Dunn Smith

He had to get back. He squeezed his eyes shut, picturing his room, the sunlight, the comforting mountain of books. He focused on that sensation, the strange tingle that had brought him here, trying to reverse it. He reached for the door, the handle of a book, anything that would lead him home.

There was nothing. Only a void where the connection should have been, a silent, unbreachable wall. It was like trying to grasp smoke. The power that had brought him here was gone, or perhaps it was still there, but something was interfering, jamming the signal.

A shudder ran through him, a primal dread that had nothing to do with the grimy city. He felt a pull, a distant, colossal call that seemed to echo from the very depths of the earth and the farthest reaches of the cosmos simultaneously. It was ancient, powerful, and utterly indifferent. It was the pull of the City of Silver, and it was vast, an anchor in the storm of realities, holding him fast.

He was trapped. Not by a lack of power, but by an excess of it. The unique nature of this world, its deep connection to something so profound and fundamental, was acting like a gravitational well for his ability, pulling it taut and snapping the thread that led back to Canada.

He was a novel traveler, and his first journey had become his last destination. His journey as a resident of this world had just begun. The realization settled in, not as a scream, but as a cold, hard stone in his gut. He looked at the fog-choked street, at the wary faces rushing past, and understood. The story wasn't just something to read anymore. It was the air he had to breathe.

He pulled his thin jacket tighter, a pathetic defense against the pervading chill. He was hungry, cold, and completely alone. First, he needed money.

Then, a place to stay. Then, answers. The street he was on, he remembered from the book, was in the East District, a place of cheap boarding houses and cheaper gin. He started walking, letting the current of shuffling pedestrians carry him deeper into the bowels of Tainato, a ghost with a beating heart in a world of ink and paper.

***

The smell of boiled cabbage and mildew was Eren's new alarm clock. It seeped through the floorboards of the third-floor boarding house room he'd managed to secure with a handful of coins from a busker's open case—desperation had made him a thief. The room was a closet, containing a narrow cot, a rickety washstand, and a single, grimy window overlooking a narrow alley. Mornings here didn't dawn; they congealed, the weak light doing little to burn through the perpetual haze of coal smoke.

Weeks had bled into a month. The initial, paralyzing shock had worn off, replaced by a grinding, gnawing survival instinct. The wonder of being in Tainato had curdled into the stark reality of its squalor.

The "adventure" was a constant battle against hunger and cold. He'd learned the hard way that a modern sensibility was a liability. He'd nearly been pickpocketed three times, stared down by constables for looking too long at shop displays, and nearly fainted from a combination of malnutrition and the sheer physical effort of walking everywhere.

He was changing. The softness of his modern life was being scraped away, layer by layer, revealing something harder, more wary beneath. He kept his head down, his hands in his pockets, and learned to navigate the city's undercurrents with the quiet desperation of a stray dog. The characters from the book were no longer names on a page. They were flesh and blood, potential threats, or perhaps, the only lifeline he had.

That's why he was here, in a pub called The Rusty Compass, nursing a lukewarm ale he couldn't really afford. The place was a symphony of creaking wood, sawdust, and the low murmur of a dozen conversations. He'd chosen a shadowed corner, trying to make himself small. He was waiting. Waiting for a man named Dunn Smith.

In the book, Dunn was a kind, stable figure, the captain of the Nighthawks in Tulas. But Eren wasn't in Tulas. He was in Tainato, a city that, according to the lore, had its own branch of the secretive organization. Finding them was the only logical step. They dealt with the strange, the supernatural—the very fabric of this world that held him captive. If anyone had answers, it would be them. If anyone could understand what he was, it was them.

The pub door creaked open, letting in a gust of damp air and a man who stood out from the dockworkers and clerks. He was tall, with a serious, clean-shaven face, dark hair, and eyes that held a weary but alert intelligence. He wore a plain, dark grey overcoat, immaculate despite the grime of the city, and a black top hat. He scanned the room, his gaze pausing for a fraction of a second on Eren's corner before moving on.

Dunn Smith. Or at least, a man who fit the description perfectly.

Eren's heart hammered against his ribs.

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