Lord of the Mysteries: Catalyst of Shadows

The streets of Constant City bustled beneath the waning afternoon light, the ever-present wind whistling through narrow alleyways and steel-framed buildings, carrying with it the scent of coal, oil, and wet stone. Smoke rose in twisting plumes from towering factories, their mechanical heartbeats pulsing in rhythmic churns of industry. The second-largest city of Loen lived up to its name—an unyielding current of motion and ambition.

The rich scent of tea and freshly baked pastries lingered in the air, mingling with the soft clatter of porcelain and murmured conversations. Seated by the window of an upscale café, Jack's marionette, She was dressed in a neatly tailored burgundy overcoat, buttoned up to her chin, its collar lined with wolf's fur. Her gloved hands casually adjusted the black silk bow at her throat, while a simple bonnet, adorned with a lone feather, framed her pale face. She was neither remarkably tall nor particularly short, her lithe frame blending into the surroundings with the ease of someone accustomed to existing between places—visible, yet unseen.

She leisurely stirred a spoon through her tea, watching the milk swirl into delicate ribbons.

But this was no ordinary woman.

Over the course of his travels, Jack had amassed hundreds of marionettes, taken from criminals, drifters, and those who would not be missed. Some were stationed in key cities across Loen and Intis, serving as extensions of his range of marionette control.

The purpose was simple—to uphold the identity of "Ethan Carter" in Backlund, ensuring his standing with the Loen Charity Bursary Foundation and maintaining appearances with Audrey Hall. Through her, he continued his so-called "therapeutic sessions," a necessary measure to confront his lingering psychological and dissociative issues. Meanwhile, his other marionettes allowed him to remain occupied elsewhere, balancing his ongoing performances and the careful execution of his plans.

This woman—this marionette—was one of several assigned to Constant.

It was a quiet afternoon, a rare lull in the city's usual industrial clamor. Outside, carriages rolled by, their wheels kicking up remnants of the morning's drizzle. The café itself was nestled in the heart of Constant's more refined districts, a favored haunt of bureaucrats, scholars, and socialites—people who prided themselves on being 'in the know,' yet rarely knew anything of real consequence.

Perfect company, really.

Jack had no particular fondness for tea. He neither hated nor adored it, but in these moments—where he played at civility, at the carefully constructed normalcy of the world—it served its purpose well. The marionette took a small sip, the warmth lingering pleasantly on her tongue.

Across the table sat a plump gentleman, his waistcoat strained slightly against years of indulgence, a meticulously waxed mustache twitching as he spoke.

"…and of course, there's the matter of the Steel Council's latest proposition. Rumors say they're pushing for another tariff increase. If that goes through, well, you can imagine the headaches it'll bring. Ghastly business, all of it."

Jack's marionette hummed in idle agreement, gently placing her cup down. "Ghastly indeed," she echoed, her voice measured, thoughtful. "Though, if we're being honest, it's hardly surprising. Industrialists do love their coin. A pity about the workers, though—can't squeeze blood from a stone, as they say."

The man chuckled, wagging a sausage-like finger. "Ah, but my dear Miss Lainsworth, it's never about squeezing blood from a stone! It's about making the stone think it's bleeding, so it works twice as hard for half the cost."

She smiled—serene, amused. "You have a poet's heart, Mister Hargrave."

Jack, in truth, was only half-listening. This sort of social play was useful in its own way, a means of keeping up appearances, gathering bits and pieces of information from Constant's network of minor bureaucrats and financiers. But mostly, it was a game of endurance.

Tea, idle conversation, the illusion of normalcy.

And yet, beneath it all, Jack's mind wandered.

I wonder if I could take a nap while the marionette keeps smiling and nodding… No, bad idea. Last time I tried that, the marionette started agreeing to investment deals I didn't care for. Learned my lesson.

The thought almost made him snicker aloud.

Instead, the marionette lifted a fork, idly poking at a delicate fruit tart. It was a beautiful thing, really—golden crust, a neat arrangement of glistening berries, a dusting of powdered sugar. An absolute triumph of culinary effort.

It tasted like disappointment.

Jack made a face. Or rather, he tried to, before remembering that this body had to maintain decorum. Internally, though? He was screaming.

Why does every expensive dessert taste like regret and crushed dreams? Where's the joy? Where's the love? This is a crime. A crime against sugar itself.

A small sigh left her lips—carefully measured, the kind that suggested deep contemplation rather than complete despair over pastry-related betrayals.

Mister Hargrave misinterpreted entirely, nodding sagely. "Ah, I see my words have given you something to think about. The economy is quite the beast, isn't it?"

Jack's marionette smiled warmly. "Oh, absolutely. A terrible beast. A feral, ravenous thing."

She popped another piece of the offending tart into her mouth, chewing with the slow, weary acceptance of someone who had resigned themselves to the injustice of overpriced desserts.

The conversation meandered after that—idle talks of trade, the recent gossip about the governor's daughter attending some charity gala. Jack absorbed it all with practiced ease, tucking away useful tidbits, discarding the meaningless fluff.

But mostly, he endured.

Another day, another tea party of fools. But at least it's amusing.

She sat with an air of quiet amusement, idly stirring her tea as Hargrave droned on about trade routes and tariffs. She maintained the occasional nod, well-timed hums of interest, though her attention had long since drifted elsewhere.

Across the café, at the counter, the beginnings of a commotion stirred.

A noblewoman—draped in an ostentatious blue gown that seemed more suited for an evening gala than a casual midday tea—was engaged in a rather unceremonious spat with one of the baristas. From the snippets of conversation floating through the café's gentle hum, it was clear that the offense was simple: the coffee wasn't hot enough.

Jack wasn't particularly interested. He had seen this play out a thousand times before—privileged individuals lording their perceived superiority over those who had no choice but to endure it.

As Hargrave paused to take a sip of his tea, Miss Lainsworth used the moment to smoothly interject, offering a polite smile.

"Forgive me, Mr. Hargrave," she said, reaching for the napkin beside her plate and dabbing her lips lightly. "Would you mind if I excuse myself for a moment? Please, do continue—I'd hate to interrupt your insight on the maritime tax adjustments."

Hargrave waved a dismissive hand, already eager to resume his monologue. "Of course, Miss Lainsworth. A dreadful policy, really. As I was saying—"

Jack stood gracefully, moving with an effortless poise that made her absence seem like little more than a passing breeze in the conversation. With a graceful step, she maneuvered through the polished floorboards of the café, weaving effortlessly between tables toward the washroom. Just as she passed the noblewoman, the woman turned abruptly, her silk-gloved hand gesturing sharply toward the barista, mid-tirade.

Miss Lainsworth made no effort to avoid the sudden motion. The barest brush of their sleeves was all it took—just enough to disrupt the noblewoman's balance.

The woman jolted forward, barely catching herself against the counter, her voice faltering for half a second.

Jack did not stop. Did not look back.

He simply turned toward a passing server, lifting a hand casually.

"Another pot of the house blend, please," Miss Lainsworth requested smoothly, just as the server was about to pass by the counter.

The barista—still reeling from the noblewoman's verbal assault—immediately turned his attention to fulfilling the request.

The noblewoman, mid-breath, sputtered as her tirade was cut off, suddenly finding herself without an audience. Her indignation simmered beneath the surface, but the barista was already pouring a fresh cup elsewhere, the flow of service resuming without regard for her presence.

She clicked her tongue, muttered something under her breath, and with a huff, turned on her heel.

Jack, having reached the washroom door, spared the briefest glance over his shoulder, watching the tension in the air dissipate before it had a chance to escalate.

Not everything needed a grand scheme or an unseen hand manipulating fate. Sometimes, all it took was a misplaced step and a moment's distraction to nudge things back into place.

Satisfied, he stepped into the washroom, a slow smirk curling at the corner of Miss Lainsworth's lips.

Inside, the opulent vanity mirrors reflected the flickering gaslights above, casting a golden sheen over the polished countertops. Jack—or rather, Miss Lainsworth—took a moment to inspect herself, adjusting the silk bow at her throat with a flick of her wrist.

Honestly, the real tragedy here is that I can't quite pull off a mustache in this body. A damn shame. I could have looked rather distinguished—scoundrelly, but distinguished.

She ran a gloved hand along the lapels of her burgundy overcoat, inspecting her reflection with an expression bordering between self-satisfaction and detached amusement.

Then again, I have at least forty faces across two countries. Surely one of them has the requisite level of facial hair.

Chuckling at her own musings, she gave herself one last, satisfied glance before stepping out of the washroom.

The meeting was drawing to a close as she returned to her table. The other attendees—merchants, financiers, and a few well-placed officials—were making their final remarks, exchanging pleasantries before departure. Miss Lainsworth took her seat gracefully, offering a casual smile to her acquaintance seated across from her, a silver-haired man in a charcoal-gray vest.

"Well, you didn't miss much," he noted, swirling the remnants of his tea. "Just a long-winded speech about market stability. I do believe my soul briefly left my body."

She chuckled. "I imagine that was rather inconvenient for you. Did you manage to wrangle it back, or shall we leave a note for the next poor fool who inherits it?"

He snorted. "Oh, it's long gone. This is merely my hallowed husk, navigating social obligations on pure muscle memory."

Jack hummed, amused. "Tragic. I'll have to drink to your memory later."

With that, the meeting concluded, and the group dispersed into the Constant City streets. Miss Lainsworth bid her farewell with a polite nod before stepping out into the evening chill.

The streets hummed with the usual din of Constant—factories still churning deep in the industrial quarter, steam-carriages hissing as they wound through the stone roads, and the ever-present chatter of the city's elite exchanging gossip at the promenades.

With a subtle flick of her wrist, she hailed a carriage, stepping inside with the elegance expected of someone in her assumed station. The vehicle rocked forward, carrying her toward another destination, though for Jack, it was merely an idle transition, a moment of respite before the next game piece shifted.

She tapped a rhythmic beat against her knee, gaze flicking absently toward the passing streets, lampooning once more in the quiet privacy of her own mind.

One day, I should consider taking up poetry. Something dramatic, of course. 'The Misadventures of an Overqualified Fugitive' has a nice ring to it. Or perhaps, 'The Ballad of the Man Who Had Too Many Faces and Absolutely No Time for Himself'… though that might be a bit wordy.

She sighed theatrically, settling back against the cushioned seat.

No, no. I'd need something more tasteful. Perhaps 'A Gentleman's Guide to Being a Menace.' Yes. That has a certain charm to it.

Just as she was preparing to fully commit to this absurd train of thought, her sharp eyes caught something unusual amidst the city's usual bustle.

A man in formal attire sat stiffly at the far end of another carriage, his polished black boots planted firmly on the floor, back straight against the plush velvet seat. He was dressed in a well-fitted charcoal-gray frock coat, its lapels pressed with meticulous care, layered over a crisp white dress shirt buttoned high at the collar. A deep burgundy waistcoat peeked beneath the coat, embroidered subtly at the edges with a pattern too faint to notice unless one was paying close attention.

His black silk cravat was tied with deliberate precision, the knot symmetrical, giving him an air of quiet sophistication. Silver cufflinks glinted at his wrists, each engraved with an intricate insignia, though their meaning remained obscured beneath the shifting folds of his sleeves. A matching pocket square was neatly tucked into his coat, the color just a shade lighter than his waistcoat—perhaps an intentional choice, or simply the habit of a man who noticed such details.

In one gloved hand, he idly turned a golden pocket watch, his fingers tracing the cool metal surface, the faintest scratch marks on its casing betraying years of use. The chain hung loosely against his vest, its weight a constant, grounding presence.

Despite the elegance of his dress, there was an edge to the way he wore it—not vanity, nor ostentation, but a quiet discipline. His clothing, though perfectly arranged, was not the attire of a man dressing for mere fashion. It was armor, tailored to his movements, ensuring he remained inconspicuous yet never unprepared.

His black hair was neatly combed, his dark eyes sharp, flitting from one passerby to the next with the precision of a man trained to notice what others ignored.

His posture was rigid—unnaturally so—not the poised confidence of a gentleman at ease, but the carefully controlled tension of someone prepared for the worst. He wasn't just wary. He was dissecting his surroundings, cataloging details with every measured glance, the smallest flicker of movement drawing his attention before he dismissed it just as swiftly.

Yet beneath the meticulous observation, there was something else—something just barely restrained.

Not fear. No, fear made men hesitate. This man wasn't hesitating. He was calculating, deceiving even himself into calmness, his mind moving faster than his body could betray.

A scholar's air clung to him, but not the absentminded sort lost in theory and ink. His presence was deliberate, his awareness sharp, a man who knew both the weight of knowledge and the burden of using it.

Miss Lainsworth's lips curled slightly, intrigue blooming beneath her composed expression.

Now, just what are you looking for, I wonder?

Shifting slightly in her seat, she adjusted her gloves, keeping her attention trained on the man through the reflection in the carriage window.

Following up on this could be a waste of time. Or, it could be very interesting.

And Jack did love interesting things.

…

The carriage rumbled softly along the cobbled streets, its occupants swaying in rhythm with every dip and rise in the road. Among them sat a man in gentleman's attire—the fabric of his dark waistcoat crisp, his silver-threaded cravat tied with meticulous precision. A long, tailored overcoat of deep navy, lined with fine sable, draped over his shoulders, while a golden pocket watch, ornately engraved with symbols long abandoned by time, rested against his palm.

An image of refinement, grace, and calm.

And yet, beneath the polished exterior, a tension simmered, coiled tight like a spring ready to snap.

Impheil's fingers twitched ever so slightly as they traced the engraved casing of his watch—a controlled habit, though one that hardly concealed the fact that he was already mapping exit routes. His sharp, discerning black eyes flickered between the reflections in the carriage windows and the shifting figures beyond the glass. Every shadow, every sudden movement, every slight deviation from the mundane routine of city life gnawed at his instincts.

He had learned to live like this—been forced to, really.

To be hunted by "Him" was to exist in a perpetual state of paranoia, to second-guess reality itself. Every flickering street lamp, every misplaced reflection, every stranger holding the possibility of something far worse than death.

And yet, wasn't this all getting a bit tedious?

He sighed internally. Another day, another grim realization that I'm still playing tag with a god. At this rate, he might as well start leaving Amon invitations—"dear esteemed parasite, I have a lovely spot by the river, shall we make this easier for both of us?"

But no, he wasn't that suicidal. Not yet.

Still, the paranoia that had kept him alive was gnawing at him now, whispering that something was off.

His gaze settled on a reflection in the window, observing a distant figure with casual detachment. A man—no, a woman—seated across the carriage, clad in a burgundy overcoat, the hint of a wolf-fur collar visible just beneath the lapels.

At a glance, nothing about her was suspicious. She carried herself with the languid poise of someone who belonged, who knew the rhythm of the city and moved within it effortlessly.

Yet.

Impheil's instincts tensed.

There was something too precise about how she adjusted the lace cuffs of her gloves—too fluid, too practiced. And then her gaze—briefly—had flickered toward him, then away, dismissing him in a single breath.

Now that was interesting.

A normal person—someone with nothing to hide—would have ignored him completely or at least spared a second glance, maybe an awkward double-take. But she had not. One glance, acknowledgment, then nothing.

A professional.

Ah, splendid. Just what he needed—another variable in a life already teetering on the edge of disaster.

His grip tightened slightly around his pocket watch.

Had they found me? Has the parasite finally gotten bored of his games and decided to send something that breathes?

No.

If that were the case, he would not still be breathing.

Then what? A spy? A hunter? A particularly nosey socialite with an unusual hobby?

If someone was watching him, he needed to know why.

The city outside blurred past, the carriage rocking gently. To any other passenger, it was just another day in Constant, another ride through the industrial sprawl.

But for Impheil?

It was yet another reminder that nothing—absolutely nothing—was ever a coincidence.

And he was sick of being the last to know why.