Central Avenue, Upper District, Blackstone City.
The contrast with the squalor of the Lower District was absolute. Here, the streets were broad and level, the sidewalks paved with polished bluestone. Soaring Gothic structures lined the way, their spires stabbing like needles into the leaden sky. Streetlamps bore banners emblazoned with the Imperial Aquila, snapping sharply in the breeze.
To meet this mysterious visitor, Byrne had gone out of his way to buy a new set of clothes. After twelve days of being mauled by the desert, his old gear was a tattered, grimy mess—hardly appropriate for a meeting of this caliber.
Byrne kept his pace measured, his eyes darting across the various shop signs along the route. In less than fifteen minutes, he found the Ironbone Cafe on a prominent street corner.
The storefront was modest but elegant. The deep brown hardwood doorframe was intricately carved, and a black sign with gold lettering hung above the entrance. The word IRONBONE was emphasized, its letters adorned with sharp, metallic edges that gave the place a cold, industrial grit.
Pushing open the heavy wooden door, he was greeted by the rich, heavy aroma of coffee. The light inside was far softer than the exterior glare; warm amber lamps cast a glow over vintage leather sofas and solid wood tables, creating an atmosphere of hushed tranquility. Servers moved gracefully between tables, refilling cups for patrons who spoke in low, disciplined whispers.
As soon as Byrne stepped inside, a waiter approached him. "Sir, do you have a reservation?"
Byrne shook his head. "No. I'm looking for someone. He told me to meet him here."
The waiter's eyes lingered on Byrne for a few seconds, a flicker of surprise passing through them before his professional smile returned. "And the person you are looking for—did they leave a name or a specific table?"
Byrne found himself momentarily speechless. Old Gray had only mentioned the location, nothing more. Just as he was about to awkwardly attempt an explanation, a low voice vibrated through the room.
"You've arrived, Mr. Byrne."
The voice was deep and resonant, carrying an undeniable authority that cut through the ambient chatter and landed precisely in the ears of both Byrne and the waiter.
Unlike Byrne's startled reaction, the waiter's smile deepened. He bowed slightly. "Ah, the Owner's guest. My apologies. Please, follow me."
The Owner's guest?
Byrne's heart skipped a beat as his internal alarms flared. He had assumed this mysterious visitor had simply picked a public spot for a chat; he hadn't expected the man to be the proprietor of an upscale Upper District establishment. To operate a cafe of this caliber on the prime real estate of Central Avenue, this person was clearly no minor player.
The waiter made a "this way" gesture and led him toward the back of the cafe. Byrne suppressed his doubts and followed closely.
At the very back, against a floor-to-ceiling window, was a semi-private booth. Heavy dark velvet curtains partially screened it from the rest of the room, offering a view of the street while ensuring privacy. Inside the booth, a man sat with his back to the entrance, holding a steaming cup of coffee and seemingly admiring the cityscape.
"Boss, your guest is here," the waiter said respectfully before bowing out.
Seeing the waiter depart, Byrne remained outside the curtain, refusing to rush in. His right hand drifted toward the small of his back, where he had concealed the pistol he'd "borrowed" during the trial. Only with that weight at his hip did he feel confident enough to attend this meeting alone.
Inside the booth, the man spoke again without turning. "Come in, Mr. Byrne. There is no need for such tension. I harbor no ill intent; I asked you here simply to return something that rightfully belongs to you."
The man's voice was calm, devoid of any obvious malice, but Byrne didn't relax. In the meat-grinder world of Warhammer, "no ill intent" was often the preamble to a lethal trap. Taking a deep breath to steady himself, Byrne pulled back the velvet curtain and stepped inside.
The man turned to look at him, gesturing to the opposite seat. "Please, sit."
Byrne hesitated for a heartbeat before pulling out the chair. Only then did he get a clear look at the man. He appeared to be in his late fifties, his skin somewhat pale, likely from a lack of sunlight. He was tall, dressed in a perfectly tailored dark gray suit of a fine texture that shimmered under the amber lights.
His wide-brimmed hat sat on the table, revealing a face of sharp angles, a high bridge on his nose, thin lips, and a faint scar near the corner of one eye.
As Byrne sat, the man leaned forward slightly in a formal greeting. "A pleasure to meet you. My name is Joralan Teal. I am a Priest."
Huh?
Are you kidding me?
A coffee-shop-owning priest?
Byrne's lip twitched. In his mind, the roles of "Priest" and "Cafe Owner" were fundamentally incompatible. In this universe, Priests were rarely kind-hearted, gentle preachers. They were the iron-willed enforcers of the Emperor's will, holy warriors who cleansed heresy with flame and prayer—men whose loyalty was etched into their very marrow.
This Joralan Teal wore no ornate vestments, bore no holy icons of the Ministorum, and lacked the bloodthirsty aura of a Space Marine Chaplain. Sitting in his cozy cafe, he lacked even the scent of cordite or engine oil. He radiated the polished, deep-seated calm of a merchant.
Byrne let out a cold laugh. "Mr. Joralan, I think you know that in Blackstone City, Priests are either in the Cathedral preaching or on the front lines with the Imperial Guard. They don't run cafes. What do you really want? Don't bother with that 'returning something' line—it's a transparent lie, and I'm not buying it."
Joralan didn't take offense. Instead, a faint smile played on his lips as he set his coffee cup down.
"On the contrary, Mr. Byrne, I haven't uttered a single falsehood. I invited you here because I truly have something to return to you. To be precise... it is your father's legacy."
With that, Joralan reached into the inner pocket of his coat and pulled out a palm-sized metal box, sliding it across the table toward Byrne.