Silas Blackwood observed the city for the fifth turn of the Solstice. His fingers, gloved in worn leather, tightened on the lacquered wood of the phaeton's reins. A faint tremor, not of cold, but of profound weariness, ran through his arm. Three previous attempts had ended in the same sterile, infuriating failure, each one adding another layer of dust to the already ancient archives of his memory.
He blamed the very air of Aethelburg for the constant, grating imperfection. City inhabitants, a nervous populace sustained by flickering gaslight and whispered arcana, navigated its thoroughfares like desperate, territorial spirits. On foot, one risked being swallowed by the churning currents of the mercantile district; within the confines of his coach, he faced the chaos of its cobbled arteries.
Thankfully, consciousness always snapped back to the same precise temporal anchor: the moment his ebon coach cleared the last, crumbling milestone of the Hinterlands, just before the first tendrils of Aethelburg's smog-laced mist kissed his face.
The bespoke, iron-bound phaeton, a relic of an age long past, rumbled onward. Silas deftly avoided a runaway steam-dray, its driver a frantic, soot-stained automatonist. He then swerved around a street preacher, whose fervent incantations were undoubtedly fueled by cheap alchemical stimulants. Soon, the coach reached the city's infamous Gilded Strand.
Owing to its reputation as the largest metropolis in the Northern Reaches and a haven for the desperate and the debauched, Aethelburg was a formidable sight. Built upon the bones of forgotten empires, years after the Great Cataclysm scoured the continent, it boasted spires of arcane glass and obsidian that pierced the bruised dawn. None held a candle to the Obsidian Spire, a needle of dark, polished glass symbolizing the Lumina Cabal’s dominion over the region; corporate wealth, interwoven with ancient, forbidden knowledge, had built Aethelburg, a city with no true gods, only patrons.
To the left, Silas could discern the sullen expanse of the Cobalt Sea, its surface mirroring the dim, distant glimmers of the Morning Star. On his right, a decadent panorama unfolded: countless clandestine casinos, veiled dens of vice, and luxury hostels that drew throngs of dilettantes and desperate seekers. Glimpsing the reconstructed Colosseum Argent, a modern edifice echoing the Old World's gladiatorial arenas, felt like a jarring anachronism. This district, truly, earned its name, though ‘gilded’ often meant gilded in rust and avarice.
His ebon coach, a bespoke contraption from a bygone era, drew fleeting, curious glances from the burgeoning crowd. Clad in a long coat of midnight velvet, a wide-brimmed hat casting his features into shadow, and gloves of supple, dark leather, Silas cultivated an air of archaic mystery. His attire, meticulously chosen for its timeless elegance and practical resilience, was stifling in the city's humid breath, yet impeccably suited to the persona of a detached observer. To Silas Blackwood, such meticulous presentation was essential; a mask, however exquisite, was still a mask.
As the phaeton continued its northward trajectory towards his objective, Silas noted the glowing publicity glyphs that pulsed with hypnotic, aetheric light. One depicted Lady Aeliana, a celebrated Thaumaturgist of the Grey Wardens, her face serene, her hands crackling with raw arcane energy. Behind her, a potent emerald phial shimmered.
'Aspire to the Arcane Might of Aeliana? With our Aetheric Draught, what she achieves in a lifetime, you will grasp in a solstice! One hundred thousand sovereigns, only at the Lumina Cabal!'
Bah. Everyone yearned for an Awakened bloodline these days, even the manufactured shadow of one. Yet, who could truly resist raw power in a bottle? Silas himself had partaken of the true wellspring, not a cheap knockoff offering a fraction of a real gift. His countless lives, each a burden, had begun with that irrevocable choice.
Navigating past a precarious cliff-side promenade and a sprawling, sea-kissed resort, Silas reached a district reeking of illicit alchemical fumes and synthetic spirits. Taverns, shadowed gambling halls, and opium dens clustered together, yet the area maintained a precarious veneer of respectability. True depravity, he knew, festered in the northernmost sectors.
Having committed the city’s intricate layout to memory across these loops, Silas swiftly located his destination: an unremarkable tavern nestled between a sputtering alchemist's shop and a derelict séance parlor. Parking his coach discreetly, Silas alighted and opened the phaeton’s rear compartment.
Never one for superfluous order, Silas had allowed his various tools and arcane implements to settle into a chaotic sprawl. His collection of clockwork mechanisms, encrypted data-slates, and specialized weapons formed a dense, metallic mass; though none compared to the polished, iron-shod walking stick, his most devastating instrument.
After a brief, efficient search, Silas retrieved the iron-bound satchel he had been contracted to deliver, secured the compartment, and entered the tavern.
Something of a cozy place, ten sturdy tables filled its space, only a third of them occupied. Silas briefly noted a young street mage attempting to impress his companion by levitating a coin – undoubtedly a waste of precious sovereigns on a diluted elixir. A balding, craggy-faced proprietor, etched with the city's grime, stood behind the counter, observing the newcomer with a suspicious squint.
“Greetings, mortal. I seek the proprietor of this establishment,” Silas addressed the man. “Is this the Coiled Serpent?”
Mordecai, the man behind the counter, glared. “It’s etched into the facade. What do you want, stranger?”
Why the tavern’s title evoked such imagery of arcane menace, while the proprietor sounded like a simple, world-weary merchant, was a minor irritation. “Then you must be Mordecai.” Silas offered the iron-bound satchel. “A delivery. From the Whisperwood Enclave. Untouched, I assure you.”
“Untouched?” Mordecai frowned, suspicion deepening. “Are you…”
“I am Silas Blackwood,” he introduced himself, a slight tilt of his hat. “My predicament is… unique. But keep it between us.”
“He said it loud enough for the entire bloody tavern!” someone jeered from a darkened corner, eliciting scattered, mirthless laughter.
“Your… predicament?” Mordecai asked, unimpressed. “What precisely is it?”
“A peculiar endurance. Part of a… broader arrangement,” Silas replied.
“Whatever,” Mordecai grumbled, seizing the satchel. “I’ll inform my contact, and your payment will be dispatched.”
“Good to hear.” Silas rested a gloved hand on the counter. “Tell me, Mordecai, have you encountered a woman named Elara? Dark hair, eyes like deep pools, a certain revolutionary fervor?”
“Never heard of her,” the proprietor said with a shrug. “If you’re looking for a woman of… particular inclinations, try the docks.”
“Not precisely her usual haunt, but I appreciate the suggestion.” Knowing her, Elara was likely plotting dissent in some forgotten, subterranean vault. “Anywhere one might procure bespoke thaumaturgical apparatus? Discreetly manufactured?”
“Try the Ironfang District, if you possess the courage. One can always find… interesting curiosities in the Cadaverous Depths, but it’s overrun with cutthroats and feral Aether-Blooded nowadays.” Mordecai scrutinized Silas from head to toe. “They’ll strip the soul from ye.”
Silas merely shrugged. A sudden chill permeated the air, causing the sputtering gaslights to dim. “Mordecai?” a voice, cold as a winter tomb, rasped from the tavern’s entrance.
“Yes?” the proprietor replied, a frown creasing his brow.
A second later, a spear of cerulean ice erupted from Mordecai’s throat, impaling him against the back wall with a sickening wet thud.
Silas attempted to initiate the subtle temporal distortion his ability allowed, but a sharp icicle, honed with brutal precision, struck his chest with astonishing velocity. It pierced his reinforced velvet coat and his ribs like a shard of obsidian, emerging from his back; leaving a gaping, blossoming agony where his lungs had been. The room erupted in screams as crystalline projectiles shredded tables and patrons alike. Struggling against the crushing pain, Silas collapsed onto the counter, but managed to glimpse his attacker.
The newcomer removed his heavy, shadowed hood, revealing his visage—or rather, his chilling lack thereof. He appeared as a walking, skinless effigy of winter, vestigial muscles clinging to skeletal fingers, eyes like frozen lakes. An unnatural, chilling mist streamed from his mouth and nasal cavities, coalescing into further ice weapons. An Aether-Blooded. Considering his physical mutation, perhaps even a Psycho-Thaumaturgist, a being twisted by their own power.
“The Lumina Cabal sends its regards,” the killer rasped, his voice echoing in the sudden silence. The young street mage in the back attempted to telekinetically hurl a chair, but the hostile Aether-Blooded encased himself in an armor of jagged ice. A flurry of icicles later, the mage and his companion had their faces dramatically rearranged.
“I will… see you…” Silas dramatically raised a bloodied finger, blood blossoming on his lips, “on my next… turning…”
The undead Cryomancer froze him solid with a casual wave of his hand, and all went dark.
The dawn of the fifth Solstice. Silas Blackwood gasped awake, the phantom chill of death lingering on his skin. He was once again within his ebon coach, approaching the first crumbling milestone of Aethelburg.
Four times. Four times he had died making this accursed delivery! Not anger, not anymore. Only the profound, bone-deep weariness of repetition. This particular loop, ending so swiftly, so brutally, was an affront to his sensibilities. His cycles usually spanned days, allowing for intricate experiments, for the delicate dance of cause and effect. Repeating the same sterile tableau in quick succession merely bred a profound, soul-numbing boredom.
His body entered an autopilot mode, a perfected shadow play. Mind elsewhere, Silas performed the actions of his previous attempts, each turn of the rein, each glance, each calculated avoidance a precise echo. He only stopped, regaining full consciousness, as he reached the tavern.
Instead of entering, Silas remained in his coach, its dark form a brooding silhouette against the flickering gaslight. He waited for his killer to appear.
Waiting proved unnecessary. The assassin, a chilling distortion in the grimy street, emerged from a shadowed alley, hands tucked into the folds of his cloak, his featureless head concealed by the hood. Such a ghastly presence barely registered in the ceaseless oddity of Aethelburg. He moved with an unnerving grace, his form dissolving into the Coiled Serpent's entrance.
Only one rational, profoundly elegant solution presented itself.
Silas pulled the phaeton into the narrow street directly in front of the pub. A calculated precision. He set a particularly raucous brass-band lament on the coach's concealed aether-gramophone, then decisively smashed the accelerator.
Pedestrians screamed in genuine terror, some leaping out of the way as the heavy, iron-bound coach cleaved through the Coiled Serpent’s facade. Reinforced specifically for such ‘unforeseen circumstances’ across countless past lives, the phaeton demolished the wall, striking the assassin from behind before he could even register the attack. The collision propelled the hostile Aether-Blooded across the room, slamming him against the counter like a brittle doll.
Silas briefly scanned the wreckage. A careful angling of the impact had ensured no innocent patrons lay in the path of destruction; only the assassin. The young street mage and his companion, now clutching each other in stunned terror, were mercifully unharmed. Good. Another reload would have been an intolerable nuisance.
“Greetings, citizens! I am Silas Blackwood!” he announced, stepping from the wreckage, adjusting his cuffs with an air of detached civility. “My presence is… necessary. No need for alarm.”
“I’m calling the City Watch!” Mordecai shouted, peeking over the counter, his voice trembling.
“No need, proprietor. This will conclude swiftly,” Silas replied, unconcerned, opening the phaeton’s rear compartment. His gaze swept over his array of specialized tools, searching for the most fitting instrument for this particular task.
The galvanic gauntlets? Too intimate, too personal.
The arcane repeater? Too quick, too decisive.
The alchemical flamer? Tempting, but overly theatrical.
His polished, iron-shod walking stick. Just right.
Silas whistled a tuneless melody, to the raucous brass band’s accompaniment, the weighty stick twirling with practiced ease. He approached the assassin, who was now stirring, pushing himself back to his feet, using the shattered counter for support. Any lesser being would have been utterly annihilated, but the Aether-Blooded possessed unnatural resilience.
“Who… what are you?” the undead Cryomancer hissed, rage contorting his featureless face. He attempted to manifest his armor of ice, as he had in the previous loop, but the shock of the impact rendered him too disoriented to focus. “A Watchman?!”
“Hardly. Merely a courier, ensuring proper delivery.” Silas paused, searching for a suitable retort. “Perhaps you’d care to provide your name, while you still possess a jaw with which to articulate it?”
The Cryomancer responded by raising a skeletal hand, unleashing a volley of razor-sharp ice shards.
Silas merely sighed, a profound, world-weary sound, and subtly initiated the temporal distortion. The world blurred, colors desaturated, and a profound silence descended. The icicles hung suspended in mid-air, crystalline spectres of a halted assault.
*Froze*, he mused. *An amusing irony, given the circumstances.* He would remember that for a later iteration.
“Yes, you had me at a disadvantage last time,” Silas murmured, stepping through the frozen barrage until he stood directly before his suspended target. Neither the stunned patrons nor the hostile Aether-Blooded could move, trapped between two fractions of a second. “Not this time.”
Time snapped back. The world regained its vibrant, chaotic colors. The Cryomancer’s attack, now entirely misdirected, vanished into the shattered wall. The weighted, iron-shod tip of Silas’s walking stick connected intimately with the assassin’s jaw. A sickening crack. The Aether-Blooded lost several teeth as his jawbone fractured, an exquisite agony. Undoubtedly his first such experience.
The force of the blow tossed the killer onto his knees. Another precise strike introduced his grotesque visage to the grimy tavern floor, to the continued strains of the aether-gramophone’s lament. Silas continued his methodical assault, a dull, familiar rhythm to the violence. Between the shock of being struck by a full-sized coach and the subsequent blow to the head, the Cryomancer couldn’t mount a proper resistance. A faint, cerulean ichor, he noted, seeped from beneath the assassin's vestigial flesh and bones.
“I feel akin to a seasoned surgeon, excising a stubborn malignancy,” Silas murmured, shaking his head with a theatrical sigh of disgust before striking again. “Look at the lengths to which your incompetence forces me.”
The frozen fossil could offer no coherent excuse, only gurgling sounds of pain. Silas continued his precise, brutal assault. The quest for perfection, after all, demanded a thorough refinement of all variables.
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