"Told you she's good."
"Good was an understatement."
The door clicks, and for a heartbeat the three of us are frozen.
I froze, halfway to standing, my arm bracing me against the wall. My hand grasped for Focuses that weren’t there— drifted for pockets lining a cloak that’d been taken from me— they found nothing. In that halfway moment between the door being closed, and being open— I found myself instinctively reaching for the cold sliver of my ether, incensed to at least start some kind of defense— I grit my teeth, and stifled the urge before it got anywhere productive. In my current state, I wouldn’t get anywhere at all— more likely, a subconscious part of me knew, I’d throw out any rest I’d gotten in exchange for a hasty attempt at Evocation. Regardless, my body tensed, ready to jump, run, or anything else escape required, despite the fact the room held close to nothing useful for any of those endeavors.
Arther was still sitting— though at the sound, his head had whipped up, his arm fallen to his side to prop him up, his other finding the edge of a table to pull himself up— but it wasn’t fast enough. He’d been surprised— and he had no weapons— what was he to do?
The door opened before he could get to a standing position, and through my blurry vision, I could make out the silhouette of a person. Thankfully, not a cultist stereotype like ‘Dumah’, but a person who seemed to actually be dressed like a normal person; a stocky, bald frame in a rumpled, buttoned shirt with dark suspenders; work boots, and gloves looped into their belt. For a heartbeat, when his eyes scanned the room, I could make out the surprise unfurling on his face. He seemed to almost jump, the whites of his eyes became more visible, his hands rose from his pockets, he spun and his mouth opened— He never got to say a word.
Clara swept into him like a dust storm.
A flash of fuzzy, rippling wine-red piercing the air— she’d moved from her sitting position on the ground near the door, to swinging for the man in the next heartbeat. She spun, the loop of her chain trailing her arm as she smoothly stepped around and out of the room, let the chain swing around the man’s throat— and swung the man with her. She released him mid-twirl— and for a moment I could’ve sworn there were multiple of Clara— before shoving him off-balance out of frame. The loop of chain fell loose, and the man fell. A second grunt echoed from around the corner. Clara terminated the small swirl she’d initiated the sequence with, stopping to face Arthur and I. Her multiples slowly faded, melting seamlessly back into her form.
“I suspect your short rest was enough?” she asked, chin tilted up. There was quietly smug in her expression.
I couldn’t find the words, and after another moment, she walked out of the door frame, calling, “Lets go!”
I finished my scramble to my feet, Arthur quickly following after me when we stumbled out of the tiny room that’d been our prison.
A hallway, dimly lit by tiny electrical lights— strange, since I often only saw their bespelled counterparts. The hallway we’d stepped out into copied much of a similar style to the room we’d been stuck in; crumbling, damp concrete lining the walls and floor; a nest of pipes and wiring haphazardly shoved alongside the ceiling— and a dampness that clung to everything like an oppressive heat wave.
Clara was crouched beside two bodies— both breathing, though severely dazed if their pained moans were anything to go by. It seemed that Clara had swung the first man into the second, and probably given the second another strike for good measure. The first lay across the second, who was dressed in a similar outfit; a cap, suspenders, sleeves drawn to his elbow, dark trousers, dirt and grease staining his clothing. They didn’t seem to have any identifier.
I stepped to the side, letting Arthur shuffle out beside me. Warily, I glanced up and down the hallway. Our impromptu escape wasn’t exactly loud, but it certainly hadn’t been quiet.
“What are you looking for?” Arthur asked.
“Keys,” Clara absently replied, rummaging through both of the men’s pockets. “Weapons. Something helpful.”
My silent vigil availed nothing, no shadow lying in wait to alert others to our sudden escape, no blaring alarms that seemed to foretell our enclosing fate. It seemed, however unlikely, that at the very moment, we were in no particular danger.
“Anything, Eigenlicht?” I murmured, feeling paranoia creep up my spine. Despite the evidence, I still didn’t feel at ease. I couldn’t understand the easy, calm attitude Clara had taken on. It appeared she was far more used to this than I.
“Don’t rush me, Laurent. I already found their keys—“ Clara tossed the set of keys to me “— which is more than your thirty minute break gave us.”
“Lock picks would’ve been useless if they’d open the door regardless.” I unlocked my handcuffs, before turning to Arthur and undoing his.
“They would’ve been helpful for the manacles,” Clara huffed, tossing something to Arthur. He caught it, and the metal of the hilt glinted off the amber light. He shot it a worried look before tucking it away.
“Didn’t seem to stop you—“
“— Are you able to cast?” she asked, turning to me. There was another dagger in her hand.
I narrowed my eyes. “… a couple spells, maybe. But nothing big. Not without my Focuses.”
“Focuses— plural? You had multiple?”
“—told you it was weird Elle—“
“Yes,” I spoke over him. “They—“
“— How much do they impact your efficiency?”
A lot, I didn’t say, they were really expensive. That answer wasn’t helpful, instead, I said, “With them, at my best, I could Transmute the entirety of this hallway from where we stood.”
Clara seemed to think for a moment, rising to her feet, before seemingly coming to terms with something. “Okay,” she said, handing me the hilt of the dagger and relieving me of the keys. She began undoing her own manacles. “Hold onto this for now, we’re gonna find our stuff, then we’ll root around a little more.”
Arthur piped up, “What do we do if we run into more people?”
“We’ll handle them—“ she unceremoniously tossed the manacles and the keys onto the guard’s prone forms “— as quietly as possible.”
My mind looped back around to the image of Clara whipping out at the two. It was no surprise she could move so quickly— Shrouds were, respectfully, terribly bullshit— but… “What was that? The... thing you did with the two guards you’ve just trounced.”
“Are you wondering what you saw?”
“The fancy duplication trick,” I hummed, awkwardly holding the dagger. I didn’t have pockets in my skirt, regretfully. “unless I’m seeing thing.”
“It’s my Shroud’s Expression.”
“Pardon?”
Arthur helpfully supplied, “Expressions are like aspects, but for Shrouds rather than general spellcasting.”
Aspects were a small part of ether manipulation— which was a general blanket-term that included spellcasting and shrouds under its purview. Aspects were mostly self-explanatory— a natural, or trained inclination to a certain style of casting. They were risky thing to get into— having a natural inclination towards one of the elements would make it substantially more difficult to use an element on the other side — but the sheer inevitability of developing aspects made them an accepted part of any mage’s training. In my case, I’d been born with a natural inclination towards water-based spells— which I had slowly branched out to include general manipulation of ice. It made casting fire-based spells exponentially more difficult— I’d never be caught engulfing fields in waves of fire— but I wasn’t broken up about it. Despite it, I could still influence works utilizing fire just fine.
Clara continued, “Well— Shrouds don’t have a tendency to lean towards habitual practices like aspects tend to— It’s more or less they pop up on their own after a bit.”
“Yeah,” Arthur agreed, “we don’t really get to practice and become better at using what our Shrouds are good at. It just randomly pops up.”
“Have you gotten yours yet, Arthur?”
“Uh… No… It hasn’t come up yet…”
“Well— I’m sure it’s nothing to worry about… More importantly…” I looked up and down the hallway again. Both ends looked identical. “Which way are we headed?”
“… Wanna flip a coin on it?” Clara asked, a hint of a laugh on her voice.
“You have a coin?” Arthur asked, perplexed.
“No.” I flatly stated at the same time.
Clara ignored me, scrounging a dull copper coin from her pocket. “The guy had a couple in his pockets.”
Arthur raised a brow. “Isn’t that theft?”
“In all fairness, Arthur,” I interrupted, “they kidnapped us first.”
“Yep. That’s true.” Clara sounded smug. “Also— he had silvers too, but I only swiped a couple coppers. He won’t miss those.”
“But why?” Arthur still sounded confused.
“They make good, loud distractions.”
Arthur gave a small sigh. “I guess you’re right.”
“Then—“ I bit down a sigh, I hadn’t been on my feet for long, but I already felt light headed. Was I swaying? I wasn’t sure “— Left, or right? Forward or back?”
Clara’s eyes narrowed. “Are you on the verge of Strain?”
“Burning out, yes.” Out of the corner of my blurry vision, I could see Arthur glancing at me, though I couldn’t make out his expression. “Am I bleeding?”
A glance, then a shake of her head. Her mirth faded, slid away into a furrowed focus. “You have crusted blood on your face.” Clara’s head tilted left, then right, like she was listening for something we couldn’t hear. I followed her lead, mostly out of need to feel like I was doing something than any actual expectation of results. I rubbed at my face, but I couldn’t tell if I was getting any blood off— my nails were also stained in rust-reds.
To the left, the same dull undertone of whirring, whistling pipes and humming machinery. To the right, there was little difference— maybe the electricity hummed brighter, or the pipes were less numerous— I wasn’t sure. Smell availed nothing; the same musk of lingering, corroding metal and damp earth. Sight only gave me what I’d confirmed earlier: two identical lengths of dimly lit hallway, both curving away, around, and out of sight.
“Right.” Clara nodded, as if she’d learned something, then started down the hallway. Forward, in our case. It was unspoken that we’d do our best to remain quiet.
“Why this way?” Arthur asked.
“There’s a breeze blowing our way,” Clara murmured back. “You don’t feel it?”
“All I feel is the ever-pervading, damp heat that’s been crawling across my back like a particularly large bug since I woke up.”
“Ever think of giving poetry a try?”
The author's narrative has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.
“I dislike poetry.”
“I thought you liked poetry?” Arthur quietly chimed in, “You had an entire journ—“
“Ah! Ah ah!” I quickly shushed him. “Not important— Eigenlicht— you mentioned your Expression earlier?”
The woman in question shot me an odd glance, but didn’t seem intent on needling me further. “Encompass,” she said, a hint of pride in her voice. She didn’t seem intent on elaborating, focusing on slowly advancing through the hallway, turning the corner, which revealed more emotionless corridor, only to stop and listen, before moving in another direction.
Frankly, I couldn’t follow the line of thought, and filed it away for later examination. Arthur crept behind me, occasionally shooting a backward glance, only to find dim lamps and swirling dust. I focused on my breathing, keeping it quiet, and hopefully, managing my aches to the best of my abilities. The concrete floor did nothing to cradle my body. Each step, each time I shifted my weight from foot to foot, I felt a sharp, radiating ache that threatened to dredge out a whine. I kept my mouth shut, though, choosing to grit my teeth through it.
I’ll live, I urged myself, downplaying the potential ramifications I’d been accumulating all night. It’s nothing you haven’t done before— a lie, but told enough times I’d start to believe it— This is nothing. You’ll live.
We turned down another corner, before I found myself piping up, quietly rasping through a sore throat. “Where are we?”
“Underground,” Clara muttered, “probably.”
“Probably?”
“The heat.”
“What about it?”
“Elle, it’s wet.”
“I— sure?”
I wasn’t exactly certain what he’d meant, but I focused on the feeling. Heat prickled at my neck, accumulating in sweat that stuck to my hair. Aggravated, I swiped a hand through my hair, and mourned for my lost hair tie. My fingers grazed my neck when I realized it: the lack of a warm loop of chain that usually sat around my neck. My warmth charm was missing.
Then, I placed it: the slimy, seeping heat wasn’t the product of enchanted heat— regulated through glyphs and runes that would steadily draw ambient ether to sustain like a warmth charm— it was a by-product of something else. Faintly, I recalled where I last felt a similar sensation, nearly eight years ago, when I’d paid a visit to the boiler rooms in Belfaust to examine their heating runes. I’d wanted to copy the design to try my hand at improvising my own house’s wards. Though, the attempt didn’t pan out. I’d been left with a lot of sweat, dissatisfaction, and wasted time.
“I see your point,” I said. “But where does that put us, specifically? An underground workshop? It can’t be— The ventilation would be far louder.”
“… We’ll see,” Clara replied, eyes still turned forward.
Then, we arrived at the stairs. They were plain, unassuming, formed from the same uniform concrete and stone that made up everything else. The same, flickering, humming electric lamps hanging from exposed wiring along the side. The pipes crawled down from their thicket on the ceiling, choosing instead of split and diverge across the sets of steps. Hung loosely on pipes opposite one another, was two signs. One, leading down, in a steady hand, read:
PROCESSING CATWALK
PROCESSING VATS
The other sign, beside the steps leading up, in the same steady font and off-yellow plaque, read:
CHEMICAL CABINETS
STORAGE DISPOSAL
LOCKER ROOMS
It seemed, comfortingly enough, we’d been taken to the lower floors of an alchemical factory. Before I could stop myself, I rasped: “Are we going to flip a coin on this as well?”
Arthur gave me a mollifying look, and moving towards the staircase leading up, Clara gave a small snort without turning her head. “Very funny, Laurent. We’re heading up.”
“Do you think we’ll see people?” Arthur asked.
“Probably—“
“— Probably not.”
Clara glanced back, an odd look on her face. I explained, “If we’re in an alchemical factory, they’ll probably have either ended their shifts by now— or still be working— no?”
Assuming the time we woke up and escaped doesn’t coincide with the starts of the workers shifts. Beyond the two guards we’d seen, we hadn’t seen anyone else— so I was pretty in favor of that particular assertion.
“Virgulta might have additional guards— actually, I’d put coins on it.”
“One thing…” Arthur quietly piped up, “I thought you said they trafficked… drugs? And given their name— the herbal kind?”
“Yes.”
“Then what would they be doing in an alchemical factory?”
“Certain illicits— in order to be properly manufactured— must undergo alchemical processing, in some cases,” I answered.
“Therefore,” Clara continued. “It isn’t a reach to say that the owner of the factory and Virgulta might be working together. We’ll be stopping by the foreman’s office on the way out if possible.”
Was that really necessary? I wanted nothing more than to leave. Though, a part of me was curious.
We carefully arrived at the next landing, where another sign greeted us, and informed us that we’d just left the janitorial section. Here, on the next floor, the sweltering heat abated slightly, not that it did my pooling sweat any noticeable favors. I still felt like I had a slowly rising fever, the temporary relief short-lived.
Another sign, pointing deeper into another emotionless corridor, claimed that both the chemical and storage sections resided ahead.
Without a word, we continued our skulking advance into the corridor. The sounds hadn’t changed; still the same, hissing, creaking murmur of old pipework and machinery. The scenery didn’t change much either— I could’ve sworn the lights changed ever so slightly, but it could’ve simply been my aching eyes playing tricks on me. Most importantly, however, was the discernible lack thereof of additional guards.
The three of us reached a fork in the corridor, one led to storage— indicated by a small, paper sign— and the other was unmarked— probably to the chemical storage. We took the marked path, headed towards the storage section— and hopefully, our things.
It occurred to me that if we were to spot someone, we wouldn’t exactly be capable of hiding. Nothing but stirred dust and rough door frames that wouldn’t hide us. If someone spotted us, the only path of retreat would be back towards where we came from— towards the stairs, either hiding around corners or sheltering within a room. Though— the corners weren’t particularly promising either; the corridors were too long— We wouldn’t be able to make it from one corner to the next to dip out of sight. Part of me mused whether that was intentional.
Focus, Laurent. Talon’s voice revisited me, and my own joined it. Else you’ll die.
“Think we’re getting close to the storage section?” I whispered.
“There’s a larger room up ahead— some people, too,” Clara muttered, eyes still fixed to the hallway ahead. She waved Arthur and I down beside the corner, and peeked a head around. I restrained the urge to hazard a peek— I didn’t exactly trust my body not to randomly give out on me.
“Here’s what’s going to happen.” Clara’s voice was quiet, but she’d turned back to us. “We’ll distract the two— one will walk over, and the other watches— Arthur— You nab the first. I’ll get the second.”
“And what’ll my role be, Eigenlicht?”
She paused, glancing back. “Nothing. Stay here. Play lookout.”
I frowned, but kept silent. “What happens if neither come over?”
“One of them will.” Clara responded, before tossing handful of coins against the wall. “Trust me.”
Trust was a strong word I’d use for how I felt about Clara. Based off my terribly brief interaction with her— I’d pinned her as a deeply unpleasant person to work with— one that I’d much prefer to avoid in the coming days… but, while I didn’t like her— even I understood the necessity working together. I’d long past the age where I’d let my personal feelings get in the way. Certainly, I wouldn’t be trusting her to catch me if I fell— but I trusted her enough to put faith in the fact she most likely— probably— didn’t want to lead me to my death. It wasn’t a very comforting thought.
“Ten seconds.”
Arthur and I hummed our agreements, and I hazarded a look back towards the corridor we’d come from. Same concrete. Same pipes. Same doors. Nothing amiss. Another coin clinking across concrete echoed behind me, and involuntarily, I tensed. A second passed. Then two.
“Laurent.” Clara had stuck a hand back. “The sheath on the dagger— if you would?”
Wordlessly, I unsheathed the dagger, placed the hard sheath into her hand, and clutched the dagger tighter. I wasn’t trained with a dagger— my younger self didn’t think it prudent to pursue any skills with any weapons. She rationalized it as unnecessary— always had my spells on hand, so why worry?
Three. I caught a short snippet of distant muttering, when the machinery seemed to temporarily ebb, but I couldn’t make out any words. Four. A groan, then the heavy boots echoing down the hallway.
Five. Six. Arthur tensed behind me. Clara’s frame dipped, taut like a whip about to be swung. Given her performance earlier— I wouldn’t have been surprised if she could’ve dashed faster than a springing whip. Two more seconds. The footsteps sounded closer, and now I could make out the mutterings.
“— damned things—“ Nine. Ten. “— Swear to fuckin’—“
Then, we moved.
Rather, Arthur and Clara leapt from their spots like coiled springs, while I sat still and hazarding glances between where we came from and where we were headed.
The man around the corner never had a chance; a flicker of eye-widening surprise as he spun, a warning on his lips before Clara tore past him, tripping him as she went. Arthur got to him after, throwing a strike that shoved a groan out of the guard— and guard they were, with the baton falling from their hand. The man went down— but didn’t slam their head on the concrete, thankfully— and began to fight like an animal. Arthur straddled the man, doing his best to restrain and silence him.
Farther away, the hazy silhouette of a figure stiffening in shock, before spinning to run. They too, looked like they were about to cry out. Clara was still halfway down the corridor, fast— but not fast enough. My thought flickered back to her assurance— Trust me— she’d said. The first part had been true, but now, she’d proved incapable of her part. I found myself reaching a hand forward, grasping at the melting, icy sliver of my ether— before I stilled.
Arthur’s assessment of good, was a sore understatement. Clara wasn’t good, she was eerily competent and graceful— the example one would find in a textbook.
Clara twisted, turning, one foot forward and one of her hands outstretched, her other hand was behind her head, raised, with a the dagger’s scabbard in it. Her arm whipped forward, flinging the sheath into a streak of whistling black.
Clara’s technique is textbook— I realized. But the shot’s impossible— the distance is too far.
I inwardly swore when the sheath hit the mark— the guard’s figure jerked, the warning strangled into a cry of pain, before Clara reached them; clutching a hand over their mouth before flinging them to the ground. I held my wince when I watched the guards head dully smack into the floor. The muffled shouts drew my attention back to Arthur, who had pressed himself against a door. He looked slightly frazzled, and shot me a pleading look. The door behind him gave a small jolt. Kneeling beside Arthur, I bit back the painful whine as I raised a section of the floor in front of the door, effectively barring it. After a couple of moments, Arthur stepped away— the door jolted again— but held, and I took a moment before finding my feet.
Arthur was softly huffing, but I couldn’t make out the expression from this close. I bumped his shoulder. “You okay?”
“I—“ he took a breath, before slowly letting it out. I saw his shoulders marginally relax. “Yeah, I’m okay.”
I gave him a smile that quickly soured when Clara bounded back into view. Clara practically waltzed up to us, read the quiet exasperation on my face, and flashed a smug grin at Arthur and I. “You didn’t believe I could pull it off.”
“You technically didn’t,” I dryly pointed out. “You threw the sheath and they still made noise.”
“Is your hand okay, Clara?” Arthur looked concerned, and she raised her hand, flexing it. Her wrist, and by extension her hand, bad become a concerning shade of red. Along the inside of the wrist, there were little black-and-blue spots— bruises speckling across her warm skin.
“Yes,“ she tersely whispered, her smile falling and replaced by that same focus cautious focus she held. She began walking, nodding in my direction. “And yes. The other guards will be slow to react and check it out, but when they see her—“ she jerked her chin towards the quietly moaning guard on the ground down the corridor “— they’ll go on alert.”
The storage section is an ever-expanding hedge maze formed of towering wooden storage containers and smaller crates piled together. Singular, heavy bulbs hang like icicles from a nest of pipes clinging to the ceiling— far above us, isolated, lonely, and dripping pale, spreading light onto the floor below. I feel small as we step out from the corridor into the storage space. The ceiling was only a couple feet above my head there, here, the ceiling expands beyond my view, hidden behind a pipe-lined sky. The temperature dips, going from a suckling heat to detached warmth. The hum of electricity distanced, drowned out by the perpetual roaring yawn of ventilation. Our boots scuffed against the concrete floor.
"I don’t suspect that you’ve also intuited the way to our stuff?” I muttered, glancing to each of the crates as we passed. They all looked the same.
“We’re looking for something recent.” Clara slowed, pointing to a corner of a nearby storage box. Bold black text crawled along the edge. I squinted and still couldn’t read it. “They’re dated.”
“What do we do if we run into people?” Arthur asked.
“I can guide us around them— those two back there were unavoidable.”
“What happens if the alarm sounds?”
“We’ve been on a time limit since we woke up.” Clara briefly glanced back at me. “Before you ask— there’s little chance that our stuff is actually in a box— more likely they threw it all into a stack for later.”
I frowned. “I wasn’t going to bring that up.”
“You would’ve asked something similar.”
My frown grew, and we continued deeper. Storage containers, stained with something unidentifiable, damp with melted snow, slick with dirt and powdered concrete and gravel, loomed over and around us. Electric bulbs hung far above us, casting and shifting our shadows along the edges of the containers. Unlike the corridors, the walls here were tight, shoved together and condensed— the corners were not placed at long, distanced intervals that made hiding impossible— rather, the combination of the tight corners and plethora of stacked crates created an abundance to hiding spots. So much so that it did the exact opposite of assuage my paranoia.
Something could jump out at us, a part of my mind mused. Shut up, another hissed. That’s unlikely.
The unspoken agreement was to keep an eye out regardless.
At one point, I stopped trying to keep track of where we’d come and gone— the walls were too uniform and the light too austere and sparse— everything looked the same. Clara led us right, then left, then right again. Once, she’d began down a turn, stopped as if she was listening, then motioned for us to turn. Time passed, and I dug my nails into my palm to prevent from swaying on my feet. At some point, I’d fallen from the center of our trio to the back, and I did my best to smile whenever Arthur sent a concerned glance back to me.
“Eigenlicht—“ she glanced back “— I don’t mean to mistrust you… but—“
“— Some of them are walking back and forth. We had to avoid them,” Clara tersely responded. “We’re making good progress.”
None of us voiced the bit she didn’t mention. Regardless of how smooth our progress, we were still running out of time.