They were in a grimy back-alley in Smogtown, where a mist of thick fog obscured anything further than two metres in front of them. Jakob had already extracted one of the eyes from the head he had gathered, but the second one was giving him a harder time, as a crust of bone had formed around the eye-socket.

After a bit of delicate cutting with the sharp index-finger-knife of his demon-glove, he plucked it out with a sucking smack and lifted it closer so he could see its retina.

“First one better,” Heskel commented, looking over his shoulder.

“Still, it’s strangely beautiful, don’t you think?”

The Wight gave him a look that made Jakob wonder if toadstools had grown from his ears. Then he grunted and looked away.

Jakob was unsure when it had happened, but the Wight seemed to be regarding him differently, as this was not the first time he had felt judged by him in the recent weeks.

Maybe a bit of the Greedy Demon Lord has rubbed off on me… he considered. The idea was appalling, but not unlikely. After all, he had seen everyone around him, except for Heskel, change as a result of their exposure to Mammon’s aura.

He shook his head as if to dismiss the idea and brought out the other eye, holding it next to the freshly-plucked one. They shared the same size, but the patterns within them were distinctly different.

The first had an almost fractal-like crimson bloom from its centre, with the black pupil smeared into an elongated shape so that it resembled more the eye of a snake or a goat. The second eye had a layer of dense bone covering half of it, but the rest was like a black snow-globe within which lived a galaxy of stars. Somehow, Jakob was certain that both of these eyes belonged to the Watcher himself, after all, he was an Entity said to see everything that was, is, and ever will be; so his eyes must certainly be endless in shape and design, each with its gaze fixed on something unique.

Jakob stowed the two eyeballs safely in a purpose-made compartment of his demon-flesh apron. In terms of function, his demon-sculpted attire was endless in its possibilities and usefulness. Where he had once viewed the self-thinking tail as the pinnacle of tools he would ever craft, he now considered it to merely have been an in-between stage. And though he had been apprehensive about utilising the souls and bodies of demons, given their proclivities and manifold flaws, it was obvious that he had let himself be swayed by fear. After all, the two demons whose corpuses he now wore, Marll and Purll, were docile and easily-controlled after only a few Chthonic sigils were inscribed upon them.

Heskel had opted to keep his own poncho-like apron soulless. It seemed the Wight did not enjoy the notion of wielding the leash on souls of lesser beings, preferring to rely entirely on his own powers. Obedience had been crafted directly into him by Grandfather, but Jakob was unsure how absolute such obedience truly was, given the fact that Heskel had, by Jakob’s prompting, defied his Creator.

“Let me see the Relic,” Jakob told his Lifeward.

Heskel withdrew it from an interior pocket of his robes and presented it before him, the object appearing very tiny as it lay within the Wight’s palm.

“Where’s the rest of it?”

“This is it.”

Jakob lifted the ring from Heskel’s palm with his left index and thumb, looking it over meticulously. It was a very simple wedding band of some silver-coated inexpensive metal, given its weight and the fact that the shiny outer layer was flaking off.

“I believed the entire hand was the Relic,” he muttered. “But it was simply his ring? Peculiar.”

“Clergy believe marriage virtuous.”

“If their contracts are upheld,” Jakob shot back.

Heskel grunted his assent.

“So, this qualifies as the Esoteric Toll we seek, due to its inherent vow never having been broken?”

The Wight nodded. He seemed quite adamant about the latter, so Jakob decided to believe him. After all, he had never seen his trust misplaced before, despite their disagreements.

“What comes next?”

“First branch.”

Jakob released a puff of condensate from his mask in contemplation. Market North did not seem to deal in such obscure trinkets, regardless of the fact that returning there would be a grave mistake, and Market West lay in ruins. It was possible that Market East which bordered Eastgate District would have such niche merchants, but it lay at the opposite end of the Metropolis and would take hours to reach on foot. That left only one viable option.

“We’ll go to Mage Quarter.”

Heskel nodded, no doubt having reached the same conclusion.

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In the darkness of his personal tower, Sirellius ran his middle finger around the circumference of the clay bowl. The black water within pulsed with hundreds of overlapping rings that at once amplified and cancelled each other, producing a stable equilibrium that made it appear as if the rings were constantly bopping up-and-down, though this was merely a trick of the eye.

“Reveal to me the sight I wish to see,” he intoned clearly. He had attempted to scry the location of Jakob the Fleshcrafter and Demon-Summoner for many days. The first week had only shown him a peculiar golden light, like dawnlight breaking through the thin mist adorning the mountains of his hometown in Lleman. However, these past few days, an altogether-different result had occurred and today was no different.

As the rings in the water contracted to form an image, they suddenly took on the appearance of an eye, though with the barest of details and clearly belonging to no creature of which he knew. Its elongated horizontal pupil seemed to stare back at him, before it blinked and the spell was broken.

With a sigh, he rose from the floor, where his knees had been cushioned by a soft rug before the bowl of water.

“…they are guarded…well…” said the Daemon-slave in the corner of the room. It was unfortunate that Sirellius’ favourite attendant had been taken over by the Undying Guillaume, whose magic kept alive the King of Helmsgarten. Sirellius was a man long-used to setbacks though, and he had entered an uneasy alliance with the Daemon, allowing him to keep his black-eyed attendant as an advisor in rituals and rites and magic of which he himself had little-to-no knowledge.

“How?”

“…the old…tongue…”

No matter how many times he conversed with the vile Entity however, he still could not help twitch and shudder whenever it spoke.

“How do I circumvent it?”

“…you cannot…the Watcher…shields them…”

Sirellius found it unsettling that even his archaic magic, passed down through his family’s bloodline for countless generations, could be beaten by some obscure language that he had never even heard of before. Though it did explain why his attempts to spy on the Underking in the past had born similar results.

A commotion from the stairwell outside his Scrying Chamber suddenly drew his attention. Moments later, a hurried series of knocks banged against the door.

“Enter,” Sirellius called.

Light flooded the dark interior as a messenger and two guards entered his private sanctuary.

“Sire! Your presence is needed urgently!”

“Did the King send you?” he asked, dreading the reply.

“No, Sire.”

“What is it then? I am busy.”

The Messenger looked at the two guards who themselves exchanged uneasy glances.

Then one of the guards cleared his throat and said, “You had best see it for yourself, Sire. We are at a loss on how to explain it…”

“Very well, lead the way.”

“Your carriage awaits by the gate, Sire.”

“…I would like…to see…as well…”

The three newcomers turned as one, the Messenger letting out a terrified squeal when he saw the black-eyed attendant in the corner.

“You may come along,” Sirellius replied. The fact that Undying Guillaume took interest in whatever this was troubled him to no small extent.

Sirellius had heard the reports of the Bridge Incident at the Market West / Residential District crossing, and it had been the impetus that set about locating what he had assumed to be the Underking, but had turned out to be his boy Apprentice. However, those reports were nothing when compared to what he witnessed before him, as he stood at the edge of a large plaza within Haven District.

A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

The amount of destruction and mutilation was on a scale he had not seen since the Border War between Heimdale and Lleman to the north of Helmsgarten, which had been the reason he was sent to the metropolis as a young man, but, if reports were to believed, the perpetrator, if indeed such a person existed, was unknown. He could not shake the worry that Jakob was the Invoker of whatever tainted ritual had caused this, but it also was quite possible that this was an act of terrorism caused by the Underking, following his failed attempt to overrun the metropolis with his monsters.

As Sirellius stared blankly at one of the monstrosities his men had captured, he had more questions than answers. It was like a creature of myth, a fusion of horse and man, except its body was constructed from more than twelve different people, their faces covering its nightmarish visage, and their bodies and limbs twisted together like the branches of the King’s garden hedgerows. Even having witnessed the Underking’s chimera first-hand, he could hardly stomach looking at the thing for more than a moment.

“…they are like…moths…to the gaze…of the Watcher’s flame…” droned the awful voice of Guillaume through the mouth of its black-eyed puppet.

“Again with this ‘Watcher’. Who is he!?”

“…he is the One…Whose Uncaring Gaze…Scalds the Realms…of man and demon alike…”

“…the Endless Eyes…in the Abyss…”

“…He Who Witnesses…All there Is…All that Will Be…All there Ever Was…”

“…the Watcher…of Worlds…”

Sirellius struggled to fight back against the chill of existential dread the Daemon’s words induced in him, but he failed. The way that an Entity as vile as the Undying Daemon could revere a Being, whose mere gaze could cause what he saw before him, made him feel like a child in a dark forest. It made him realise just how impotent he was and the danger inherent in the magic of the Boy Fleshcrafter and his Mentor. They had to be eradicated, regardless of what the patricidal King had ordered.

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Jakob had never set foot in the Mage Quarter, but remembered some of what Veks had told him about the district in the past. Despite this, however, he could not truly appreciate just how distinct the district was, particularly when all other districts seemed more-or-less to follow the same schematics.

Though the tall edifice of the late Demonologist first drew the eye, there were countless more buildings of equal absurdity. Jakob personally found the vistas refreshing after the endless uniformity he had been subjected to thus far.

“Who would possess such an item as what we seek?” he wondered out loud. Sig the Revived trotted behind them dully, while Heskel was ever alert and on the lookout in front.

“Magister of Horticulture.”

“Horticulture?”

“Study of plants.”

“Seems a good place to start,” Jakob agreed. He did wonder just how extensive the Wight’s knowledge of the city was, after all, he and Grandfather had been practicing amongst the living for years before the Crown forced them underground. “Where do we find them?”

“Southwest corner.”

Jakob nodded, and, though the Wight could not see it, he started instinctively heading in that direction. Not a moment later did a figure running through the crowds of pack-animals, carts, and servants catch Jakob’s attention.

“Sig, capture that man,” Jakob ordered, before adding, “Alive.”

Silently, the undead slave shot after the Runner, her golden prosthetic flailing limply behind her and her black corpseblood pooling in the palm of her reconstructed left palm. Heskel quickly followed behind, but Jakob took his time, ensuring that they had not drawn any unwanted attention.

Though a few people looked their way, they seemed to not want to involve themselves, or perhaps thought the Runner might have been a thief, given that they were as common as rats in the westerly districts.

When Jakob caught up to his Lifeward, who had brought Sig and the Runner to an alleyway out of sight, he saw that many small punctures riddled the man’s legs, and the skin that was visible below his shorts was turning blackish-purple like a nasty bruise, no doubt as a result of Sig hitting him with her stagnant dead blood, which was toxic to the living, inducing necrosis and many other ailments upon entering the bloodstream.

Sig stood over the Runner, her black eyes locked on him where he lay prone, his legs rendered useless. Her hand was yet covered by the corpseblood, ready to end his life if given the command. To his credit, he refrained from whimpering, despite being in what must have been quite tremendous pain.

Heskel stood next to her, perhaps wondering what exactly they were doing.

As Jakob walked up to them, he crouched before the Messenger and simply asked, “What message were you in such a hurry to deliver?”

“Please don’t kill me!”

“Then answer the question.”

“Of course! I was delivering two separate instructions: One was to a team of Royals in Market West, and the other was to both the Guard of Westgate and Mage Quarter.” He referred to the Royal Guard of the Crown by their common nickname, which greatly exaggerated their status, given the fact that they were mostly commoners with above-average martial prowess and magical powers.

“And the contents of these missives?”

“I do not read the message, Sir, I merely deliver them. Please, that’s all I know!”

“Do you have the messages on you?”

“Just the last one for the guards of this district.”

“Show me.”

With some difficulty, the Messenger managed to unsling a compact shoulder pouch from under his form-fitting brown woollen shirt. The fabric was made of a deceptively-elaborate design, which had immediately drawn Jakob’s eye when he spotted the man.

Jakob took the pouch from his hand and undid the clasp to get to the rolled-up parchment within. He took another look at the prone man and with a quick assessment knew that he would die before the hour had passed, when the corpseblood reached his heart.

“Sig. Cleanse his veins of your insidious blood. I told you he should live. I have given him my word on this.”

The black-eyed servant lifted her blood-coated hand and, like tiny leeches or parasites, black tendrils no thicker than stands of hair snaked from the many puncture-wounds in the Messengers legs. He would never regain control of his legs or whatever other regions the corpseblood had infected, but he would survive.

“You will live,” Jakob told the man, as he tried to look brave in what to him must have been certain death. “Heskel. Carry him out to the main street.”

Heskel grunted in irritation, but obligingly picked up the lamed Courier and carried him away.

Discarding the pouch and unfurling the flimsy parchment scroll, Jakob read the message, which was written hastily in Novarocian:

To the Guard of the following sectors:

Noble Quarter

Market North

Westgate

Mage Quarter

Residential

Slums

Eastgate

Market East

Breadbasket

Crafting

Smogtown

Be on the lookout for an Adolescent wearing: the stolen robes of a Magister or flesh-coloured leather robes. Likewise, be on the lookout for a giant wearing similar attire. They travel most commonly as a pair and are known to frequently utilise the sewer tunnels to outmanoeuvre our guard posts.

If contact is made with these individuals, send an alert to your nearest Royal Guard Representative, and attempt to apprehend the pair. They are both extremely dangerous, but it is imperative that they be captured alive to face justice for their abhorrent crimes. Attempts to apprehend them should be made with teams numbering no less than two dozen.

You are thus ordered, in the name of our Glorious King, Patrych the First of Helmsgarten.

Jakob crushed the flimsy parchment in his fist, before tossing it aside, just as Heskel rounded the corner. The Wight took one look at him and the ruined letter, and put two-and-two together.

“The Promise of the Crown has no value, it would seem.”

“Virtuousness belongs solely to the domain of fairy tales.”

“And dead heroes,” Jakob replied mockingly.

The workshop complex of the Horticulture Magister, and his three apprentices, was quite expansive, containing within it: a store that was not too unlike the Apothecary that Hargraves no doubt still maintained in Jakob’s absence; a dormitory with sufficient room for all three apprentices to bring their families, which two seemed to have acted on; a vast arboretum; several small greenhouses for those plants that required a specialised environment; and lastly, a well-ventilated laboratorium-like attic for distilling, refining, and mixing the various alchemical formulas they sold.

“That is a very odd request,” replied the Magister, an attendant close behind, eyeing Jakob and his entourage warily. “I do not myself possess anything like that here.”

Jakob was about to turn away from the hairy brute of a Magister, when he continued, “But, my apprentice studies trees more in-depth than I, so he may know of such a branch, or a tree of that age, at the very least.”

“Fetch me Merab,” the Magister told his attendant. It took him a moment to realise he had been issued an order, so the Magister clapped his hands and sent him from the room with a scalding series of critiques about his work-ethic.

He turned back to Jakob, stroking his thick grey-stained black beard with his long fingers. “Of course, an establishment such as ours is not in the market to give out free information. We do after all have better things to do.”

Heskel stepped forward and withdrew an item from his robes that he set down before the Magister, who stood behind the counter of his apothecary. The sculpture produced a heavy clunk on the wooden top.

“Is, is that?”

“Yes.”

The Magister gleefully lifted the severed demon claw up in front of himself, the flawless golden surface glinting in the light of the many candles all about the shop. They still carried with them a few petrified-and-golden body parts from Mammon’s mansion, as they had been easy enough to bring with them. It was a peculiar facet of the Demon Lord’s aura that all who perished in his vicinity turned to gold rather than decay.

The attendant returned some minutes later with another man in tow. He was not as thickset as his mentor, who was still admiring the golden limb, but rather was tall and slightly pot-bellied with a light-brown tan.

“Merab. These customers are seeking information about how to locate a… an err… what was it again?”

“The First Branch of a Thousand-Year-Old Tree,” Jakob said.

“That is pretty specific,” the apprentice replied. “It is not something I collect, but I do know of a few trees that have lived to that age. As well as some even older than that.”

“It has to be a thousand years old,” Jakob demanded unflinchingly.

“Well…” Merab started, but then contemplated silently for a moment, before answering, “There is a Sacred Grove not too far west-northwest from Helmsgarten city, next to a township named Rooskeld. I have only been there once, but their Sacred Grove is well-known for the giant tree at its centre. As I recall, they have their millennial festival beginning next year after Harvest.”

“How fortuitous, wouldn’t you say?” the Magister said cheerfully.

“That will serve me well,” replied Jakob. He could wait a year to gather the Branch, and spend the meantime figuring out how to obtain the two other Esoteric Tolls, whose nature was far more obscure and hard-to-come-by.

“Then that settles it,” announced the Magister. “Now, as payment, how about we say I keep a finger of this?”

“Keep the entire thing.”

The Magister was momentarily dumbfounded, then recomposed himself and lifted his gaze from the golden claw to look Jakob in the eyes. “Is a deal of silence implied in this?”

“Indeed.”

“Very well. I shall forget to have seen your personages.”

“As shall I,” complied Merab, seeming to easily follow his mentor’s lead. Though, given the peculiarities of Magisters and the strict limitations placed on them by the Crown, they were perhaps not unaccustomed to dealing in secrecy.

As they headed for Westgate, Heskel voiced his concern. “Trust not humans.”

“Am I not human?”

“You are more than.”

“You are kind to say that, but, regardless, I do not trust them with anything worthwhile.”

“They will tell on us.”

“And so what? What matters it if the Crown knows we are heading west? We will be close enough to Lleman that they may simply believe us to have continued across the border. They would not bother hunting us that far.”

“They will.”