The Prand News cost twelve bisso—roughly the price of a meager breakfast, or the cheapest sweet pastry from a stall in Crossroads Square. You could buy it from a paperboy, or walk a little farther to the kiosk at the end of the avenue.
Duncan bought his copy at that very kiosk, clinking a few coins into the tin tray. The owner, a middle-aged man hunched over his own reading, merely waved without glancing up. He was absorbed in an article analyzing old lottery numbers—thick with brightly colored lines and empty hopes.
Tucking the newspaper under one arm, Duncan caught the headline right away.
CHURCH GUARD UNIT CRUSHES SOLAR CULT RING UNDER COMMAND OF INQUISITOR VANNA WAYNE
There was a photograph of the inquisitor printed alongside the story. Duncan was surprised: she was young. A tall, striking woman with a pale scar across her left eye, armored in sleek silver plate and combat skirts. She towered over the men beside her, a double-handed greatsword strapped to her back. Behind her stood a hulking steam-powered mech, its armored hull bristling with turret mounts.
The juxtaposition was almost absurd—like a knight plucked from medieval romance posing beside an ironclad war machine. But in this city, it worked. Somehow, it all made sense.
Duncan studied the image for a long time.
The news itself was favorable: the cult site had been raided, its leaders arrested, its victims freed. More importantly, it told him something about the world he was stepping into.
An inquisitor trained to deal with the arcane. A mechanized battalion powered by steam and sacred rites. A church wielding both divine blessings and rotating cannons.
These were details the Vanished could never deliver.
He tucked the paper under his arm and began the walk back toward his borrowed antique shop.
Compared to wandering the streets alone, a local informant who already trusted him was a valuable resource—and right now, Nina was waiting.
Back on the ship, Duncan could still feel everything through the tether that bound him to the Vanished. The old goat was steering the helm. Alice hadn't exploded anything. All was quiet on the ghost ship. For now.
Besides, the crew code said "the captain may leave the vessel on occasion."
What was a spirit projection if not a very dramatic shore leave?
A pleasant scent caught his attention.
He paused beside a street-side bakery. Fresh cakes sat in the display, simple ones, nothing elegant—but enough to make his mouth water.
He checked his pocket. Just under twenty bisso.
Enough for a slice.
Moments later, Duncan emerged from the shop, a cheap slab of honey cake in hand, the newspaper tucked beneath his arm, and the faintest hint of a smile tugging at his lips.
He walked slowly, savoring the moment.
It was such a small thing—walking through the city, buying food, heading home—but it grounded him. Gave him something human to hold onto in a world of ghost ships, twisted cults, and extradimensional anomalies.
Living on the Vanished wasn't bad. The goat talked too much. Alice was a lot. But terra firma had its charm.
He reached the antique shop. The familiar, timeworn sign above the door read, in cracked paint:
DUNCAN'S ANTIQUES
He opened the door.
The bell chimed.
Footsteps thundered on the stairs. A young woman—Nina—rushed down to meet him, her long brown hair bouncing behind her.
"Uncle Duncan! Where were you?" she exclaimed, her expression caught somewhere between worry and exasperation. "You said you were just stepping outside—I thought you'd gone off to a bar again. Or the casino…"
Duncan blinked.
He hadn't expected anyone to worry.
Certainly not her.
He looked at this girl—eighteen, maybe—nervous, flustered, clearly concerned for a man who didn't deserve it. Not the original "uncle," not the one Duncan had replaced. A drunk. A failure. A man steeped in darkness.
And still, she cared.
"I was just out for a walk," he said gently. "Picked up the paper. Got a little something."
He walked to the counter and set down the newspaper and honey cake. Nina's expression changed—suspicion faded into something like disbelief, and then softened.
"I… I thought you weren't coming back," she murmured, and then without missing a beat, she spun on her heel and darted back upstairs. "Wait right there! I made breakfast!"
Before he could reply, she was gone.
She returned a minute later with a tray in her arms, carefully balanced: two bowls of corn and beetroot soup, a pair of mugs, a plate of thin-sliced bread. Simple, but hearty. She set everything out with a kind of quiet joy, moving quickly, neatly, with a practiced rhythm.
Duncan watched her. Silent.
Watched as she cleaned a spot on the counter, fetched an extra chair, and slid it into place.
"Sit," she said cheerfully. "Dr. Albrecht says breakfast is the most important meal. Better than the pain meds."
Duncan hesitated.
He couldn't remember the last time someone had cooked for him. The last time anyone had done something so normal, so… kind.
He nodded.
Then he placed the honey cake in front of her.
Her eyes widened.
"You… bought this?" she said softly, stunned.
"You're still growing," he replied. "Need something sweet with your soup."
She stared at him, wide-eyed, and whispered: "Are you sure you're okay?"
"I'm fine," Duncan said, smiling faintly. "Just… realized it's been too long since I bought you dessert."
"It's been more than a year…" she muttered, blinking rapidly—and then grinned. "Half for you. Dr. Albrecht says you need your strength too."
He couldn't help but laugh—quiet, warm.
And he nodded.
"…Deal."