The jar of Soul-Confusers was a leaden weight in his hand, a constant, skittering reminder of the perilous and expensive task that now lay before him in the Blackwood Fens. The vibrant, glowing beauty of the Winter Garden felt suddenly oppressive, the laughter and chatter of the other Beyonders a world away from his own grim reality. He moved with a singular purpose now: to find the exit, return to Vesper Lane, and begin planning his foray into the swamp.
It was then that a new scent cut through the complex perfume of the grotto—the rich, warm, inviting aroma of hops, barley, and something else... something wild and mystical. He followed it to a small, cozy stall tucked between a vendor of crystals and a cage full of floating, will-o'-the-wisp-like lights. The stall was fashioned like an old-world tavern nook, with a polished wooden counter and barrels stacked behind it. A sign, carved to look like a frothing tankard, simply read "The Grog Gleam."
The hell? Mystical beer? The thought was so absurd, so utterly disconnected from his current dire circumstances, that a wry, tired smile touched Lutz's lips. Fine alcohol was one of the few genuine pleasures he'd discovered in this new life, a vestige of Andrei's modern palate that Lutz's body had eagerly adopted. It was a frivolous expense, he knew, with only one Hammer to his name, but his nerves were frayed, and the weight of the jar was making his arm ache. A moment of respite, however brief, felt like a medical necessity.
He slid onto a rough-hewn stool at the counter, setting the covered jar carefully at his feet. The proprietor was an eccentric-looking old man with a magnificent, foam-flecked white beard and eyes that twinkled with a merry madness. He was meticulously cleaning a pewter mug with a cloth that seemed to be weaving tiny rainbows into the metal.
"What'll it be, lad?" the old man rumbled, his voice like stones tumbling in a barrel.
Lutz leaned forward, the performance of James Morgan completely shed, leaving behind just a tired, curious man. "I've never tried anything of the like," he admitted, gesturing at the array of strange taps and crystal decanters. "Surprise me. A few small samples of your... more interesting offerings. Let's say, for a total of one Hammer and 6 Shields?"
The old man's beard split into a wide grin. "A man of adventure! I like it. Aye, a tour of the Gleam's finest." He bustled about, his movements surprisingly spry. "No chugging now. Sip. Savour. The experience is half the magic."
The first sample was poured into a small, chilled glass. It looked like a normal, dark stout, but when Lutz brought it to his lips, the texture was a revelation. It was impossibly soft and creamy, coating his tongue not like a beer, but like a cloud of chocolate and espresso-flavoured air. It was dessert in a glass, and he felt a genuine, uncomplicated pleasure.
Damn, that's good, he thought, the tension in his shoulders easing a fraction.
The second was a wine, the colour of honey, served in a delicate crystal flute. It sparkled, but not with mere carbonation. Tiny, flavourless points of light seemed to pop on his tongue, a faint, effervescent tingle that was purely sensory, like drinking a clear, starry sunset.
He was just lowering the flute, a sigh of appreciation on his lips, when he felt a light tap on the back of his head.
Startled, his Marauder's instincts screaming of an ambush, he whipped his head around rapidly to identify the threat. The movement was too sharp, too sudden. His forehead connected with a soft but solid thunk against the head of the person who, for some reason, had been leaning in very close behind him.
"Oww!"
"Ah, hell—"
Both of them recoiled, identical hands flying to their foreheads. The world narrowed to a bubble of shared, faint pain and surprise. Lutz, his heart hammering from the adrenaline, blinked away the slight stars in his vision and finally got a clear look at the person he'd just headbutted.
It was a young woman of average height, with an athletic, practical build. She was dressed in an attire that was both elegant and functional—dark silk and supple leather, perfect for someone who worked with their hands on delicate materials. Her hair was a deep, raven black, tied back in a long, thick braid that fell over one shoulder. She wasn't classically, dazzlingly beautiful, but hers was a face of compelling, practical charm—pale skin, soft features, a defined jaw, and a mouth now twisted in a wince that was turning into an embarrassed, lopsided smile.
But it was her eyes that stole the breath from his lungs. Two big, intelligent, and brilliantly silvery-grey eyes, currently wide with a mixture of pain and amusement. They were eyes he had thought he might never see again.
Lorelei.
"Hey, sorry about that," she said, her voice a familiar, friendly and soft warm alto that sent a jolt through him. She rubbed her forehead. "I wanted to surprise you. Guess I did a bit too well."
Lutz, his mind a whirlwind of shock and a sudden, nervous energy, gestured vaguely with his free hand. "No, no, forgive me. I didn't intend to do that. I was... startled." The smooth eloquence he wielded as James Morgan, the cold analysis of Lutz Fischer—both evaporated, leaving him fumbling like a boy.
The old bartender chose that moment to plonk a third sample in front of Lutz—a vibrant green liquid that swirled with its own internal light. "The Whispering Moss Mead," he announced, then chuckled at the scene. "On the house, for the comedy."
Lutz seized the opportunity like a lifeline. "Uh... Care to join me for a drink?" he asked, gesturing to the empty stool beside him. "It's on me. To compensate for the... the headbutt. Haha." The laugh came out awkward and strained.
She smiled, a real, full smile this time, and it lit up her whole face. "Alright," she said, sliding onto the stool. She picked up the flute of sparkling moon-wine he had just sampled. "To accidental assaults."
She took a sip, her silvery eyes watching him over the rim of the glass. "I can't believe you've actually come," she said, the statement laden with a warmth that made his chest feel tight.
"Well," he began, trying to reassemble some semblance of composure. "St. Millom was a destination that aligned with my other purposes. And I've also come to realize the value of the services you and your partner provide." It was the truth, wrapped in the understatement of the year.
"You have more characteristics to make into Artifacts?" she asked, her professional interest piqued.
"Yes, don't worry, they weren't good people." he nodded. Boris was a gang leader after all. "But I didn't bring them with me. I wasn't sure if I was going to find you."
"I see" She smiled again, a little softer this time, and for a moment, an uncomfortable yet not unpleasant silence settled between them. The sounds of the magical tavern and the greater bazaar faded into a distant hum.
"So, uh... how is business going?" Lutz asked, grasping for a safe topic.
"It's okay," she shrugged, playing with the stem of her glass. "People still need to build up trust. It's a cautious crowd. I've also been using a different name here, just in case. Camille."
"Camille," Lutz repeated, testing the name. It suited her. "I see."
"And what are you doing around?" she asked, those perceptive grey eyes scanning him, taking in his good but subdued attire, the faint tension that hadn't quite left his frame.
"I'm an entrepreneur," he said, the lie of James Morgan coming easier with her, because it was layered over a deeper truth. "I've come to do business with funds I've acquired. It's also because of the... 'requirements' of my path." He let the implication hang in the air, a shared understanding between Beyonders.
He then steered the conversation back to the Garden, his analytical mind seeking to fill the gaps in his knowledge. "Wouldn't the Winter Garden Salon become suspicious if everyone enters through the same point?"
Lorelei—shook her head, her braid swaying. "No, people enter and exit through different points all over this area of the city. The Salon is just the place that was assigned to you." She pointed upwards towards the cavern's ceiling, where the glowing vines formed a vast, ever-shifting tapestry. "See the bluish glow on the vines in the roof? Wherever they lead, that's where the next person is supposed to exit from. It changes with every person that exits. It's a security measure, to avoid anyone being pursued and robbed or attacked after a big purchase."
Lutz looked up, a sense of awe replacing his earlier tension. The complexity and power on display were staggering. "So I'm not supposed to exit where I came from?"
"No," she confirmed. "Just follow the blue light. It will lead you to a discreet exit, probably in an alleyway a few blocks from here."
They talked for a little while longer, the conversation flowing more easily now. He learned she had a small workshop near the bazaar's core. She told him how to find her next time. The drinks were finished, and the moment of respite was drawing to a close.
"Well, I should... get going," Lutz said, reluctantly sliding off his stool. He picked up the heavy felt bag, the jar within giving a particularly vigorous shake.
"Me too," she said, standing as well. "It was good to see you, Lutz."
"And you, Lorelei," he replied.
Their farewell was a clumsy, nervous thing—a half-wave, a nod, a smile that was held a moment too long. He turned and began to walk towards the path indicated by the bluish glow on the overhead vines. After a dozen steps, a powerful, inexplicable impulse made him glance back.
She was still there, standing by the tavern stall, watching him go. And when his eyes met hers, she quickly, almost guiltily, looked away, pretending to be very interested in a nearby stall selling glowing feathers.
But he had seen it. The look. The same one he felt etched on his own face.
He turned back around, a slow, warm blush rising on his cheeks that had nothing to do with the magical alcohol. The image of her silvery-grey eyes, first wide with surprise, then soft with conversation, and finally, caught in that unguarded moment of watching him leave, was burned into his mind. The jar in his hand felt a little lighter, the path to the treacherous Fens a little less daunting. For the first time since arriving in St. Millom, the city felt not just like a battlefield or a chessboard, but like a place where something good might actually take root. He followed the blue glow, a faint, uncharacteristically hopeful smile playing on his lips as he disappeared into the exit passage.