Chapter 43:

To Suffer and Enjoy in Solitude

> The recorded losses from the affliction plaguing the Lower City have now reached three hundred and seventy-two. However, unreported figures are estimated to exceed ten thousand, with casualties growing daily. The situation is unsustainable, and fear spreads faster than the sickness itself. I await your directives on the further dissemination of counter-intelligence

>

> — Listener Geralia, Report CCCIX-VDCXII

Thyra sat across from the bonded pair, her expression cool as she steeled herself for the fierce negotiation ahead. Across the simple wooden desk, two retired members of the Hand and Tongue—Knight Ryken and Speaker Elira—stared back at her, their postures exuding the confidence of seasoned veterans. After retirement, most in their positions found work in security—cushy, well-paid jobs that required little more than presence and reputation. But Thyra knew this negotiation wouldn’t be easy.

The room was sparse, just the way she liked it. The sturdy wooden walls gave the space a no-nonsense feel, and the only luxuries were the plants Thyra allowed herself, plants that required constant care and attention. Her eyes briefly flitted to her prized possession—a hydrasporus sapling, potted carefully on the corner of her desk. The marvelously tiny tree was a miracle of botany, its delicate leaves shimmering faintly in the light. Thyra felt a swell of pride, but as her mind wandered, she quickly snapped herself back to the conversation.

"One thousand gold each. Per week," Knight Ryken said, his gravelly voice cutting through the room like a blade. Elira, seated beside him, remained silent but her confident smirk said enough. She wasn’t going to budge either.

Thyra didn’t flinch. "That’s an outrageous sum for two weeks' work," she said, her voice flat and businesslike. "You’re asking for the price of a small estate in just one month."

"Security isn't cheap," Ryken said, leaning back in his chair with arms crossed. "Especially not for someone with our experience. You’re hiring protection from bonded professionals, not common sellswords."

Elira finally spoke, her tone smooth. "You wouldn’t be sitting across from us unless you knew our worth. We keep things quiet, efficient. You want the best, you pay for the best."

Thyra’s lips tightened, her fingers drumming lightly on the desk. She already knew how much she was willing to pay, and this was all part of the game. She allowed herself a moment of contemplation, her eyes drifting back to the hydrasporus sapling as if the delicate plant might offer wisdom.

"Five hundred," she said firmly, cutting through the tension with cold precision. "Per week. Per person. Plus fifty per week for incidentals."

Ryken raised an eyebrow, his hand stopping short of crossing the arms fully. Elira’s smirk faltered for the first time. The Speaker looked at Ryken, and the two exchanged a glance before settling their eyes back on Thyra.

"That's a low offer, even for a negotiation," Elira said, her voice tinged with displeasure, but the undercurrent of her excitement could not be hidden from Thyra.

"You'll find it's fair," Thyra countered smoothly. "Two weeks of work with no chance of danger, in a controlled environment. It’s not like I’m sending you to the southern coasts. You’ll get your thousand gold per week, plus your incidentals, and you'll take it because we both know you're not getting better work anywhere else right now."

The pair exchanged another glance, a silent conversation passing between them. Ryken’s mouth twitched, and he gave a brief nod, feigning hesitation, and Elira followed with a resigned sigh. "Five hundred each, and the fifty for incidentals," Elira agreed, her voice betraying her true pleasure now.

Thyra leaned back slightly in her chair, her face carefully composed. Inside, she was amused. She would have gladly paid more for this particular experiment, but the smug looks on Ryken and Elira’s faces as they stood to leave told her they believed they had walked away victorious.

As the pair exited the room, heads held high, Thyra allowed herself the smallest of smiles. Let them feel smug. Tomorrow, when they arrived for the job, she’d see how long their confidence lasted.

XXX

“What the fuck is this?” Ryken’s voice cut through the early morning stillness, his eyes wide with disbelief as he stared at the iron harness resting on the ground in front of him.

Thyra stood across from him, arms crossed, her expression calm and unbothered. "This, my dear Ryken, is a harness," she said with a touch of amusement. She then turned to Elira, whose eyes were locked on the strange, oversized plow nearby. "And that, my dear Elira, is a plow. A special one, made of much stronger material than your average farm equipment."

Elira’s gaze shifted from the plow to the field stretching out before them. Thirty acres of untamed land, wild and overgrown, bordered by the looming shadow of Centria in the distance. The commoners feared these lands—not because of superstition, but because of the ever-present threat of being stolen into the city for forced labor or worse, caught in the casual cruelties of the nobles who saw them as disposable. No farmer dared touch this land, and the workers Thyra had quietly sought had refused to even come near it.

"And out there," Thyra continued, sweeping her hand toward the land, "is the thirty-acre plot I recently purchased from the Magisters. It's undeveloped, untouched. None of the commoners want to work it, as you well know." She gave a tight smile. "But I plan to change that. To break this land, I need something stronger than ordinary tools."

Ryken’s face twisted with growing fury, his fists clenched. “You’re telling me you want us to—”

Thyra cut him off, pointing directly at him. "You will be my plow, Ryken," she said coldly. "And you," she added, turning her gaze to Elira, "will keep him hale and healthy while he works."

Ryken’s face turned red, his jaw tightening as he barely suppressed the urge to lash out. "This is madness," he growled. "You hired us for security, not to haul plows like common animals."

Thyra’s expression didn’t change. "I hired you for two weeks of work. This is the work I need done. If you’re not up for it, feel free to walk away. Oh, and please explain to the Magisterium that you violated a valid and binding contract, and find my money, plus interest calculated from the time of payment."

Ryken took a step forward, his anger barely contained. "This is not what we agreed—"

"We agreed on physical labor. You’re getting five hundred a week, and it’s a lot more than most would offer for this kind of work." Thyra’s voice was sharp now, her gaze steady. "The land needs to be broken, and you're the strongest man available. It’s simple. Either do the job you agreed to or forfeit your pay and reputation."

Ryken’s eyes blazed with fury. "My reputation? My reputation will be ruined if I’m seen plowing! Believe me, the news of this will spread like wildfire."

Thyra smiled coolly, her expression unmoved. "That, Ryken, is your concern. I speak to your reputation, legally, with the Magisterium. If you renege on a valid contract, you will be hard-pressed to find the work you so desperately need to cover your wife’s extravagant gambling habit. Yes, I know of that. I’ve hired you for a task. Whether you finish it as a man of your word or walk away in disgrace is entirely up to you."

Ryken’s face twisted, a mix of anger and desperation swirling in his gaze as he realized the trap he was caught in. Elira, standing beside him, glanced nervously between them, the tension thick in the air.

"You’re playing a dangerous game, Thyra," Ryken growled, gripping the harness as though he could crush it in his hands.

Thyra’s smile remained, unflinching. "Only for those unwilling to follow through on their commitments."

Elira's voice was low, but it carried an unmistakable edge of menace. "You forget yourself, ex-Scribe," she hissed, stepping closer. "We are alone out here. I could stop your heart with a single word. Ryken could turn you into a fine mist if he so chose, and I’m very willing to let him loose this exact moment."

Thyra turned to face Elira, her expression unflinching, her eyes cold as ice. "You dare threaten a Verdentia?" Her voice was steady, cutting through the tension like a blade. "On the very loam from which my family feeds this city?"

Ryken shifted uncomfortably, the weight of her words sinking in. The power of the Verdentia was well known, their influence over the food and resources of Centria was the very lifeblood of not only Centria, but the Capital itself. Going against that could have consequences far beyond a simple disagreement. His jaw clenched, and though his pride still burned, he knew he was trapped.

His voice, though still furious, wavered slightly. "Fine. I’ll do it. But make no mistake, this will be the last work you ever get from retirees."

Thyra's eyes never left Elira's, her voice as cold as ever. "Whatever you must say to re-establish your pride is immaterial to me." She tilted her chin toward the field, her tone sharp and commanding. "Over your left shoulder, you'll see a group of agriculturalists from my house. You will listen to their orders regarding your task."

Elira’s eyes narrowed, her threat now hanging impotently between them. Ryken clenched his fists, but said nothing.

"I will return in two days' time to see progress," Thyra added, her voice final. Without waiting for a response, she turned on her heel and walked away, her back straight, leaving the pair to stew in their helpless fury.

Behind her, the agriculturalists approached, tools in hand, ready to direct the unwilling labor of their new recruits.

This would make waves, and Thyra knew it. She’d be hearing from her father soon, at the very least. But then again, he had asked her to be creative. She had always been uncomfortable with the notion that those with great power used it solely for violence. Why should force be the only tool in their arsenal?

If power could shape nations, why not the land itself?

XXX

Zayd crouched in the shadows, his eyes locked on the decrepit establishment across the street, its front door barely hanging on rusted hinges. The manufactory district was a hell all its own—a labyrinth of soot-covered buildings and streets that reeked of desperation. Getting here had been a feat in itself, but being among the lowest caste of humanity made him understand the pull of Zahr all the more. The city's poison, its darkness, was far too deep.

He clenched his fists. He was done waiting for Godfrey.

It had been months since Godfrey’s return from the expedition, and in that time, Zayd had barely seen him. When they did meet, it was always for brief exchanges—Godfrey directing him to watch some house or another for signs of drug activity, or to walk the city healing those who could still be saved. He had been ordered not to take direct action until Godfrey contacted him again, but that had been three weeks ago. Three weeks of watching, of waiting, of doing nothing.

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Zayd’s jaw tightened. He had seen two children die of overdose just this day. Felt their small, fragile bodies cramping even with the last of the strength left in their muscles, the poison too deep in their veins for even his knowledge to fix. And for what? To sit on the sidelines while the world rotted around him?

He was done waiting. Done letting the inaction gnaw at him. Done letting his thoughts distract him from what needed to be done.

Zayd glanced down at the ampule in his hand, the glass catching the faint light from the grimy street lanterns. He set it gingerly to the side, its contents untouched for now. His movements were methodical as he reached for a cloth rag and a small vial of white liquid. Uncorking it with practiced ease, he poured the thick fluid generously onto the rag, the pungent smell rising between breaths.

Next, he drew out a thin dagger—narrow, sharp, and etched with faint lines. He gently coated the blade in the white liquid, the grooves along its surface not for decoration, but for better poison adherence. He sheathed it carefully into its specialized scabbard, the action so smooth it was clear this was a practiced ritual.

It had been a long time since he had needed this dagger. The life of the Gar was a life he had abandoned when he joined the Healers' Circle. But some habits die hard, and the blade, oiled and free of rust, was ready for its grim purpose. He had kept it clean, even when he swore never to wield it again.

Now, it seemed, the city had forced his hand.

He felt the familiar weight of the ampule between his fingers, the glass cool and fragile. Fifty grams of valerian root extract, he noted mentally, enough to sedate a dozen men. Two grams of nightshade alkaloid—just enough to dull the senses. One microgram of distilled aconite, the precision required to avoid lethality. His thumb brushed over the nodules at the base. The contact powder… perfect for a low-grade exothermic reaction. Not enough heat to ignite, but enough to accelerate the dispersion.

Zayd watched, his body tense but his mind sharp, waiting for the exact moment. When the man on the left of the door turned to say something to the man on the right, Zayd whipped his hand forward. The ampule sliced through the air, shattering with a soft crack against the wooden door just as the man on the right turned to respond.

Perfect timing.

The expanding cloud of powder caught both men full in the face, their noses and mouths perfectly positioned for the inhalation. They barely had time to realize something was wrong before their throats seized, cutting off their shouts. The panic in their eyes was fleeting; gasps for air gave way to unconsciousness as they slumped to the ground in a heap.

Zayd was on them in seconds, moving with a speed and precision that came from years of practice. He pulled out a hypodermic needle and, without hesitation, stabbed each man in the neck, injecting a slow-acting antidote. He had no intention of causing undue harm; these were likely just paid hands, men who had no idea what they were truly guarding.

They would wake with a headache, but they’d wake.

His focus turned back to the door.

His focus shifted to the door, Zayd swiftly pulled out a metal device with a plunger tube—small, unassuming, but designed for precision. He reached into his pouch, retrieving a vial that was slightly larger and thicker than the others, its glass gleaming faintly in the dim light. Gently, he uncorked it, the subtle hiss of pressure escaping as he carefully opened a compartment on the device and poured the contents into it.

The liquid settled with a soft gurgle, ready for use.

He paused, his hand resting on the door handle, a fleeting sense of foolishness crossing his mind. What if...

Feeling almost silly for not checking first, he pressed the handle and gave the door a gentle push.

Locked.

Zayd chuckled softly to himself, shaking his head.

Zayd took the device and carefully positioned it against the door where the deadbolt was secured, focusing the tip on the cross-section where three bolts met. He pressed the plunger slowly, his eyes fixed on the concave applicator as acrid steam began to hiss from the metal. The fumes curled up like tendrils of smoke, dark and menacing.

When the plunger reached its base, he counted ten steady heartbeats—each one measured, calm despite the tension. Then, with practiced precision, he removed the device and backed away from the final plume of poisonous smoke, waving it away with a flick of his hand. The door now stood vulnerable.

Zayd pushed gently, and the door swung open freely on its hinges. Ducking inside, he moved quickly to catch the severed piece of the deadbolt before it could clatter to the ground. His acid had eaten through it cleanly, leaving no trace of its former strength.

With a soft exhale, Zayd straightened up, the heavy air of the establishment settling around him.

The stench hit him immediately, thick and suffocating—the smell of rotten meat, sickly-sweet and cloying. Zayd wrinkled his nose, pressing forward into the darkness. The interior was somehow even darker than the grim streets outside, the only light seeping through the cracks of closed doors, casting faint lines of firelight across the filthy floor. The oppressive silence hung like a shroud, broken only by the distant creak of wood underfoot as he stalked further in.

His mind turned to his objective, sharpening his thoughts like a blade. This group was flooding the streets with a highly addictive and corrosive drug, practically giving it away to a population with no real agency. But why? He could imagine a thousand reasons why addicting a noble would be useful—blackmail, control, the usual tools of the powerful. But distributing an expensive drug en masse to laborers? That was a puzzle with far more sinister implications.

There was only one conclusion he could draw from this: destabilization. The labor force was the backbone of Centria's economy. Weakening it en masse would create a ripple effect, striking at the heart of the city's production, leaving the nobles scrambling to fill the void.

But he wasn’t a politico, and he knew well enough that there were games at play here beyond his understanding. He couldn’t see who would stand to gain from that kind of chaos—perhaps it wasn’t even about gain at all. Zayd wasn’t foolish enough to discount that destruction itself could be the goal. He’d met many people in his life who craved nothing more than pure, unthinking destruction.

The question gnawed at him as he moved silently through the building. Answers waited behind one of those doors.

Instinctively, Zayd knew that whatever was important here would either be up or downstairs. It was a strange but universal truth about humanity—people tended to place the most valuable or dangerous things either above or below the ordinary. Whether it was a subconscious urge for protection or some unspoken symbolism of hierarchy, Zayd had seen it time and again.

Moving down the dimly lit hallway, his footfalls barely a whisper, he found a narrow set of stairs leading upward. He paused at the base, listening intently. The only sounds were the faint rustle of a quiet city filtering through the open doorway behind him, mingling with the oppressive silence of the building. Nothing unusual.

He ghosted up the stairs, moving with the fluid grace of someone long accustomed to remaining unseen. Rounding a corner at the top, Zayd found himself in another dead hallway. This one was just as barren as the lower level, but a door at the far end was cracked open slightly, light bleeding around its edges like a faint beacon in the gloom.

Zayd’s fingers worked deftly, retrieving a second ampule from a bundle of soft linen tucked in his pouch. The glass was cool to the touch, and he set it gently beside him before drawing out his dagger. The etched lines along its surface held the heavy coating of poison in place, preventing any lethal drops from hitting the floor. With the blade at the ready, he silently examined the hinges of the door, noting their rusted state.

He slipped the ampule back into the linen and drew out another tool—another applicator designed specifically for moments like this. Carefully, he squeezed a thin line of specialized penetrating oil into the rusty hinges, watching as it seeped into the cracks. He counted in his head, waiting for the space of twenty heartbeats.

Satisfied, he retrieved the ampule once more, cradling it carefully. Using the tip of his dagger, he slowly pushed the door open. The hinges, now slick with the oil, moved soundlessly. Not a creak. Not a groan.

As the door creaked open, Zayd was immediately assaulted by a wave of putrescent stench that hit him like a wall. Even through the scarf wrapped tightly around his face, the rancid odor clawed at his throat, making him gag. He forced the bile down, swallowing hard as his eyes adjusted to the dim room. In the center of the filth-strewn chamber sat a man, slumped in a rickety chair.

The man’s brown hair was cut in a crude bowl shape, his eyes glazed and sunken deep into a skeletal face. His skin clung to his bones like parchment, and his body, draped in brown robes crusted with filth and dried sickness, was barely more than a collection of emaciated limbs. The sight alone was enough to make Zayd recoil, but he forced himself to move forward, scanning the room. Standard furnishings—a bed, a small table—were covered in human detritus, dirt, and decay. Zayd checked the corners, ensuring the man was alone.

Satisfied, he approached the man, who didn’t seem to register his presence. Zayd unslung a small canteen of water from his belt and held it out. Without a word, the man’s trembling, bony hand took it and brought it to his lips, greedily gulping the water down.

When the canteen emptied, the man reached for the short table beside him, his filthy fingers scrabbling through a pile of rotten berries—mottled blue and black, half-liquefied. He pawed through the mess with no discernible focus, until his dirty hand fumbled up to his mouth, where he began gnawing absently on his own fingers.

Zayd felt a wave of horror and revulsion creep up his spine. The man was in the final stages of Zahr addiction. There was no known cure at this stage—at least none that would save him. But Zayd knew how to bring him back to lucidity, if only for a brief window.

His hands moved with precision as he pulled a sleek, metal box from his pouch. Opening it carefully, Zayd retrieved one of the most valuable items in his possession: a steel hypodermic needle. These were nearly impossible to fabricate, and he handled it with the respect it deserved. Gingerly, he filled the needle and crouched beside the man.

With a quick, practiced motion, Zayd plunged the needle into the man’s chest, pressing the plunger down and withdrawing it just as swiftly. The man’s reaction was immediate. He gasped, his bony chest heaving as his hand clutched at his heart. His eyes, once dull and lifeless, suddenly blazed with fire as they snapped up to Zayd, wide with fear.

For a moment, the man’s gaze was alive again, focused, terrified.

Zayd stood still, watching the man carefully. "You’re not dead yet," he whispered.

Zayd knelt beside the man as he convulsed, his eyes wild with fear and confusion. "Don’t try to speak," Zayd said quietly, but firmly. "The muscle contractions will pass in a moment. If you try to talk now, you’ll bite your own tongue off."

The man’s breath came in ragged gasps, his skeletal fingers twitching as his body fought against the injection. Zayd watched, his mind working quickly. He hadn’t planned to interrogate anyone tonight—this was supposed to be reconnaissance, gathering information without stirring the pot. Yet here he was, improvising, with a man barely clinging to life in front of him.

As the man’s spasms began to subside, his breathing became more even. The fear in his eyes was still there, but now it was joined by something else—awareness. Lucidity.

Zayd leaned in, his voice low and steady. "I need answers. Tell me what’s going on with the drug in the city. Why are they flooding the streets with it?"

The man’s chest still heaved, and Zayd could see the effort it took for him to simply stay conscious. This was going to be rough; Zayd wasn’t exactly practiced in coaxing information out of people on the fly. But he had to try. He could feel time slipping away—this window of clarity wouldn’t last long.

"Look," Zayd continued, keeping his tone measured, "you don’t have much time left. Tell me what you know, and I’ll make this easier for you." His eyes locked onto the man’s, hoping the words could break through the fog of pain and fear.

The man gasped, his chest heaving, his eyes wide with panic. "The woman... the woman in black..." His voice rasped, each word a struggle against the tightening grip of death.

Zayd leaned in closer, his brow furrowed. "What woman? What are you talking about?"

The man’s breath came in shallow bursts, his lips trembling. "When she... when she spoke... when she spoke..." His gaze was distant, as if he were reliving a moment etched deep into his mind. "We... we get the berries... give them... give them..." He coughed violently, the rasp in his throat sounding like sandpaper scraping stone. His whole body convulsed, sweat pooling in the hollows of his temples.

Zayd grabbed him by the shoulders, trying to anchor the man to the present. "Who is she? What did she say?" But it was too late.

The man’s breath caught in his throat. His eyes glazed over, and with a final, desperate shudder, his heart gave out. His body sagged lifelessly in the chair, his head lolling to the side, his once ragged gasps for air now nothing more than silence.

Zayd watched, feeling the tension leave the room, but a cold weight settling in his chest. The woman in black? What did that mean? The phrase echoed in his mind, unanswered, a mystery now buried with the man.

He moved through the den with the same cautious precision, checking each room as methodically as the first. Every door opened to reveal more devastation—bodies sprawled in unnatural angles, the stench of death clinging thick in the air. Some rooms held just one poor soul, others housed several, their eyes glazed over or closed in a sleep they wouldn’t wake from.

A few of them, however, still clung to life.

Zayd bent down beside the living, triaging them swiftly. Those whose breathing had not yet stilled, whose hearts still beat beneath the emaciated husks of their bodies, he stabilized as best he could. His hands moved with practiced efficiency—binding wounds, administering quick injections of temporary stabilizers. There were no words exchanged. These people were too far gone for conversation, most too weak to even open their eyes.

Tears filled his eyes as he worked on a young girl of no more than ten years of age, her heart barely a flutter. A steely resolve settled in him, and his shoulder squared even as sobs escaped his covered mouth.

He had much work to do in this city, yes.

Much work to do indeed.