Rocket

A knock.

Soft, measured. Three taps against wood.

Impheil's eyes snapped open the moment he heard it, but he didn't move. His spiritual intuition had flared awake an instant before the sound, warning him that something was off. He remained still, keeping his breathing even, allowing his senses to stretch outward.

Nothing.

No shifting presence behind the door, no looming silhouette waiting just beyond the threshold. Just silence.

His fingers twitched, reaching instinctively toward the pocket watch that lay on the bedside table. The moment he clicked it open, the faint ticking filled the room, grounding him. He finally sat up, rolling his shoulders as he adjusted to the weight of waking.

Another few seconds passed before he swung his legs over the bed and made his way toward the door, stepping soundlessly across the wooden floor. He didn't touch the handle. Instead, he crouched low, eyes narrowing as he scanned the floor.

A slim envelope had been slipped through the crevice beneath the door.

His eyes flickered as intricate white symbols manifested in the air before him, shifting and realigning as he decrypted the envelope. No distortions, no hidden marks, no traces of danger. It was clean.

Finally, Impheil reached down and picked it up, his fingers brushing over the surface as he studied the texture. Plain parchment. No wax seal, no crests, no indication of who had sent it. Just a message delivered through the cracks of his door in the dead of morning. How considerate.

With a flick of his wrist, he opened the envelope and began reading. His gaze moved swiftly, absorbing the information at a glance.

A high-ranking bureaucrat. Upper district of Belltaine. Large estate. Appears irregularly at his workplace. Demigod. Given his position and the nature of his suspected dealings—an Earl of the Fallen.

Ah. Now that was interesting.

His fingers tapped idly against the edge of the parchment as he reread that last part. A demigod of the Black Emperor pathway wasn't the sort of individual you just waltzed up to with a cheerful smile and a vague intention of espionage. They were entrenched in power, steeped in authority, and knew how to move in ways that left no traces. If this was truly his target, then whoever wanted this job done was either incredibly bold or incredibly stupid.

Reaching the end of the letter, his brow arched slightly as his gaze caught on something else.

" Rocket?"

Impheil stilled for a moment, then exhaled through his nose, lips twitching in something caught between amusement and irritation. What was he, a circus act? A stage magician?

The nickname pulled at something distant in his memory. He dismissed it with a shake of his head, setting aside the thought for later. Coincidences weren't something he believed in, but he had more pressing matters to address.

Rolling his shoulders, he stretched before making his way to the washroom. The cold water jolted his senses awake, washing away the last remnants of sleep as he let himself sink into the rhythm of the morning.

A kind gesture from them, but it reeks of manipulation. He smirked at his reflection , drying his face with a towel . I won't be swayed that easily, horny.

Chuckling to himself, he returned to his room and dressed methodically, layering his clothes with the practiced ease of someone who had learned the importance of adaptability. His fingers traced the surface of his pocket watch as he clicked it open, gaze settling on the slow, measured movements of the hands.

A moment passed. Then he snapped it shut.

Time to get on board and head to Belltaine.

…

The morning air was crisp, carrying the scent of damp stone and freshly baked bread from the stalls lining the station's entrance. The rhythmic chug of steam engines filled the air, punctuated by the occasional sharp whistle announcing an arrival or departure.

Impheil stepped onto the platform, his coat draped over one arm, his golden pocket watch hanging loosely from his fingers. He had already made adjustments to his appearance. A slight shift in posture, a less intense gaze, the addition of a simple brown overcoat to dull his usual sharp silhouette.

Nothing overt. Just enough to make him forgettable.

He boarded the train with an ease that came from practice, taking a window seat near the middle of the car. 

The train lurched forward, beginning its journey toward Belltaine City.

He let his gaze drift out the window, watching as the landscape shifted from the dense architecture of his home city to rolling countryside. The fields stretched out in golden waves, dotted with patches of woodland. 

Occasionally, a farmhouse or distant estate would break the monotony, standing as quiet sentinels of a world that existed outside the intrigues of men like him.

His fingers absently traced the cover of his pocket watch. It was always like this before a job—this moment of quiet before stepping into something that could spiral into disaster at any moment. The anticipation, the slow burn of calculated paranoia, the lingering sense that something bigger lurked beneath the surface.

Funny how it came back to Belltaine.

His lips curled into a smirk as he leaned back against the train's cushioned seat, staring idly out the window. I was in Constant City, ticking off one of my so-called bucket list items. Just a simple stop in my little tour of jumping between cities, keeping ahead of 'Him.'

That, of course, had turned into something far more complicated than expected.

Impheil chuckled under his breath, shaking his head. What gives?

The irony wasn't lost on him.

Then again… Perhaps it's more than just an ironic coincidence?

The thought nagged at him. The brass book—the one that had stirred all kinds of trouble in Belltaine City—had been something far beyond what anyone could expect. Even the memory of it made his fingers twitch against the pocket watch. Could it be connected to Constantine? It was a stretch, but not an impossible one.

Would briefly explain in parts why that city, of all places…

His smirk faded slightly.

If that was the case, then this mission might hold more weight than he initially thought.

Impheil exhaled, shifting in his seat. Tsk, a poor guy like me can't catch a single break.

He tapped his fingers against the edge of the window frame, already beginning to map out his next moves in his mind.

First step—secure a temporary safehouse.

Somewhere quiet, inconspicuous, easy to leave behind if needed. A place where he could change disguises, store tools, and stay a step ahead of any prying eyes.

Thankfully, he wasn't going in unprepared. He had already set up an identity under a false name—a nondescript traveling merchant. Simple, unremarkable, forgettable.

That would do for now.

...

The city loomed ahead, a testament to both prosperity and decline, its skyline a mix of industrial ambition and the scars of past conflicts. Tall buildings lined the streets, their facades bearing the weight of history—some were proud remnants of old-world grandeur, constructed from weathered stone and adorned with intricate carvings, while others stood as stark, functional testaments to the coal and steel industries that had once fueled Belltaine's rise.

Despite its industrial strength, the city carried an air of faded glory. The coal mines that had once made Belltaine a powerhouse now left their mark in the form of soot-covered buildings and an ever-present haze clinging to the skyline. The streets bustled with a working-class vigor, merchants calling out their wares while factory workers moved in steady, weary streams. Steam-powered trams rattled over iron tracks, their whistles adding to the city's symphony of movement.

Impheil stepped off the train and melted into the crowd, his presence dissolving like ink in water.

He moved with purpose, stopping at several stores along the way. A tailor for new coats, hats, gloves and a black gothic pocket watch—small but crucial adjustments for disguise. A bookstore, where he lingered just long enough to make his presence known as a traveler looking for something to read. A café, where he ordered a simple meal and listened to the idle chatter of patrons.

By the time he reached his temporary apartment, his presence had been established across different parts of the city. No direct path led back to him.

Inside, he set down his bag, rolling his shoulders. The space was sparse—bare essentials, a writing desk, a wardrobe, and a washroom. 

He changed into one of his prepared disguises—something inconspicuous, the kind of attire that blended seamlessly into Belltaine's working-class crowd. A dark, modest wool coat, slightly worn at the cuffs, paired with a simple waistcoat and a muted tie. The kind of clothes an overworked office clerk or a low-level government employee might wear—neither too cheap nor too refined, striking the perfect balance of forgettable.

With practiced ease, he adjusted his posture, allowing a slight slouch to settle into his frame. His usual sharp gaze softened just enough to suggest someone accustomed to long hours of paperwork rather than careful observation. Even his gait changed—his steps carried a touch of hesitance, the movement of someone who wasn't in a hurry, but also didn't want to draw attention to himself.

A glance in the mirror confirmed it—no longer the poised and discerning traveler, but just another worn-down clerk making his way through the city. A man no one would spare a second glance at.

He took his new black gothic pocket watch, tracing its surface with his fingertips before opening it swiftly with a click, gazing at the time.

"Time to go to the first pitstop" He said as he put the watch in his pocket and exited the apartment, striding the city on foot.

Graham Constantine's estate was exactly what he had anticipated—ostentatious, controlled, and more concerned with the illusion of impenetrability than true security.

Seated at a café across the street, Impheil observed the fortified property with idle detachment, absently stirring his tea. The estate itself sat behind an imposing set of wrought iron gates, polished to a sheen that suggested someone cared too much about appearances. The outer walls were pristine, unmarred by time or weather, standing tall like a silent declaration: Do not approach.

A fair attempt, but declarations rarely meant much when placed against the right kind of determination.

He let his gaze wander, picking apart the estate's movements like a puzzle. The guards at the entrance weren't just for show; their rotations were staggered enough to avoid predictability. A few more patrolled the perimeter at a steady pace—trained, but not infallible. The real insight came from the staff, slipping in and out of a secondary gate, moving with the ease of routine.

Standard and predictable, how boring . He tapped his spoon against the rim of his cup before taking a slow sip. 

He exhaled softly, shaking his head. Really, for a government official with such a fascinating history, I expected a little more effort. It wasn't a fortress—it was a performance. The kind of security that worked against common threats but lacked true paranoia.

That meant there were holes to be exploited.

Finishing his tea, he rose, leaving a few coins on the table before slipping into the weaving streets behind the estate. He followed the unassuming paths, the ones meant for staff and deliveries—the arteries of any wealthy household. The kinds of places people ignored because they weren't supposed to matter.

He reached the outer gardens first.

It was an immaculate spread of wealth, a carefully curated slice of nature confined within symmetrical hedges, pristine stone pathways, and a marble fountain that had likely been imported at some absurd cost.

Impheil let out a breath, tilting his head as he took in the scenery. Nothing screams subtlety like a fountain that costs more than a working man's salary.

Still, wealth was never the problem. It was the mentality that came with it. The belief that stone walls and hired muscle could erase old sins.

He took a step forward, his movements seamless, sinking into the depths of the garden's shadows. That was the mistake men like Graham made.

They built walls.

But shadows slipped through the cracks.

The hedges provided excellent cover, their carefully trimmed walls serving as both decoration and deterrent. It was easy to disappear into them, using the occasional breaks between pathways to assess his surroundings. 

Impheil moved slowly, deliberately, taking in every detail. The estate's gardens weren't just for show—they were structured. Each pathway led somewhere, whether it was toward the main building, a side entrance, or one of the lesser-used auxiliary structures. Even the placement of the lanterns along the paths was measured, their soft glow strategically placed to eliminate the most obvious hiding spots.

They thought about casual intruders. Thieves. Maybe the occasional blackmailing noble. 

But they hadn't planned for someone like him.

He navigated deeper, skirting along the edges of the well-maintained greenery, stopping at intervals to listen. The ambient sounds of the estate carried through the air—the bubbling of the central fountain, the distant murmur of guards conversing, the shuffle of feet against stone. It was all part of the estate's rhythm, and Impheil had always been good at slipping into the pauses between beats. 

Impheil grabbed his black gothic pocketwatck from his pocket, clicking it open. He would take note of the timing of the guards patrols.

A servant passed by, their uniform crisp, their pace unhurried. A maid, carrying a tray stacked with fine china, likely returning from serving tea to the master of the house or his esteemed guests. She glanced briefly over her shoulder before vanishing into a side door.

Inner staff. Perfect.

He put the watch back in as he continued, careful not to rush. There was no reason to force his way inside just yet. The garden was information in itself, a window into the estate's habits. The paths staff took, the way they moved, the unspoken rules of the space.

Then, finally, an opportunity.

A steward and a younger footman were conversing near the far end of the garden, just past a cluster of neatly arranged flowerbeds. Their voices were low, meant to be private, but not so hushed that they expected to be overheard.

Impheil eased closer, letting his steps blend with the natural rustling of the wind against the hedges. 

"...and he hasn't left the study all afternoon," the steward muttered, adjusting the pristine cuffs of his coat. 

The younger man shifted uncomfortably. "Is it one of those days again?"

A pause. 

"You know better than to ask," the steward chided, though there was no real venom in his tone. "The master is... preoccupied. That's all you need to concern yourself with."

The footman exhaled, but didn't press further. "And the guest?" 

"Still there. Waiting."

"Waiting?" The footman frowned. "For how long?"

"Two hours," the steward said, voice edged with something unreadable. "And counting."

Interesting. Impheil tilted his head slightly, committing the exchange to memory. 

So Graham wasn't alone. And whatever conversation was taking place inside was important enough to leave a guest waiting for hours. 

More than that—there was something in the steward's voice, something careful. Not fear, not exactly, but a certain weight. A hesitation.

That was the kind of detail he liked best. The kind that suggested there was more beneath the surface.

Impheil allowed himself a small, satisfied smile. 

He wasn't just casing the estate anymore. 

He was gathering threads. 

Hoo, it seems the window is open for a birdie to enter.

Impheil exhaled slowly, rolling his shoulders as if merely shifting his weight. Beneath the layers of his tailored disguise, something stirred.

His worms moved.

Translucent, near-invisible things with twelve transparent rings along their slender forms, they slipped from his body like droplets of ink dissolving into water. They writhed soundlessly along the ground, weaving through the neatly trimmed grass and stone pathways, maneuvering between shoes and shadows with an unnatural fluidity.

Their motion was seamless, instinctive—silent invaders that no one would notice, no one would feel.

Tiny. Weightless. They scattered with precision, each one following its designated path toward the gathered staff.

The footman shifted his stance, oblivious as one of the translucent parasites coiled itself at the hem of his trousers before slipping beneath the fabric.

The steward barely noticed the prickle against his wrist as another latched onto his sleeve, burrowing into the unseen gaps between skin and cloth.

The worms took root.

There was no moment of realization.

Good.

He didn't push. Not yet. A sudden shift, a forced intrusion, would raise alarms. This wasn't about control—this was about listening, seeing and feeling. His parasites settled into the bodies of their unsuspecting hosts, becoming his distant eyes and ears within the estate.

For now, they would wait.

He tucked his hands into his coat pockets, absently thumbing the edge of his pocket watch. The footman let out an exasperated sigh, shifting on his feet once more.

"Two hours of waiting…" he muttered under his breath.

The steward shot him a warning look. "Watch your tongue. It isn't our place to question the master's dealings."

"But it's strange, isn't it? The guest arrives, asks for a private audience, and then the master just… disappears into his study? It's not like him."

A pause. Then, softer, the steward replied, "It is, these days."

That was new.

Impheil's fingers tapped idly against the metal casing of his watch. 'These days'?

So, this wasn't a one-time occurrence. This was a pattern.

"Best not to dwell on it," the steward finally said, adjusting his coat. "Go on—check with the kitchen staff. They'll want to know if we need to prepare a late supper."

The footman hesitated for half a second longer before nodding and heading off toward the side entrance.

Impheil watched him go, already mapping out the potential routes within the estate.

He had what he came for—an opportunity to gather information, a way to monitor without direct involvement. Anything more, and he risked exposing himself too soon.

He stepped back into the garden shadows, melting into the darkness between lantern light.

For now, he would wait.

And watch.

Time passed, measured in subtle shifts—the dimming of the evening sky, the slow quieting of the estate's outer grounds.

Impheil moved with practiced ease, repositioning himself across different vantage points, always remaining unseen. The worms were his tether to the estate, each one feeding him fragments of idle conversation, unguarded remarks, stray observations.

The steward's tone remained composed but carried an edge of quiet strain.

The footman's steps were hesitant, uncertain.

Within the main hall, the household staff carried on their duties as if nothing was amiss.

Yet, in the study, behind closed doors, something lingered.

Graham Constantine hadn't emerged.

And neither had his guest.

Impheil remained in the garden, arms folded, head tilted as he listened to the distant murmurs from his parasites. There was only so much they could gather this way—surface-level thoughts, spoken words, unguarded impressions. Anything deeper required time, patience, and the right moment to strike.

This wasn't the night for that.

Tonight, he was laying the groundwork.

His gaze flicked toward the estate's upper floors, where a faint glow seeped through the heavy drapes of what he assumed was the study.

Interesting.

He took one last moment to commit the scene to memory before slipping away from the estate's grounds entirely. The worms would remain, keeping his connection intact.

For now, that was enough.