Marked

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The factory hadn’t changed much in five years. The building was the same shade of brownish grey, grime on brick, and the rusted coils of razor wire still gaped atop the walls. From my position on the rooftop I could look down into what had been the car park, and into the windows of the factory itself. There were no signs of movement, but that didn’t matter: I knew what was inside. Off to the right, the skyscrapers of Canary Wharf rose into the night, yellow-white pinpoints glittering off the dark waters of the Thames, topped by the double strobe of the pyramid-shaped tower. The hum of a boat’s engine blended with the deeper rustle of the waves, all of it merging into the sounds of London.

It was June, but the night wasn’t a warm one. The breeze off the water was keeping the air cool, enough so that my armour was comfortable to wear. My armour is plate-and-mesh, an imbued item, alive in its own way, and if I focused on it I could feel its presence, guarded and watchful. There was a second imbued item tucked into my pocket – a dreamstone – and a third hidden in that factory. Of the three, my armour was the only one I was glad for. It might not be the strongest of items, but it was one I’d come to trust, and its reactive mesh had saved my life more than once. It could deflect a knife or bullet, maybe even a spell from a battle mage.

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