The fog, thick as curdled cream, tasted of salt and mildew, clinging to Nives Corvo’s lungs with every ragged breath. A lead pipe, heavy and cold, sang through the oppressive air, connecting with a sickening thud against the shoulder of a hulking brute in the alley. He grunted, stumbling back, greasy hair obscured by the swirling vapor. “The Drowning Wards are *mine*!” Nives spat, her voice a raw rasp, the words torn from a throat already sore from shouting. Grit ground between her teeth as she squared her boots against the slick cobbles. Three more figures closed through the murk, iron-tipped soles churning canal runoff pooled in the cracked flagstones. One carried a crowbar, another a rusty hook, their intent brutally clear. She squeezed the rolled vellum, knotted in fraying cord, tight against her knuckles. The title document for Vesperine Manor, intended site of ‘The Lantern House’, felt rigid beneath her grip. Teodoro Salvi, that peacocking, polished serpent, thought he could scare her off. He thought he could buy the future of the city's alley runaways out from under her. He was wrong. A desperate glance over her shoulder revealed a sliver of light, a greasy yellow beacon piercing the gloom. The Civic Registry Office. A haven, however temporary. Nives ducked low, a blur of motion, slipping past the dazed thug and sprinting towards the entrance. The iron-bound door groaned as she shoved it open, plunging into a stifling heat smelling of vinegar, soot, and damp blotters. The interior was a chaotic mess of overflowing filing cabinets and towering stacks of unbound ledgers. A single, flickering gas lamp cast long, dancing shadows. Behind a counter piled with neglected manifests, a man with a sunken spine and yellowed eyes did not even look up. His sparse hair was a bird’s nest, his cheek bore the imprint of a recent nap, and the nameplate on his desk read, 'Signor Baldi – Records & Affiliations'. Nives slammed the deed down on the counter, her chest heaving. “Signor Baldi! I need this notarized. Immediately! They’re right outside!” Her voice echoed a little too loudly in the quiet room. Baldi’s head slowly lifted, his gaze unfocused. He squinted at the rolled parchment, then at Nives, then at a pile of forms beside him. “Ah, another one,” he mumbled, his voice a gravelly drone. “New civic records require proper registry, miss. Certification is across the canal. This desk handles matrimonial declarations.” He gestured at a stack of sheets, each stamped with an identical header: ‘Illician Union Charter – Blood-Rite Pact’. Nives stared, her mind still reeling from the chase, her ears straining for the sound of boots outside. “No, no, this is a property title! For the shelter! The Lantern House! Vesperine Manor!” She shook the curled scroll toward him. “They’re trying to take it from me! Teodoro Salvi’s thugs!” Baldi merely blinked, his eyes unfathomably dull. “Property, matrimonial… it all rots in the archives eventually. Sign where indicated.” He slid one of the ‘Union Charter’ sheets across the counter, its fiber thick and waxy. “Name, date, signature. A second party required, of course.” He pointed a ink-stained thumb toward the blank margin, then toward the threshold. Just as Nives’s frantic gaze followed his finger, a man slipped through the door. He was thin, dressed in threadbare dockworker clothes, his face perpetually etched with a shy, almost apologetic smile. His palms, though calloused, lacked the vicious scars common along the wharves, and his dark curls clung damp to his neck, smelling faintly of salt brine. Faro Bastione, wed to her scarcely twenty days. He had that particular brand of quiet resilience that she, a former street urchin, recognized instantly. He carried the quiet grime of hard labor, and she took comfort in it. Faro gave a small, nervous wave, his smile faltering a little as he took in Nives’s disheveled state and the ominous lead pipe still clutched in her hand. “Nives? What… what’s happening?” Nives tightened her grip on the iron pipe. Faro, with his soft gaze and empty pockets, lacked the venom required to survive these alleys. “Faro! Perfect timing!” she exclaimed, grabbing his arm and pulling him forward. “Signor Baldi demands another hand on the registry! Teodoro Salvi's mercenaries are at the gate!” Baldi grunted, holding out a quill. “Sign here, mistress. And mark here, tradesman. For the registry.” Ears tuned to the alleyway mud, Nives scarcely looked at the leaf. She just needed this done, needed to get back out there, needed to *win*. Faro was threadbare and meek, completely unsuited to street warfare. She would guard him fiercely. She scrawled her name, Nives Corvo, with an impatient flourish, then thrust the quill at Faro. He hesitated, brow furrowing, but under her impatient elbowing he inscribed Faro Bastione upon the validation line, then unhurriedly upon the principal line, strokes even and unhurried. “There!” Nives declared, snatching the form back and shoving it at Baldi. “Now, notarize my deed!” Baldi hauled up a bronze press and brought it down upon the ‘Union Charter’. *CRACK*. The sound resonated through the quiet office. He slid the leaf back across the wood, ignoring the scroll she had laid down. “Registry verified. Blood-Rite Pact filed. Good day.” Nives snatched the stamped paper, its wax warm against her fingertips, paying no heed to the gothic lettering. All she saw was Teodoro Salvi’s sneering face in her mind. “Listen to me, Baldi, and listen well!” she announced, her voice booming, addressing the lazy clerk but truly sending a message to the thugs she knew were still lurking. “My partner, Faro, is an honest dockhand. He has no coin, no malice, and he is *mine*. No one, especially not a pompous, money-grubbing coward like Teodoro Salvi, will lay a hand on him. Not on Faro, not on my shelter, not on *anything* under my roof! I will break their ribs first!” Faro, standing beside her, flinched almost imperceptibly at her fierce declaration, his gaze dropping to the floor. Baldi, for his part, merely looked away, slowly reaching for a half-eaten brioche hidden beneath his ledger. Nives, feeling a surge of righteous triumph, grabbed Faro’s arm. “Come on, Faro. We have hired muscle to handle.” She stalked towards the door, ready to face the fog and the menace within it. Faro followed, his gaze still downcast. As Nives’s hand reached for the door handle, Faro’s left hand, hidden from her view, rose subtly. His index finger and thumb formed a tight, precise ‘C’ shape, then sliced horizontally across his throat. The gesture was swift, almost imperceptible in the dim light, but it was enough. In the deeper shadows of the street outside, high above on the ruined spires, two glints of moonlight vanished, followed by the soft, almost inaudible scrape of heavy weaponry being lowered. Nives threw open the door, stepping out into the biting chill of the fog. It was empty. The alley was deserted. Not a single boot print in the muddy runoff, not a whisper of a presence. She frowned, a flicker of confusion crossing her face. “Cowards,” she muttered, shaking her head. “They ran.” Faro merely offered a mild grin, sliding the stamped parchment from her slack fingers. His eyes, usually so mild, now held a glint, cold and sharp as honed steel, as he looked down at the document. The ornate heading ran across the sheet: ‘Illician Union Charter – Blood-Rite Pact’. Below it, Baldi’s iron-red seal rested heavy on the fibers. This was no simple registry slip; it was an archaic covenant of absolute feudal dominion, a contract pledging total territorial retaliation against anyone menacing the signatory’s household. And the name of the 'husband', written clearly, was Faro Bastione.

The Registry of the Damned