The morning mist clung to the cobblestones like a reluctant ghost, swirling around Ash's worn boots as he navigated the narrow alleyways of Lower Valen. The imperial district rose before him in terraced splendour, its white stone buildings catching the first rays of sunlight that managed to pierce through the perpetual haze. Somewhere up there, behind gilded windows and manicured gardens, lived the people who made his living possible.
Ash adjusted the leather strap of his camera case, feeling the familiar weight of expensive glass and precision mechanisms against his hip. The irony wasn't lost on him—he carried more wealth in stolen moments than most commoners saw in a year, yet his pockets rarely held more than a few copper coins.
"Another day, another scandal," he muttered, checking his pocket watch. The brass timepiece had been a gift from Mr. Corwin, his handler at The Daily Whisper. Not out of kindness, of course, but necessity. In this business, timing was everything.
The mana-powered streetcar rumbled past, its blue-tinged exhaust mixing with the morning fog. A few early commuters pressed their faces against the windows, already absorbed in the morning edition of the city's various gossip rags. Ash wondered how many of them had seen his work without knowing it—photographs of Lady Whitmore's midnight garden parties, or Lord Ashford's frequent visits to the theater district's less reputable establishments.
He turned into Brass Wheel Alley, where the buildings pressed so close together that their upper floors nearly touched. Perfect for his purposes. The Imperial Housing Registry listed this particular stretch as "low-priority residential," which was bureaucratic speak for "we don't care what happens here as long as taxes get paid."
Ash began his ascent, fingers finding familiar grooves in the weathered brick. The buildings in this part of the city had been constructed during the reign of Emperor Valdric the Second, back when mana-reinforced mortar was still experimental. Time and weather had worn the surfaces just enough to provide handholds for someone willing to risk the climb.
Three stories up, he paused on a narrow ledge, breathing hard. His twelve-year-old body was lean from years of irregular meals, but the orphanage's mandatory physical training had left him with surprising strength and agility. The imperial education system might only extend through primary levels for commoners, but it was thorough within those limits.
"Physical fitness serves the Empire," he recited under his breath, mimicking Master Dorian's stern voice from his orphanage days. "A healthy citizen is a productive citizen."
The ledge overlooked Merchant's Square, where the middle-class resided in their neat rows of terraced houses. Not quite noble, not quite common—the people who aspired to scandal rather than created it. But Ash's target lay beyond them, in the elevated district where the real money lived.
He continued climbing, using a combination of architectural features and the occasional mana-powered lamp post. The city's infrastructure made for an excellent network of handholds, though he'd learned the hard way that some of the newer installations were warded against unauthorized contact.
Twenty minutes later, he crouched behind a decorative gargoyle on the roof of the Merchant's Guild building. From here, he had a clear view of the Blackthorne estate's private gardens. According to yesterday's intelligence from the Whisper's network of informants, Lady Elara Blackthorne was expecting a visitor today—someone she wasn't supposed to be meeting.
Ash unpacked his camera with practised efficiency. The device was a marvel of imperial engineering—a fusion of traditional optics and mana-enhanced focusing crystals that could capture images with startling clarity from remarkable distances. The leather case bore the maker's mark of Thornfield & Associates, easily worth more than most families earned in six months.
Through the viewfinder, the Blackthorne gardens revealed their secrets. Manicured hedges formed intricate patterns around a central fountain, where water danced in defiance of gravity thanks to embedded mana stones. Lady Blackthorne herself emerged from the conservatory, resplendent in a morning dress of deep emerald silk that probably cost more than Ash's yearly wage.
She was beautiful, he had to admit. Not in the artificial way of the portrait paintings that adorned the city's galleries, but with a natural grace that made her seem to float rather than walk. Her dark hair was arranged in the current fashion—elaborate but not ostentatious, befitting someone who wielded influence through subtlety rather than display.
But beauty didn't pay for bread, and Ash had learned long ago that sentiment was a luxury he couldn't afford.
Lady Blackthorne checked a delicate timepiece pinned to her dress, then glanced toward the garden's rear entrance. Ash adjusted his focus, waiting. The informant had been reliable before—a maid with gambling debts and flexible loyalties who worked in the Blackthorne household.
Ten minutes passed. Then, as if summoned by clockwork, a figure appeared at the garden gate. Ash's breath caught as he recognised the man's distinctive profile. Marcus Thorne, heir to the Thorne shipping fortune and, more importantly, recently betrothed to someone who wasn't Lady Blackthorne.
"There we go," Ash whispered, pressing the camera's activation rune. The device hummed softly as mana flowed through its focusing crystals.
Through the lens, he watched the reunion unfold. Lady Blackthorne's face lit up with an expression that no amount of noble training could fake. Marcus Thorne swept her into an embrace that spoke of familiarity, of secret moments shared away from the eyes of society.
Click. The camera captured their first embrace.
They walked together toward the fountain, hands intertwined, heads bent close in intimate conversation. Lady Blackthorne gestured toward the conservatory with an obvious invitation. Marcus nodded, his hand moving to the small of her back in a gesture that was decidedly not appropriate for casual acquaintances.
Click—another image preserved in crystal and silver.
Ash continued documenting their meeting, his professional detachment warring with an uncomfortable pang of something he couldn't quite name. These people lived in a world where love was a luxury that could be indulged or discarded according to political necessity, where marriages were business arrangements, and true affection was confined to stolen moments in secret gardens.
His parents had been commoners—he'd learned that much from the orphanage records. They'd married for love, presumably, and died together in the plague outbreak of his infancy. No political ramifications, no social scandal. Just two ordinary people who'd loved each other and their son enough to ensure he'd be cared for if something happened to them.
The thought made his hands shake slightly, forcing him to focus on the viewfinder. Emotion was another luxury he couldn't afford.
Lady Blackthorne and Marcus Thorne had moved closer to the conservatory, their conversation becoming more animated. Through his enhanced lens, Ash could see the tears on Lady Blackthorne's cheeks, the way Marcus's jaw tightened as he spoke. This wasn't just a casual affair—this was a goodbye.
He'd seen enough farewells in his short life to recognise the signs.
Click. The moment of separation, hands reluctantly releasing.
Click. Marcus's anguished backwards glance as he walked away.
Click. Lady Blackthorne, alone by the fountain, her perfect composure finally cracking.
That last image would sell well. The readers of The Daily Whisper loved nothing more than seeing the noble facade stripped away, revealing the human pain beneath. They'd consume this woman's private grief like expensive wine, savoring every detail of her fall from grace.
Ash lowered the camera, suddenly feeling older than his twelve years. In a few hours, these photographs would be on Mr. Corwin's desk. By tomorrow morning, they'd be reproduced in the thousands, distributed across the empire's network of gossip publications. Lady Blackthorne's secret would become public entertainment.
And Ash would have enough silver to eat well for a month.
He began packing his equipment, movements efficient despite the weight of his thoughts. This was the job. This was survival. The imperial educational system had taught him to read and write, to calculate sums and understand basic history, but it hadn't taught him how to make a living afterward. The scholarship fund might cover emergency medical care or legal representation, but it wouldn't pay for advanced schooling or trade apprenticeships.
The Mercenary Guild offered alternatives—honest work for those willing to take risks. Security contracts, courier services, and investigation assistance. The guild masters didn't ask too many questions about methods, only results.
And the results were what Ash delivered.
He made his way back across the rooftops, taking a different route to avoid establishing patterns. The city spread below him like a vast map of opportunity and desperation. The imperial districts gleamed in the afternoon sun, their mana-enhanced architecture defying conventional physics. The common quarters sprawled in organised chaos, connected by the blue-lit trails of the public transport system.
Somewhere down there, in the offices of The Daily Whisper, Mr. Corwin was probably reviewing yesterday's take with his usual calculating smile. The man had been born common but'd climbed high through a combination of ruthless ambition and careful cultivation of useful connections. He understood that information was the one commodity that could make a commoner wealthy.
"Information is power, boy," he'd told Ash during their first meeting. "And power is what separates those who eat from those who starve."
Ash had been ten then, desperate enough to take any job that didn't involve actual stealing. The camera work had seemed like a reasonable compromise—he wasn't taking anything that belonged to his targets, just capturing moments they'd rather keep private.
Two years later, he still wasn't sure if that distinction mattered.
The descent to street level was easier than the climb, gravity working in his favour. He dropped into Copper Lane, where the afternoon shadows provided convenient cover, and made his way toward the business district. The Daily Whisper's offices occupied the third floor of a narrow building wedged between a clockmaker's shop and a mana-cell dealer.
The receptionist, a thin woman named Mrs. Hartwell, barely glanced up as he entered. She'd seen him often enough to know his business, and her discretion was part of what made The Whisper successful.
"Mr. Corwin is expecting you," she said, not looking up from her ledger. "Third door on the left."
Ash knocked and entered without waiting for permission. Marcus Corwin sat behind his desk like a spider in the centre of its web, surrounded by stacks of photographs, correspondence, and proof sheets for the next day's edition. He was a compact man with prematurely gray hair and eyes that seemed to calculate the commercial value of everything they saw.
"Ash," he said, not looking up from the proofs he was reviewing. "Tell me you have something worthwhile. Yesterday's take from the Whitmore soirée was disappointing."
Ash placed his camera case on the desk and began removing the exposed image crystals. Each one represented hours of careful surveillance, personal risk, and professional skill. "Lady Blackthorne and Marcus Thorne. Private meeting in her garden. Intimate contact. Obvious emotional distress."
That got Corwin's attention. He looked up, his merchant's instincts engaged. "Thorne? The shipping heir? Isn't he supposed to marry the Ashford girl next month?"
"Next month," Ash confirmed. "Which makes today's meeting rather... newsworthy."
Corwin smiled, revealing teeth stained by years of cheap coffee and expensive cigars. "Indeed, it does. Let's see what you've captured."
He activated the crystal reader, a device that projected the stored images onto a treated screen mounted on the wall. The garden scene materialised in perfect detail, every nuance of expression preserved in crystalline clarity.
"Excellent work," Corwin murmured, studying each image with professional appreciation. "The emotional content is particularly good. Our readers do love their heartbreak." He paused at the final image—Lady Blackthorne alone by the fountain. "This one's perfect. 'The Cost of Forbidden Love' or something similar. We'll run it as the front-page feature."
He turned back to Ash, already calculating profits. "Standard rate plus a bonus for the exclusivity. Fifteen silver, total."
Fifteen silver was more than many adults earned in a week, but Ash had learned not to show excitement. Enthusiasm was a weakness that could be exploited. "The Thorne family won't be happy when this runs."
"The Thorne family doesn't buy newspapers," Corwin replied with a shrug. "Our readers do. And our readers want to believe that the nobility suffer the same romantic disappointments as everyone else."
He counted out the coins with practised efficiency, sliding them across the desk in a small leather pouch. "Same arrangement as always. You weren't here, we never spoke, and you know nothing about how we acquired these images."
Ash pocketed the silver, feeling its familiar weight. Enough for good meals, better lodging, maybe even a few books from the second-hand stalls near the university district. The imperial library was free to all citizens, but it didn't circulate the kind of practical manuals he needed to expand his skills.
"Any leads on tomorrow's work?" he asked.
Corwin consulted a leather-bound notebook filled with his spidery handwriting. "The Merchant's Association is hosting their annual gala tomorrow evening. Invitation-only, very exclusive. There are rumours about certain members' financial irregularities that might be worth investigating."
"Security will be tight."
"Which is why I need someone small, quick, and invisible." Corwin's smile turned predatory. "The kind of person who can slip through crowds and climb to advantageous positions without being noticed."
Another job. Another day of turning other people's private moments into public entertainment. Ash nodded his acceptance, professional mask firmly in place. This was the life he'd chosen, or perhaps the life that had chosen him.
As he left the office, the late afternoon sun painted the city in shades of gold and amber. The mana-powered streetlights were beginning to flicker to life, their blue radiance mixing with the natural light to create an otherworldly atmosphere. Somewhere in the noble district, Lady Blackthorne was probably preparing for an evening of social obligations, unaware that her private grief would soon become tomorrow's headlines.
And somewhere else, Marcus Thorne was likely struggling with his conflicted loyalties, torn between duty and desire in a way that would resonate with readers across the empire.
Ash pulled his coat closer against the evening chill and walked toward the boarding house where he rented a small room by the week. Tomorrow would bring new assignments, new secrets to uncover, new lives to dissect for public consumption.
But tonight, he had fifteen silver in his pocket and the temporary illusion of security that money could provide.
In the distance, the imperial bells began to toll the evening hour, their mana-enhanced chimes carrying across the city like a reminder of the order that bound them all. Noble and commoner, young and old, hunter and prey—all of them dancing to the rhythm of an empire that promised justice but delivered survival to those clever enough to seize it.
Ash smiled grimly and quickened his pace. Tomorrow's scandal was waiting to be discovered.