I wiped my hands on a rag, the sharp scent of thyme and charred resin still clinging to my fingers. The village of Fallowsridge was quiet this time of year, winter settling in like an old friend, blanketing everything in a stillness that made every sound sharper. Inside my alchemist shop, the warmth from the hearth did little to shake the chill from my bones.

  I had just finished grinding a batch of feverfew for Nessa Holloway when the bell above the door jingled. A gust of cold air rushed in, carrying the scent of frost and woodsmoke. I turned, expecting another customer in need of a tonic or poultice, but instead, I found myself staring at a familiar figure.

  Malcolm. My son, fresh back from Mechanist’s College in Ironhaven.

  He stood in the doorway, stamping snow off his boots, his wool coat dusted with white. His hair was longer than when he’d left, and there was a new confidence in the way he carried himself. It struck me, all at once, how much he had changed.

  “You going to just stand there gawking, or are you going to welcome me home?” he teased, a grin splitting his face.

  I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding and crossed the room in three strides, pulling him into a firm embrace. “Malcolm, damn it, you should have sent word. I’d have met you at the crossroads.”

  He clapped me on the back. “Wanted it to be a surprise.”

  I pulled away, giving him a once-over. “You look well. Thinner, maybe. Are they feeding you enough in that fancy college?”

  He laughed. “Better than I ever ate here.”

  I snorted. “Ungrateful brat.”

  Malcolm stepped further inside, rubbing his hands together against the cold. His gaze drifted around the shop, taking in the shelves lined with glass jars, bundles of dried herbs hanging from the rafters, the mortar and pestle resting where I’d left them. Everything just as he remembered it. And yet, there was something in his eyes, a quiet sort of assessment, as if he were seeing it all through a different lens now.

  “They’re building a train station in Blackpond,” he said suddenly, his voice filled with the kind of excitement only youth can muster. “Real steam engines, running on iron rails. It’ll connect the whole region, Father. Fallowsridge could be next.”

  I wiped my hands again, leaning against the counter. “I imagine it’ll put a lot of carriage drivers and stablehands out of work.”

  He rolled his eyes. “That’s not the point, Father. It’ll change everything.”

  I exhaled, watching the boy I had raised, a boy who once ran through these very streets with muddy boots and scraped knees now standing before me, a grown man, speaking of a world that was moving past men like me.

  He walked over to the hearth, rubbing his hands over the fire, and I caught a glimpse of the callouses on his fingertips. Not the kind you got from splitting logs or grinding herbs.

  “You’ve been working with your hands,” I noted.

  “Ironwork,” he confirmed. “Gears, pistons, pressure valves, real intricate stuff.”

  I nodded, thinking of all the nights I’d spent hunched over my own workbench, crushing dried leaves into powders, distilling elixirs down to their most potent forms.

  “I brought something for you,” Malcolm said suddenly, reaching into his satchel. He pulled out a small brass contraption. He placed it on the counter and tapped the side. With a soft click, arms unfolded, spinning slowly before locking into place a miniature automaton. I stared at it, then at him. “And what, exactly, am I meant to do with this?”

  He laughed. “It’s a self-stirring pestle. For mixing without needing to hover over it. Thought it might be useful.”

  I raised a brow. “And you think this little thing can do a better job than me?”

  Malcolm leaned against the counter, arms crossed. “No. But it might save you a few sore wrists. Besides, isn’t that what progress is? Finding ways to make life easier?”

  I picked up the automaton, turning it over in my hands. The craftsmanship was impressive. Precise. He had learned well.

  I set the device down carefully, watching the tiny arms lock into place again. “Clever,” I admitted, running my fingers over the brass. “Does it actually work?”

  Malcolm grinned. “Of course it does. Try it.”

  I reached for the nearest bowl, dropping in a handful of dried roots. With a quick twist of the top gear, the arms began to move, grinding in slow, even circles. I leaned in, listening to the tiny clicks of its inner workings. Damn thing was smoother than I’d expected.

  Malcolm crossed his arms, clearly pleased with himself. “Told you.”

  I scoffed, shaking my head. “And here I thought sending you off to school was a waste of good coin.”

  He chuckled, clearly not bothered by the jab. “I told you I’d make it worth it.”

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  I leaned against the counter, still watching the automaton work its tiny, precise motions. “You’ve certainly learned a thing or two.”

  He gave a casual shrug. “It’s nothing. Just a bit of tinkering.” His eyes flickered around the shop again, and I could see that quiet assessment creeping back. “But it’s not just about tinkering anymore, is it?”

  I raised an eyebrow. “What do you mean?”

  He scratched the back of his neck, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. “I’ve been thinking about the future. About what you’ve taught me… about how things work around here. And how things could work.”

  The pause hung in the air, thick with something unsaid.

  “You mean with the shop?” I asked, though I had a sinking feeling about where this conversation was headed.

  Malcolm took a deep breath, pushing off from the hearth and walking over to the counter where the pestle continued its steady work. “Not just the shop. I was thinking about the bigger picture.” He turned to face me, his eyes suddenly intense.

  I had always known my son had the fire of ambition in him, but this was different. He wasn’t the boy who’d run through the streets playing at building machines. This was a man who had been shaped by a world beyond these walls.

  He gestured vaguely toward the horizon, as though the world beyond the mountains was already calling to him. I turned toward the window, staring out at the heavy snow blanketing the streets.

  “You’re not a boy anymore, Malcolm,” I said quietly. “You’ve got your own life now. I can’t keep you here forever. And I wouldn’t want to.”

  His shoulders relaxed slightly, and he gave me a small smile. “I don’t want to go just yet, though. There’s still time, To learn a bit more. To help around here.”

  I paused, considering the idea of him leaving, the idea of him choosing a path that didn’t involve my shop, didn’t involve this life I’d built. It stung more than I cared to admit. But the boy I’d raised wasn’t meant to stay here forever. He was meant to do more.

  “You can stay as long as you like,” I finally said, feeling a bit of weight lift from my chest. “But when you’re ready to go, you go. You’ll always have a place here.”

  I let his words hang in the air between us, but before I could respond, the doorbell jangled again, a sharp, almost unnerving sound. The door opened slowly, cutting through the silence.

  A woman stepped inside. The way she moved was deliberate, almost too calm for a place like this. She wore a dark, heavy cloak that covered most of her frame, and a hood was pulled low over her face. I couldn’t see her eyes, but something about the way she stood made the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. She didn’t speak, just reached into the folds of her cloak and pulled out a coin.

  It was an unusual copper piece, but the way she placed it on the counter with such precision felt like an unspoken demand.

  Something in the way she moved, in the precise placement of the copper piece, made every instinct I’d honed in my years of service click into place. This wasn’t a customer. This was a message.

  I leaned in slowly, my fingers brushing the coin, testing its cold surface. My mind raced. I hadn’t seen my handler in over a decade, not since I’d left the service for good. But this… this was a message from them. There was no other explanation. The coin, the woman, the deliberate silence. It all pointed to one thing.

  I glanced up at Malcolm, my voice low, steady. “Why don’t you go unpack your bags, it’s almost suppertime. We can get drinks down at the Brittle Beast. Morgan has been working there most nights.”

  Malcolm hesitated at my request, his brow furrowing as he looked from the woman to me, then back at the door, clearly sensing the shift in the atmosphere. But I didn’t have time to explain. Not now. He nodded, his eyes still narrowed in confusion, before slipping quietly past her and toward the back rooms.

  The woman’s silence lingered, almost oppressive. I locked the front door and then turned toward her, keeping my voice low. “Come with me.”

  She didn’t respond, her head tilted slightly to one side, her eyes still hidden in shadow beneath her hood. Her every movement was fluid, unnerving, as though she were more like a shadow than a person. I motioned for her to follow me into the back, where I kept my workbench and most of the tools I’d collected over the years. The dim light from the low-hanging lantern flickered as I closed the door with a heavy thud, sealing us inside.

  I watched her carefully as she took her place at the center of the room, standing stiff, like a statue. Her cloak settled around her like liquid darkness, and I could see now that her fingers, pale and long, gripped something inside her cloak. A tiny, silver amulet an old one. Familiar. One I had seen many times before.

  Her head tilted even further back, and I knew what was coming. The trance. Her lips moved, but no words came out. The air seemed to grow colder, thicker. And then, her eyes slowly turned white. Completely, unnervingly white. No pupils. No iris. Just white.

  I stepped back, feeling the weight of this strange ritual press down on me. My pulse quickened, but I held my ground. I’d been through this before, in different ways, different people. The room seemed to vibrate with energy, and then she spoke, in a voice that was unmistakably not hers.

  I didn’t have to ask who it was. The cold, calculating tone, like a voice carved from stone. It was him. My handler. The one who had set me on this path all those years ago.

  “You have not forgotten us, have you?”

  I swallowed, the dry lump in my throat sticking as I tried to speak. The past, the missions, the training, all of it swirled back in an instant. I had left all that behind. Left it in the dust, thinking I was done. But there was no such thing as done, with them.

  “I remember,” I said, my voice coming out gruff but steady. “What do you want?”

  The woman’s body remained still, but I could feel the room trembling with the force of the handlers will. The silence was unnerving, oppressive.

  The woman’s lips parted once more, and the voice that emerged was colder than the winter night. It was sharp, deliberate, like the edge of a blade.

  “You will gather the unit,” the voice commanded. “The time has come. Those stuffy bastards in the east have stirred the flames of war, and dragons have been unleashed. Refugees will soon be arriving, and you must be ready.”

  I felt a cold knot tighten in my chest. I thought I was out. But I should’ve known better. Once you’re in this world, there’s no such thing as leaving.

  I kept my voice steady, despite the flood of memories rushing back. “What’s our objective?”

  The woman’s head tilted further back, her eyes still white and unnervingly blank. “Report on the enemy. Observe their movements. Gather intelligence. Do not engage unless absolutely necessary. The situation is precarious, and the coming war is only the beginning. You are to remain undetected.”

  I swallowed again, trying to ignore the fear creeping up my spine. My mind raced with thoughts of the old unit. We were an elite group. Trained to do what others couldn’t, to slip under the radar, to get the job done without anyone ever knowing we were there.

  “I understand,” I said, keeping my voice even.

  “The Messenger will remain to assist you. She is one of my newest recruits, but our bond is strong and she has proven to be capable. She is part of your team now. Keep her close, and do not fail me.”

  The woman in front of me took a step back, breaking the connection between her and the voice. As she did, the white in her eyes slowly faded back to normal, and she lowered her head, returning to her natural state. Her movements uneasy, like a marionette being cut loose from its strings.