The morning came grey and damp, the mist thicker than it had been in days. He had not slept. He had sat in the tavern's common room while Arthur sharpened his sword and Ayame cleaned her knives, and he had told them nothing. Not about Fenwick. Not about the fraud. Not about the knife in his pocket or the man who laughed with gold he should not have.
'It will cost you,' he had told himself. 'It will cost all of them if something goes wrong.'
But he did not tell. He gave them the location, the time, the warning about the Domain. He told them to wait at the pier's edge, to watch, to follow if he signaled. He told them he had found a way in. He did not say how.
Arthur had looked at him with those steady eyes. The kind that saw more than they let on. The kind that had pulled him out of worse situations than this. Arthur had said nothing. Just nodded once and went back to his sword.
'He caught it. The omission. The lie. He always does.'
That was why he had not told. Because if something went wrong, Arthur would know. Would adapt. Would find a way without needing the messy details that might put them all at risk.
He walked through the eastern district with his collar turned up and his hands shoved deep in his pockets. The torn shirt was gone. He had borrowed one from Arthur, too large, the sleeves hanging past his wrists. It smelled of oil and metal and the particular cleanliness of someone who maintained their equipment better than themselves.
The pier appeared ahead. A long finger of wood and iron stretching into water that looked like hammered lead. Crates stacked along its length. A crane idle against the sky. And at the far end, where the mist thinned over open water, a cluster of figures in fine clothes and darker intentions.
He saw Fenwick before Fenwick saw him.
The nobleman stood apart from the others, near a pile of shipping containers that had been painted with symbols he did not recognize. Fenwick's clothes were the same as yesterday. Expensive. Worn. But something was different. His posture was wrong. His shoulders hunched. His hands moved at his sides in small nervous gestures, fingers twisting together and pulling apart.
'He is not supposed to be here. Not yet. The plan was to meet inside, after the Domain activates.'
He approached. Fast. Low. Pulling Fenwick by the arm into the shadow of the crane.
"The paperwork," he said. "Did it go through? Do we have the assets?"
Fenwick looked at him. His eyes were wide. Unfocused. His pupils dilated in a way that spoke of sleeplessness or something worse.
"Who are you?" Fenwick asked. His voice cracked. The voice of someone who had been screaming or crying or both.
The question hit him like cold water.
"What?"
"Who are you?" Fenwick pulled his arm back. Stumbled. Caught himself against the crane's iron frame. "I do not know you. I do not know why you are touching me. I will call the guards."
'No. No, this is wrong. This is all wrong.'
He grabbed Fenwick's shoulder. Held him still. Looked into his face. The pimples were still there. The dark circles. But the recognition was gone. The calculation. The masks. All of it replaced by something raw and terrified.
"It is me. Lucid. We spoke yesterday. The alley. The building on Maren Street. The paperwork. The auction."
"I have never seen you before in my life." Fenwick's voice rose. "Let go of me or I swear by the Monoliths I will—"
"Stop." He pressed Fenwick against the crane. Not hard. Just enough to hold him in place. His mind raced. 'Someone did this. Someone took his memory. Or he never had it. The man in the alley was a performance. A different mask. And this is what is underneath.'
The mist swirled around them. At the far end of the pier, the figures in fine clothes began to move. They gathered in a circle. One of them raised a hand. The symbols painted on the shipping containers began to glow. Faint at first. Then brighter. The air thickened. Pressed against his ears like deep water.
'The Domain. It is activating. Now.'
"Listen to me." He forced his voice low. Calm. "We have no time. There is a building on Maren Street. House Maren. You filed paperwork yesterday. Intent to purchase. Intent to sell. The registry shows two pending transactions. Do you remember?"
Fenwick's face went pale. Then red. Then pale again.
"The Maren property," he whispered. "I filed that yesterday. I do not remember why. I do not remember who told me to do it. But the papers are there. The clerk said it was valid."
"That is all we need. When the Domain opens, the wealth will be there. The transactions count as assets. We can move. We can bid."
"We?" Fenwick shook his head. "I do not know you. I do not know why I am here. I do not know any of this."
The glow from the shipping containers intensified. The air grew heavy. The figures at the end of the pier were no longer visible through the light. A pressure built behind his eyes. In his chest. The same pressure he had felt yesterday, before the mist swallowed him and Alice pulled him back.
'It is opening. Now or never.'
He grabbed Fenwick by the collar. Dragged him toward the light. Fenwick struggled. His heels scraped against the wood. His mouth opened in a scream that was swallowed by the pressure, by the light, by the sound of something tearing that came from everywhere and nowhere at once.
Then the world folded.
He landed hard. His shoulder hit something solid. His head snapped back. The breath left his lungs in a rush. For a moment there was nothing. No sound. No light. Just the sensation of falling that continued even after he had stopped moving.
Then sound returned. A low hum. The smell of old paper and dry dust. The feeling of wood beneath his palms.
He opened his eyes.
They lay in a heap at the bottom of a set of stairs. Fenwick was beneath him, pinned by his weight, gasping. The stairs rose above them into a space that was not quite a building and not quite a room. Walls of dark wood. A ceiling that lost itself in shadow. And everywhere, the faint golden light that seemed to come from nowhere and everywhere at once.
'The Domain. We made it.'
He pushed himself up. Helped Fenwick to his feet. The nobleman's hands were shaking. His face was wet with tears he had not noticed shedding.
"Where are we?" Fenwick's voice was a whisper. "What is this place?"
"The Domain of Mercyros." He looked around. The stairs led up to a landing. Above that, the sound of voices. Distant. Muffled. The auction. It was happening somewhere above them.
He reached into his pocket. The knife was still there. So was the ring the scammer had sold him for seven gold. He had no idea if either held value here. But the assets from the property transactions should be enough. Should be.
'Theoretical. All of it. We planned this on theory and desperation.'
Fenwick backed away. His hands came up. Fingers splayed as though warding off a blow.
"You brought me here. You kidnapped me. This is terrorism. I will have you arrested. I will—"
"Oh please." He turned on Fenwick. The anger that had been building since last night, since the knife in the alley, since the laughter outside the tavern, finally found release. "I know what they are. I know what you are. Or what you were pretending to be."
"I am Lord Fenwick of House Marlowe. I am the second heir. I have done nothing to you."
"You filed the paperwork. You knew about the Domain. You had a knife from a seller in the merchant district. You knew the Generous Scoundrel."
Fenwick's face went blank. Then something flickered in his eyes. Recognition? Memory? It was gone before he could name it.
"I do not remember," Fenwick said. His voice cracked again. "I woke up this morning and everything was wrong. My clothes were different. There was gold in my pockets I do not remember earning. And the papers. The Maren papers. I do not know why I filed them."
'Someone erased him. Or he erased himself. The masks were so deep even he does not know which one is real anymore.'
The pressure returned. The air grew thick again.