Ulrich floated before the corresponding bubble, watching gray mist swirl within its translucent surface. The sphere was perhaps ten feet in diameter, neither large nor small compared to the countless others drifting through the dream sea. But this one contained the scene he'd came for.

  Ulrich reached forward and touched the bubble's membrane.

  The sensation was like pushing through cold honey, resistance giving way gradually until his astral body slipped through completely. Reality inverted, and the boundless ocean vanished as the bubble's interior expanded to encompass his entire perception.

  Portsmouth's streets materialized around him with disorienting suddenness.

  Ulrich found himself standing on cobblestones slick with evening fog, the air thick with coal smoke and salt spray. Gas lamps cast weak yellow light at irregular intervals, their glow barely penetrating the mist that clung to everything like damp fabric. The architecture was recognizable; Portsmouth's characteristic narrow buildings pressed close together, their upper floors leaning inward until the street felt more like a tunnel.

  And there, perhaps twenty feet ahead, was Jeremiah.

  The boy looked healthier here than he had in Kayla's apartment, his face carrying youthful determination rather than madness. He wore the tattered blue shirt Ulrich had used as his scrying anchor, and he moved through the fog with the particular wariness of someone venturing into unfamiliar territory.

  Ulrich followed quietly, his astral body moving like a ghost through the replay of events already concluded. He could walk through walls here if he chose, phase through physical objects that were merely memories given temporary form. But he stayed on the street, maintaining distance behind Jeremiah while noting every detail.

  For a seer, this could not be any less true.

  The time was night, late enough that most honest folk had retreated indoors. The few people Ulrich passed were shadows themselves, their faces indistinct and their purposes questionable. Portsmouth's slum district after dark belonged to those who preferred darkness for their activities. And such people are often up to no good.

  Jeremiah turned down a side street, then another, navigating with the confidence of someone following specific directions. Had the ritual's distributor provided a meeting location? Or had the boy simply heard rumors about where to find the right person?

  The tension built with each turn.

  Ulrich's danger sense buzzed quietly, not warning of immediate threat but acknowledging the atmosphere's strangeness. This scene was a past, concluded and already integrated into the timeline that led to Jeremiah's possession. But something about it felt present, active, as though the events weren't merely replaying but occurring in real-time.

  And to Ulrich, a Seer, such feelings are often a premonition of something greater.

  Finally, Jeremiah stopped at an intersection where three streets converged. A single gas lamp flickered overhead, its light struggling against the fog. The boy waited, shuffling his feet nervously, hands buried in the pockets of his tattered shirt.

  Minutes passed. Ulrich remained motionless, his enhanced perception scanning the surrounding area while maintaining focus on Jeremiah.

  Then footsteps emerged from the fog.

  A man approached from the eastern street, his silhouette resolving gradually into distinct features as he entered the lamplight's radius. Middle-aged, with brown hair and a lean build that suggested someone comfortable with physical exertion. He wore a long coat that had seen better years, and his hands were bare despite the evening's chill.

  Ulrich's blood turned to ice.

  .

  The Bishop of the Twilight Order, a Rank 4 Weaver who had helped Terry Mondie on the Portsmouth ambush that nearly killed multiple Watchmans of the other district. The same man who had disappeared after the raid, vanishing into whatever network sustained the organization's operations. His face was unmistakable, seared into Ulrich's memory from his past encounters.

  And here he was, personally meeting with a desperate ten-year-old boy for some nefarious purpose.

  "You're Jeremiah?" Lewis's voice carried the practiced warmth of someone skilled at manipulation.

  "Yes, sir." The boy's response was quiet, uncertain.

  "You were told I might help with your family's circumstances?"

  "My mother works so hard. She lost her arm in an accident, but she still works long hours every day. I just want things to be better for her."

  Lewis's expression shifted into sympathetic understanding, the kind that looked genuine to anyone who didn't know better. "That's very noble. Your mother is fortunate to have such a caring son."

  Ulrich barely registered the conversation, his attention split between examining the scene and processing the implications: Lewis Smith personally spreading luck enhancement rituals to children in Portsmouth's slums. The same Portsmouth where the Shelby family operated, where the weaponry crate crisis had originated, where everything had started months ago.

  His gaze shifted to the surrounding buildings, trying to establish the location. The architecture was familiar; the particular arrangement of the street triggered his memory. This intersection was less than three blocks from Slough House, the Shelby family's base of operations. And the Black Hand Gang's domain.

  Lewis reached into his coat, withdrawing something from an interior pocket. Ulrich moved closer, trying to see what the Bishop was passing to Jeremiah.

  Then Lewis Smith's head turned, not toward Jeremiah. Not scanning the street for potential witnesses.

  Rather, he looked directly toward Ulrich.

  Their eyes met, and Lewis smiled.

  The expression was knowing, amused, carrying a certain awareness that should have been impossible. This was a replay of past events, a scene already concluded and recorded in the dream sea's infinite archive. The people within these bubbles weren't truly present, just echoes performing actions they'd already taken.

  They couldn't see dream walkers observing them. They shouldn't be able to interact with entities viewing from outside the bubble.

  Except Lewis Smith was looking directly at Ulrich with full awareness, his smile widening into something that suggested he'd been waiting for exactly this moment.

  "Hello, my good friend," Lewis said, his voice cutting through the scene's ambient noise with unnatural clarity. "Enjoying the show?"

  Panic flooded Ulrich's consciousness. His astral body sudden felt vulnerable, exposed in ways that violated every understanding of how dream scrying functioned in the text. He tried to will himself backward, to create distance from Lewis's impossible attention.

  But he couldn't move.

  Some force held him immobile, pinned in place like an insect in amber. Lewis continued smiling, and Ulrich noticed details he'd missed initially. The Bishop's eyes were bizarre, carrying luminescence that normal human eyes shouldn't possess. And his shadow, visible in the lamplight, moved independently of his body.

  "You're persistent, I'll grant you that." Lewis took a step toward Ulrich, and Jeremiah seemed to freeze completely, the entire scene pausing except for the Bishop's motion. "Divinations through dream scrying. Creative. But rather reckless, don't you think?"

  This narrative has been purloined without the author's approval. Report any appearances on Amazon.

  "Or did you forget that I, too, am a Shadowmancer?"

  Ulrich activated his bronze hairpin totem with desperate force, pouring spirituality into the anchor that should pull him back to his physical body. The artifact pulsed against his chest but didn't respond immediately, as though something was interfering with its function.

  "Oh, you'll get to leave," Lewis said, his tone carrying dark amusement. "I'm not interested in trapping you here. But I wanted you to know something important."

  He leaned closer, his horrifying gaze digging into Ulrich's frozen form.

  "We're aware of you, Ulrich Constantine." Lewis's smile became razor-sharp. "You think you're investigating us. But we've been watching you from the beginning. And soon, very soon, you'll understand your role in what's coming."

  Saying so, Lewis's eyes flickered so wide apart it looked inhumane, and Ulrich regained his ability to move.

  "Praise to the Primordial Twilight. As it is will."

  The totem finally clicked, reality tearing as Ulrich's astral body yanked backward with explosive force. Lewis's face remained visible for one final second, that knowing smile burning itself into Ulrich's memory.

  Then the dream bubble shattered, the Portsmouth street fragmenting into nothing.

  Ulrich jolted awake on his living room floor, gasping as though he'd been drowning.

  Sweat soaked his clothing, and his hands trembled violently. The spirituality barrier around him flickered weakly, nearly depleted from the prolonged scrying. But he was back, intact, safely returned to his physical body.

  Lewis Smith's smile haunted his vision despite open eyes staring at a familiar ceiling.

  How?

  The question repeated obsessively while Ulrich's racing heartbeat slowly normalized. How had Lewis seen him? Dream scrying showed past events, recorded moments that couldn't interact with observers. The people within those scenes were echoes, not actual entities capable of awareness.

  Unless Lewis Smith possessed something that broke those rules. A cursed artifact that detected dream walkers? Some Rank 4 ability that allowed retroactive awareness of being observed? Or had the entire scene been a trap, specifically designed to trigger when anyone attempted scrying Jeremiah's memories?

  Ulrich didn't know, and the uncertainty terrified him more than concrete answers would have.

  He sat up slowly, his body aching despite the fact that only his astral form had traveled. The Amethyst bracelet still circled his wrist, its crystals now dark and dormant. The bronze hairpin totem had vanished, its purpose fulfilled when it pulled him back.

  And on the floor nearby, something that shouldn't be there caught his attention.

  The white bunny plushie.

  Ulrich stared at it, his exhausted mind struggling to process. He'd taken it from Augustus Manor after the Leviathan incident, the toy that some powerful entity had possessed to banish an ancient dream creature. He'd left it in his coat pocket, forgotten during the preparation for tonight's scrying.

  Except now it sat on the floor within his spirituality barrier, positioned as though it had been placed there deliberately.

  The button eyes seemed to watch him with awareness no inanimate object should possess.

  Ulrich reached out carefully and picked up the plushie, half-expecting it to speak or manifest that terrible presence again. But it remained inert, just soft fabric and stuffing.

  Still, an idea formed.

  The entity that had possessed this toy had called itself his friend, promised to watch over him. It had demonstrated power far beyond anything Ulrich could comprehend, casually banishing a Leviathan with authority that suggested divine status.

  If he was about to walk into a situation involving Lewis Smith and the Twilight Order, having something that powerful in his corner might make the difference between life and death. Essentially, this thing could be a nuke, and only he knew about it.

  Based on what he'd just witnessed, the Twilight Order was operating in Portsmouth with frightening proximity to the Shelby family. Donnie Shelby and his sister Adeline, people Ulrich had history with, connections that predated his Ministry involvement.

  He needed to investigate and understand what the Twilight Order was doing so close to the Shelbys' territory. But going alone seemed suicidal, especially after Lewis's divination awareness and learning of his involvement.

  Ulrich stood on shaking legs and gathered his equipment. Weapons, divination tools, enchanted charms. And the bunny plushie, tucked carefully into his coat pocket where it could be accessed quickly if needed.

  The carriage to Portsmouth ran late into the night, serving workers whose shifts didn't align with daylight hours. Ulrich caught one departing at midnight, standing at the railing while the city's lights faded behind fog.

  His mind worked through possibilities obsessively: Lewis Smith personally spreading rituals to desperate children. The proximity to Slough House. The Shelby family's involvement with the weaponry crates had started everything, or perhaps even earlier than that. Terry Mondie's connection to both the Resistance and the Twilight Order.

  Everything was connected, threads weaving together into patterns Ulrich couldn't fully see but felt approaching with horrible inevitability.

  Portsmouth's slum district looked different at night than it had during his earlier visit with Victor. More dangerous, the shadows deeper and the few people visible carrying themselves with the wariness of those who knew violence could erupt without warning.

  Ulrich navigated familiar streets toward Slough House, his enhanced senses mapping the surroundings while his hand rested on a Nortunas charm. The building appeared exactly as he remembered, a bar that stood out at night.

  He knocked twice on the heavy door and waited.

  Footsteps approached from inside, followed by the sound of multiple locks disengaging. The door opened to reveal Donnie Shelby himself, his expression shifting from wariness to surprised recognition.

  "Ulrich?" Donnie was perhaps thirty, built like someone who'd spent years in physical labor before circumstances elevated him to leadership. "Bit late for a social call, isn't it?"

  "I need to talk. Five minutes of your time."

  Donnie studied him for a moment, then stepped aside. "Come in."

  The interior behind the bar was cleaner than the exterior suggested, furnished with practical furniture that prioritized function over aesthetics. Adeline sat near the fireplace, Donnie's younger sister, who handled the family's financial operations. She looked up as Ulrich entered, her expression curious.

  "Ulrich!" she said warmly. "Haven't seen you in a while. Still with that security company?"

  "Still working, yes." He forced a smile while his mind raced. "Brought you something."

  He withdrew the bunny plushie from his pocket and held it out. Adeline's eyes lit up immediately, the kind of genuine delight that suggested she genuinely enjoyed simple pleasures.

  "Oh, it's adorable!" She accepted the toy and hugged it immediately. "Thank you. Though I'm a bit old for plushies."

  "Everyone needs comfort sometimes," Ulrich said, watching the toy carefully.

  Donnie gestured to a chair. "What brings you to Portsmouth at this hour?"

  "I'm investigating some suspicious activity in the area. People distributing occult ritual instructions to desperate families, promising luck and prosperity." Ulrich settled into the offered seat, his attention divided between Donnie's face and Adeline playing with the plushie near the fireplace. "Have you heard anything through your network?"

  Donnie's expression grew thoughtful. "The Black Hand's heard rumors. Nothing concrete, but there's been talk of newcomers asking questions, offering help to people in bad situations. We've been keeping eyes on it."

  They continued talking, Donnie sharing information about suspicious strangers and unusual activities reported by gang members. Ulrich absorbed it all while maintaining casual conversation, his mind remembering the details for later divination attempts.

  Then he noticed the plushie's shadow.

  His Shadow Vision had activated naturally, the talent responding to some subconscious trigger. And in his enhanced perception, the bunny's shadow on the floor near the fireplace was behaving strangely.

  The shadow elongated slightly and contracted, as though trying to draw attention to something specific. The movement reminded Ulrich of a dog pawing at its owner's leg, attempting to communicate urgent information.

  was the first thought that came.

  Ulrich's mind raced through various possibilities. The entity possessing the plushie had shown goodwill and had called itself his friend. If it was trying to warn him now, something in this room was dangerous.

  He scanned the environment with his enhanced perception while maintaining a casual expression. Nothing obvious stood out. Donnie seemed normal, his body language relaxed and open, the air of confidence that he'd known Donnie to carry. Adeline played with the plushie innocently. The room's furniture and decorations appeared ordinary.

  Then Ulrich focused specifically on shadows, using his Shadow Vision's full capability.

  And the realization came with ice-cold clarity. Where every other shadow in the room matched its source perfectly, Donnie Shelby's shadow contained an abnormality. It looked like two forms occupying the same space, their outlines overlapping imperfectly. One shadow moved with Donnie's body naturally. The other shifted fractionally out of sync, as though something else inhabited the same physical form.

  The same pattern Ulrich had witnessed with Victor at Augustus Manor, except more subtle. This wasn't active control, not the violent takeover of a vengeful spirit. This was something deeper, more integrated. An entity living inside Donnie Shelby, wearing him like a suit while maintaining enough autonomy that the host appeared completely normal.

  Ulrich's danger sense exploded, but he kept his expression neutral through sheer force of will. His hand moved casually to his coat, fingers brushing against the concealed weapons while his mind worked frantically.

  Donnie was possessed. For how long? Days? Weeks? Since the weaponry crate crisis months ago?

  And if Donnie was compromised, what about Adeline? What about the entire Shelby family?

  "You alright?" Donnie asked, noticing Ulrich's brief pause. "You look pale."

  "Just tired. Long day." Ulrich forced a smile. "Actually, I should probably get going. Didn't mean to keep you up this late."

  "You sure? You came all this way."