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The man with the large hat isn’t with the Sinthe vendors.
Freminet doesn’t know where he came from. He wasn’t here in the midst of the “cleanup.” Like a ghost, he appeared in the aftermath, silent and spectral as he descended in a haze of cerulean.
Whoever he is, he’s a witness. Freminet readies his claymore.
The man is faster. In an instant, he’s upon Freminet, knocking off his helmet with a strike that twists his neck, then pinning him by the throat to the damp iron of the pipework under their feet. Freminet gags as the air pressure spikes and the atmosphere seems to collapse around him. The Anemo Vision hanging at the man’s chest glows as bright as his eyes. Even for a Vision-bearer, his strength is uncanny.
Freminet is on the brink of unconsciousness when the man finally lets up, dispersing his Anemo and loosening his grip. Freminet chokes in air, hands rising weakly to clamp around the wrist at the edge of his vision. The man scoffs.
“So she’s still using her ‘children’ to do her dirty work, just like the last one. How pathetic.”
“Who are you?” Freminet gasps.
“Nobody of importance. Just a passing wanderer.”
Now that he gets a closer look at him, Freminet realizes that the man is Inazuman. Short hair frames a youthful face, and his eyes, sea-blue just moments ago, have faded to a dusky violet. Freminet can’t imagine what this outlander wanderer wants from him. He isn’t dressed like one of the Gardes or even one of the Champion Duelists, despite his extravagant attire. Perhaps he’s a buyer. The bodies of the two vendors are still in view; Freminet hadn’t had the chance to haul them into the Fleuve Cendre before being ambushed. But their product is still on their persons, so why is the wanderer focusing on him?
As if reading his mind, the wanderer says, “I have business with your ‘Father.’ You’re just the unlucky one I happened to follow from the House of the Hearth.”
Freminet suddenly feels all the wet and cold of the Court of Fontaine’s underground as terror swells his heart. The wanderer knows of Father. This isn’t about Sinthe. It’s something much more dangerous than that.
Freminet doesn’t speak. The wanderer has the look of a cat toying with a mouse as he lifts his free hand and manifests a sphere of raging Anemo.
“Are you good at holding your tongue for her?” He rolls the sphere around in his palm, the look that crosses his face one of unparalleled disgust. “Even a loyal dog can be brought to heel with enough punishment.”
Freminet closes his eyes. He won’t talk. He’ll never talk—not if it means betraying Father, betraying Lyney and Lynette and all of their family at the House of the Hearth. He can take the pain. He’s used to punishment; Crucabena made certain of that. If he dies here, then at least his family will be safe.
But he’s scared. Pers was knocked out of his hands along with his claymore when the wanderer struck. He just wishes they could have been together during his final moments.
The wanderer exhales softly. “Just kidding.”
He dispels the sphere and rocks back onto his heels. Freminet remains still, anticipating a fake-out. It doesn’t come. Cautiously, he sits up.
The wanderer kicks at the fallen claymore, lifting it into his hand with a burst of Anemo.
“You’ll continue your ‘Father’s’ mission,” he says, planting the claymore into the ground and leaning on it. “And you’ll take me with you.“
Freminet massages his throat as he stands, discreetly searching for an escape route out of the corner of his eye. But even if he could outrun the wanderer, Pers is still here. He won’t abandon family, and that includes Pers.
The wanderer follows his gaze to the little clockwork penguin lying on its side next to one of the bodies. Freminet lurches forward on instinct.
“Don’t hurt him!”
The wanderer narrows his eyes, then crouches to retrieve Pers. “What is this?” But his expression appears to soften as he turns Pers over in his hand. “A doll?”
Freminet hangs his head. “He’s my—my family,” he stutters, cheeks reddening. “Please, don’t hurt him.”
He expects the wanderer to make fun of him like people always do when they learn of his attachment to Pers. Instead, the wanderer steps up to him and shoves the penguin against his chest.
“Take it,” he says. “And this.” He holds out the claymore. “Now let’s go. Resist, and I’ll kill your family—and not just the doll.”
Freminet snatches up Pers, then hesitantly accepts his claymore. “If,” he starts, his voice shaky, “if that’s an order…”
Without daring to move the bodies, he turns away from the river itself and continues toward his original destination within the depths of the Fleuve Cendre. The wanderer follows so close behind that Freminet should hear him breathing, steady as clockwork. But he hears nothing, not even footsteps. He doesn’t know how the wanderer manages it, but it’s no wonder he was able to sneak up on him.
That doesn’t matter now, Freminet tells himself. He needs to focus on his mission. Even as a hostage, he won’t fail Father.
According to the House of the Hearth’s intel, his target’s lab should be tucked away in the labyrinth of pipes ahead. The man’s name is Rochefort, and he’s a Sinthe manufacturer and smuggler with blood on his hands. His area of distribution is wide, spanning all the way to Poisson. Though the damage he and his co-conspirators have wrought is immense, it was only recently that House operatives were able to track down the location of his lab. Father instructed Freminet to “ensure that he’s no longer a player” in the Sinthe trade. Like always, she left how this was to be done up to him. She’s never forced him to do what Crucabena demanded of him on pain of death, but his “cleanups” are the only way he knows how to operate.
Still, Lyney worries about him when it comes to these sorts of tasks and had agreed to accompany him this time to assist. Freminet keeps an anxious eye over his shoulder, hoping his brother will have forgotten his promise. The last thing he needs is Lyney showing up and further aggravating the wanderer’s temper. It’s clear enough that the wanderer is dangerous. Freminet can’t fathom who he is, but he knows of Father, and his strength is unreal. Freminet has no doubt that even in a fair fight, the wanderer would defeat him handily.
A sudden whistling sound makes him stop dead, and he turns in time to see the wanderer slicing a flaming arrow out of the air. Freminet’s heart plummets. Behind them, bow raised, is Lyney.
Lyney’s eyes are steely as he conjures up another arrow. “Where,” he breathes, “are you taking my brother?”
The wanderer glares. “Another lapdog.”
He kicks himself into the air and lashes out. Lyney dodges a blast of Anemo with the litheness of a cat then fires off another arrow. The wanderer is quick, too, and easily dodges. He gathers up a black hole of wind into his hand, and this time, Lyney only barely manages to evade it.
“Stop!” Freminet cries, rushing to intercept them. “Lyney, don’t fight him! He’s—he’s dangerous!”
The wanderer taps back down onto the ground beside Freminet. “Listen to your ‘brother,’” he says, the emphasis unpleasant and unsubtle. “There’s no need to get yourselves killed needlessly. So long as you do as I say, I have no cause to harm you.”
“Freminet.” Lyney’s voice is tense. “Who is this fellow? What was he trying to do to you?”
“Father,” Freminet mutters, his eyes flicking toward the wanderer. “He knows Father. He—he said he wants to join me on my mission.”
Lyney scowls at the wanderer. “Who are you? How do you know Father?”
“If you’re so curious,” the wanderer says, turning his back on them, “then hurry up and complete your mission as if I weren’t here. Who knows—maybe you’ll learn something interesting?”
He advances deeper into the tunnel before stopping. “Well?” he demands without turning around.
Lyney exchanges a look with Freminet. “What do you think?” he whispers. “A former member of the House of the Hearth?”
“Your little ‘family’ disgusts me,” the wanderer bites out. Freminet jumps, surprised that he was able to hear from so far away. “Hurry up. Let’s get this over with.”
With a pleading glance toward Lyney, Freminet steps forward. “I—I’ll lead the way.”
“You next,” Lyney growls at the wanderer, who laughs.
“Alright.”
They continue down the corridor in silence. Freminet flexes his fingers around the hilt of his claymore, restless and unsettled. Before, he worried that his target might have hired goons to protect himself. Now, the concern seems trivial. Can he trust the wanderer to keep his word not to harm them? And what does the wanderer want with Father? Does it constitute a betrayal to their family just to bring him along? Perhaps it would be better to make a final stand here and avoid playing into a trap. But Lyney would never allow Freminet to sacrifice himself. Lyney would fight to the death to defend his family.
The Sinthe den isn’t much to speak of—a literal hole in the wall barred by a rusted grille over a crudely cut door. To Freminet’s surprise, there aren’t any guards posted outside. Did Rochefort think it would make him stand out too much? Or is he simply so confident in his hidden lab that he didn’t expect to be confronted at all?
“Stand back,” the wanderer warns.
Freminet and Lyney have just enough time to leap back before the grille and door are blasted off their hinges, crashing into the lab with a force that would have crushed anyone standing immediately behind them. The wanderer doesn’t wait for the dust to settle before leaping into the air and speeding inside. Freminet dons his helmet before following, Lyney at his heels.
The Sinthe lab is unexpectedly small and cramped for such an elaborate operation. Lights are strung haphazardly across the ceiling, casting strange shadows over the equipment below. Books with yellowing pages fight for space in the shelves along the walls, and paper is strewn across the floor and the single wooden desk that holds vials of Sinthe, several already smashed on the ground from the impact of the door. Vats of a pastel liquid hang over them, trickling what Freminet recognizes as Primordial Seawater down through distillers. He shivers. If even a single vat were to fall, it would be the end of him, Lyney, and Rochefort.
But Rochefort has more pressing matters to worry about now. A man in his forties with graying hair and sharp eyes that presently bulge behind his glasses, he struggles to breathe around the wanderer’s hand pinning him to the back wall.
“Wh-who are you?” he rasps. It’s all he can manage before the wanderer tightens his grip, making him gag.
“Is that all you’re doing here?” the wanderer demands, gesturing to the Sinthe setup with his free hand. “Making that drug? Don’t you dare lie to me.”
Rochefort jerks his head up then down, and the wanderer loosens his hold.
“These brats are here to assassinate you. If you want to live, confess all of your crimes. Now.”
Rochefort lifts a trembling hand to point at a leather-bound ledger partially soaked with Sinthe on the desk. “Everyone I’ve worked with and everywhere I’ve distributed—you’ll find it all in there,” he wheezes. “Please, have mercy!”
They always beg when it comes down to it. Freminet has long numbed himself to their plights. He raises his claymore. A strike through the neck will end it quickly.
But a gust of wind unbalances him, and he stumbles, catching himself on the blade of his claymore.
“So eager to shed blood on her behalf?”
The wanderer tosses Rochefort aside then reaches for the ledger. “Isn’t it enough to throw him to the Gardes? You’ll lure out a lot of other rats that way.”
He starts flipping through the pages, heedless of Rochefort’s whimpering. Finally, he closes the ledger and shoves it at Lyney. “Seems he really is just a common drug dealer. What a waste of my time.” To Freminet, he adds, “Is that all your ‘Father’ makes you do? Go after petty criminals?”
Freminet freezes, his voice suddenly locked in his throat.
“Father’s goal right now is to save Fontaine,” Lyney pipes up. “I don’t know what you want from her, but aren’t there better people for you to harass?”
“I have my orders.” The wanderer swings his attention to Lyney. “And you. You’re her favorite, aren’t you? What do you know about Project Stuzha?”
“Project Stuzha?” Lyney’s confusion is clear in his tone, but the wanderer’s gaze on him is intense, unrelenting. “I don’t know. Father’s never said anything about a Project Stuzha before.”
Freminet squeezes the hilt of his claymore, terrified that the wanderer won’t believe Lyney even though he’s telling the truth.
But the wanderer only sighs. “Forget it. Even my… benefactor is having a hard time deciphering it.”
He kicks Rochefort out of the way, then passes between Freminet and Lyney. “Call the Gardes. Or, if you want to kill this man for the thrill, I won’t stop you.”
Rochefort whimpers.
“But if you’re just getting your hands dirty for her sake, I’d advise against it. She isn’t worth your trust and devotion. She’ll turn on you like the wolf in sheep’s clothing that she is if it suits her. Consider yourselves warned.”
He flings the broken door aside with his Anemo, causing the vats overhead to sway. “If her present operation isn’t tied to Project Stuzha, then… Well. At least for now, my oh-so kind and merciful benefactor won’t require me to act against my former comrades.”
He steps over the threshold.
“Wait!” Freminet cries, pulling off his helmet. To his surprise, the wanderer stops. Freminet struggles to find words. “Just who are you?” he manages at last. “How do you know so much about the Fatui? About Father?”
“Former comrades,” he had said. Could that mean—
The wanderer turns partway, arms crossed. “Did you hear? They say there’s a sixth seat amongst the Fatui Harbingers that’s never been filled. Strange, isn’t it?” He grins, raising his hand to tip down his hat. “Maybe it’s a ghost holding onto the sixth seat.”
He starts to laugh. Then, like a shadow, he slips away into the dark.
As soon as he’s out of sight, Lyney rushes to Freminet’s side. “Are you alright?”
Freminet collapses back against the wall, resting his hand over his heart. He can feel it pounding under his palm. He can’t recall the last time he felt so rattled.
“Who was that?” he asks, letting Lyney help him up. “The Sixth Harbinger—h-has there ever been one?”
Lyney’s brow is furrowed. Freminet can tell he’s upset.
“I don’t know,” he says at last. “There isn’t one now, but…”
Freminet takes Pers from his belt and clutches him to his chest. The unease is insidious, creeping into his blood. He’s suddenly keenly aware of the inherent danger of the underground Sinthe lab, of the creaking of the vats and Rochefort moaning like a ghost.
“We’ll ask Father about it,” Lyney says, trying to sound reassuring. “Don’t worry.”
And Father—a wolf in sheep’s clothing. She can have her tempers, but Freminet has never known her to be two-faced—not to her family. But what the wanderer said doesn’t leave him.
“Don’t worry,” Lyney repeats, and now, somehow, he sounds almost as desperate as Rochefort.
Light casts shadows, and shadows are the dominion of the House of the Hearth. But those lingering, ethereal things through which light passes unimpeded can never project shadows.
The sixth seat is empty. The sixth seat has always been empty. Freminet hugs Pers tighter.
Ghosts, he knows, don’t leave shadows.