Men of a certain age have a particular set of behaviors in common - a reaction to sudden lights and noises, an anxiety that manifests in quiet moments, bouts of anger and passion wholly unsuited for the situation in which they arise. It is impolite to admit that these are consequences of service on the continent, since such a statement might find that it has accidentally engaged in critique of The War itself - forbid such a notion!

So we have adapted, such as we may, to accommodate these peculiarities. Spectacles of fireworks have been viewed in poor taste for so long that I doubt our younger generations have ever seen a proper display. Constables take a soft hand with a man who lashes out from his cups, and there is a general tolerance for sudden withdrawals from conversation.

A more recent phenomenon, however, has been the proliferation of modern lighting across our streets, in our homes and workplaces, and indeed to every corner of most cities and towns. Some of the elderly have been heard to grumble about the brightness and the cost, which is not negligible. They are not wrong to note it, but I humbly submit that banishing the darkness is well worth the effort, in the same manner that we as a society endured the loss of fireworks to soothe the pain of their cohort.

We do not resolve to banish the night, as there is nothing fearful therein. We banish the dark. For those who have served on campaign against Smoke and his ilk, a cheery light is the least we may provide to remind them that such a terror will not grip them here.

- Gunther Vogt, editorial dated 18 Waning, 684.

The coach ride was rendered tortuously slow by the pace of Michael’s racing thoughts. Worse was the necessity of remaining outwardly calm - he could not indulge in fidgeting or tics, nothing that would show more nerves than Spark’s summons could justify. He felt sweaty, uncomfortable, sure that his father must be suspicious-

But, no. Karl looked over at him and snorted, his eyes seeing only what they always had. “Spark warrants caution, not fear,” he said. “Find your spine before we arrive. Your behavior reflects on me, and I’ll not have you fainting like some powdered dandy.”

A hot little bead of anger settled into Michael’s core. It was a tiny shift, to see his father’s words for the attacks they were rather than some species of care clad in masculine indifference. Tiny, but crucial. The words would have cowed him before, though, so he simply nodded and straightened up in his seat.

Karl gave him an evaluating look, then lapsed back into silence. Michael felt the drumbeat of his heart settle back into its regular rhythm, and the coach continued its ponderous journey towards the city center.

Michael was almost surprised to find that he had very little to say to his father. It was the last opportunity he might ever have to speak with him, but in the confines of the carriage he found himself shying away from conversation as though it might somehow harm him - which it might, considering how close he had come to showing anger just moments ago.

Just as he had resolved to endure in silence, however, Karl looked over once more. “This won’t be like dealing with Sibyl,” he said. “Spark is an insidious soul. Resolve not to speak unless spoken to, and hold to that resolve no matter what ideas might occur to you.” He looked out the window. “I will not be going into the room with him.”

Michael could not help but raise an eyebrow - there was a grave tone to Karl’s voice that he rarely heard. It occurred to him that there might yet be some use for the remaining time with his father, if he could wheedle some information about the man who so disrupted his life.

“What particular dangers should I be wary of?” he asked. “Are there preparations I might make?”

Karl laughed, not a kind noise. “Is there anything that you might do to contest one of the Eight directly?” he asked, a note of acid mockery in his voice. “One evening with Sibyl has done wonders for your confidence, boy.” He settled back in his seat and shook his head. “There is no defense against Spark. An augmens has dominion over what grows, an artifex may mold stone or metal at will. The base material cannot resist one who has been ensouled with mastery, and Spark’s mastery is of the heart. You are his base material.”

Peter’s face danced in Michael’s vision. Each time he saw it, those staring eyes looked a bit more like his own. “Surely there must be some contingency against him,” he protested.

“Of course,” Karl said. “That he is confined to his miserable island as much as possible, and that no Assemblymen or figures of importance are permitted to speak with him, nor he with them.”

“Only that? What if he decides that the arrangement is too restrictive for his taste?” Michael shifted in his seat. “What stops him from doing as he pleases?”

“What stops any man?” Karl asked. “Only that the cost would be too great. He benefits from Assembly patronage of his research, just as they benefit from its fruits.” He leveled a significant glance at Michael. “Just as we will benefit, if his insight is what can reveal the nature of your soul.”

“A very small benefit for that sort of risk,” Michael muttered, looking away out the window. The streets outside passed normally, with no hint that his to-be abductor lurked somewhere beyond. For a quiet, frantic moment Michael entertained the thought that there would be no intervention - that Vincent would not take him, leaving him to Spark’s whims.

A derisive noise from Karl interrupted his fretting. “It isn’t as though you have a choice. If one of the Eight wants to see you, they see you. Sibyl inserted herself into Institute procedure easily enough, and likely arranged for Spark’s visit as well - I would have done my damnedest to keep you from her clutches save for that, and she knows it. It was neatly played.”

Michael held his tongue. It was bizarre, hearing his father pontificate on intrigue when for once he was privy to secrets that Karl had no way of knowing. The confidence that oozed from his assertions lent a different aspect when Michael knew it was misplaced - and how often had he simply not known? Believed simply because it was his father?

A veil was tearing with each word his father spoke, and where it slipped he saw a different view of the looming thundercloud that had shadowed his life.

The air in the coach seemed to stiffen. Michael turned and saw an ugly look on Karl’s face. His heart beat faster - such an expression had always ended poorly for him in the past.

“Father?” he asked.

“I don’t like that look on your face, boy,” he said, his voice dangerously quiet. Michael stilled his expression, frantically pushing back whatever traces had so offended his father - habit, more than anything, since it was far too late to avoid the danger. Blades crowded the air around him, prickling his skin while he kept very, very still.

His father leaned across the space between them. “It’s the look you wear when you think you can keep something from me,” he said. “When you know you’ve done something wrong.”

Seconds seemed to stretch into hours as Michael stared back across the carriage, mind racing to think of some response that would lessen his father’s rising anger. He didn’t even need to endure the entire ride, only the few minutes until Vincent made his move-

Michael blinked. They were going to the Institute, inasmuch as his father knew, and it would raise questions if he showed up for his appointment with Spark covered in wounds or with his clothing ripped to tatters. An idea crossed his mind that he would have buried, before, thrust frantically into the dark corners of his mind so that no trace of it should ever show on his face.

Now he held it, turning it over carefully.

His father couldn’t hurt him. The glowering look and threatening words were all he could bring to bear before their appointment, and one way or another there would be no after for the two of them. An odd, hollow ache seemed to thud into place at the center of Michael’s being as he realized it.

Karl’s lip curled, watching him. Whatever look had bled onto his face, his father liked it even less than before.

“You think you’re a man now, is that it?” he said. His voice had gone velvety, chill and calm with no trace of the anger dancing in his eyes. “I suppose it was only to be expected, now that you’ve got your soul. Don’t think that Sibyl’s favor gives you license-”

The coach plunged into darkness. The air grew instantly, stiflingly hot, and Michael felt sweat break out across his brow as the shuddering motion of the wheels slowed, then stopped.

“It’s an attack,” Karl hissed, his voice rippling with indignation. “An Ember. Stay still, boy, or you’ll catch what’s meant for him.” The torrid air grew sharp around him, and Karl raised his voice. “All right, coward. Show yourself-”

The windows of the coach shattered, and the door behind Michael opened so suddenly that he fell from the carriage. A man caught him before his head dashed against the cobbles - Vincent, from the surprised exhalation he made when Michael toppled onto him. His clothing felt oddly heavy and thick where Michael touched it.

“Come on,” he grunted, pitching his voice low. “Before-”

Wood creaked and shattered behind him as the coach flew apart. Michael felt sharp pain where splinters and shards of glass penetrated through his jacket.

“Show yourself!” Karl roared, his voice harsh and commanding in the pitch-dark. A shrill noise keened through the air, then again - Michael’s breath rushed out in a groan as Vincent shoved him down against the ground.

Light returned. Michael raised his head to see his father standing in the ruins of their carriage, breathing hard and incandescently angry. He glared past Michael at a masked and black-clad Vincent. Sibyl’s retainer wore thick, multilayered armor of cloth and leather, and two gashes across his torso showed the glint of mail from underneath. The larger of the two shone wetly with blood, and Vincent pressed his arm over it with a muttered curse.

Karl stalked forward, his teeth bared. Michael could feel his soul gathering for another strike, a lethal one now that he could properly sight his target. His hand swept in an arc, a glimmer of discontinuity in the air flashing whisper-quick towards Vincent.

He didn’t attempt to dodge, turning sideways and taking the blow on a thick plate of metal affixed to his arm. Vincent grunted with the impact, then lunged forward with his fingers splayed. For the first time, Michael felt the choking heat of Vincent’s soul, smothering and burning under a blanket of darkness.

The light grew dim once more, seeming to flow towards his outstretched hand - then flashing forward towards Karl. Air shimmered in a sudden heat-haze, the cloth of Karl’s jacket blackening and catching fire in an instant.

Michael had only time enough to see his father whip the jacket off and throw it aside before Vincent plunged the area into darkness once more. The heat was so intense that breathing hurt. A hand forced his head down into cooler air just as another thin edge sliced the murk overhead.

Commotion from around them was beginning to grow, the bell of a constable’s wagon ringing somewhere in the distance. Vincent snarled a curse and pushed Michael forward, away from the coach. Michael’s feet caught on the cobbles, heart hammering as he stumbled forward through the darkness and heat.

Another edge sliced past them, and light briefly snapped back into the world. Michael had a brief glimpse of his father, wreathed in smoke and standing atop the ruined carriage, his eyes locked on Vincent’s. Vincent stared back in turn, shards of his armor dropping bloody to the street, his hand falling to his side - then darkness reasserted itself, and Michael heard the quick report of a pistol shot.

That hollow feeling flared in his chest once more, an ache that made him strangely aware of the silence from the ruined carriage.

Michael let Vincent hurry him forward. His legs moved woodenly, clumsy in the dark. He did not pause again. There was a noise, half-heard - a soft, wheezing gasp from behind them, a mumbled exhalation that might have been words. A part of him froze there, turned back towards the coach and ran to his father’s side. The rest moved forward, and left it behind.

The light returned when they were a short distance away from the coach. Vincent had led them around a corner and into an alley, crowded with stacked wood and market rubbish. He paused only long enough to rip off his mask, toss a cloak over his ragged armor and lead Michael forward at a brisk pace. Sweat glistened on his face and matted his hair, steaming faintly in the cool Tempest air.

He did not speak, walking at a brisk and steady clip through the alley despite his labored breath. They turned once, then twice, emerging onto a less-crowded side street populated mostly with old brownstone homes and a few gnarled, stunted trees. Vincent peered up and down the street, then rolled up a shutter door to reveal a dusty horseless carriage.

“In,” Vincent rasped, clutching at the wound in his side. “Come on, be quick about it. Hand me the crank.”

Michael obeyed, climbing into the cab and handing Vincent a thin metal rod with a bend in it. Vincent slid the rod into the front of the carriage. His face paled as he strained against the crank. He managed to turn it once before it slipped from his grip, clanging loudly against the floor of the garage.

“Damn,” he gasped. His hand pressed against the wound in his side, and Michael saw that the cloth over the mail was damp with blood. “Come on, help me. Your old man got me good.”

The crank was lying on the ground in a spatter of blood, its handle slicked red. Michael cleaned it with his jacket sleeve and slid it into the engine, feeling it click home. “I just turn it?” he asked.

“Keep your thumb off it,” Vincent cautioned him. “It’ll break your damn hand. Go on, start it.”

Michael pulled hard on the crank, and felt the engine turn over sluggishly - then catch, jarring the crank nearly out of his hand. The acrid stink of exhaust filled the garage, and Vincent gave a low grunt of approval laced with pain. They climbed into the cab.

The unhealthy pallor of Vincent’s face was easy to see, sitting beside him. “Will you be all right?” Michael asked. “Do we need to see Is-”

“No names,” Vincent snarled, cutting him off. “Too many people listening, in the city. Just-” He coughed, looking sick. “Just let me drive.”

He drove. The sound of the constables’ bells faded quickly into the distance, and soon they had moved from the twisting streets of the city center into the broad, straight boulevards that wrapped around it. Vincent’s eyes were feverishly alert, darting left and right ceaselessly until at last they rumbled over the last of the cobbles and onto a packed-dirt road.

The houses here sat amid healthy yards, spaced out with trees and fields that gradually turned into proper farms as they rode. Finally, Vincent guided the car into a shabby barn that stood apparently vacant near the side of the road. He guided the car gently in, then slumped back in his seat as the engine rattled to a halt.

“All right,” he said, his eyes closed. “I may need you for this next part. Help me down.”

Michael jumped down from the cab, his legs cramping with unspent tension that had spooled in them during the ride to the outskirts. Vincent moved with great care. His movements were pained, and a stabilizing hand gripped Michael’s shoulder with crushing force. When he had descended he sat heavily on the carriage’s sideboard and began to strip off his armor.

The cloth went first, then the leather, then finally a ragged shirt of mail with links dropping off as he removed it.

“Fucking Cutters,” he mumbled, tossing the mail aside disgustedly, brushing ring fragments from the padded shirt he had worn beneath. “Come on, let’s see it.” He beckoned that Michael should help him tug the bloody shirt over his head.

It came slowly, with several pained exclamations from Vincent as the half-clotted blood pulled free of the wound. When it was done Vincent sat bare-chested, one thin gash across his collarbone seeping blood and another across his stomach so deep that Michael could see the bright yellow fat below the skin.

“Not through the muscle, I think,” Vincent hissed, prodding gingerly at the puckered edge of the cut. “You see why I eat so well.”

Nausea prickled at Michael’s gut. “Should we find a cloth, or-”

“Nah, just - hold on to something,” Vincent said. “Don’t fall on me.” He stretched his fingers, then extended one and shut his eyes. Light rushed towards his hand while the barn dimmed into blackness. The air near his finger glowed a dull forge-red, twisting with the telltale shimmer of heat.

Vincent breathed in once, twice - then pressed his glowing finger against the wound on his stomach. There was a sharp sizzling sound, a strangled sort of noise from Vincent - and then he slumped forward, breathing heavy gulps of the cooked-meat air.

“Vincent!” Michael shouted. He dropped to one knee beside the man. The hollow feeling beneath his ribs seemed to thud in time with his heartbeat, and his focus slipped sideways for a moment - then it passed, and Michael pulled him upright. Vincent obliged with little resistance, and after a moment he opened his eyes to smile weakly.

“Used to have to do this a lot before I met Isolde,” he said. His voice was agonized, but not weak. “I much prefer her methods.” He looked down at the raw wound across his stomach, now blackened and seeping a slow trickle of fluid.

The smell of it gathered in Michael’s nose, charred and almost sweet. He felt his stomach twist. For a moment he staggered away and faced the wall, breathing deep until he felt his equilibrium return.

“Better?” Vincent asked.

Michael laughed, though it came out a bit manic. “I should ask you,” he said. “You’re the one that’s hurt.”

“I’ll be fine,” Vincent said, gingerly standing up. He flashed a toothy smile at Michael. “Isolde will take care of the rest when I’m back home. She takes exception when anyone else scratches me up.”

Michael was saved from the necessity of a response by Vincent slapping him thunderously on the shoulder, then walking through a door at the rear of the barn. Moments later he reemerged with two bundles of cloth, the larger of which he tossed underhand to Michael.

“Put that over the car,” he said. “Doesn’t have to be perfect, just enough to confuse an amateur spector if one comes looking. We’ll have it moved in a few days.”

Michael shook out the crude drop-cloth and spread it over the car as best as he could, then turned back to see Vincent finishing with his own bundle - a fresh shirt, thick and dark enough to hide the bloodstains that would inevitably seep through.

“If not the car, how are we traveling from here?” Michael asked. “I didn’t see anything within walking distance.”

Vincent grinned. “You’re not meant to see a cache from the road,” he said. “Come on, follow me. Short walk, then we can rest easy.”

There was a path from the back of the barn that led beyond a hedgerow and into the trees, where the two men found a haycart and a horse that had both seen better days. The horse was a drab brown, idly chewing on some hay from the cart as one eye monitored their approach.

“Only the best transport for you,” Vincent said. “There’ll be some food here as well, and water. Help me get Annabel hitched.”

Michael followed along warily as they approached the horse, who kept a gimlet eye on them but offered no resistance when Vincent led her to the cart’s front. He made quiet noises and rubbed the horse’s nose while Michael fastened the straps he could reach, then moved to help with the rest.

Finally, the cart was ready for travel. Vincent tossed Michael one final bundle of cloth - a rough homespun cloak, brown and bulky enough to cover him entirely.

“Nothing to do about your clothes,” Vincent said. “Not a one of them that would pass for proper wear and I’ve taken the spare shirt, but we can at least keep you from looking like a little lordling on the road. Now hop up, and let’s be off.”

Michael looked askance, as Vincent had gestured to the driver’s seat of the cart. “I’ve never driven a cart before,” he protested. “I don’t even know where we’re going.”

Vincent laughed and climbed - carefully - into the back. “You’re apprenticed to Annabel now,” he said. “She knows the business of carting better than any two men. As for our destination - just south, for now. Follow signs towards Korbel if you see any.”

The thought of objecting further occurred to Michael, but Vincent’s surety was infectious enough that he simply shrugged and climbed up to the bench. The reins were sun-worn leather, and when he gave them a tentative shake Annabel whickered softly and began to trot forward.

They were back on the road soon enough, and Michael felt the noise of Annabel’s hooves settle into a half-heard beat at the back of his mind. The road and sun seemed a surreal invention of his brain, rebelling against the extremes his life seemed predisposed to of late.

One thing did stand out as especially real, though, jockeying for position among his thoughts until he could scarcely think of anything else.

“Vincent,” he said. “Is my father dead?”

Annabel’s hooves clopped softly against the road for a few beats before Vincent replied. “Probably not,” he said. “I don’t know if I got him or just made him go for cover. Most of the time Cutters don’t have the stomach to stay calm under fire - even if they could chop a bullet, it wouldn’t change the outcome much.”

Michael made a distracted noise of assent, thinking of the faint sounds he had heard as they left. “I suppose it doesn’t matter now,” he said. “One way or the other.”

“Of course it does,” Vincent said, sounding annoyed. “I wanted to pull you out without putting a scratch on the old man, but he got me good enough to break my concentration and, well-”

There was a bit of quiet about the right size to fit a helpless, exasperated gesture.

“-here we are,” Vincent concluded. “Probably with a bit of extra pressure on us given that I just assaulted an Assemblyman. Quite a bit extra if he’s dead, or in a bad way. Fortunately, I’m even more talented as an escape artist than as an Ember, so we should be fine.”

“Should be,” Michael repeated. Vincent did not elaborate, and the cart rolled on in silence for quite some time. Once or twice there was a muffled bit of cursing from the back as Vincent presumably disturbed his wounds, but save for that the journey passed quietly.

Michael had seldom traveled outside of Calmharbor, and those trips had not been along humble farm roads such as this. There was a strong vegetal scent on the wind, along with the more earthy smells of animals and well-irrigated mud. Insects flitted around him to investigate the sweat on his brow.

There were no fellow travelers on the road, and only twice did Michael see a farmer working one of the expansive fields that lined either side of the path before they too faded away and the cart was rumbling along a lightly-forested track.

The air was cooler amid the trees. It felt wonderful after the day’s untempered heat, and for a few minutes he simply closed his eyes and let the mild breeze of their passage chill his skin. The heat faded, but as it did he felt that hollow pang in his chest once more, an emptiness that only seemed to grow stronger the more he considered it.

It had happened too often, and he felt it too strongly to simply put it as coincidence. “Vincent,” he asked. “Are you awake?”

“Something of a self-defeating question,” Vincent grumbled. “The answer, once asked, is inevitably yes.”

“Sorry,” Michael said. “I was just wondering - what does your soul feel like, to you?”

“An odd question,” Vincent noted. “Any reason for it?”

Michael immediately wished that he hadn’t indulged his curiosity. He was committed now, though. “I’ve had this strange sensation lately,” he said. “Sort of hollow, if that makes any sense.”

“Ah, I get that,” Vincent said. “Not uncommon, actually. The soul wants to be used, it longs to exert itself on the world. I get to feeling a bit funny if I don’t indulge it every so often. Not sure what that means for you, given your circumstances.”

There was nothing Michael could say to that, but Vincent shifted amid the hay after a few more moments. “Probably nothing bad,” he said. “I’ve never heard of anyone suffering ill effects from not using their soul. Vera never uses hers, and she’s healthy as can be.”

“Vera?” Michael asked. “So she does have a soul after all?”

A wry note of amusement crinkled Vincent’s voice as he replied. “Probably shouldn’t have said anything, she’s a bit sensitive about it. I think she’d approve of you knowing, considering - well.” He coughed. “She’s a Shine.”

Annabel’s hooves clopped on while Michael processed that. “Shines-”

“Aren’t real?” Vincent laughed. “Everyone always says that. They always say it right away, with such confidence. It’s enough to make a man think.” There was another rustle of hay as Vincent sat up. “If I asked a hundred men to whistle a tune, what do you suppose would happen?”

“I expect you’d get punched a few times,” Michael replied absently, still rolling Vincent’s claim around in his mind.

“Like as not,” Vincent allowed. “But if they agreed?”

Michael sighed. “They’d whistle a tune, I suppose.”

Vincent’s grin was nearly audible. “The same one, or different?”

“Not all the same,” Michael said, ducking his head to avoid a branch that dipped low over the road. “That’d be unlikely.”

“So what would you say it means,” Vincent asked, “that whenever I mention Shines to anyone they all whistle the same damn tune?”

“Um,” Michael said, feeling mildly unsettled. “Maybe it’s just that everyone knows they’re not real. Plenty of people are unnaturally charming or charismatic, it doesn’t mean they’re Shines. They’re just - nice, like Vera.”

“Vera is nice,” Vincent said. “You don’t notice if nice people are Shines, they don’t need any help being lovely. They care, and give, and worry for others without a scrap of concern for themselves.” His voice had dropped, losing all of its levity. “But what if a person could do what they wished, knowing that in the end you would forgive them? What if they could deal in horrors and receive only love in return?”

Wood creaked as Vincent raised himself up from the bed and leaned forward until his hay-flecked, sunburnt face was beside Michael’s.

“Believe me, my Lord Baumgart,” he said wearily. “Shines are very real. What else do you think we’ve been running from?”