Alexander examined the black linen string with three knots that had slipped from an envelope delivered by an errand boy. Inside was an invitation to a late dinner—the same one Elisabet had nagged him about hours earlier. The black linen meant an urgent change of plans. He ran his fingers over the rough fiber as his hopes of a peaceful evening vanished. It seemed Elisabet would get her way after all.
He wrote a quick note to let her know he’d changed his mind about attending the dinner and handed it to the boy along with a coin to deliver it. Three knots—nine o’clock. He still had some time to prepare.
His rooms were sparse, furnished with only the essentials: a few pieces of practical furniture, a desk cluttered with paperwork and engineering manuals, and a wardrobe filled with clothing supplied by his patron. On the desk sat a small project he had been working on. The only personal object in the room was a small piece of worn colored glass, poor in quality and faded by time. It was nearly useless now, but he slipped it into his pocket as he changed into formal attire.
His eyes landed on a small box containing a ring. An unpleasant weight sank into his gut at the thought: would he need it tonight? He wasn't thrilled at the prospect of tying his life to Elisabet. Then again, it wasn’t truly himself he’d be binding to her, only the persona of Alexander Brenn. His position at the Light Institute was too valuable for them to cast him aside—but the thought brought little comfort. Still, he couldn’t deny the truth anymore: the only way he’d return home was by being compromised. That meant not only endangering his life here but also becoming less valuable back home.
Here, he might be an exceptional engineer. Back home, he’d be just another name among many.
The rope made him uneasy. He rarely got black linen messages, their implications often serious. Perhaps plans had been accelerated. He took the ring box with him – just in case. He was nothing if not well prepared. An essential trait for a spy, he reckoned.
He was a good one.
It was all he ever was.
----------------------------------------
He arrived at the estate a quarter past seven, just as most of the guests would have already gathered. Right in the middle of the city, an iron gate swung open to reveal a private park brimming with exotic plants, their survival ensured by regular magical care.
A grass-lined path shimmered under the eerie green light of engineered lamps. Each was filled with a powder that turned their flames emerald, casting shadows that swayed with the gentle evening breeze. The path was flanked by sculptures—imposing dryads and imps of eastern folklore, their angry faces with mouths gaping to reveal sharp teeth. Dark dust and moss coated the figures. The lord of the house fancied himself a master of subversion and eccentricity. Alexander, however, found the display garish rather than unsettling.
The stairs were covered all in a dense hedge, an apparent addition for this evening’s spectacle. At the center of the arrangement, a particularly grotesque imp sculpture leered at the guests with bulging eyes and fake blood dripping from its gaping mouth. Alexander wondered if anyone here knew that, according to tradition, imps were benevolent house guardians when properly respected with offerings. Likely not. Not that he believed such myths himself—they were stories for the masses and entertainment for the elite. Eastern folklore had become the latest fascination of the City of Light’s upper class. Historically, such beliefs had never reached this region, but in the distant East, they retained a strong cultural presence.
A servant greeted him at the door, their face dusted with dark powder and gold-painted lines around their eyes. Their sharp gestures added to the unsettling ambience. The gold lines did not originate from folklore, Alexander thought with disdain. Where would the villagers get gold paint anyway? Alexander handed over his coat and stepped into the guest room, a vast space abuzz with chatter and the clinking of glasses.
He stepped into the grand guest room. The space was vast, its high ceilings supported by tall windows that lined the entrance and far wall. By day, the room would be filled with sunlight. By night, guests could look through its stained-glass sections to glimpse stars or the moon. Shades of green, light blue, and pink merged seamlessly into transparent panes, creating a kaleidoscope of light.
The pale pink and beige walls were decorated with moldings that framed paintings and murals. Above, the ceiling featured moldings shaped to resemble flowers within geometric patterns. Chandeliers holding a hundred candles each hung high above the heads of the guests. The candles, like the lamps outside, burned with shifting colors, their flames melting through layers of colorful powder tinted wax, a testament to the fashionable engineering of the City of Light.
Alexander glanced at the art and furnishings. Plaster, glass, and marble sculptures dotted the space, but there was a noticeable lack of greenery. It was as though the lord of the house had drawn a line between his lavish indoor world and the wildness outside. Despite the excess, the arrangement was cohesive. The colors were harmonious, and despite the excess—an aesthetic triumph. The richness of the room dazzled, but did not overwhelm. The air was filed with a faint pleasant perfume. Lord Manning may be a pompous moron, but Alexander couldn't deny he had taste. Yet Alexander’s admiration dimmed when he spotted the centerpiece of the room.
For a moment, he nearly froze, but he quickly regained his composure and summoned a relaxed, amused expression. At the center of the room stood a statue of the Mother of Crops, slightly larger than life. It wasn’t her mere presence that chilled Alexander’s blood, but the expression etched into her features. He hadn’t expected it to still unnerve him so deeply.
He took a slow breath and studied the piece of art. It was blasphemous.
She towered over everyone present, sculpted from dark stone with highlights of pale gray-white paint applied where skin would catch the light, exaggerating every shadow and jagged contour, as if she was a creature of darkness—a lurking menace. Hunger in her eyes screamed vengeance, highlighted by rusty-red paint smeared around them by the artist, giving her an almost feral gaze.
Her long, blond hair carved in chaotic strands around her shoulders, cascaded down to her breasts, as if she was fighting against a strong wind. One hand was reaching forward as if grasping something, the other kept close to her body. Her elongated nails resembled the talons of a bird of prey more than those of a human. There was anger in her stance and raw aggression in her gaze.
It struck Alexander that this was exactly what she was like. This sculpture, though satire made for amusement of the guests, portrayed the essence of her teachings far better than any of the pious depictions of her followers. Though Alexander doubted anyone there would actually agree with him.
She was also dressed in a mix of gold and moss, an odd choice, though better suited than the discarded butterfly cloak laying around her feet. An artistic liberty. The butterfly cloaks, used to repel the magic of light, while aligned perfectly with the Mother's beliefs, but were not part of the eastern culture. Made from rare southern butterfly wings, they were unaffordable for most common folk and even here they could only be imported.
The statue stood as a stark contrast to the rest of the room, framed by bold gold accents on one side and an obsidian fountain at the back. There was a sense of underlying tension to the art pieces, as if the the art wanted to be recognized and celebrated.
Music played in the background, the musicians engaged for the night hidden in a separate alcove above the ball room mixed with rustling of dresses and simmer of gossip. A smell of cigars followed by rustling of cards from the cigar room where men were gambling.
He walked up to a small round table and took a glass of drinking honey. He desperately wished for dry wine, but the sickly sweet drink had recently come back into fashion. A young, successful man that Alexander was supposed to pose as, would naturally partake in the trend.
"Ah, there you are. I didn’t think you’d come,"
He turned as Elisabet came to greet him. She was dressed in a dark gown embroidered with gold, her teal-lined eyes followed the evening’s theme. She looked striking, and for a fleeting moment, she reminded him of the black-powdered women from his childhood, their faces painted to ward off spirits.
He banished the thought and smiled with effortless charm. He had a role to play.
"You know I can’t say no to you."
"My father will be thrilled that you’re here. Come, I want to show you off."
She took his hand and lead him toward the next room. The absence of his colleagues indicated that tonight’s gathering was more exclusive than usual. Across the room he noticed the Avenian ambassador engrossed in conversation with a general from the royal army.
The second room was less spacious, with a table already set for dinner later that night. Elisabet walked up to him, a mischievous smile, holding a small white berry on a spoon. She raised it, offering it to his lips.
“Try it.”
Krede fruit. He hesitated. A few guests tried to stifle their amusement; others let their smirks show. Elisabet, it seemed, was thoroughly enjoying herself.
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Krede fruit—also known as the fruit of trust. It was edible only if it was cultivated by a mage; otherwise it turned into a deadly poison, capable of killing in seconds. Of course, the one in front of him would undoubtedly be safe, but very expensive. What were the chances that the berry in her hand was cultivated without care or accidentally mixed from a batch of poisonous fruits? The two kinds were indistinguishable. It was no secret that suppliers often provided both to the buyers.
Her eyes held a playful challenge. He doubted she’d ever seen the foam that formed around the mouth of a victim—or the convulsions as life drained from their body. For her and the people around them, this was just a bit of entertainment. To him, it was reminder of how easily unwanted people were dealt with during his military days.
He took the berry and bit into it. Sweetness dominated his senses.
Elisabet laughed, delighted. “It wasn’t so bad, was it?”
Too sweet, he thought. Not worth the risk.
From across the room, the ambassador caught his eye, casually eating Krede Fruits from a bowl and giving Alexander a mocking nod. The man was tall, his short black hair beginning to thin, and a slight belly betraying his age. He wore a navy uniform with brown and red emblems on display, a light beige cravat tied loosely around his neck. He was relaxed, the influence of alcohol evident. It was no secret in the City of Light that the older ambassador was fond of drink and many people would not take a man with this habit seriously.
Alexander wondered if the man’s composure stemmed from rue confidence—or if he just dosed himself with an antidote beforehand. He knew that the man had witnessed and wielded the effects of the fruit countless times, and treated it with a kind of reserve, a respect for the lives it took. Alexander knew he wasn’t the only one traumatized by the experience.
It was a quarter to nine, and Alexander was growing weary. The air felt heavy, and he was tired of sampling the latest concoctions from the new chef. Against his better judgment, he had too much wine already. He set down his glass. This wasn't like him. He needed to be on top of his game tonight. The spy master rarely met with him in person—it was usually just his handler or a discreet message.
Elisabet placed a hand on his leg, and he gave her a small smile before looking across the table. Most of the guests were members of the City of Light’s upper class, many deeply entrenched in politics, but there were also some traders, such as Ebermony, who was loudly complaining about the latest developments at the border.
“It’s just ridiculous that they can’t get it under control! The counterfeit crystals—if you can even call them that—are ruining my business!” the red-faced man cried.
Alexander’s gaze shifted to the younger man seated beside Ebermony, who was clearly ignoring his neighbor’s tirade. The younger man nodded occasionally, offering no meaningful response. Alexander had seen him before—Jimmy Mendel, often accompanied by his wife, Avery. The Mendels had one child, a five-year-old son. Alexander knew these details as effortlessly as he knew Ebermony’s favorite wine, Jimmy’s ambition to become a general in the royal army, and the fact that he visited his mistress every other week at a small apartment on River Street.
He looked at the young woman sitting next to her husband. She had a slightly pointy face and an unapproachable manner. Despite striking blue eyes and long blond hair—a cause of envy— her indifference made her plain. At least she spoke little, which made her presence more tolerable than others at the table. There wasn’t anything remarkable about her. Just like so many women here, her marriage was a union of convenience merging two wealthy families. The lack of affection between her and her husband was evident in the dullness of her gaze whenever she spoke to him.
She irritated Alexander. He knew women like this too well. He learned their priorities the hard way. He wondered how many times he would have to see them again on similar occasions. Would he, too, grow indifferent over time, like her?
It had already been nearly three years since he's seen home. Well, if it could even be called home.
The first two courses were behind them, and the atmosphere turned more relaxed. Guests strolled through the garden, some smoking, others forming small circles to converse.
“I just don’t understand it,” Ebermony continued, his voice rising above the hum of chatter. “It is of utmost importance to solve this issue. Those bastards aren’t just flooding the market with fraudulent goods—they’re undermining our entire economy!”
“Don’t you mean your economy?” someone quipped, eliciting a round of snickers. Ebermony’s face darkened to an even deeper shade of red. His financial troubles were becoming increasingly obvious.
“I’ve already petitioned the King,” he pressed on, “but the Queen of Aven should do something as well. It’s her damn country, after all!”
“The Queen of Aven is doing something,” Coren Mitchel replied calmly. “She’s been fighting the smugglers for a long time now, but it seems to be a losing battle.”
“How can that be?” Jimmy Mendel asked, predictably seeking Coren’s opinion.
“She's been hunting the counterfeit makers, but every time she manages to close one factory, two arise in its place.”
“Is she really that weak?” another man scoffed.
“Either the counterfeiters are resourceful enough to outwit the royal soldiers, or they’re getting help from somewhere,” Coren said, his tone measured. “One wonders if those fools have nothing better to do. It’s as if they’ve abandoned all other duties.”
“It’s a matter of principles,” Ebermony declared, puffing his chest. “If you’re born without principles, there’s nothing that can save you. Those bastards lack the values that a cultured society instills. If they’re so eager to make those crystals, they should be working in the mines and processing workshops. Honest work is available to them! Instead, they choose a life of deceit and debauchery.”
“Aye to that,” Corey said, nodding as he drained his wine.
Lady Avery rose abruptly in the middle of the conversation, drawing the group’s attention. Her movements were slightly unsteady as she stepped around her chair.
“I apologize,” she said, her voice cool yet slightly slurred. “All this talk gives me a headache. I’ll leave you gentlemen to enjoy yourselves while I get some fresh air.”
Her face, flushed, softened her usual icy demeanor. Alexander noted how beautiful she looked with even the faintest hint of emotion—a stark contrast to the blank expression he was accustomed to.
“You’ll have to excuse her,” Jimmy said to the group, a condescending smile on his lips. “Women are always so air-headed.”
“Ha, that’s true, my friend,” Harold Evergreen said jovially, clapping Jimmy on the shoulder as he joined the circle. “Although, I must say, my daughter Elisabet knows exactly what she’s doing.” He raised his glass toward Alexander in an unsubtle toast.
“You cannot fault them. A woman’s role is not to be burdened with difficult politics—it would make them rather dull, and us cruel for expecting something beyond their capacities.” Those words had once been difficult for Alexander to say, but he delivered them smoothly now. Harold was his target, and Alexander had studied him thoroughly, every detail his sources could uncover.
Harold beamed with approval and continued. “Precisely, my dear Ebermony. Don’t fret too much about this counterfeit goods problem. Yes, they’re flooding the market, but it’s only a temporary state. At my Institute, we conducted a thorough investigation of their quality, and the results are clear: no self-respecting mage would ever use them.”
“But they are using them!” Ebermony protested, his frustration palpable. “They must be! Sales have sunk, and I’m stuck paying for deliveries while my supply sits unsold. I’ve even started considering exporting them elsewhere.”
Harold opened his mouth, but Alexander cut in first. “Harold is right,” he said, adopting a calm and reassuring tone. “They may be buying those fakes now, but in a few months, people will realize how poor the quality is. Only the desperate will still use them. The crystals are riddled with impurities and cracks. Often, they aren’t even crystals at all—just colored glass disguised as the real thing. Glass that can be bought even cheaper than the counterfeits.”
Alexander spoke with conviction, though he knew the truth. Those fakes weren’t going away anytime soon. The price of authentic crystals was simply too high for most to afford.
Harold nodded enthusiastically, gesturing toward Alexander. “Yes, yes, exactly! Alexander coordinated that study himself. It’s quite a pity how desperate those villagers are, producing such poor-quality instruments.”
Two minutes to nine. Alexander rose, offering a polite smile as he excused himself.
In the corridor, he moved briskly toward the restrooms, then turned and ascended the staircase to the living quarters of the master of the house. The ambassador was waiting for him in the study, examining the view from the window.
None the man’s earlier joviality remained. His back was straight, his face stern and sober, and he exuded the confidence and rigor of a seasoned commander.
Alexander entered, shutting the door behind him. His eyes scanned the room, ensuring they were alone.
“We’re clear,” the older man said, turning to him.
“You don’t look particularly happy to be here,” he observed, his sharp eyes scanning Alexander’s expression.
Alexander swallowed. He couldn’t afford for the spymaster to doubt his capability—or suspect his focus wasn’t entirely on the mission.
“Just tired,” Alexander replied evenly. “I hadn’t planned on attending tonight. The research has been taking most of my time.”
“Research is important,” the spymaster said, his tone laced with impatience, “but this—here—is where we make real progress. Never mind.” He pulled a folded sheet from inside his coat and handed it to Alexander. “Here’s a note we intercepted.”
Alexander unfolded the letter. It contained only a few cryptic lines:
The Institute and Academy are working on it. I'm warning you. Neither you nor I want the king to have this kind of power. It was better left alone.
As Alexander finished reading, the spymaster took the note back and held it over a nearby candle, watching the flame consume it until it turned to ash.
“This note was sent by Orpheus Mellert, the Headmaster of the Academy of Light Magic, to the leader of the rebels deep in the Wyrmwood Forest.”
Alexander frowned. That made no sense. Orpheus Mellert was known for his open opposition to the rebels. He had never been associated with them in any form—until now.
“Do you think he’s working with them?” Alexander asked.
“That’s what I want you to find out.” The spymaster’s voice hardened. “The note mentions the Academy and the Engineering Institute are working on it. Your job is to uncover what it is—and why Mellert would risk contacting the rebels. The message reached them, of course; no need to raise suspicion. But you need to get to that project. Find out what it’s about.”
Alexander nodded, thinking about the implications.
“Work that fool Harold to gain access,” the spymaster said sharply. “If necessary, use the ring.”
The orders were unmistakable. If the ambassador had come to deliver them personally, it had to be important. Either Alexander was being tested, or the situation in Aven was far worse than he had assumed.
As the spymaster approached the door, he paused beside Alexander, his voice dropping to a pointed murmur. “And for your own sake, Nikolas,” he said, his gaze heavy, “pay as much attention to Elisabet as you do to Avery Mendel.”
With that, he exited, leaving the room steeped in silence.
A solitary Krede berry sat on the desk. He picked it up, tossed it into the fire, and watched as it burned. Then, turning on his heel, he left the room, closing the door firmly behind him.