“Sorry,” the monster apologized as he ducked into the room. “Not a hundred percent sorry, because you guys are spying on me, and the way you said that thing was rude.”

Brand rubbed at his ear.

“But I shouldn’t have hit you,” Rhode sighed.

Like much of the underground, the overflow study was poorly fitted to a person Rhode’s size. Square and small, the stone walls of the room had been white-washed with lime some years ago and was starting to flake. Though wooden shelves ringed the study, few of them were full. While there was a small number of boxes and small chests along the lowest shelves, the majority of the materials in the room were written records. A smattering of folios, books and scrolls had been moved here from the so-called ‘infirmary’, along with fresh stacks of rag paper and good ink.

The titles and dates along the materials were all still a mystery to Rhode. It frustrated him that he could speak the language so easily, but couldn’t read a word.

A fist-sized glass lantern hung from a hook in the ceiling, and it provided a cold, blue light. Beneath it, in the middle of the chamber was a table, and spread across the table were ripped sheets of paper, covered in neat calligraphy. Wavelton & Broox’s 3rd best magician on premise sat in a creaking chair on the opposite side, and was the only occupant of the room. Since Rhode had last seen Junior Scholar Tarrop, some of the color had returned to the man’s broad-bellied outfit, in that he wore a fine, teal neckerchief over the rest of his dreary gray.

Tarrop stripped a monocle off his face and stood. Pushing his chair aside, he fumbled with his pen, stabbing it into an open inkwell.

“What is he doing walking around like this?” Tarrop hissed at Constable Brand, forgetting their difference in rank. “Rhode, you should be in bed, recovering.”

Rhode waved the man back as he approached. “I’m fine, Tarrop.”

Two disgraced men exchanged a look. Brand had stepped aside to make room for the Hero, and offered no more than a terse greeting. “Goode Scholar Tarrop,” he said.

Tarrop’s voice softened as he looked over the huge shape of Rhode. He searched as if he expected to find the homunculus had sprung a leak.

“Are you? How much medication are you taking, big guy?” the scholar worried.

Rhode ambled forward towards the table, and Tarrop stepped aside to make way.

“I don’t know,” Rhode admitted. “I mean, obviously, I’m not fine. I really don’t feel too bad, though.”

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Finding a chair which could fit Rhode was rare, so the Special Projects Team had made a point to collect as many sturdy benches as possible. Tarrop produced a wide wooden stool from the corner and set it down by the table. “Please,” the man indicated and then returned to his own chair. “And apologies, Ser Fidelity, for not having another. I am afraid I do not get visitors often anymore.”

Though his seat strained under Rhode, it held. Once he was down, Brand stepped forward and took his crutches to place them out of the way. “Thanks. Sorry again.”

“Do not apologize, Goodman Irving,” Brand insisted.

Rhode placed his elbows gently on the surface of the table, and folded his arms carefully: one over the other. He tried peering over the pages that Tarrop had been working on, but the markings were still meaningless to him. There were however, seven stacked leather folios which drew his attention. Their covers were printed and embossed, and there were stamps pressed into each of them. Rhode felt a subtle pressure emanating from those marks, as if the ink seals had a presence and importance of their own. When Tarrop spoke to repeat his concerns, the homunculus had to tear his eyes away from them.

“Listen. Rhode, I am not going to suggest to you that this is happening on purpose, but you should be aware that narcotic substances can have undesirable long-term effects,” Tarrop warned.

“Okay,” Rhode nodded, “I can keep that in mind. I guess I was a little worried about addiction too.”

“Not addiction,” the scholar squirmed. He passed his hand over his balding head. “Although that is sometimes a concern. It is the malady level [Inebriate], which is sometimes a path that warriors take to empower the [Berserk] lines. When we heard that you had been granted [Iron Bones], we –”

The man caught himself, then presented a smile that was pleasant and false.

“Even though there are many opportunities which [Berserk] can make possible, I only want to make sure that you do not choose anything like that without considering your alternatives.”

Rhode looked at Brand, and the man nodded. Tarrop leaned against the knuckles of his fist and hid his mouth.

“Sure. Yea. No, I agree,” the homonculus coughed. He adjusted in his seat. “By [Berserk], you mean out of my mind. Freak strength, but can’t control it? No, I don’t want that.”

Tarrop reached for a cup, shook it to check if it was empty, and set it back down. “When you picked [Iron Bones] without consulting us, we couldn’t be sure.”

Rhode was on the verge of defending his choice, but he struggled unexpectedly to recall how he’d been convinced to agree to it in the first place. The sharp clip of boots interrupted him before he came to any meaningful conclusions.

Constable Brand rapped the table lightly. “Goodemen,” he said, “before we discuss levels, I believe it is necessary that the Hero be made aware of what happened last night.”

“That’s right,” Tarrop sighed. He leaned back in his chair. “The third Hero will have been summoned by now. That is wonderful news.”

Rhode sat up straighter. Of course. Five days, he’d known that. He wasn’t sure where he’d heard it, but he’d known it.

“No. It is more than that. I am informed that there was a difficulty with the ritual,” Brand told them. “The third Hero awoke in madness. I do not know who was harmed, nor have I been told if the Hero survives. But the palace is to be sealed, indefinitely under highest authority. There will be unrest. I wanted you to know.”