The stench hit Valdas first: a thick, coppery reek of fear and stale blood, made worse by the sugary rot of condensed smog. It clung to the damp brick walls of the illicit processing den, seeped into the ragged garments of the distillers scrambling like rats, and coated the back of his own throat. He raised a gloved hand, signalling his squad to hold back.
“Three more in the back chamber, sir,” whispered Torvin, his second-in-command, a younger man whose face was etched with the grime of a hundred similar raids.
Valdas didn’t need the warning. His trench-sight, a residual flicker from his war days, pulsed behind his eyes, painting the room’s hidden contours in sickly green and violet. He saw the shimmering, gelatinous forms of manifested phantoms clinging to the ceiling, leaking their noxious essence into the air. One, a many-limbed monstrosity of warped bone and weeping eyes, dropped suddenly, lunging at a fleeing alchemist.
Valdas moved. Not with the frantic haste of a charge, but with the controlled, deliberate precision of a man who understood the geometry of death. He slammed his armored boot against a warped floorboard, ripping a burst of raw somna-energy from the building’s very foundation. The energy didn’t explode; it *compressed*, forming a razor-sharp wave that arced through the smog-thick air. It tore through the manifested terror, silencing its wet, gurgling shriek, and then continued, slicing across the back of the largest smuggler, a hulking brute with tattoos snaking up his neck.
The man screamed, a sound abruptly cut short as Valdas was upon him, a blur of dark steel and leather. He drove the pommel of his short-blade into the man’s temple, not hard enough to kill, but sufficient to shatter his resistance. The outlaw crumpled, a heavy sack of muscle and bone.
Valdas scanned the room, his gaze cold, assessing. The remaining processors, stripped of their leader, were quickly subdued by Torvin’s squad. The air still vibrated with the residue of dark magic, and the smog pulsed like an agitated lung. He felt a familiar tickle in his chest, a deep burn that intensified with every breath of the tainted air.
He turned away from the scene, ostensibly to inspect the makeshift somna-extractors, but in truth to hide the convulsion that seized his throat. A ragged cough tore from him, rattling his ribs. He pressed a hand to his mouth, feeling the wet warmth bloom against his palm. When he pulled it away, his black leather glove was stained a deep, viscous black – the tell-tale sign of Dream-Blight, progressing with terrifying speed.
He wiped his hand discreetly on the lining of his coat. *Not yet. Not here.* He had to maintain control. Always.
“Captain, the brute’s awake,” Torvin announced, gesturing to the captured syndicate leader. The man, hands bound, sagged against a wall, a trickle of blood drying from his ear. A sneer twisted his lips, showing broken teeth.
Valdas approached, his face a mask of cold indifference. “Who sent you?”
The thug laughed, a wet, rattling sound. “You hunt shadows, Morvath. Always the same. Chasing ghosts. You seek the girl, yes? The one who slipped your grasp at the Heron’s Nest?” His eyes glinted with perverse amusement. “Little bird flew high, commander. Higher than you think.”
Valdas’s gaze sharpened. The Heron’s Nest. The inn where he’d woken three weeks ago, a memory like shattered glass, a blood-contract initiated, and a woman vanished into the Morbray fog. He’d torn the city apart looking for her.
“Where is she?” Valdas’s voice was low, dangerous.
The thug’s grin widened, a knowing, chilling expression. “Safe. Tucked away. Where all the high-born go to escape their sleeping terrors. The Somnolence Ward. You’ll never find her there, hound. Not with your mind rotting like a forgotten dream.” He snickered, a dark, prophetic sound.
***
The Somnolence Ward was a fortress masquerading as a medical mansion. Its gothic spires clawed at the perpetually grey sky, and gaslight lamps cast dancing shadows across its ornate, wrought-iron gates. Here, secrets were whispered and nightmares were treated, or so the brochures claimed. For Valdas, it was a necessary evil.
The opulent waiting room smelled of antiseptic and exotic oils. It was an olfactory assault after the distillers' cellar. A nervous attendant led him down a hushed corridor to Dr. Neth’s consultation room. The door was heavy, solid oak, silencing the distant murmur of the Ward the moment it closed behind him.
Dr. Ovidia Neth stood beside a polished, darkwood examination table, her back to him. The light from the single, high-arched window illuminated the intricate braid of her dark hair, revealing grey threads woven subtly through it. She was dressed in a pristine white physician’s coat, stark against the muted colours of the room. She turned, her movements fluid and precise, her expression one of professional calm. But Valdas, despite his deepening malaise, noticed the almost imperceptible tremor in her hand as she adjusted a glass retort on her desk.
“High Inquisitor,” she greeted, her voice a cool, composed murmur. “Punctual as ever. Please, sit.” She gestured to a plush, velvet chair opposite her desk.
Valdas settled into the chair, the elaborate cushioning doing little to ease the tension in his shoulders. “Physician. My condition is… worsening.” He didn’t elaborate. She knew. She always knew.
Ovidia picked up a narrow, steel-tipped instrument, her gaze flicking to his face, then quickly away. “I anticipated as much. Your somna-rhythms have been erratic. The latest readings from your Night-Watch subordinates indicated a significant spike in reactive somnalence – a common symptom of advanced Dream-Blight.”
She moved around the desk, her presence, for some reason he couldn’t place, unnervingly close. She held out the instrument. “May I?”
He inclined his head. The silver tip, cool and faintly humming with somna-energy, pressed against the pulse-point in his neck. He felt a faint, prickling sensation as it drew a minuscule sample of blood. Her fingers brushed his skin, sudden and searing. Valdas felt a flicker of something, a distant echo, but his mind was too clouded, too focused on the thug’s words. *The Somnolence Ward. You’ll never find her there.*
He watched Ovidia as she analyzed the tiny vial, her brows furrowed in concentration. Her face was clean, devoid of makeup, revealing the faint dusting of freckles across her nose. She looked… familiar. But he had no memory of ever meeting her before his treatment began here.
“The blight is aggressive,” she confirmed, her voice devoid of emotion, yet her hand, still holding the vial, trembled almost imperceptibly. “I recommend we increase the frequency of your treatments. And perhaps a deeper dive into your dream-state, to identify the source of the persistent stress.”
“The stress is external,” Valdas said, his voice clipped. “I’m hunting a particular individual. A woman.”
Ovidia’s head snapped up. Her eyes, a striking shade of deep emerald, met his. For a bare instant, he saw a flash of something unreadable there – alarm? Fear? It vanished as quickly as it appeared, replaced by her usual professional calm.
“Indeed?” she said, her voice a little too level. “And what does this woman have to do with your… hunting?”
“She’s connected to a personal matter,” Valdas stated, leaning forward slightly. “She vanished after an incident. A… misunderstanding. I believe she may be seeking refuge somewhere private, somewhere secure. Somewhere like this Ward.” He watched her, looking for any tell. “Have you admitted any new patients in the last few weeks? Especially any who arrived… discreetly?”
Ovidia’s gaze darted away, to the window, then back to him. “The Ward receives patients continuously, Inquisitor. Our admissions are, by their nature, confidential. You know this.” Her posture seemed to stiffen, her shoulders rising almost imperceptibly.
“Confidentiality is for those who are *not* under investigation by the Night-Watch,” Valdas countered, his voice sharp. He rose, walking towards her, his presence dominating the room. “I need to know, Ovidia. If she is here, I will find her. And if you are obstructing my investigation…”
The door to the consultation room burst open, slamming against the wall with a deafening thud. Arch-Prelate Voss, his pewter robes flowing around him, strode in, flanked by two heavily armed Somna-Guardians. A wide, unsettling smile stretched across his face, his eyes gleaming with an unreadable amusement. He looked between Valdas and Ovidia, his smile widening.
“Valdas! Ovidia! Good, you’re both here,” Voss announced, his voice booming through the suddenly tense room. “A rather… unfortunate development. It seems the syndicate has just breached the lower medical wards. We are under attack.”