Dorian left the Great Council Administrative Office with his contract confirmed and the travel advance received. The formalities were complete. The Council had him now. Officially.

  He tucked the paperwork into his coat and stepped back into Brassville’s Government District, all stone and glass. The building towered cold behind him.

  Haven Tavern came next.

  He slipped into a narrow side alley behind the Office. Warning posters advised citizens against employing unauthorised Mirrorwalkers. To Dorian’s surprise, Coyote’s face had not appeared on any of them.

  “Progress, then.”

  He scanned the alley for a mirror, a term Mirrorwalkers applied generously to anything that reflected well enough for crossing. Moving between worlds required blood. Haven did not.

  A square, ordinary mirror had been set into the wall, its surface plain and well-maintained. The Haven emblem marked the frame: a broken mirror split through the centre. Such mirrors existed only in Steamhollow and led to Haven, nowhere else.

  Dorian stepped closer, placed his hand against the surface, and focused. “Well, hello,” he murmured. The metal softened and accepted him. The transition was clean. It always was with Haven.

  He emerged into the long corridor. Mirrors lined both sides, their frames collected across centuries. One Walker arrived through a neighbouring mirror a moment after him; another departed through the glass at the far end of the corridor. Mirrorwalkers used them as doors between Haven and Steamhollow. Reliably.

  Dorian straightened his coat and walked towards the Central Hall.

  Haven was a Brotherhood place. If you were a Mirrorwalker, you were welcome. The Tavern did not care who employed you or which laws you bent, as long as you could obey the Keeper’s rules. If you could not, you were corrected. Permanently, if required.

  Haven lay between worlds, suspended in reflection rather than place. Nobody remembered when it had been built. The Keeper themselves were ancient.

  On the way to his usual table, Dorian registered raised voices. A few Walkers at the bar were arguing fiercely but still civilised. Drunk Walkers argued. He ignored them.

  Dorian sat. A moment later, a large man loomed over him. He leaned in close, filling Dorian’s space with the smell of cheap smoke and overcooked onions. “Corvell,” he whispered. “What a pleasant surprise.” Dorian looked up at him, expression mild. He did not return the greeting.

  “I have some special artefacts.”

  If this was meant as temptation, it had been misjudged. “Congratulations,” Dorian said. “Your friends will be delighted.”

  The man laughed loudly. “Those cunts can’t even appreciate their own balls.”

  “That is unfortunate,” Dorian replied. “I am broke.”

  He removed the man’s hands from the table with care. The man swung once, missed, and steadied himself with visible disappointment. He stared at Dorian, then withdrew. Dorian did not watch him go.

  A steady voice followed. “Some of the Walkers are far too enthusiastic about seeing you.” Mireal stood in front of him. Robust, copper-toned skin. Dark hair brushed with silver tied back in plain cloth. Her eyes were kind only when she allowed them to be. The faint scarlet beneath them marked her as immortal. A healer by trade. The Keeper’s Right Hand by fate.

  “You are thinner,” she said. “When did you eat last?”

  Dorian considered this. “Yesterday.”

  She waited.

  “Possibly the day before,” he amended.

  “That is not an answer,” she said. “You will eat.”

  “Yes, my lady.” He did not argue. He never had.

  She turned and moved away, the matter concluded. Dorian smiled faintly. Old rules still applied.

  He finished his meal just as the door to the Altar of Mirrors opened. The Keeper entered the hall. Tall, lean, ageless. Pale hair caught the light as they moved. Scarlet eyes reflected the room without participating in it. Their vampire origin was unmistakable. The hall adjusted, Mirrorwalkers stirred. One moved as if to approach, then stopped when the Keeper lifted a hand. No words were required.

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  They reached Dorian’s table and paused. They always paused.

  “Dorian,” they said. “You look alive. That is encouraging.”

  “Debatable, but acceptable.”

  “What brings you to us today,” the Keeper asked, “leisure or business?”

  “Leisure? Not with my luck.”

  The Keeper inclined their head once, “Business, then.”

  They passed through the curved glass doors and entered the Library.

  Ink and metal polish settled around Dorian immediately. Rare maps and scrolls lined the shelves. Someone had nearly died for each of them.

  Dorian placed the contract on the table. “They want me.”

  The Keeper opened it with care. “For real?” they said. “After your previous performance, this is unexpected.”

  “If they had a choice,” Dorian said, “they would avoid me.”

  “They did,” the Keeper replied. “To begin with.”

  Dorian smiled thinly. “I am now second on a very short list of people capable of retrieving their precious Drommala.”

  The Keeper nodded.

  “Ophelia is missing,” Dorian added. “That appears to have improved my standing.”

  “Ophelia is missing indeed. My sources in the Loteri Lands are confident the Drommala is already dead,” the Keeper said. “Do not treat this contract lightly.”

  “Ophelia never left for the Loteri Lands,” said Dorian. “Coyote still has her stuff, including her contract.”

  The Keeper looked at Dorian. “It sounds more complicated than I thought.” They paused, “Right. I told her what I’m going to tell you now.”

  “Any advice would be appreciated.”

  “Follow their ceremonial rules exactly,” the Keeper said. “Ask Mireal if you must. Born Loteri once, always Loteri. Their Elders will tolerate you. Trust is not guaranteed.”

  “I am very good at being tolerated.” Dorian’s mouth hinted at a smile. It did not reach his eyes.

  The Keeper placed a thin brass tablet on the table. A Great Council licence to unseal a permanently closed mirror and, more importantly, to seal it again. “Use it wisely.”

  “I will.”

  “Ophelia picked a few scrolls with River Loteri spells.” The Keeper added.

  “I will speak to Coyote. Maybe those scrolls are still in her stuff.”

  The Keeper nodded once. Then they unfolded a map.

  “This route leads to Veyr Sol,” the Keeper said, and tapped a mirror marked at the edge of the north-west of Steamhollow. The ring on their finger shimmered against the parchment. “Central Steppe settlement. You will meet the Circle of Elders there.”

  Dorian leaned in. He recognised most of the marked mirrors. Some of them he saw for the first time. The Keeper tapped along the rest of the route, making short remarks. “Stable. Unstable. Sealed. Do not return through this one. Fatal if rushed. Safe.” Dorian stored the information.

  “Do not be overconfident,” the Keeper said. “Keep your eyes open. Your mouth shut.”

  “I will try.”

  The Keeper sighed softly. They had known Dorian too long to believe that.

  “One more favour.” They produced a sealed document. “Retrieve a scroll from the Desert Mirrored Library. Present this to their Senior Archivist.”

  Dorian accepted it.

  “Return with the scroll,” the Keeper said. “Return alive.”

  “I will attempt to disappoint you as little as possible.” He inclined his head and left.

  Dorian was tackled immediately.

  R’Yussa, Haven’s resident guardian cat, launched himself from a pile of cushions with enthusiasm and limited coordination. White and red, violently fluffy, and tall enough to reach Dorian’s waist when standing, he landed poorly, recovered instantly, and charged. Dorian and R’Yussa went down wrapped in a ball of fur and snot. R’Yussa climbed onto his chest, purring loudly, breathing with profound satisfaction. If he decided to show affection, it was done without any consideration or consent.

  He licked Dorian’s face.

  “Yes,” Dorian said scratching R’Yussa behind his ears. “Later.” R’Yussa disagreed.

  Mireal observed the scene, enjoying Dorian’s discomfort. She decided he had enough and called the cat’s name. R’Yussa obeyed at once, moving to her side, purring. Dorian stood. They walked down the corridor together.

  “My clients are the Steppe Loteri,” he said. “I am going to Veyr Sol.”

  “They will test you,” Mireal said. “Accept what they offer. Food, drink, smoke. Whatever is placed in your hands. Speak truth or not at all. Repeat their words when they judge you. Do not be greedy. Share what is shared. Always.”

  “Reasonable enough.” He memorised it.

  She pressed a small wrapped bundle into his hand. “Healing balm. Especially for River magic wounds. River Loteri had ties to the Mother,” she added. “At least, we believe so.” She straightened. “And do not be a heroic idiot.”

  “I make no promises.”

  “I know.”

  She watched him leave and murmured softly, in the old River Loteri tongue, “Nal ven, sha’ri.”

  The mirror returned Dorian to the alley behind the Council Office. He messaged Coyote. The reply came quickly. Coyote was home. Dorian unpacked Lucky and headed towards the outskirts of Brassville. Smog reduced visibility to little more than guesswork. He continued on foot.

  Like any rough neighbourhood across the worlds, Rustwing Alley was not a place to draw attention.

  Dorian noticed a cornered figure. At first, he thought it was a woman, but as he moved closer, he recognised a performer, likely from one of the sketchier places nearby. The dress was torn. The wig slipping. Makeup smeared with soot and blood. One eye closed. One finger bent wrong. He had fought until he could not. The three drunk men circling him muttered about refusal and entitlement.

  Dorian approached quietly from behind. The first man turned. Dorian punched him in the throat. The second lunged. Dorian broke his arm. The third drew a knife. Dorian shattered his knee. Silence followed.

  Dorian draped his coat around the performer’s shoulders and guided him upright. At the cab, the performer finally stopped shivering and looked at Dorian gratefully, “I don’t know how to thank you. Maybe ...”

  Dorian stopped him with a look.

  “Government District Hospital,” Dorian told the driver, uploading double the fare. Travel advance was very handy.

  “Learn to fight,” Dorian turned to the performer. “Some defensive spells would help too.”

  Then he headed back into the alley.

  Coyote always did choose charming neighbourhoods.