He stepped up the short flight of stairs, stepping into the place that was now supposed to be his home.
As the door clicked shut behind him, the air of the street was instantly muffled. Inside, the house felt cramped and heavy, smelling faintly of stale yeast, damp soot, and cheap lamp oil. Agastya’s eyes automatically swept the room with the cold, calculating precision of a killer analysing a new environment. He checked the sightlines, the shadows in the corners, and the structural integrity of the floorboards.
To one side sat a round wooden table. Its surface was deeply scarred by years of knife marks and hot pans. Four mismatched, scuffed chairs were pushed in around it. A narrow window sat directly in front of the table, its warped glass smeared with city grime. In the centre of the table rested a handful of tin utensils. They were flipped upside down, resting against the wood—a strange, quiet household superstition he made a mental note to remember.
Faded portraits hung crooked on the chipped plaster walls. A crude Aether-tube was bolted above them. The crystal rod buzzed softly behind its transparent glass, casting a cold, sickly blue glow over the room. Under that unnatural light, the faces in the cheap frames looked pale and exhausted. Just strangers, he was now supposed to call family.
Across the cramped space, a narrow wooden staircase led to the upper floor. The steps sagged in the centre from years of heavy footfalls.
Beside the base of the stairs stood a single, firmly closed door. The father’s room. Agastya stood perfectly still.
The brass lock of the entrance door clicked as Eowyn stepped inside behind him, bringing a brief, biting draft of the outside air before shutting out the street completely.
"I will bring dinner to your rooms," Elara said, tossing her shawl over a wooden peg by the door. Her voice carried the tired, mechanical efficiency of a younger sister who was used to carrying the weight of a poor household. She looked between the two of them, the dim light catching the exhaustion under her eyes. "You both go and wash up."
Agastya simply nodded, mirroring Eowyn's silent compliance. Without waiting for another word, Elara turned and headed down the short hall toward the kitchen, her footsteps squeaking softly on the worn floorboards.
He and Eowyn parted ways at the top of the sagging stairs, heading into their separate rooms on the upper floor.
Agastya stepped inside his designated quarters and let his eyes adjust to the gloom. A simple wooden bed sat tucked into the far corner, directly opposite the door. On the adjacent wall, a narrow window let in the jaundiced yellow glow of the streetlamps outside.
He shut the heavy wooden door behind him, the latch clicking shut, finally sealing himself away from the performance of family.
A few paces away stood a small, sturdy table. Agastya walked over to it, his boots silent against the floorboards. Resting on the wood were two heavy lanterns, their metallic surfaces glinting faintly in the bleeding yellow light from the window.
He inspected the nearest one. There was a small brass switch near the heavy iron base. He pressed it.
Instantly, a sharp, cold blue light flared to life, radiating from the housed Aether crystal within and casting harsh shadows against the wall. He reached over and pressed the switch on the second lantern, letting the dual hum of the Aether rods fill the quiet room. Under the stark, unnatural blue illumination, the details of Astragan’s private sanctuary finally came into sharp focus.
His gaze swept the rest of the room. A heavy wooden cupboard stood in the far corner.
He needed to wash the grime of the bakery—and the lingering, phantom sweat of his own death—off his skin. He paused, his sharp mind searching for the layout of the house.
‘Where is the washroom?’ Closing his eyes for a fraction of a second, he mentally sifted through Astragan's residual memories. The answer surfaced immediately: there were no private baths. There was only a single, shared washroom located on this floor.
Moving with quiet efficiency, Agastya opened the creaking doors of the cupboard and pulled out a set of simple, coarse cotton clothes. He grabbed a faded towel resting at the foot of his single bed and slipped silently back out into the dark corridor.
The washroom was cramped and utilitarian, smelling faintly of damp stone and cheap lye soap. Agastya stepped inside and cranked the stiff brass handle of the tap. Freezing water sputtered violently from the rusted iron pipe, splashing into the chipped ceramic basin below.
He leaned over and splashed the icy water over his face and neck. The biting chill grounded him, a sharp, physical reminder of the soft, unconditioned flesh he now inhabited. Methodically, he scrubbed away the flour, soot, and exhaustion of the day.
When he was finished, he dried himself off with the rough towel, shed the baker’s soiled work clothes, and pulled on the clean garments.
Agastya stepped out of the cramped washroom and returned to the quiet gloom of his quarters. A solitary wooden chair sat tucked against the far wall beside the bed, which he dragged across the floorboards to the sturdy table.
Moving with the slow, deliberate precision of a man accustomed to strict routines, he picked up each scattered object—a rusted pen, a stack of blank paper, a dull letter opener—and pushed them to the far edge to create a clear workspace.
He let out a heavy breath as he stared at the empty surface.
Suddenly, a soft knock echoed against the door, causing his muscles to instinctively coil before he forced himself to relax.
He pulled the door open just a fraction to find Elara standing in the dim hallway, balancing a steaming tin plate. The thick, comforting scent of root vegetable stew, paired with a hunk of hard cheese and a slice of dark rye bread, drifted into the room—hearty, working-class fuel.
Astragan’s memories flickered to the surface. He reminded the assassin that the baker always expressed quiet gratitude for his meals.
"Thank you," Agastya said, forcing his naturally rough voice into a gentle cadence as he took the warm plate from her hands.
Elara offered a tired, genuine smile. Then she turned down the hall, likely heading down to bring Eowyn his dinner. Agastya stepped back inside, sliding the heavy iron bolt shut to lock the door firmly from the inside before carrying his meal to the cleared table.
As he sat down, a massive, jaw-cracking yawn suddenly overtook him, his vision actually blurring for a second. The physical toll of the time-reversal ritual was finally catching up with Astragan’s soft, unconditioned body, draining him entirely.
‘Let's finish this first,’ he thought.
He picked up the tin spoon and ate with methodical efficiency. He didn't savour the food; he simply consumed it for raw energy. His assassin's brain briefly, automatically checked the stew's scent for the bitter trace of nightshade before his logic overrode his lingering paranoia.
When the plate was scraped clean, the exhaustion hit him like a physical blow, turning his limbs to heavy lead. He reached for a clouded glass bottle resting near the edge of the table, taking a long, measured drink of tepid water to wash down the dense meal.
Forcing his protesting muscles to move. He slipped out of his room and navigated the dark corridor to the washroom one last time. There, he quietly scrubbed the grease of the stew from his hands under the icy tap.
Upon returning to his room, he pushed the heavy iron bolt firmly back into place, sealing himself in for the night. He walked over to the narrow window to check the iron latch. He ensured that it couldn't be pried open from the outside
Then, before clicking off the two blue Aether-lanterns and plunging the room into absolute darkness.
He finally moved to the bed, lying down on the coarse mattress, but as he slipped his right hand under the thin pillow out of pure instinct. His fingers grasped at nothing. He missed the cold, familiar weight of a hidden dagger.
Refusing to sleep completely unarmed in an unfamiliar house. Agastya reached back into the dark, grabbed the heavy tin spoon from his empty plate, and slid its solid metal handle beneath his pillow. It wasn't a blade, but in the hands of an assassin, it could still crush a windpipe.
With his makeshift defense finally in place. Agastya closed his eyes and let the heavy and suffocating silence of the house pull him into a deep, dreamless sleep.