Warehouse Delta-13

The workshop woke before dawn, long before the first iron bell tolled from the river quarter.

Coal rattled down the hopper, landing on violet coals with a stifled whoomf; the resulting heat painted the rafters amber-gold and made new shadows dance across the wall of tools. Outside, Forge Row lay in that between-hour hush when even hammers dream, but inside the Quiet Forge everyone moved like clock parts catching time.

Aderyn stood at the main anvil, tightening the leather sling on her hammer haft.

Brack Morrow, leg still in a quiet-steel brace, leaned against a quench barrel wrapping fresh linen around his ribs.

Tamsin sat cross-legged on the rolling map chest, library lenses perched on her nose while she paged through a vellum city plan almost as tall as she was.

The gray cat stalked the rafters, tail switching in slow, impatient arcs.

I cinched the upgraded bandolier across my chest. The hush-disc at my left collarbone had a new nacreous sheen; the quiet-steel nails nested in spiralled pockets felt heavier, more certain. In my inner coat pocket, the Null Crest pulsed a faint coolness, more steady heartbeat than medal.

⟢ Spectral Authority | Morning Snapshot

Bucket (Mass)  1 · 0

Flux Reservoir   9 %

Paradox Risk   10 %

Quiet-Smithing  45 %

Mission Flag  Delta-13 warehouse 07:00 site entry

Forge poured chicory brew into four tin mugs. "Gear check first," she said, voice smoky from the dawn chill. "Then we slip through spice docks before Concord sends daytime gawkers."

Tamsin tapped the map. "Delta-13 hugs the canal cul-de-sac behind the salt granaries. Two warehouse blocks flank it, the one on the right burned out last year, roof still caved. Good vantage if we go in over ridgepole."

She flicked a copper pin onto the parchment: x where a tiny rectangle labelled D-13 sat. "This street", she traced a finger, "is Mint Lane. Overnight ledger shows only two watch lamps; wardens patrol hourly, not half-hourly."

Brack's deep baritone rumbled. "Heart quieter now," he said, fist to chest. "I can still run escort if no jumps."

Forge tossed him a small jar. "Null balm. Smear on brace springs; sound will bleed away."

I finished lacing Vector boots, studs clicking on floorboards. "Ready."

The canal's fog wrapped around us as we slipped off Spice‑Quay Road and into the narrow chill of Mint Lane, every breath laced with salt and hot‑mint vapor.

The sun hadn't cracked the horizon when we turned onto Spice-Quay Road, but the smell of cracked black pepper and drying bay leaves already hung in the mist. Bargemen in cork coats shifted crates from flat-bottom scows; gulls heckled them from pilings. Pillars of steam rose where early boilers stoked pressure for the morning run upriver. Each hiss felt like the city taking a test breath.

We skirted the quay, boots thumping on tar-soaked planks that still sweated last night's condensation. Beneath the boardwalk the water looked like oiled silk, lapping pilings in quiet susurration. Cranes overhead clanked, distant but steady, swinging hooks that dripped seawater back to the canal.

Tamsin guided us down a narrower lane lined with salt warehouses, their blocky stone walls coated in white rime where brine leaked from storage bins. Every few steps we passed piles of salt crystals the size of fists; they glittered pale rose in faint lantern light.

Fog thickened, Mint Lane lived true to its name: an herb warehouse vented hot mint-oil steam through copper flues, infusing the air with scent so sharp it felt like chewing needles. The cat, riding Brack's shoulder, sneezed once then tucked nose under paw.

Forge pointed her hammer head at a low brick wall ahead. "There," she whispered.

Delta-13 squatted beyond the wall, a long rectangle of sooty brick capped by slate thatched with patchy tin sheets. Unlike neighboring salt houses, no salt rime coated its mortar; instead, long copper rods ran vertically up the facade, each inscribed with tiny Quanta dice glyphs. Between rods, diamond-pane windows stared dark and unlit. Two boxy lamps hung by the loading doors, quiet-stone bulbs, nearly soundless.

A single night guard dozed on a three-leg stool, back against doorjamb, folded ledger balanced on chest. Quiet-stone bulbs swallow noise, but they throw enough bluish glow to wash the crates near him in faded moon-color.

I touched Tamsin's elbow. "Ridgepole route?"

She nodded, unrolling a coil of rope no thicker than twine. Library silk-steel, vectored to stiffen under tension. Brack boosted us, first Tamsin, then me, then Forge, to the collapsed roof of the burnt-out warehouse on the right. The slate tiles there were broken into scales; every step rattled, but hush discs dampened rattle to pebble taps.

Interface

Sound curve  -76 dB

Guard awareness stable

From ridge we saw Delta-13's roof: sheet-tin patched with solder fillets, some seams still gleamed raw. Vents shaped like quills poked out, exhaling faint copper-ink vapor. At the rear, skylights: panes of purple glass latticed by brass.

Tamsin anchored rope to a chimney stump, dropped line across narrow alley gap. I retreat-stepped (activating slide forward) and zipped along rope hand-over-hand, landing on tin with a muted thud. Nails bit; boots held. Fog parted; breeze tasted of salt, mint, and something acrid, ozone tinged with charred paper.

Forge came next, heavier; tin sang low, but hush disc throttled pitch. Brack stayed rear, cross-leg perched on burnt ridge, overwatch, heart hammer subdued but ready.

One alley, one rope‑slide, and a careful crawl across rattling tin put us beside the purple‑glass skylight, the whole press hall yawning beneath our boots.

We crawled to first skylight. Purple panes were hinged, secured by brittle lead. Tamsin produced library key chalk; she traced a Null spiral on the hinge, hissed "Borrow hush." The metal squealed, silently, then crumbled, screws dropping like dried beans yet making no sound.

I eased pane up. Warm ink-scented air breathed out; faint orange lamplight glowed below.

The space inside was vast, two stories high, rafters webbed with catwalks. On the floor sat six glyph presses, iron giants with rollers wrapped in parchment-belts printed top-to-bottom in Quanta probability strings. Around each press stood vats of copper-gold ink, lids off. Tubes ran skyward, feeding quill vents on the roof.

But the sight stealing breath was the object on the central dais: a conical engine the size of a carriage, wrapped in copper rings inscribed with Null glyphs. A steel mask of a human face protruded on one side, mouth open, as if to swallow the room.

Forge exhaled. "Silence Engine."

We slid onto catwalk, boots silent. Below, three technicians in charcoal smocks turned winches, moving inklines into the engine's outer feed. One wore a porcelain half-mask reminiscent of the archive saboteur; probability cloak shimmered at his shoulders.

Interface

Hostiles 3

Spectra Echo 2 Quanta 2

Null Crest dampers active around engine

Tamsin pointed at a chalkboard: delivery table for "Chasm-1 Test : 05:45." It was 05:31 by the pocket chron.

Forge's hammer flexed in grip. I tapped hush-pins; she nodded: quiet approach.

We waited until a technician hauled a hose across floor. When he passed beneath, I retreat-slid forward, Vector arc landing behind crates. Quiet pin flicked into floor glyph track feeding engine, cut path. Ink hissed, pressure gauge red-lined; the hose sputtered.

Technician cursed. Cloak wearer barked order, turned to console. Forge dropped from catwalk, landing with knee-crack thud onto wooden crate; hush disc absorbed. She swung hammer, catching hose clamp, metal crumpled, ink geysered gold over floor, slicking bootstrap.

Tamsin lobbed library lantern, glass shattered, releasing echo mites (collected after tunnel escapade). Mites swarmed copper rods, chewing sound conduction. The hum of engine's prime coil stuttered, dropping an octave.

Cloak wearer snarled, probability shimmer intensifying. He scribbled "LIKELIHOOD-TILT-FLEE" rune mid-air. Ink flew toward exit path, trying to bend chance so escape simplest.

I spiked nail between strokes; hush swallowed ink; rune collapsed. Cloak odds twisted back to neutral, balance off; he stumbled, slipped on spilled ink.

Forge wrenched open engine side panel, revealing quartz reservoir half-charged with Null crest energy. My crest half-pulsed in pocket, resonating. She hammered reservoir brace; quartz fractured spiderweb; Null hush belched.

Technicians shrieked, ears rupturing from vacuum thump. Quanta circuits flickered static.

Interface spiked:

Null flux 12 %

Paradox Risk 13 %

Stability threshold 15 %

We had seconds before resonance cascade.

I plunged spike into quartz, chanting Echo-for-Silence. Hush funneled into spike, disc, nails, network built to absorb. Crest resonated like bell; bucket shook but held.

Engine lights dimmed, then extinguished. Panels cracked; copper rings drooped.

Cloak wearer dragged himself, pulled tiny pistol-like stylus, aimed. But Brack's heart-thud thundered overhead; he jumped ridgepole gap, crashed through skylight glass. Pulse-charged fist (still braced) slammed cloak flat. Wood floor cratered; probability shimmer snuffed.

Sirens wailed outside: Concord patrol in bound wagons, summoned by earlier alarm.

The hush of the disabled engine lasted only a heartbeat before the front doors burst inward and Grey Maelor's Concord squad flooded the floor in a crash of steel and shouted orders.

Doors burst inward. Grey Maelor herself strode in, five guards at back. She surveyed wreck: engine hissing steam, technicians bound by hush cables (Forge's improvised rope). Cloak wearer moaned.

Maelor raised eyebrow at us. "Adjuncts thorough."

Forge wiped ink from hammer. "Scrap's scrap."

Maelor knelt at engine remains, tracing null glyph; it crumbled to glitter. "Silence Engine disarmed. City owes you." She signaled medics.

I unpocketed Crest; its glow steadied. Interface slid confirmation:

Mission : Delta-13

Silence Engine neutralized

Saboteurs captured 3 / 3

Reward +2·0 Strata (bounty) +Archive Sigil Key

Bucket 1·0 → 2·0

Paradox 10 %

Tamsin collected chalkboard evidence, rolled map of inklines. Brack grinned, pain lines soft: "Heart got louder again," he said.

Maelor offered handshake. "Council wants briefing noon. Don't vanish." She issued guard to escort.

By the time the prisoners were hauled away and sirens dulled behind us, dawn had burned off the fog and we were marching past the mint warehouses toward the familiar heat of Forge Row.

Sunlight now full fledged, Mint Lane reeked of mint-oil and fresh copper. Workers gawked at arrested saboteurs; children chased echo mites escaping pockets. We tramped to Quiet Forge: soot, cedar, onion tea waiting.

Forge laid new Strata bounty slips on workbench. "Your bucket's filling faster than we can temper," she said. "Next lesson: Flow regulators."

Tamsin spread warehouse plans. "Sponsor chain links to three more sites. Inspector will grant warrants if we clean them."

The cat head-butted Null Crest, purring hush.

I exhaled. Outside, hammer district rang morning metal. Inside, quiet sparks jumped the anvil gap, promising fresh tools.

Impossible fraction shrank another digit. And the counting: slow, steady, endless, marched on.