The man in my carriage was leaking more than just secrets. The iron-rimmed wheels hit a deep rut in the cobblestones, and I heard a wet thud from inside the cabin, followed by a sharp, hissed curse.
The Ivory Gate was three districts away. To get there, I had to cross the "Silt-Docks"—a stretch of road where the city's magical runoff pooled into glowing, waist-high fog. It was the favorite hunting ground for the Mana-Sickers.
"Don't stop," the passenger rasped through the small, barred window behind my head. "Whatever you hear, whatever you see... do not stop."
I didn't answer. My hand drifted to the bench seat, feeling for the cold, notched hilt of my old service blade. I hadn't drawn it in three years. The steel was probably as rusted as my soul.
A flicker of movement caught my eye in the Aether-lens.
A silhouette emerged from the purple fog. He was tall, gaunt, and his skin had the translucent quality of parchment paper. His veins weren't blue or red; they were a pulsing, neon violet. He didn't have a weapon. He didn't need one.
He was a "Flare-Head"—a mana-addict who had consumed so much raw residue that his blood was becoming pure energy.
"Driver..." the addict croaked. His voice sounded like grinding glass. "Just a spark. Give me... a spark."
He lunged. With a speed that defied human physics, he blurred toward the construct horse. His hands, glowing with a chaotic, flickering light, reached for the brass gears of the beast's chest. He didn't want the carriage; he wanted to suck the soul-mana right out of the horse's core.
"Back off," I growled.
I didn't pull the reins. I kicked the release lever on the side of the box.
A hiss of pressurized steam erupted from the carriage's underside—a "Cleaning Cycle" I'd rigged myself. The steam was laced with salt and powdered lead, the two things that dampen raw magic.
The addict screamed as the lead-dust coated his glowing skin, short-circuiting his high. He tumbled back into the gutter, his violet veins dimming as he clutched his face.
"Filth," my passenger muttered from the safety of the velvet seats. "You should have run him over."
I felt a familiar, cold itch behind my eyes—the ghost of a spell I used to know. I looked at the back of the passenger's head through the bars. He was a "High-Born," dressed in silks, calling a dying man 'filth' while he sat on a pile of stolen silver.
"He was thirsty," I said, my voice flat. "This city makes everyone thirsty."
"Just get me to the Gate!" the man snapped.
We cleared the Silt-Docks, but the air didn't get any cleaner. Up ahead, the silhouette of a massive stone archway loomed. It was the checkpoint for the Inner Circle. But the lanterns weren't the steady gold of the City Watch.
They were the flickering, aggressive red of The Crimson Hand—a B-Rank mercenary guild. They weren't lawmen. They were cleaners.
I pulled the "horse" to a slow trot. Three men stood in the middle of the road. One held a heavy, two-handed claymore that hummed with a low, predatory vibration. The other two had cross-staffs leveled at my chest.
"Midnight Ferryman," the one with the sword called out. His armor was etched with runes of strength. "You've got a stray dog in your hold. Hand him over, and you get to keep your carriage."
Inside the cabin, I heard the passenger's breath hitch. He wasn't just a thief. He was a man who had stolen from the wrong people.
I looked at the mercenaries. Then I looked at my gloved hands. For the first time in a long time, the numbness was gone. It was replaced by a slow, simmering heat.
"The fare is already paid," I said, my voice echoing in the narrow street. "And I never refund a passenger."