Silly Woman!

Luther leaned back in his chair, his fingers drumming on the wooden table as he studied Emma with the same intensity one might reserve for a particularly irritating puzzle. His smile softened, but the glint in his eyes remained sharp, calculated.

"Emma," he began, his voice smooth yet laced with irritation, "you're very bad at negotiating, aren't you?"

Emma, still clutching the edge of her chair, frowned, her pride stung. "I'm just... trying to survive," she muttered defensively. Her gaze flicked back to the pile of 50 shillings on the table, gleaming under the dim tavern lights. It was more money than she'd seen in months, but Luther's refusal to let her touch it made the promise of riches feel more like a cruel taunt.

"Survive?" Luther echoed, leaning closer again, his presence overwhelming. "You're doing a terrible job at it. If you think greed without caution is a survival strategy, let me tell you; you're headed for a quick and painful demise."

Emma flinched, her face flushing with a mix of embarrassment and frustration. "I'm not greedy," she whispered, though her tone betrayed her guilt.

Luther chuckled, the sound low and cold. "Oh, but you are. And worse, you lack awareness. Do you think I haven't noticed how many eyes have been on us since you started bargaining like a street peddler?"

Emma's lips parted, confusion and fear crossing her face. "What do you mean?"

Luther gestured subtly with his hand, his gaze flicking toward the shadows in the far corners of the tavern. "Those men by the bar. The one with the scar leaning against the wall. Even that maid pretending to wipe a table, they're watching. They've been watching since you raised your voice about money."

Emma's stomach dropped. She glanced toward the corners of the room, but the dim lighting and chaotic atmosphere made it hard to spot the people Luther mentioned. Still, the weight of his words made her heart race.

"Why… why are they watching me?" she stammered, her voice barely audible.

Luther sighed, his patience clearly wearing thin. "They're not just watching 'you', Emma. They're watching 'us'. And they're deciding whether we're worth the trouble of robbing; or worse." He gestured to the unconscious bodies slumped around their table. "And what do you think they'll assume when they see all these people conveniently knocked out?"

Emma's eyes widened. "They're drunk!" she blurted, almost too loudly, as if saying it would make it true.

Luther shook his head slowly, his expression one of pity mixed with irritation. "No, Emma. They're not drunk. I made sure of that." He tapped his fingers lightly on the table again, and the colorful bubble floating between them shimmered faintly. "This little trick of mine? It's enough to put them under. Harmlessly, of course. But to everyone else here, it looks... suspicious."

Emma's gaze darted back to the unconscious bodies. Panic clawed at her throat. "You did this? Why?"

"Because I wanted to have a conversation without interruptions," Luther said calmly. "And because I suspected you might have... useful information. But it seems I overestimated you."

Emma's face flushed again, this time with anger. "You think you're so clever, don't you? Playing games, making people pass out like it's nothing! What do you even want from me?"

Luther's smile vanished, replaced by a cold, unreadable expression. He leaned in close, his voice dropping to a whisper. "I want answers, Emma. Real answers. Not games. Not deflections. I want to know about the Church of the Hidden Deep, about 'Gloam's Veil', about why this tavern is covered in symbols of that ridiculous octopus."

Emma froze, her breath catching in her throat. She hadn't expected him to know so much. She'd assumed he was just another clueless outsider; a naïve man who stumbled into something he didn't understand. But now, she realized she'd underestimated him.

"I… I don't know much," she admitted, her voice trembling. "I only buy the Veil when I need it. I don't ask questions. I don't get involved with the church. I just—"

"Spare me," Luther interrupted, his tone icy. "You're not that uninvolved. You know more than you're letting on. And if you keep playing dumb, I'll leave you here to deal with those eyes watching us. Let's see how far 50 shillings gets you when they decide you're an easy mark."

Emma swallowed hard, glancing nervously around the room again. This time, she noticed the subtle movements; men shifting their chairs slightly closer, a maid who was now lingering far too long at a nearby table. Her pulse quickened, and she turned back to Luther, fear now plain on her face.

"Alright," she whispered. "Alright, I'll tell you what I know. But promise me... promise me they won't hurt me."

Luther's expression softened just slightly, though his eyes remained sharp. "That depends entirely on how helpful you are," he said. "Start talking."

Emma nodded, her hands trembling as she gripped the edge of the table. "The Church of the Hidden Deep… they run this tavern. It's not just a bar, it's one of their hubs. They use it to recruit, to trade, to keep tabs on the city. The symbols, the octopus heads, they're... marks of loyalty. Everyone who works here is connected to the church in some way."

"And the Veil?" Luther pressed.

"It's one of their creations," Emma said quickly. "They sell it to people who need to hide. Criminals, outcasts, anyone willing to pay. It's expensive, but it works. It's made in one of their workshops, there's one near the docks, in the old warehouse district."

Luther leaned back, processing her words. A hub for a hidden church, a distribution point for their strange product, and a network of spies and loyalists all under one roof. It was more than he'd hoped to uncover tonight.

"Good," he said finally, his voice calm but firm. "Now take your 50 shillings and leave. Quickly. And Emma…" He paused, his gaze locking onto hers. "Don't come back here. Not ever. You won't be safe."

Emma nodded, snatching up the coins and bolting from the table without a second glance. Luther watched her go, his expression unreadable once more. Then, he turned his attention back to the room, his mind already racing with his next move.

'So, the Church of the Hidden Deep… Let's see how deep this web goes.'

Luther stared at the man who had stepped forward, his expression impassive but his mind working quickly. The tavern was tense now, the air thick with unspoken accusations and curiosity. From the murmurs rippling through the crowd, it was clear that many of the onlookers were forming their opinions: Luther, the outsider, had harassed a woman in their tavern. But Luther knew better; this wasn't about honor or protecting Emma. This was the prelude to something far more dangerous.

The man who spoke, a burly figure with a shaved head and a scar running across his jawline, took a step closer. His stance was relaxed, but his eyes were sharp, calculating. "We don't tolerate scum like you around here," he said, his voice low but loud enough to carry over the murmurs. "You humiliated her, and now you're just going to walk away? That's not how things work in the 'Twilight Tavern'."

The name of the tavern lingered in the air like a warning. Luther glanced at the crowd, noting the way several of the more inconspicuous patrons shifted slightly, their hands casually resting near concealed weapons or pockets. These weren't dockworkers anymore, they were something else. Connected, organized. And Luther had just painted a target on his back.

But his face betrayed none of this. Instead, he smirked, leaning casually against the table as if the entire room weren't staring him down.

"Humiliated her?" he said, his voice smooth, almost amused. "She tried to extort me for money, cried like a child when I didn't hand it over, and now I'm the villain? Forgive me if I don't feel particularly moved by your little speech."

The scarred man's expression hardened. "It's not about the money. It's about respect. You don't come into 'our' tavern, act like you own the place, and treat one of our own like that."

"Your own?" Luther raised an eyebrow, feigning surprise. "Interesting. Because the last I checked, she was trying to sell information to me, not exactly the behavior of someone loyal to this establishment."

The murmurs in the crowd grew louder, a few people exchanging glances. Luther noted the flicker of doubt on some of their faces. 'Good,' he thought. 'Sow a little discord. Let them question their own.'

But the scarred man wasn't so easily rattled. He stepped closer, his towering frame casting a shadow over Luther. "You're all talk, stranger," he growled. "But this place doesn't take kindly to people like you. So why don't you hand over some coin for Emma's trouble, apologize to the lady, and walk out of here before things get ugly?"

Luther tilted his head, his smirk widening. "Ugly? You mean like this?"

Before the man could react, Luther flicked his fingers, and a small, colorful bubble floated into the air between them. The scarred man hesitated, his eyes narrowing at the strange sight. The bubble shimmered, its surface shifting like liquid light, mesmerizing and unnatural.

"What the hell is that?" the man demanded, his voice betraying a hint of unease.

"Just a little something to make sure you're paying attention," Luther said, his tone playful but underlined with menace. He stepped forward, closing the distance between them, and lowered his voice so only the man could hear. "You see, I'm not just some naive fool who stumbled in here by accident. I know exactly what this place is. I know exactly who 'you' are."

The man's eyes widened slightly, the confidence in his stance faltering for just a moment. Luther pressed on, his voice like a blade slicing through the tension. "So, you have two choices. You can keep posturing, pretend you're in control, and see what happens when I stop playing nice. Or…" He glanced meaningfully at the unconscious bodies still slumped over the table. "You can back down, and we all leave here with our lives intact. Your choice."

The scarred man clenched his fists, his jaw tightening as he weighed his options. The tavern had gone eerily silent now, the crowd holding its collective breath. Even Emma, still sitting on the floor, had stopped crying and was watching the exchange with wide, fearful eyes.

Finally, the man stepped back, his hands raised in mock surrender. "Alright, stranger," he said, his voice carefully neutral. "You've made your point. No need to start a scene."

Luther smiled, straightening up. "Good choice."

The scarred man turned to the crowd, forcing a laugh. "See? Just a misunderstanding, folks. Let's get back to drinking." He gestured to the bartender, who hesitated before nodding and resuming his work. Slowly, the tension in the room began to dissipate, the patrons returning to their conversations and drinks, though many still cast wary glances in Luther's direction.

Luther, meanwhile, glanced down at Emma. Her face was pale, and her hands were still trembling, but she managed to meet his gaze. "The poison…" she whispered, her voice shaky. "You said you'd remove it."

Luther crouched down, his expression softening just slightly. "I lied," he said simply, his tone almost apologetic. "It wasn't poison. Just a little trick to get you to cooperate. You'll be fine."

Emma stared at him, her emotions a mixture of relief, anger, and humiliation. But before she could respond, Luther stood and turned toward the exit. He had no intention of staying any longer than necessary; he'd already drawn enough attention.

As he stepped outside, the cool night air hitting his face, Luther's mind was already racing ahead. The confrontation had confirmed his suspicions: the Twilight Tavern was more than it seemed, and the people within it were more dangerous than they let on. But now, they knew about him too.

He adjusted his coat, his eyes scanning the darkened streets. 'Let's see what else the Church of the Hidden Deep has to offer,' he thought, a faint smile tugging at his lips. 'I'm just getting started.'