Sunlight crept through the shattered stained glass windows, casting fractured rainbows across the blood-stained marble floor. Fendrel slumped on a wooden bench, his muscles screaming from the night's work. His hands trembled, covered in residue from countless potions and antidotes he'd brewed through the endless hours.

Acrid smoke still hung in the air, mixing with the metallic tang of blood and the sharp bite of spilled alchemical reagents.

Around him, the wounded groaned as healers applied his antidotes.

Many bodies lay covered in white sheets, their outlines stark against the debris of overturned pews and broken glass. Fendrel counted twelve sheets. Twelve dead from his poisons, wielded by Ironmire's assassins.

A shadow fell across him. The Warden stood there, his armor dented and scored, dried blood crusting the joints. Without his helmet, his face was a mask of exhaustion and barely contained fury. Behind him, the senior priest's robes were stained dark with blood, but his eyes burned with cold intensity as he met Fendrel's gaze. A slight nod, a beckoning gesture.

The Warden's gauntleted hand clamped onto Fendrel's shoulder, hauling him to his feet. Pain shot through his overtaxed muscles as the armored man propelled him forward.

They moved past clusters of survivors. Conversations died as heads turned to watch. Whispers followed in their wake, carrying fragments that made Fendrel's skin crawl.

"...his poisons..."

"...working with them all along..."

The Warden's grip tightened as they descended stone steps into the church's lower levels. Torchlight replaced the sun's warmth, shadows deepening with each step downward. The whispers faded, replaced by the echo of armored boots on stone and Fendrel's own ragged breathing.

Fendrel stumbled, catching himself against the damp wall. The Warden yanked him upright without a word, forcing him deeper into the church's belly.

The stone walls pressed in around Fendrel as they descended deeper into the church's basement. His feet scraped against worn steps, the Warden's grip never loosening. The parasite writhed beneath his skin, responding to his elevated heartbeat, but Fendrel felt an odd sense of detachment from the situation.

The chamber they entered matched the rest of the underground - dark stone walls slick with condensation, lit by flickering crystals. Metal restraints hung from thick chains mounted to the walls, their purpose clear. A heavy wooden table dominated the center, flanked by several chairs.

The Warden shoved him into the smallest chair, its legs scraping against stone. Two guards took position by the door, hands resting on sword hilts. Their eyes never left him.

The Justiciar entered last, his robes sweeping the floor. Purple lines still marked his neck where the poison had nearly claimed him, but his movements remained steady. He settled into the chair across from Fendrel, laying his hands flat on the table's scarred surface.

"You've been busy, Master Solinar." The Justiciar's voice was heavy, tired. "First the garrison, now this attack. How long have you worked with the Ironmire Court?"

Fendrel's lips twitched. The past hours spent brewing antidotes had given him time to piece things together. Those guards who'd beaten him weeks ago, they must have winded up dead after his blood got on them. It wasn't just his blood bot most of his bodily liquids were heavily laced with toxins and poisons. No wonder the garrison wanted his head.

But this calm settling over him felt strange. One good punch to his face would spray blood everywhere. A cut, a scrape - any break in his skin would allow him to get heavy dose of poison on the people sitting in front of him.

Do they know? I don't think so.

"I don't work for Ironmire." Fendrel kept his voice steady. "Never have."

The Warden's gauntlet crashed down, denting the table. "Think again! We found your poisons on their bodies!"

Fendrel didn't flinch, he was frozen in place. The impact had come close enough to feel the air move.

Forget about poisoning them, they would kill me before I could escape.

He slowly forced himself to turn to look at the armored man. One head-butt would be all it took for both of them to die. The thought almost made him laugh.

"I don't work for them," he said. "They were buying my stuff from the black market, same as other groups."

Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

The Justiciar leaned forward, purple lines stark against his skin. "Explain."

Fendrel shifted in his chair, the wood wheezing. "I sold through a middleman. Never dealt with buyers directly." He glanced at the purple lines on the Justiciar's neck. "The black market contact had a scarred face, wore the Silent Scale. That's all I know."

"A convenient excuse." The Warden's armor creaked as he paced. "Blame a random courier no one can find."

The Justiciar raised his hand, silencing the Warden. "Seems like the guard had been looking for rogue alchemist gone crazy for weeks now. They suspected someone from the Academy, or one of the underground organization finally loosing all sense and bringing an outsider in." His lips curved. "Nobody thought to look in the slums."

Fendrel kept his face blank, hands on the table.

"Your skills must be remarkable." The Justiciar leaned back, studying him. "Such precise work from someone operating out of a hovel. And yet..." He gestured at Fendrel's threadbare clothes. "It's actually impressive, the self-restraint you exercised with the money you must have been bringing in."

Fendrel's stomach clenched. Is brewing poisons really that difficult?

The only reason he didn't spend more was because he actually had no money due to the parasites increasing demands.

This also confirms they don't know about my class advancement yet.

"Where did it go wrong?" The Justiciar's voice softened, almost friendly. "The garrison incident? Or did you get greedy and end up blowing your cover?"

For a moment, Fendrel almost told him everything - the parasite, the constant brewing, the desperate need for ingredients. The words rose in his throat before he caught himself. They'd never let him live if they knew of his class.

"I didn't mean for anyone to die." The words came out rough. "They attacked me first. Everything else - I just sold what people would buy. I have to put food on the table somehow."

"Intent is irrelevant." The priest's voice cut through the air. "Your creations are tearing this city apart. Guards dead, nobles poisoned, chaos in the streets." He leaned forward. "The Blackthorn girl nearly died. She is sixteen."

Fendrel's fingers twitched. Elena Blackthorn. She was the first victim of his work that he was aware of.

The Justiciar's expression shifted, his eyes taking on a calculating gleam. "That is beside the point. We aren't here to pass judgment on you yet."

"Yet?" The word slipped out before Fendrel could stop it.

The senior priest rose from his chair, his robes rustling against the stone floor. "The church offers you a choice, alchemist. Work for us, or face public execution."

Fendrel's mouth went dry. "Work for you?"

"We need antidotes." The priest's voice was steel wrapped in silk. "The Assassins' Guild has been using your poisons. We need to have countermeasures ready if they decide to push us again, healing potions, mana restoration potions and so on. I will give you chance to use your skills for your redemption."

"What choice do I have?"

The Warden's gauntlet scraped across the table. "This isn't a request. You'll brew what we need, or you'll hang. Simple as that."

"You'll have access to ingredients," the priest added. "Whatever you require, within reason. But you must cease all poison production immediately."

Yeah sure and die within the next eight hours.

The church was offering him protection, resources - survival. But they'd watch him constantly. One mistake, one discovered vial of poison, and he'd be dead. Yet refusing meant certain death.

The Justiciar studied him with those calculating eyes. "Consider carefully. The church can be generous to those who serve faithfully. Or merciless to those who betray its trust."

The offer was clear. They'd shield him from the Assassins' Guilds, the crime lords, everyone who might want him dead.

They are ready to provide so much protection only for me to make them antidotes? It was almost dream come true, only if it wasn't for the fact that they would basically own him.

"How long do I have to decide?" Fendrel asked.

"Now." The Warden's voice brooked no argument. "Choose."

Fendrel's throat constricted as he weighed his options. The church's offer wasn't really an offer at all - it was an ultimatum wrapped in false choice. But perhaps he could salvage something from this situation.

"I'll do it," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. "But I have conditions."

The Warden's laugh echoed off the stone walls. "You're in no position to make demands, alchemist."

"I need to be able to go into the city." Fendrel straightened his spine, fighting against the tremor in his voice. "To select my own ingredients. Quality matters in alchemy - I can't trust others to know what to look for."

The priest raised an eyebrow. "You expect us to let you wander freely?"

"Not freely. Send guards if you must. But I need this autonomy. I'm not going to be your slave."

The Warden slammed his palm on the table. "This is absurd. He'll run first chance-"

"Agreed." The priest's word cut through the Warden's protest like a knife. "But understand this, Fendrel Solinar - one misstep, one hint of betrayal, and your life is forfeit. The church's mercy extends only so far."

The Warden's face reddened. "Father-"

"Two guards will accompany him at all times." The priest's eyes never left Fendrel's face. "Remember, alchemist - you are useful, not irreplaceable."

The guards marched Fendrel through winding corridors, their boots echoing against stone floors. He recognized this path - he'd walked it before, that night with the woman in silks. They stopped before massive wooden doors that opened into a laboratory that made his old workspace look like a beggar's hole.

Copper stills lined one wall, their surfaces gleaming in the lamplight. Shelves of fresh ingredients stretched floor to ceiling. Three different workbenches stood ready, each with its own set of pristine equipment.

"Your new workspace," one guard grunted. "Get comfortable."

Fendrel ran his fingers along a marble countertop. All this equipment, all these resources - it would have been a dream come true once. Now it felt like gilded chains.

His mind drifted to the Witherfang Resin he'd created, how it had eaten through solid stone. Something that powerful could be useful, if he planned carefully. He'd need time to gather supplies, to prepare. But he would escape - he had to.

The guards took up positions by the door, their eyes boring into his back. Fendrel picked up a mortar and pestle, trying to get his mind focus on the work.