Nostas Jorlin strode through the streets of Kenmor like an avenging angel. Around him, the highest level Soldiers of his House were arrayed, and he dove into the depravity of the city every day, hunting. Yet despite his best efforts, the trail of the Necromancer was infuriatingly cold.

Kenmor had been turned upside down twice over with no result, so now it was time to start rattling the cages he hadn’t been allowed to touch up to this point.

At the head of his column, Nostas strode, barely aware of the public scattering out of his way, diving back into their homes or pressing themselves against the buildings lining the street. He was focused entirely on his purpose, the magnificent, multi-story building in the centre of the Arcanist district.

Master Willhem’s Arcanist Emporium.

Faces paled as he moved directly to the famed store, dozens of armoured men and women in his wake. When he reached the door, he was met by an attendant who had clearly seen them coming.

“Welcome, my Lord,” she said, bowing deeply at the waist. “How may we serve you today?”

She wore a crisp, well-tailored uniform, as did all the store attendants at Willhem’s. Professional to the last, she didn’t even appear all that afraid—at least, to someone less observant than a Lord, she didn’t. The slight trembling of her hands, the ever so slightly pale complexion of her face. She was afraid, as she should be.

“I have come to conduct an inspection of the premises and question any and all persons associated with this establishment,” he announced. The Lord held a hand to the side, and a rolled piece of parchment was placed there by a nearby Soldier. Nostas held it out to the attendant. “Our writ, signed by the Duke.”

The attendant took it, trying to maintain her calm.

“I will bring this to Master Willhem immediately,” she said, her voice wavering. “He will be with you as soon as he can, my Lord.”

“That’s not necessary. We’ll start now.”

Without another word, Nostas brushed the attendant aside and shoved open the door, his Soldiers piling in behind him as the attendant cried out. The interior of the store was immaculate, filled with polished marble displays, gold inlays and intricate lighting arrays powered by enchantments hidden on the underside of tables and within the columns. Male and female attendants were placed at intervals all around the floor, some positioned next to certain displays, but all recoiled as the fully armed and armoured Soldiers poured in through the door.

“Question everyone,” Nostas barked, eyes hard. “Go through the books; I want to know everything.”

“My Lord.”

A man appeared at his elbow, a pinch-nosed, narrow-featured figure in a Marshal Lieutenant uniform.

“Officer Meechin.”

“With your permission, I’ll handle the documents personally. It’s my speciality, after all.”

It was quite interesting, just how versatile the Marshal Class could be. Someone like Meechin, ill-suited for bringing down toughs in the street, had found another way to specialise his progression.

“No,” Nostas said and then cut off the impending protest, “I need you in the next building. We aren’t here for financial crimes.”

Meechin hesitated, then nodded. He’d probably never get another chance to inspect Master Willhem’s books in his entire life, but he couldn’t disagree with Lord Jorlin, not if he wanted to live.

“Six to remain here. Turn this place upside down and squeeze the staff until they squeak. The rest with me.”

The Emporium itself was only one of the buildings that made up Magister Willhem’s little compound. There were two others; the dormitory and the workshop. It was to the latter that Nostas went next.

“You can’t come in here,” a young man said, barring their way as his legs trembled within his apprentice robe.

“GET ON THE GROUND,” Nostas commanded, drawing on the Divine Authority he possessed.

Unable to resist his command, the apprentice was forced to his knees and then flat on the ground where he writhed like a worm. Upper lip curled with distaste, Nostas stepped over the man and shoved open the door. Inside, Arcanist benches in neat rows filled the open space, the students of Willhem themselves gathered together in a huddle, muttering amongst themselves. At his arrival, they turned toward the door fearfully.

“Against the wall,” he ordered them. When they were slow to obey, he gestured to the Soldiers behind him and they leapt forward, seizing the Arcanists and forcing them up against the wall with ease. Many shouted protests or cried out in pain or fear, others claimed their Noble heritage, outraged by this treatment.

“Those of Noble blood will be separated shortly,” Nostas assured them. “For now, do as you’re told.”

He turned to the rest of his group, still filing into the building through the door, including Officer Meechin.

“I want you to go through every document relating to apprentices for the last twenty years, but especially focus on the last five. I don’t care how briefly they were here, I want to know everything.”

“Yes, My Lord.”

“What in the name of the gods is going on here?”

Master Willhem was neither loud, nor was he an imposing figure, yet somehow he managed to command attention anyway. His voice was thin, age wearing heavily on him, yet his demeanour was like a king in his throne room. The old master stood on the stairway, halfway down, one hand on the rail to steady himself, the other grasping the head of a bejewelled cane on which he leaned for balance.

Although his tone was measured, his expression was furious.

“I am Lord Nostas Jorlin, and we are searching these premises.” The Lord turned to his people, who had stopped in their tracks at the appearance of the Master. “Move. Now.”

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They did, not looking at Willhem as his face twisted in anger.

“On whose authority are you conducting this inspection, Lord Jorlin?” Willhem forced out from between clenched teeth. “This is extremely—”

“The Duke himself signed the writ.”

“The Duke?” Willhem spluttered as he reached the bottom of the staircase and made his way toward the Lord. “He and I have worked together for many years—”

“Divine Blood has been spilled. My family’s blood, has been spilled.” Nostas turned his glare directly on the old Arcanist, his fury bearing down on the Master. “I don’t care if I have to gut every person in this building, Master Willhem, I will have my answers.”

He turned and reached to his aid, who placed another parchment in his hand, which he unrolled and handed to Willhem.

“This is an Artist’s rendition of what was found at the Jorlin Estate. Do you recognise anything?”

Still furious, but in no position to refuse, Master Willhem held the page close to his eyes so he could see.

“There are… fragments of some sort of array. It’s hard to tell what the medium used to create it was…. Or even its function. These sigils could relate to energy, though I can’t say how.”

“These fragments were found in the ruins of the Jorlin estate. The killer appears to have some knowledge of Enchanting, wouldn’t you say?”

The old man's face darkened.

“And on the basis of that, you storm into my building and terrorise my staff? They could have been trained anywhere! They could have been self-taught! You don’t need to be an expert to create an array like that!”

It wasn’t much of a lead, but it was all Nostas had right now. Wherever Tyron Steelarm was hiding, he’d done a good job of covering his tracks. Without the assurance of the Oracles, he would never have believed the man was still in the city.

“If you have nothing to hide, then you have nothing to fear. We have swept through every major Arcanist’s in the city, and this is the last stop.”

It was clear Willhem wanted to complain, but he restrained himself. Even he wouldn’t escape without consequence if he said too much in front of the vengeful Lord. After all, despite all his success, the Divine Blood didn’t flow in his veins.

Which meant he was disposable.

“Of course I have nothing to hide,” Master Willhem muttered bitterly. “I’ve been an Arcanist in this city for over half a century. I’ve worked hard for my reputation.”

“We aren’t here to accuse you of murder,” Nostas rebuked him, “but to see if the killer ever worked or trained here.”

“I don’t train murderers, I train Arcanists.”

“You say that now. We will see what we find.”

The following two hours were the longest of Master Willhem’s life. The old man seemed to age visibly as time wore on and he was forced to watch Nostas Jorlin ransack every inch of his workshop. House Mages, Magisters, Officers of the law, all paraded through the building, rifling through the drawers, pawing through every cabinet, questioning his apprentices and examining all of his records. Even his precious library wasn’t safe. Uneducated idiots walked through and took all of the rare volumes, going through every page without any care for the delicate nature of the old documents.

All the while, Nostas Jorlin or one of his higher ranked followers peppered him with endless questions. How many apprentices had he taken in? What were their names? Did he notice anything odd about their behaviour? Was there anyone he suspected of foul play?

They were especially interested in anyone who had trained only for a short amount of time, or had been expelled from the workshop.

Growing increasingly irritable, Willhem answered their damned questions without fail, his memory as sharp as it had ever been. All the while, he thought of the thousands of commissions and favours he’d done for the Noble Houses of Kenmor over the decades. This was how they repaid him in his twilight years? The disrespect was almost more than he could bear.

Eventually they were joined by Officer Meechin, the weasel-ish lawman clutching his notebook to his chest.

“There are a few candidates, my Lord,” the Marshal reported.

Furious at the lack of progress, Nostas turned an intense stare on the man, who shrank back immediately.

“Who?” the Lord demanded.

“There were t-three apprentices who started around the time we would expect the… uh… the killer to arrive in the city. Hunt Filtner, Lukas Almsfield and Victor Tarkyn.”

“Those three?” Master Willhem snorted. “Only one of them was worth a damn.”

“Master, I’m right here,” Victor complained.

Nostas turned his glare at the young man against the wall. “Who is this?”

“That is Victor Tarkyn,” Willhem drawled. “A bright young man with a poor work ethic. Too busy trying to marry up to focus on his apprenticeship. An unlikely candidate for your vicious killer.”

Lord Jorlin didn’t care how likely it was, any lead would be chased down to the end.

“Take him. We’ll question him in the castle.”

Willhem ground his teeth as Victor was dragged away with an indignant squawk before being punched viciously in the gut, doubling him over and silencing his protests.

“I think he’s engaged to one of the Shans,” Willhem stated.

“Noted. Who are the other two?”

“Hunt Filtner gave up his apprenticeship after a year and a half. He wasn’t a bad lad, but he was easily intimidated. Couldn’t handle the pressure.”

“Where is he?”

“I have no idea. I don’t track my apprentices after they leave.”

“We’ll find him,” Nostas promised grimly. “What about the third one?”

“Lukas Almsfield? One of the best apprentices I’ve ever had,” Willhem said wistfully. “He had a mind like a steel trap and the work ethic of a demon. A good lad. Very polite. Not much for conversation, very dedicated to his craft.”

“You sound as if you’re fond of him.”

After listening to Master Willhem complain about the various failings of hundreds of apprentices over the past hours, it was almost odd to hear compliments out of the man.

“I have his papers here, my Lord,” Officer Meechin said, passing them over. “I encourage you to look at the registered primary Class.”

Nostas frowned, his pupils dilating the moment they found the entry.

Curse Mage.

A plausible cover for a Necromancer, but he would have been required to provide evidence of the Class in order to become an apprentice. Had Tyron found a way to fool the status ritual? It would make sense; how else could he hide in the city for this long?

“Tell me about this apprentice,” Nostas demanded, turning toward Willhem once more.

The old Master frowned.

“He was a lad who took on Enchanting as a sub-class since he didn’t want to be a Slayer with his primary. Like I said, very sharp, very dedicated. He progressed quickly and completed his apprenticeship in half the time. A good kid. He opened a shop in Shadetown, does bitwork for the people out there,” Willhem sniffed, as if disappointed, “but it's still high quality enchanting.”

A brilliant, driven young man who became apprenticed to the Master Willhem within a year of Magnin and Beory being killed. That primary Class, Curse Mage, a legal plausible cover for a Necromancer. It made so much sense. It had to be him.

“Arrest Master Willhem and take him back to the castle. The apprentices too. I want anyone who worked with Lukas Almsfield in a cell.”

“What?!” Willhem bellowed, but Nostas wasn’t listening.

The young Lord of House Jorlin turned on his heel and marched out the door, anger boiling in his gut and a smile on his face.

“Let the Duke know we’re headed straight to Shadetown. Send someone ahead and get eyes on Lukas Almsfield’s shop. The bastard will be on the rack by nightfall.”

Tyron Steelarm was going to suffer for a long, long time for what he’d done. By the Gods, he would regret the day he spilled Divine Blood.