“Stop that man!”
The shout echoed from behind as the Wanderer bolted deeper into Valoria’s streets. The early morning mist did little to obscure him now. He sprinted through the empty market square, as his eyes darted left and right searching for an open alleyway to break the line of sight.
But the pursuit was relentless. The guards knew these outer sectors better than he did, flanking him through narrow pathways and cutting off his escapes.
Suddenly, the alley ahead was blocked by a wall of shields and leveled spears. He turned
around, but the mob was already pouring into the other end of the passage, sealing him in.
His chest heaved, breath coming in gasps. He stood shivering slightly from the sheer exertion, his single hand instinctively rising, making a fist as he prepared to fight his way through an entire platoon, when a rope dropped from the sky, dangling right beside his shoulder.
“Hold tight!” a voice hissed from above.
The Wanderer desperately wrapped the rope securely around his forearm just as it snatched him upward with unnatural speed.
Below him, the trap snapped shut. The crowd roared in frustration, hurling loose stones and heavy shoes that smacked harmlessly against the stone walls beneath his dangling feet. A few guards lunged forward, thrusting their spears upward to impale him, but the mechanical momentum of the rope was too fast. Within seconds, the angry faces below shrunk into distant figures.
He tumbled over the lip of the tiled rooftop, landing hard on his knees. Standing over him was a figure wrapped in a heavy cloak, his face completely obscured by a dark hood. Beside the stranger sat a machine he didn't recognize, its iron gears still grinding from the rapid retraction.
The Wanderer opened his mouth to speak, but the stranger cut him off instantly. “We don’t have time. Put these on and follow me.”
The man tossed a pair of unusually heavy leather boots onto the tiles.
The Wanderer quickly kicked off his old footwear and shoved his feet into the heavy boots, pulling the straps tight.
Before he had even finished buckling the second strap, the cloaked man bolted toward the edge of the roof. Without breaking stride, the stranger launched himself across the wide gap separating their building from the next. It was a staggering distance that normal humans can't cross.
Landing flawlessly on the opposite tiles, the man spun around and gestured urgently.
The Wanderer approached the ledge, looking down. Below him laid the narrow alleyway, still packed with the cursing mob. If he missed, the fall alone would break his bones before the crowd could tear him apart.
“Just jump!” the stranger called across the gap. “The boots will do the rest!”
The Wanderer took three heavy steps back into the center of the roof, then sprinted forward to gather momentum, and launched himself off the edge.
For a terrifying, suspended second, he was entirely airborne. The wind rushed past his ears as he hung high above the city, catching a glimpse of the shocked faces of the mob below, their jaws dropping as they watched a man fly across the sky.
As the opposite roof rushed up to meet him, the mechanical soles of the boots compressed with a click, absorbing the brutal impact and transferring the energy through his legs. He still lost his balance, flailing his limbs wildly before rolling hard across the uneven tiles, but he was alive.
The stranger was already breaking into a run toward the far side of the building. “It’s not over yet. We need to move.”
They both tore across the rooftops, launching themselves in long leaps like a Draemiran war beast sprinting. The wind whipped at their cloaks until, finally, the furious roar of the mob faded into the background noise of the lower city.
The stranger gestured sharply for the Wanderer to stop. Stepping close to the edge of the rooftop, he peered down into the streets below, scanning the intersecting alleys.
“I think we lost them,” the man said, his chest rising and falling with heavy breaths.
The Wanderer sat onto the roof, his muscles burning from the chase. He ran his hand over the strange, metallic plates of the reinforced boots, his mind racing. “Who are you?”
The man reached up and pulled back his hood, revealing his face. “Ah, I never did tell you my name.”
It was the same man from the tavern the other day.
The man stretched out his hand, a grin playing on his lips. “I’m Roger. Welcome to the new world order.”
The Wanderer stared at the outstretched hand for a beat before taking it, pulling himself up to his feet. “You’ve been following me?”
“I helped, didn’t I?” Roger countered, tilting his head. “You’d be a dead man down in that alley without me.”
“Don’t expect a thank-you letter,” the Wanderer replied.
Roger let out a laugh. “It’s fine. Your loyalty is thanks enough.”
The Wanderer adjusted his grip on his cloak. “So, now what?”
“Meet me at the tavern tonight, after working hours,” Roger replied, his tone shifting more serious.
“And then?”
“Patience, my friend,” Roger said. “You will know everything at the right time.” He turned to make his escape, then paused, looking down at the Wanderer’s feet. “Uh, I’m going to need those boots back, though.”
The Wanderer knelt and unbuckled the heavy leather straps, sliding his feet out of the metal-reinforced soles. He handed them over, his eyes lingering on the intricate spring mechanisms. “This is a mechanical masterpiece. How did you get your hands on something like this?”
Roger smiled, offering no response as he took the boots and slung them over his shoulder. With a fluid movement, he spun around and sprinted down the slope of the roof, leaping across the gap and vanishing out of the Wanderer’s sight within seconds.
Left alone on the roof, the Wanderer let out an exhale of relief, the adrenaline finally leaving his system. He looked down at his bare feet, then walked to the edge of the rooftop, peering over into the drop.
“I think Zeek really had it out for me with that stunt,” he muttered to himself. “Well, anyway... I need to get down.”
Scanning the upper layout of the building, he found a heavy door that led downstairs.
He pushed it open and followed a staircase down into the interior.
The steps let out directly into a bustling administrative office. Rows of desks were piled high with ledgers, inkwells, and parchment, looking very much like a high-end trading business.
The entire room froze as the door opened. The Wanderer walked right through the center aisle, avoiding the confused stares of the employees watching a barefoot, single-armed man emerge from the rooftop stairs, walking with absolute seriousness.
The Wanderer arrived back at the Bradford manor and headed straight to his quarters, eager to rid himself of the clothes from the morning's chase. After changing into a fresh squire's uniform, he went upstairs to see if Serenya had returned from her trip to Hosar.
He knocked on her door and waited, but the room remained entirely silent.
A maid carrying a basket of linens down the hallway paused, noticing him. "Are you looking for Lady Serenya?"
"Yes," the Wanderer replied, turning toward her. "Is she not back yet?"
"She hasn't returned from Hosar, no," the maid said, resuming her walk.
The Wanderer frowned. "To my knowledge, Hosar isn't that far from the capital, is it?"
"It isn't," the maid called back over her shoulder. "But she sometimes stays there for a couple of days when she visits the markets."
Frustration flared in the Wanderer's chest at the realization that he wouldn't see her today either. He leaned against the stone frame of the door, wondering if she was still avoiding him because he had pressed her on the subject of magic that morning. Letting out a slow sigh, he turned and went back down to his room to rest and wait for the sun to drop.
The night arrived quickly. Slipping past the manor guards, the Wanderer wove through the dark streets until he reached *The Hand of Justice*.
The tavern was completely dark, its doors locked tight against the night. The entire alleyway was swallowed by blackness, illuminated only by a single streetlamp. The surrounding lamps had been shattered, it seemed deliberate.
A sharp whistle cut through the silence from the dark lane beside the tavern.
The Wanderer approached the opening slowly. "Roger?" he whispered into the darkness. "Is that you?"
Roger stepped forward from the pitch-black, offering a brief nod before gesturing with his hand to follow. The Wanderer trailed him behind the tavern.
Suddenly, several figures materialized from the darkness, their faces completely concealed behind white owl masks.
"From this point on," Roger said, pulling a thick black cloth from his belt, "we have to blindfold you before we move."
The Wanderer looked around at the silent, masked figures circling him. Then he reluctantly nodded, lowering his head.
They tied the cloth tightly over his eyes, plunging him into total darkness, two hands gripped his shoulders to guide him forward. Though he couldn't see, his sharp instincts remained active. He could tell they were intentionally walking in erratic circles and doubling back across the marble streets to disorient his sense of direction. He tried to count his paces and note the turns, but the chaos of their route soon blurred. The only clear markers he could gather were the distant clanking of heavy metal machinery and the smell of oil in the air.
Finally, the hands guided him through a heavy door, and the sound of their boots shifted from stone to echoing wood. They began a long, descending march down a steep stairs, the air growing cooler with every step.
"Stop here," Roger ordered.
The cloth was pulled away from his face. The sudden light made the Wanderer blink, his vision adjusting to reveal a vast underground chamber. His gaze was immediately drawn to a grand piano in the corner. A complex arrangement of brass gears, levers, and mechanical skeletal fingers was moving from beneath the instrument, pressing the keys to play a melody without a human player.
"Welcome, true warrior of Valoria," a voice resonated across the room.
The Wanderer looked away from the machine and looked toward the center of the chamber. A long mahogany table stretched across the space, lined with men wearing the exact same white owl masks. But the fine silk of their clothes, the gold rings on their fingers, gave away their nobility.
The man at the head of the table said, “you have proved yourself.”
He leaned back in his chair then continued. “we verified your back story however,
Lady Bradford denied knowing you.”
Men around raised their spears to his neck