The side street narrowed as Caleb approached Aurelian's alchemy shop. Dark whispershroud pine walls absorbed what little sunlight filtered between buildings, creating pools of shadow.
His boots tapped against worn cobblestones. With each step, precious seconds bled from the preservation cloth's timer. At least urgency gave him something to think about besides the yawning emptiness that had started following him from one life into the next.
A single pane of smoked glass served as the storefront, reflecting his approach in distorted fragments. The brass mortar and pestle on the hanging sign had long since surrendered to tarnish. Everything about The Golden Mortar signaled "stay away."
Caleb grasped the iron door handle and pulled, but the door held fast. He tried again, putting his shoulder into it. Still locked tight. Of course. The man demanded punctuality and would threaten him over lukewarm quail, yet left his own door locked during the delivery window. Classic.
Something thudded behind the building.
Caleb sighed. The preservation cloth pulsed with warmth in his hands as its magic bled away, second by second. He had better keep moving.
An alley opened along the building’s side, barely wide enough for two people to pass. Darkness gathered thick between the walls and was broken only by lighter sections where windows had been boarded over.
A second sound, definitely from behind the shop and traveling down the alleyway. Just deliver the food and get out, Foster.
He stepped into the narrow passage. The temperature dropped immediately, trapped air carrying the scent of old moisture and something chemical, like the cleaning solutions they’d used at his old office but more herbal. His footsteps were muffled against the damp walls.
The alley bent at a hard angle to wrap around the back of the shop. As Caleb turned the corner, something hot and slick splattered across his face.
His first thought was absurdly mundane: someone emptying wash water from an upper window. The liquid was warm, almost body temperature, coating his cheeks and staining his shirt.
Then the smell reached his nose.
Copper. Salt. That distinct metallic tang that bypassed thought and went straight to the primitive parts of the brain. He snapped to attention and the world narrowed, the tableau before him permanently etching itself onto his consciousness.
At the rear of The Golden Mortar stood Aurelian Veil, his silver-blond hair immaculate despite the squalor of the alley. His grey eyes were narrowed, visibly annoyed by the interruption to his afternoon. With arms folded, he drummed his fingers against his sleeve.
Another man was on the ground wearing a suit of dark, boiled leather armor, scuffed from use but clearly of good quality. He knelt with his head thrown back at an angle that made Caleb’s neck twinge with sympathy. One hand clutched a leather satchel, knuckles clenched white. Another man stood over him, and this one made Caleb’s blood run cold.
Everything about the third man was wrong. His offense was elusive, present only in details that seemed too perfect, too arranged. The lean human wore his blond hair styled with artful care, and his light clothing was spotless despite the grimy alley.
There was something about his eyes that was unsettling, however. Pale blue and washed out, catching light on the surface… yet somehow vacant. Empty.
A dagger gleamed in his hand, its arc just completed. The blade had opened the second man's throat and arterial spray painted the alley wall in a crimson fan, blood still dripping from steel to cobblestone.
The kneeling man made a noise: half-formed words choking on his lifeblood, the wet rasp of someone drowning in open air. His body folded forward, fingers clutching toward his slit throat as if he might somehow hold the blood inside.
Caleb locked up. The warm package of spiced quail held against his torso felt like an anchor to a saner world.
That didn’t just happen. This isn't happening.
One where his biggest concern was customer satisfaction and thirty-minute delivery windows.
I’m not seeing this.
Not casual murder in broad daylight.
Two sets of eyes found him, and Aurelian’s scowl deepened. The killer’s face looked calmly on.
He’s smiling. Why is he smiling?
That pleasant, empty expression became a small grin as he fixed his eyes on Caleb. It felt like being stared at by a mannequin.
The dying man hit the ground. The heavy impact jolted Caleb, breaking the paralysis that had held him as he jumped slightly.
The killer bent down and wiped his blade clean on the dead man’s tunic. In one fluid motion, he unhooked the satchel from the man’s back and slipped a simple silver ring from his finger, pocketing both without a second glance. Each movement was methodical, almost practiced. This seemed routine to him. He straightened, turning to Aurelian with that easy smile that belonged at dinner parties, not murder scenes.
“Really, Aurelian.” The killer’s voice was warm and melodious, touched with gentle reproach. “Must we keep having these little chats? Zarven is a patient man, but his patience has limits.”
“Spare me the theatrics, Cillian,” Aurelian said, full of condescension. Under his breath, he continued, “Thugs and their delusions of eloquence…”
Cillian’s smile widened a fraction. “You keep trying to buy from outside of our network… eventually, the lesson might have to be a bit more personal.” He cocked his head, pondering. “Your sister has such lovely hands.”
Aurelian didn’t even flinch. He let his eyes drift from the corpse to Cillian, an expression of withering disappointment on his face. “All this… theatricality,” he said, lacing the word with scorn. “To deliver a message a simple runner could have handled with less mess. Zarven’s methods grow more pedestrian by the day.”
There's a corpse cooling on the ground and this guy is focused on the untidiness of it all. As though killing should be neat. Caleb shoved down the urge to vomit.
Cillian turned towards him, and Caleb's heart nearly stopped. The man began to slowly walk down the alley toward him.
I’m a witness. Oh crumb, oh crumb, I need to run! To fight, to scream! Anything!
The words were silent orders his body refused to heed. He felt fused to the cobblestones, arms locked in a death grip around the quail. He could only watch Cillian approach, that eerie pleasant smile growing larger with each step.
Think. THINK!
His thoughts snapped to the alley brawl with Narbok. He’d earned Skills. [Dodge]. [Unarmed Block]. [Savant of the Body] had foundations to build on, but that knowledge was a distant thought. He'd just watched Cillian kill like others breathed, the man a grinning emptiness wearing human skin. The sight of him stripped all thought of resistance from Caleb’s mind. Watching him end the stranger’s existence like it was just another chore had cut the link between mind and muscles.
Adrenaline flooded through him, the chemicals starting to force action into his locked frame. He lifted his fist, the movement stilted and reflexive while he kept clutching the quail like a shield. His body trembled as he tried to straighten, making himself bigger in a threat they both knew was hollow.
Cillian kept coming. Ten feet. Five feet. Close enough that Caleb could see the fine stitching on his collar and smell the faint cologne, lemon and something pungent, like juniper, that overrode the alley’s stench. He brushed past Caleb’s fist and stopped, so close they nearly touched, the world narrowing to the killer’s placid, cheerful face. Seconds dragged by, each heartbeat taking forever. Every breath came harder than the last.
Cillian evaluated him with detached interest, still smiling. Then he winked.
The gesture was grotesque. It said this was just a little joke between friends. Aren't we having fun?
Then Cillian slipped past him. The contact was light as silk, but Caleb felt the graze like an electric shock. The killer continued down the alley and a cheerful whistle floated back, some folk tune, sweet and simple. It made Caleb feel sick to his stomach, and he had to fight down his gorge once again.
His knees finally buckled when he could no longer hear the whistle, and he collapsed against the alley wall, rough stone biting into his shoulder and the only thing keeping him from his knees. His gut heaved, and he began to shake furiously as he clutched the alchemist’s meal.
Aurelian’s voice impatiently interrupted Caleb's shock. “Is that my order? Well, do not just stand there gawking. I am hungry, and I have work to do. Bring it inside.” The alchemist turned and disappeared through the shop’s back door, leaving Caleb alone with the corpse.
The stranger stared at nothing with clouded eyes. Blood pooled beneath him, seeking the path of least resistance between the cobblestones.
Caleb lurched ahead, gripping the blood-flecked bundle until his knuckles whitened. He moved through the door without thinking, from the charnel house alley into the shop’s pristine interior.
The cool air was a shock against his skin. The transition was jarring: from death-stink and shadows to immaculate brilliance and bright lights. They passed through Aurelian’s workshop first, a cramped maze of bubbling apparatus and acrid fumes. Glass tubes snaked between workbenches cluttered with half-finished experiments. The alchemist wove through the chaos without looking, leading Caleb through another doorway in the storefront. The Golden Mortar’s showroom was all hard angles and empty space. Towering mahogany shelves reached the ceiling but held almost nothing. A single crystal bottle here. Three identical jars there. Everything was arranged like they were trying to showcase an exhibit rather than sell a commodity.
Behind a granite counter, Aurelian was already pulling items from beneath it. Caleb stood rooted to the spot, the warm bundle of quail forgotten in his grip and the shop’s sterile order dissolved into a meaningless blur. Sound collapsed into a distant drone. His mind replayed the scene over and over, as an unwilling audience to the murder.
The gurgle. That casual wipe of the blade.
Cillian’s empty eyes and the cheerful whistle floating down the alley.
Aurelian got busy behind his counter with purpose. Glass clinked against stone. A small scale appeared, its brass pans bright. Measuring a fine grey powder, the alchemist worked at his craft like what had just happened didn't faze him at all.
The man paused, glancing up from the scale and looking between Caleb’s face and the bundle in his arms.
“Boy.”
The sound barely registered. “Boy!” Aurelian snapped. “My food. Give it here.”
Caleb stood frozen, his mind locked in that bloody loop.
“Useless,” Aurelian muttered. He produced a small vial filled with clear liquid and walked it over.
“Here. Drink this.”
Caleb took the vial with numb fingers, staring at it dumbly. The liquid looked clear and carried no scent. It could have been water or poison.
Aurelian sneered. “It will help with the shock.”
Caleb downed it in one swallow. The moment the concoction touched his tongue, the suffocating dread evaporated between one breath and the next. He thought clearly again. His breathing steadied and the trembling faded. A dull throb began building behind his eyes.
“Thank—”
“Do not thank me,” Aurelian interrupted. “That mass-produced swill is effective, but you shall have the worst headache of your life when it wears off. I am not sure what it will do to someone un-Awakened beyond that... but no matter. Now. My food.”
With Caleb's mind having cleared, the obvious question surfaced. “Shouldn’t we… alert the authorities, sir?”
Aurelian scoffed. “And tell them what? That Zarven’s enforcer murdered an Unlit forager who dared to gather spirit herbs for me? Zarven owns half of this village. You are being naïve, and it is irritating, so I will educate you.”
He leaned against the counter indolently, examining Caleb like a particularly dim student.
“You should be grateful for their ambivalence: it is the only reason you are still alive. Without it, Cillian would have had to kill any witnesses. It is a simple, cruel calculation that I should not have to explain further.” He curled his lip. “Instead, he got to enjoy your fear and let you live to spread the story. That is its own form of currency for men like him.”
Each word cut away another piece of the illusion that somewhere, somehow, there was justice in this world.
“How can you be so casual about this?” Caleb asked, his words unsteady. “He just threatened your sister.”
Aurelian sighed with exaggerated weariness. “Zarven might harass my suppliers and send his dogs to growl, but he would not dare harm me or my sister.”
“Why not?”
“Even in Deadfall, certain lineages inspire fear.” Aurelian straightened his cufflinks with care. “House Veil may stand diminished, but our reach extends to the Imperial Court. Zarven is cunning enough to understand the difference between inconveniencing me and signing his own death warrant.”
The alchemist looked down at Caleb’s blood-spattered hands. “Now, my meal?”
Aurelian finally took the package from Caleb’s hands. With fastidious care, he unwrapped the preservation cloth, revealing the box with perfectly roasted quail beneath. Steam rose in thin spirals, carrying the aroma of wine and exotic spices.
The alchemist produced a silver fork and took a delicate bite. He chewed thoughtfully, eyes half-closed in appraisal.
“Sufficient, I suppose. The spice blend is uninspired, but it will have to do. Return to the inn. I shall require this meal for the remainder of the week. See if that cook of yours can manage consistency.”
Without conscious decision, Caleb found himself moving toward the door, having retrieved the preservation cloth. Dark stains marred the expensive fabric: a dead man’s blood.
“Oh, and boy?” Aurelian called before he’d made it halfway. “Do try not to drip on my floors on your way out. Blood is nearly impossible to remove from whispershroud.”
Caleb stumbled into the red evening light. Aurum had set, leaving only Cinder to hang low in the sky. The red star painted everything in a bloody glow that matched the stains drying on his hands. Around him, merchants packed up their wares and some music played in the distance. Caleb started, the sound twisting into Cillian’s haunting whistle.
The world hadn’t changed, but he had. Now, he saw what existed below the surface. He saw the forager on his knees. Felt the ghostly touch of Cillian’s silk shirt lingering on his skin.
The preservation cloth hung limp in his grip. The blood had begun to dry, transforming from bright red to a deep burgundy in Cinder’s glow. It was stiff, gummy under his trembling fingers. A dead man’s signature.
His ninety-five silver felt like a joke. A child’s allowance. What good was one spirit stone against a man who killed for sport?
Icy dread had scoured away the hollow ennui from earlier in the day. His body moved on autopilot, carrying him back toward the inn. Every shadow looked like the alley. Every doorway was a threat. The comfortable routine he’d built of chopping vegetables, earning coin, and pretending this was just another life, had been a lie. A child’s game of make-believe while monsters walked the streets in fine clothes.
Aurelian’s voice repeated in his mind. "You should be grateful… it is the only reason you are still alive." He’d been shielded by sheer indifference. His life had been worth less than a moment of a killer’s amusement. His plan of stacking silver coins and buying one spirit stone was a joke. A child’s plan, built on the idea that rules mattered. And he had just seen the only rule that did.
Power.
He needed power that made men like Cillian pause. The kind of power that meant he would never be the one on his knees in an alley again. The Hearthsong Inn rose ahead, solid and safe and suddenly fragile. He looked at his shaking hands, at the dark stains on the cloth.
How do I make sure I am never that helpless again?