Fendrel emerged from the cellar into a dimly lit hallway. Dust coated every surface, and broken furniture lay scattered across the floor. His boots left clear tracks in the grime as he crept toward the stairs, each step carefully placed to minimize noise.

He climbed the creaking stairs, wincing at each sound. The upper floor opened into a vast empty hall, moonlight filtering through broken windows. Shadows danced across the walls as clouds passed overhead.

Fendrel pressed against the wall, inching toward a window that overlooked a narrow alley. The drop wasn't too bad - maybe fifteen feet. He lowered himself onto the ledge, glass crunching under his boots.

The night air hit his face as he dropped, landing in a crouch. His knees protested, but he forced himself up and deeper into the maze of back alleys. The familiar weight of his satchel bumped against his hip with each step.

Remaining time 7:30

Where could he go? Garon's shop came to mind first - the merchant had helped him before. But the thought of Garon's cramped storage room, filled with crates, made him shake his head.

The Maiden's Kiss tavern? There was no way they had anything to brew with, and most importantly he had no ingredients.

The Adventurers guild? He almost laughed at that thought. They'd be the first to run him through at mentioning the idea of making poisons.

Seven and a half hours. Seven and a half hours to find a safe place, gather rare ingredients, and brew the potion. The weight of it crushed down on him, making each step harder than the last.

His chest tightened as he realized he had no options.

He slumped against the alley wall, sliding down until he sat in the filth. His hands shook as he gripped his hair. After everything he'd survived, after clawing his way up from nothing and finally seeing little bit of success no matter how twisted he ends up by himself, with nobody to help him, nobody he could rely on.

----------------------------------------

Fendrel wandered through the darkened streets, his feet dragging against worn cobblestones. Each step took him deeper into the lower district without purpose or direction.

Then, a flash of familiar auburn hair caught his eye through opened door of the Broken Barrel tavern. Just as one of the patrons exited through the door. That couldn't be... he was going crazy.

Blood pounding in his ears, Fendrel shoved his way into the tavern and through the crowd of departing drunks. Bodies pressed against him, curses following in his wake as he stumbled into the tavern's smoky interior. Heads turned at his abrupt entrance, suspicious eyes tracking his movements.

Fuck me.

There she stood near the counter, laughing with a group of well-dressed merchants and adventurers. The Cabal's contact, acting for all the world like any other tavern patron. Her fingers traced the rim of her wine glass as she leaned in to whisper something that made her companions roar with laughter.

Fendrel's hands trembled. Approaching her was suicide. She or the people with her would likely kill him on the spot for daring to acknowledge her in public.

But he was as good as dead anyway.

He crossed the room in quick strides and grabbed her arm. She whirled, anger flashing across her features before recognition and confusion dawned in her eyes.

"The fuck you think you're doing?" One of the merchants stood, wine sloshing from his cup. "Back off before you get hurt, drunk."

"I need your help, or I'm as good as dead." Fendrel tightened his grip. To his shock, she shifted closer, studying his face with sharp interest.

"Do you know this fool?" The adventurer asked with a hand on the hilt of his dagger.

"Yes." She smiled, all teeth. "He's a colleague. Excuse me, gentlemen. This requires my attention."

Fendrel leaned close to her ear, his voice barely above a whisper. "I need a secure location. Somewhere I can work undisturbed for the next few hours." His chest heaved with each breath. "I'll owe you whatever favor you want."

She pulled him into a shadowy alcove, away from prying eyes. "The Cabal doesn't run a charity, Solinar. You already owe us for the last time you fucked me over remember?"

"The Ironmire Court is after me." Sweat beaded on his forehead. "I have to complete my advancement tonight or I'm dead. They ransacked my workshop, my equipment-"

Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.

"Advancement?" Her eyebrows rose, then turned calculating. "You are already advancing after only a month since being a slum nobody?"

"That's hardly relevant now." Fendrel's fingers dug into his palms. "Look, I know it's asking a lot. But I swear I'll make it worth your while."

She studied him, head tilted. The tavern's dim light cast sharp shadows across her face. "The Ironmire, you say?" Her lips curved into a calculating smile. "And what exactly did you do to piss them off?"

"Does it matter? I'll owe you two favors now - one for the last time, one for tonight."

She drummed her fingers against the wall, considering. The seconds stretched like hours as Fendrel fought to keep still under her scrutiny.

"Fine." She pushed off from the wall. "But remember, Solinar - Cabal favors come with interest." She jerked her head toward a door behind the bar. "Follow me. And try to look less suspicious."

He followed the woman through the winding streets of the lower district, his breath coming in short gasps. The cobblestones were slick from the evening rain, forcing him to watch his footing as they darted between shadows. She moved with practiced ease, never hesitating at intersections or checking street signs.

The familiar silhouette of Saint Aldwin's Church emerged through the mist. Fendrel had passed it countless times on his way to purchase holy water, but he'd never ventured inside. The weathered stone walls rose three stories high, crowned by a bell tower that disappeared into the fog. Colored light spilled through the stained glass windows, casting jeweled patterns across the wet street.

His guide rapped three times on a side door. An elderly priest with a lined face opened it, his eyes narrowing at the sight of Fendrel.

"Sister needs sanctuary," the woman murmured, touching her fingers to her collar in what looked like a practiced gesture.

The priest's gaze lingered on Fendrel. "This is not a haven for-"

"I understand, Father." She cut him off. "Just for tonight. He won't cause trouble."

After a long moment, the priest nodded and stepped aside.

They descended a narrow staircase into the church basement, their footsteps echoing off the stone walls. Above them, the muffled sound of evening prayers filtered through the ceiling. The woman produced a key and unlocked a heavy wooden door.

Fendrel's jaw dropped as they entered. The room was easily twice the size of his workshop, with floor-to-ceiling shelves packed with ingredients. Dried herbs hung from the rafters, and bottles of every size and color lined the walls. A solid wooden workbench dominated the center, its surface scarred but clean.

"How..." He trailed off, stunned by the sophisticated setup hidden beneath the church.

A notification flashed in the corner of his vision:

[Remaining Time: 4:45]

Fendrel set his satchel on the workbench, his eyes roaming over the laboratory setup. Three different-sized cauldrons gleamed in the candlelight, their copper surfaces unmarred by use. A complex arrangement of glass tubes and filters stretched across one wall - perfect for distillation. Crystallization chambers, purification apparatus, even a set of precision measuring tools.

He wandered the shelves, fingers brushing past bottles and jars. The woman leaned against the doorframe, amusement playing across her features as he pulled ingredients from their places.

"Satisfied, I imagine?"

"How is this possible?" Fendrel cradled a jar of preserved dreamthorn berries. "Under a church of all places?"

She smiled, sharp and knowing. "Not everything is as it seems, Solinar."

The irony wasn't lost on him as he arranged his materials on the workbench. Above, the soft voices of the evening choir drifted down through the stone ceiling - hymns of peace and salvation while he prepared to brew something that could kill them all. The flickering candlelight cast dancing shadows across the walls, making the holy symbols carved into the stone seem to writhe and twist.

"This isn't a permanent sanctuary," the woman said, watching him measure dried herbs with practiced precision. "Keep quiet, don't draw attention. I'll return in a few hours." She pushed off from the doorframe. "We'll see if I find a corpse or a living alchemist."

The heavy door clicked shut behind her, leaving Fendrel alone with his work and the distant sound of prayer.

The sudden tolling of church bells made Fendrel's hand jerk. The vial of Blackroot Powder teetered on the edge of his fingers, threatening to spill into the bubbling mixture below. His heart stopped as he snatched it back, powder scattering across the workbench.

Heavy footsteps creaked across the floorboards overhead, followed by the murmur of voices. The evening service must have ended. Fendrel wiped sweat from his brow, steadying his breathing.

"Focus," he muttered, measuring out the recovered powder. The fine black granules drifted into the cauldron like ash. The liquid swirled, transforming from deep purple to a murky green that reminded him of stagnant pond water. An acrid smell burned his nostrils, making his eyes water.

He adjusted the flame beneath the cauldron, preparing for the critical distillation phase. The green mixture needed to reach precisely the right temperature - too hot and it would destabilize, too cold and the reaction wouldn't complete.

The flame sputtered, dancing erratically beneath the copper base. Fendrel's stomach dropped as bubbles began forming too rapidly along the surface.

"No, no, no." He scrambled to adjust the heat, fingers fumbling with the controls. The liquid roiled dangerously, threatening to overflow.

A notification flashed red in his vision:

[CRAFTING FAILED]: Heat levels unstable.

"Damn it!" Fendrel slammed his palm against the workbench. The flame continued to flicker wildly, mocking his attempts at control.

Fendrel hunched over the workbench, his shoulders rigid with tension as he watched the fourth attempt at the advancement potion simmer. The hymns drifted through the stone walls, a peaceful counterpoint to his racing thoughts. His fingers traced the instructions in his codex for the hundredth time, searching for what he'd missed in the previous attempts.

The first batch had crystallized when he'd added the dreamthorn essence too quickly. The second turned to worthless sludge from excessive heat. The third... he pushed away the memory of acrid smoke and ruined ingredients.

[Remaining Time: 1:59]

The notification pulsed in his vision like a wound. Fendrel's hand shook as he stirred the mixture, counting each rotation. The liquid shifted from amber to deep purple, exactly as described. Perhaps this time-

A wave of nausea doubled him over. The parasite twisted beneath his skin, sending cold shivers down his spine. His grip tightened on the stirring rod until his knuckles whitened.