Emir Zaman's general was making excuses for his failure. Something about extenuating circumstances, treacherous terrain, and rebel interference. It was all a very long-winded way of saying Agnizzar had failed, and the outsiders that had escaped from the House of Bells were still alive, and at large. The Chosen should have been furious, and the general clearly expected it from the way he made sure not to stand near any furniture that Zaman might decide to hurl in a fit of rage.

In truth, Zaman barely heard a word the general said. Instead, his thoughts were consumed by the note Garem Westmin had slipped him this afternoon.

He's coming to see you today.

Ever since reading the note, Zaman had been unable to focus on anything else. The general's report was just the latest in a long line of meetings he'd half listened to. Catalina's assessment of the civil unrest in his province, Larian Masters's status update on the Pavers' revenue, the mayor from that border town complaining about some monsters of some sort eating his people—it was all a half-remembered haze of people talking at him while he kept glancing at dark corners and tried not to sweat.

He said something to the general about heads on spikes, and the general over-promised results and left the room. Zaman ran his hand through his hair as the door shut behind him, and let out a shaky breath. He looked down to the bell on his desk he could use to summon a page, considered ordering someone to bring him a drink, and then felt a spike of anger at himself.

This was ridiculous. He was the King's Chosen in the province of Lochmire. This land was his, his word was law, and he was jumping at shadows and letting nerves distract him from his work. The annual tax was due in four months, and he had a rebellion to put down. This was unbecoming of a man of his—

"Zaman."

A jolt ran through Emir's body as the thick, weathered voice announced a new arrival in the Chosen's office, and he jumped in his seat.

The figure stood in the center of the room. Emir had looked down for a second, a breath. There were no doors or windows disturbed, no sound of footsteps, not so much as a ruffle of a curtain, and yet there he stood, as if he'd been there all along.

He was neither short nor tall, bulky nor thin. He dressed head to toe in all black leather, pant legs and sleeves tucked into cuffed gloves and boots, and a short mantle draped over his shoulders, coming down to his wrists. A sharp-brimmed hat cast a shadow over the only shot of color in the man's attire: a bone white mask with a long raven's beak, and two massive hollow eyes covered by black lenses. A black hood wrapped tight around the head covered what the mask didn't, leaving not an inch of the man exposed.

The man made no outer reaction to Emir's surprise. The Chosen tried and failed to hide his fear.

"Doctor," he greeted. His voice shook. "How can I help you?"

"You may relax, Zaman," his patron said. His voice did not sound muffled by the mask so much as distorted, adding an unnatural resonance to it. "I do not require your assistance today."

This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

Emir did not relax.

"I will be departing the province soon," his patron said. "My work here is nearly done."

At that, Emir did feel some of his tension ease, though it was only for a breath. The man was his patron. In exchange for Lochmire province, he'd asked only for freedom to work, and support when he required it. But ever since he'd seen the first victims, Emir had done whatever he could to know as little about his patron's work as possible.

For a moment, Emir could not help but wonder what he had allowed into his province.

"Oh. I see," Emir said. "Is there anything—"

"Garem will remain slightly longer than I, to ensure the current situation is resolved to my satisfaction. After which time, he will join me," his patron continued. "You should begin making preparations for our absence. Find replacements for Garem and myself. And see to it that you do not tamper with my work while I am absent."

"I wouldn't even know where—"

"Garem will provide you with the relevant locations and individuals. They are not to be disturbed. You have enjoyed my patronage. Do not tempt my displeasure."

"I would never—"

"Good." Emir's patron glanced out the window as if looking out to the future. "I will return in time. Until then, this meeting will conclude our partnership. If there is anything you require, now is the time to say so."

Emir swallowed the knot that had formed in his throat. "I am grateful for everything you've done for me, of course. Particularly lending me the services of Garem. He has served me well, and I'm sure with his help, I will resolve the…current unrest in a matter of time."

"My own forces have been taxed, as of late. Between the rebel activity and the scourge running off from Trandore, I would appreciate it if you could give them any sort of support. Weapons perhaps? Or, further…enhancements?"

Emir's patron stood motionless for a time. "I heard of Agnizzar's failure. These…new outsiders that have been making trouble."

There was a special emphasis on the word "outsiders" that Emir couldn't place. It wasn't the typical disgust or mistrust most would apply to it, but it wasn't quite fascination or interest either. If anything, it was…pity.

"I can provide a new strain of the mutagens I gave him," his patron said. "They will, of course, be most effective in dragonblood elites, though any creature should see a benefit to its strength. I can give you a few more of my prototypes to supplement your forces as well, assuming that your elites are prepared to manage them. As prototypes, they are…unstable. Document the performance of both in the field, and see that Garem gets them before he departs."

Emir bowed his head to show gratitude and hide the worry on his face. More drugs and freaks.

"I believe I can also do something for that beast your forces captured last year," his patron said. "Consider it my final gift to you, for your cooperation."

Emir struggled for a moment to remember what his patron was talking about. When he did, his eyes bulged. What could possibly be done for that monstrosity? The only reason Emir hadn't killed it was because he couldn't find anyone in his forces who could.

"Thank you," Emir said, "for all of your support. I could not have done any of this without you."

"No," his patron said. "You could not."

He turned his back to Emir, heading for the door. He stopped just at the threshold.

"Do not concern yourself too greatly with the runoff from Trandore," he said. "In the near future, it will all be cleansed."