A soft rap echoed against the door, pulling Vincard from his reverie. "Enter," he called, his voice low and edged with impatience.
The door groaned open, admitting Lieutenant Keir once more. The man's squint deepened as he stepped inside, clutching a weathered leather dossier bound with frayed cord. "Captain's orders," Keir grunted, thrusting the dossier onto the desk with a thud that rattled the ammunition box. "Everything we have on Bartho. Don't lose it, it's the last copy." He lingered a moment, his eyes flicking to Vincard's weapons like a crow eyeing shiny trinkets, before retreating with a curt nod, the door clicking shut behind him like a tomb sealing.
Vincard untied the cord, the leather creaking like old bones under his gloved fingers, and spread the papers across the desk. The documents were a patchwork of hasty scrawls, reports from scouts, fragmented journal entries, a faded photograph clipped to the top sheet. The image showed a burly man in his late thirties, broad-shouldered and scarred, with a tangle of dark hair and eyes that burned with fierce clarity. Bartho, the hunter: clad in a reinforced leather coat much like Vincard's own, a bandolier of mercury vials slung across his chest, his expression a mask of grim determination.
He skimmed the first page, a map annotated in red ink marking Bartho's last known position: a derelict warehouse on the fringe of the Industrial District. "Last sighted three nights ago, entering the Mercury Works," the note read. "Pursuing reports of fresh mercury caches. No contact since."
Flipping to the next sheet, a list of Bartho's haunts unfolded: the Rusted Gear Tavern in the lower district, where he traded whispers with black-market alchemists; hidden caches in the tunnels under the city, marked with crude runes to ward off mutants; even a derelict clock tower in the Quarantine Zone's outer rim, a vantage point for spotting breaches. „Patterns of a man clinging to routine," Vincard mused inwardly, his silver-gray eyes narrowing.
He delved into contacts: a smuggler named Silas Crowe, smuggling in rare herbs through hidden sewer grates, last correspondence two weeks prior. He is also a former Iron Guard medic, now holed up in the upper district, who had treated Bartho for early signs of toxicity. No family mentioned.
Deeper pages revealed behavioral shifts: reports of Bartho growing irritable in the weeks before his vanishing, snapping at comrades over trifles, his hands trembling when handling vials, a telltale sign of the blood's insidious grip.
"Increased aggression noted," one entry stated. "Claims of 'voices in the steam' during patrols. Dosage of suppressants doubled, but efficacy waning." And a final, chilling addendum: "Suspected proximity to threshold. Eyes showing faint crimson flecks under lantern light. Recommend isolation if recovered."
„Close to losing himself," he thought, rubbing his scar absently.
He leaned back, the chair protesting with a wooden sigh, and stared at the flickering lamp. The flame danced erratically, casting Bartho's photograph in alternating light and shadow, making his eyes seem to shift, now resolute, now vacant. Vincard drummed his fingers on the desk, the rhythm echoing his heartbeat. „Start at the last sighting," he decided inwardly.
„Mercury Works... rife with traps, mutants, and gods know what else. Slip in at dusk, when the fog thickens. Check for signs: blood trails, discarded vials, runes scratched in desperation. If he's turned... well, then I will put him out of his misery." He made mental notes.
With a final glance at the dossier, Vincard gathered the papers, rebinding them tightly. "One step at a time," he murmured to the empty air.
Vincard rose, the chair legs scraping across the uneven floor like fingernails on stone. He reached for Aetheris, the revolver whose silver-plated barrel gleamed dully in the light. With a fluid, almost ritualistic movement, he slid it into the holster under his coat, the leather creaking softly and familiarly. Then he reached for the magazines, four heavy rows of silver-plated bullets loaded with mercury, which he slipped into the hidden pockets of his coat. Each one landed with a dull click.
Mater Doloros was next. The dagger felt heavy in his hand, the blade catching the light and refracting it into tiny, cold stars. He tested its sharpness with his thumb, applying light pressure, a tiny red bead that disappeared immediately, then slid it into the sheath on his belt.
He pulled a leather bag out of his case, a narrow bandolier made of worn, black-dyed leather with slots and buckles that had seen better days. He slung it across his chest and tightened the straps until the leather felt like a second skin. It smelled of old oil, gunpowder, and something metallic that reminded him of blood.
Then he opened the top lock of the case and removed several vials. One by one, like relics from a shrine.
He started with the first vial: it was a slender glass vial whose contents pulsed with a restless, pale green glow. Tiny particles floated inside like trapped stars, swirling sluggishly with every movement. He hooked it onto the front slot, where it was the easiest to reach.
Then he took a thick, milky gel in a thick-walled bottle that glowed faintly with a toxic yellow light; it was a cold, unnatural light that cast shadows instead of dispelling them. He placed it right next to the first vial.
The third vial contained an oil: black mist trapped in glass, a billowing, inky substance that pressed against the wall when touched, as if trying to escape. It absorbed the light, making the surrounding vials appear darker. Vincard carefully secured it in place.
Last, he took a vial containing a red substance. It wasn't a bright, vibrant red, but a deep, almost black burgundy, thick as syrup, moving sluggishly. Small bubbles rose and burst silently on the surface. He stared at it a moment longer than the others before hooking it into the last free slot. The bandolier was now full, an arsenal that clinked softly when he moved.
There were still small potions in the top lock, his own homemade concoctions in narrow, amber-colored bottles. He glanced at them briefly before closing it again without taking anything out.
Finally, he reached deeper into his case, between the folded shirts and the spare coat, and pulled out a narrow, worn brown leather wallet and opened it.
Inside was the crumpled photo, yellowed at the edges, one corner slightly torn. A woman looked back at him: young, gentle, with a smile that the world had not yet broken. Her eyes were the same as his, silver-gray, but without the shadows that life had later painted into them.
Vincard ran his thumb over the picture as if he could smooth out the creases. "Soon," he murmured softly, almost tenderly. "I'll visit you soon, Mother. I promise."
He held the photo for another heartbeat, then slipped it back into the wallet and put it back in the case.
With that, he turned, pulled his coat tighter around himself, and opened the door. The hallway outside was dark and quiet, with only the distant sound of dripping water and the muffled murmurs of the guards reaching him.
The knock on Evelie's door was deliberate, three sharp raps. When her voice growled "Enter," Vincard pushed the door open with the toe of his boot, his hands occupied with adjusting the strap of his bandolier. The vials clinked faintly, a discordant chime in the stagnant air.
"I'm ready," he said, flicking a speck of dust from his coat sleeve. "Unless there's anything else you want from me?"
Evelie looked up from her papers, the oil lamp casting her scar into sharp relief. "You move quickly," she observed, her voice rough as gravel. "Most men would take the night to prepare."
Vincard smirked, the expression not quite reaching his eyes. "So I'll take that as a no," he said, slightly sarcastically.
Evelie exhaled through her nose. "Do what you must," she said curtly. "I'll let my men know. They'll take you by carriage to the eastern gate of the city."
Without saying a word, he took his leave. The door clicked shut behind him. Vincard's boots echoed down the dim hallway, the sound swallowed by the oppressive silence of the Iron Guard's headquarters.
The air outside hit Vincard like a slap, cold, damp, reeking of wet stone. Three figures stood clustered near the carriage, their postures stiff with tension. A hulking man in a reinforced leather duster, his knuckles wrapped in stained bandages, leaned against the vehicle's rusted frame. Beside him, a wiry woman with a sniper's coiled grace adjusted the strap of her rifle sling. The third, a boy no older than sixteen, clutched a lantern with white-knuckled intensity, his pupils dilated in the gloom.
"Ah, my chauffeurs," Vincard remarked, his voice a dry rasp as he approached the trio. The hulking man shifted, leather creaking like old parchment. "But why do i need three of you? Wouldn't one be enough?"
The sniper's lips curled into a grin. "You'll see," she said in a voice that sounded like rusty wire. The boy flinched at the sound. The hulk cracked his knuckles silently to signal his agreement.
Without another word, he jumped into the carriage. The hinges screamed, as the door slammed shut behind him. The interior smelled of mildew, the seats peeling like sunburnt skin. Vincard settled into the shadows, his fingers tapping a silent-less rhythm against his vial-laden bandolier.