frame slipping through gaps where larger folk would struggle. Years spent evading angry shopkeepers, burly debt collectors, and the occasional watch patrol had honed his agility and stealth into sharp instruments of survival.
He'd escaped the clutches of Master Borin, the weaver he'd been apprenticed to, six months ago. Escaped the endless work, the stale bread, the casual cruelty. But freedom meant hunger, cold nights spent huddled in doorways, and the constant, wearying vigilance of the streets. He dreamed of something more – stories he'd overheard, tales of heroes, guilds, people who belonged somewhere, who possessed strength and purpose.
He was currently scanning the overflowing notice board outside the 'Leaky Mug' tavern, a notorious den for lowlifes and rumourmongers. Most notices were for petty debts, cheap labour, or missing cats. Then his eyes snagged on a small, grubby piece of paper tacked low, almost hidden behind a tattered recruitment poster for the City Watch.
"ARE YOU LOST IN THE MUNDANE?..." Ren leaned closer, his bright, expressive eyes narrowing in concentration. "...SEEK THE BLEEDING EYE IN THE DEEPEST SHADOW. WHERE SILENCE SCREAMS, THE CRIMSON PATH BEGINS." Below it, the strange, weeping eye symbol.
Ren's breath hitched. Unlike Anya's cautious analysis, Ren's reaction was immediate, visceral. Lost? Yes! Mundane? His whole life was a struggle against it! Deepest shadow? Silence screams? It sounded exactly like the cool, secret organizations in the penny dreadfuls he sometimes managed to scrounge. This wasn't just a notice; it felt like a personal invitation, a lifeline thrown into the grim reality of his existence.
The Crimson Path. It sounded powerful, dangerous, exciting. Maybe this was it – his chance to escape, to become strong, to finally be someone. He didn't question the source or the vagueness. Hope, starved for so long, flared brightly within him. This was destiny!
He carefully peeled the notice off the board, his fingers trembling with excitement. The Bleeding Eye… he'd look for it. He'd find it. He'd walk this Crimson Path, wherever it led. He clutched the paper like a holy relic, a surge of purpose straightening his usually slumped shoulders. For the first time in months, the gnawing hunger in his belly felt secondary to the burning excitement in his heart. He needed to be ready.
***
Anya spent the day watching. She moved through the city with quiet purpose, her stoic face a mask that revealed nothing of the intense scrutiny behind her eyes. She wasn't looking for notices anymore; she was looking for the meaning. The Bleeding Eye. Crimson. Shadow. Silence.
She observed the patterns of the City Guard patrols, noting the routes that took them through the darkest, quietest alleys. Was that the Path – operating where authority was weakest? She watched the beggars in the Temple District, their silent pleas ignored by the wealthy patrons in their crimson-trimmed robes. Was the Path found in solidarity with the overlooked?
In the afternoon, while observing the bustling Market Square from a high vantage point on a nearby rooftop – a skill honed during her family's happier days – she saw it. Or rather, she thought she did.
Down below, near a stall selling cheap pottery, a circular iron drain cover sat embedded in the cobblestones, dark and deep like a pupil. A careless street vendor had dropped a bolt of cheap, vividly crimson cloth nearby, one end of it draping slightly over the edge of the circular cover. From Anya's angle, the combination of the dark circle and the draped crimson fabric fleetingly, almost subliminally, resembled a bleeding eye.
Her breath caught. It was mundane. Accidental. Almost certainly meaningless.
Or is it? The notice spoke of seeking the Eye in the deepest shadow. This drain led down into the city's shadowed underbelly, the sewers and forgotten tunnels. And the crimson was stark against the grey stone, a deliberate splash of colour in the mundane. Was this a sign? A test of perception? A pointer towards the Path's hidden routes beneath the city?
Anya's logical mind warred with the desperate hope the notice had kindled. It was flimsy. Absurd. Yet… it fit the cryptic nature of the message. The Path wouldn't announce itself loudly; it would whisper through coincidences, through symbols hidden in plain sight, visible only to those truly looking.
She committed the location to memory. The drain cover near the pottery stall in the Market Square. Another piece of a puzzle she was assembling from shadows and whispers. She didn't know what it meant yet, but it felt like progress. A thread, however tenuous, grasped in the darkness. The Crimson Path was subtle, demanding patience and observation. She would provide both.