The dawn light in Altaran was always a lie—pale and sickly, filtered through ash-laden clouds that never quite lifted. I woke on the floorboards of my loft, the amber glass tipped over by my side, its last drop of spiced fire glinting like a dying star. My head throbbed with the echo of another mind's scream—my own voice, trapped and pleading—and I knew sleep would be impossible until I unraveled what I'd just done.
Memory rubs up against memory, I thought as I rose, pressing my palm to the side of my skull. It's all static in here.
I dressed quickly, layering dark leathers and draping my cloak to hide the newest scratch along my jaw. The wound was minor—a courtesy graze from my own scalpels—but meant enough to remind me that even I was fallible.
Below, the canal waters were choked with slick oil and drifting refuse. Gondolas pushed off from crooked docks, ferrymen humming dirges written in the low, guttural cadences of the docks. I held tight to my satchel, feeling the faint weight of emptiness where the stabilizers once lay.
My first stop was the Mnemonic Exchange—a subterranean bazaar of forbidden tech. Ion-lit signs winked above narrow corridors: Swap a dream for a secret, Erase regret, priced per tear, Memory brokers on call. Here, information flowed like blood, and the Blackwell Consortium financed it all.
I navigated to a silent stall guarded by two women whose eyes glowed faintly green—cybernetic iris enhancements, no doubt. One offered me a curt nod; she knew me, or at least my reputation.
"Rook," she whispered, voice like metal sliding over stone. "They've moved the ledger."
My heart sank. The ledger—a ledger I needed. It tracked every client, every token, every memory forger's footprint. Without it, I was blind.
"Where?" I asked.
"Northwing archives. Vault three." She vanished into the tunnel's half-light before I could ask more.
A chill ran down my spine. The Northwing was the heart of mnemonic regulation—a fortress of steel and wards. Even Blackwell's gold wouldn't buy me easy passage. Yet if I wanted answers about the man who saw me in chains, I had no choice.
I slipped through back alleys to the Cat's Eye Gate, the official entry to Northwing Heights. Dim lanterns hovered over carved obsidian pillars, their surfaces etched with ancient runes meant to ward memory thieves. I slid a forged consular pass across the guard's desk—a shimmering holo-plate coded with a magistrate's seal. The guard scanned it, his eye glinting with suspicion.
"Business?"
"Routine audit of neural ports," I said, voice clipped. "Under Consortium directive."
He hesitated. Triumph glimmered in his gaze—he smelled a rat. But duty outweighed curiosity. He waved me through.
Inside, arches soared into vaulted ceilings, and corridors branched like veins. I followed the pale glow of route markers toward Vault Three, muscles coiled and senses alert. Every step felt borrowed, every breath a risk.
At the vault door, a pair of rune-etched locks snarled their defenses. I unpacked a slender toolkit: mnemonic pick, cortex decoupler, vitae-infused lubricant. The runes shimmered as I worked, but each click brought a hollow thrill—I was cracking the Consortium's secrets open.
Then—a hiss. The corridor lights dimmed. Alarms screamed in my head.
Security protocol.
Steel shutters slammed across the arches. Footsteps thundered. I sealed the second lock and spun, drawing my scalpels in one fluid motion.
A half-dozen enforcers spilled from the shadows, riot staves crackling with arcane shock. Their captain—a tall woman with plated gauntlets—stepped forward.
"You're not with Blackwell," she said. "Rook the memory thief."
I feigned a shrug. "Audit went sideways."
She raised her staff. "Drop the tools."
I glanced at the vault door—behind me rested the ledger I needed. My pulse hammered: fight meant capture, flight meant leaving my only clue behind.
I lunged. A sharp blue arc of energy snapped from her staff, grazing my shoulder. I tumbled into the vault, flinging the door shut. Locks sealed with a thrum of power.
Inside: towering shelves of data-crates, each humming with stolen thoughts. I sprinted to the ledger's slot—an unmarked holo-crate glowing faintly copper. My fingers grazed its casing as the door's reinforced steel readied to lock.
I yanked it free, shoved it into my satchel, and triggered the release on the vault door. It crashed open.
Enforcers surged in. I darted into the corridor—shoving one aside as I leapt to the side exit, igniting a flashbang from my belt. White light exploded. I vanished into the back passages.
Panting in the smog-choked night, I stashed the ledger under a trapdoor in an abandoned mill. Blood throbbed in my jaw; my robes bore scorch marks. Yet inside my satchel, the holo-crate pulsed with promise.
By the time I returned to my loft, evening lights glinted on the canal once more. I poured fresh amber in a chipped glass and powered up the holo-crate. Inside, lines of code wove a tapestry of names, dates, and sigils: every Blackwell client since the memory port's invention. More importantly, the last entry—client ⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯—linked to a cell deep in the Consortium's own stronghold.
A name flickered: Marwen Solis.
I exhaled. Sun's blood, I murmured. The very extract I use to stabilize memories.
Something in me tightened. If Marwen Solis sought my erasure… then perhaps he'd laid the trap that shattered my own past.
I tucked the crate away and stared at my reflection in the darkened window. The man who stared back was a stranger—scarred, hunted, and more alone than ever.
I am Rook, I thought, but some memories deserve to be found.
A soft knock echoed at the door. My hand hovered over my scalpels. Outside, a low voice spoke:
"Varin. It's time."
And so the chase began.