Jack walked through the early morning city fog towards Royal Library Square. The air was still, tinged with the faint ozone-like scent of spent aether-steam. It would clear soon after sunrise. Despite the hour, the city was already active, merchants and vendors setting up stalls for the Saturday crowds. Carts and wagons rolled by, delivering goods to various businesses across Lundun.

  A sleek brass delivery drone, modelled after scarab beetles but about the size of a cat, buzzed over Jack’s head on its way to deliver whatever goods it held within. Powered by rechargeable aether capsules, no larger than a walnut, the larger drones were capable of transporting lightweight parcels across vast distances. The drone bore the gilded crest of the Merciar Royal Courier Service and was guided by precision tracking runes embedded in its bronze shell.

  As he neared The Square, Jack noticed a boy a little older than Zia, huddled in a shop doorway. Wrapped in a blanket, the child shivered while trying to stay warm. She was probably like that a few days ago. He paused and dug into his coin pouch. “Get yourself something to eat,” he said, flipping a silver coin the boy’s way.

  The boy’s eyes widened at the spinning coin. He dropped the tatty blanket, snatched the coin midair, and clutched it to his chest. “Th-thank you, sir.” The boy glanced up and down the cobbled street in case anyone had seen.

  Jack walked on. A couple of streets before his destination, he stopped outside an unassuming building. There were dozens of these locations scattered throughout the city; they were places owned by the Inquisition where Lundun citizens could approach them.

  He paused, glanced up and down the street, before retrieving the envelope from his jacket. He pushed the envelope through the letterbox and gave a wry smile. I hope you all fucking hang you murdering bastards.

  ***

  Minutes later, he arrived at The Square. He paused to take it all in. The handful of vendors allowed on the plaza were setting up their stalls. Arman was already there, firepit glowing, a spit-roast lamb sizzling away. In the cool air, the rising steam from the meat looked like the breath of an ancient serpent.

  It was half past five, and The Square was filling with wagons and horses in preparation for the hunt. Jack hadn’t seen any nobles yet, only the commoners tasked with organising and supporting the event. At seven, the procession would leave Lundun and travel to a private forest, where the nobles and other riders would mount their horses and begin the hunt.

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  He made his way to Arman’s stall and joined the short queue. The least he could do was enjoy one of Arman’s delicious wraps before enduring a day in the company of nobility.

  Arman greeted each customer like they were an old friend. When Jack stepped forward, the vendor chuckled. “Jack, joining the hunt, no?” the old man asked.

  Jack laughed. “Baron Greaves invited me, so…” he lowered his voice, “not much choice.”

  The old man gave a nod. “Be careful with the young one, yes,” Arman warned.

  Jack nodded. “Dad warned me,” he whispered back.

  “Hmm… what will it be?” Arman asked, grabbing a soft flatbread. “One wrap? Or are we planning to feed all the orphans again, yes?”

  “Just one, thanks,” he chuckled. “The last one I fed moved in!”

  Arman’s eyes widened. “The little, shy, helpful one? Yes?”

  Jack nodded. “Zia. When Mom saw her…” He trailed off, shrugging. “She sort of just stayed.”

  The old man roared with laughter. “Young Jack, your mother is an angel, yes. Such a kind woman. Your father is a blessed man, yes.”

  “Yes,” Jack agreed.

  A customer behind them cleared his throat; subtle but pointed.

  “Yes, yes, yes…” Arman sang. “Too much work for one old man, and my help is late again.” He handed Jack the wrap and accepted his coin.

  “Thanks, Arman,” Jack said, glancing at the meeting point a dozen metres away. A few steps on, he spotted the man overseeing the registration.

  The hunt secretary was a narrow-shouldered, older fellow with an angular face, trimmed white beard, and small, round spectacles perched on the bridge of his nose. He wore a long brown coat trimmed with bronze. He held a brass information tablet, its surface humming with runic script.

  As Jack approached, the man didn’t look up. “Name and class?”

  “Jack… App-Novice Scribe,” he replied. “Novice Scribe.”

  The older man finally glanced over his spectacles, activated a few runes on the tablet, and gave a single nod. “Jack. Novice Scribe. Son of William, one of the Library’s Expert Scribes. Starting work at the Library on Monday. Congratulations, boy.”

  “Thanks… that’s me,” Jack confirmed. “I’m looking forward to working in the Ancient Texts Department.” Despite everything that had happened in his past life, he meant it. He was looking forward to being a scribe again.

  The secretary made another note. “Hmm… looks like you’ll be with Baron Greaves’ group.” He gave Jack a measured glance. “You must be special to be granted such a privilege.”

  Jack frowned and shook his head. “There must be a mistake. I assumed I’d be with the younger riders.”

  At sixteen, he’d be expected to ride and hunt with the other youths. The older nobles wouldn’t want to be bothered by a teenage commoner.

  The older man double-checked. “No. No mistake. Personally invited by the Baron. It’s been made clear you are to be in his group.”

  Jack didn’t know what to say. He nodded with his mouth open. This made no sense. Being invited at all was an honour—one he didn’t want—but to be assigned to the Baron’s personal group was an extraordinary privilege. A dangerous one; nobles could make or break a person.

  With no other option, he found a public bench, sat down, and ate his wrap from Arman while waiting for the nobles to arrive. Why has he invited me to his group?