Morning light filtered through the grimy window of Fendrel's workshop. He thumbed through the coins from last night's sale, pausing at a metal tag nestled between them. The Black market courier mark—scale where one side holds a feather and the other side is empty—gleamed dully in the morning light. His stomach lurched. He'd heard enough about them in the slums, their reputation for moving anything that could turn a profit and this marked him as one of them now.

"I could just throw it away, right?"

The familiar text flashed across his vision:

[PARASITE STATUS]: Next dose required in 9 hours.

At least the last dose before bed bought him some time. He pocketed a handful of silver and headed out toward the lower district market. The coins clinked with each step, a sound both comforting and terrifying.

The market buzzed with morning activity. Vendors hollered prices, customers haggled, and the smell of fresh bread mingled with herbs and sweat. Fendrel weaved through the crowd toward Old Man Kern's stall.

"Two stalks of fresh Dralk." Fendrel placed four copper on the wooden counter.

"Fresh out." Kern scratched his beard. "Trader's late. Try the herbalist by the temple."

Fendrel cursed under his breath. The herbalist charged double, but he had no choice. He'd need the Nightshade from another vendor anyway.

At the alchemist's shop, he picked through basic supplies. Vials, stoppers, some Petaline Herbs. His hand hovered over a jar of bone ash.

"Looking for something specific?" The shopkeeper raised an eyebrow.

"Just restocking." Fendrel grabbed the bone ash. Strange how nobody had thought to use it as a stabilizing agent before. The crystalline structure, the way it bound with other substances—it seemed obvious now.

Two merchants passed behind him, their voices low but clear.

"Heard about Magistrate Voss?"

"Dead this morning, they say. Right at his breakfast table."

"That sudden? No warning?"

"None. Clean as summer rain, they're saying."

Fendrel's hand tightened around the jar. His poison couldn't have... no. Impossible. He'd only sold it hours ago. Besides, rumors which spread through the market were like fairytales—half of them pure fiction.

He paid for his supplies and hurried to the herbalist near the church, trying to push the conversation from his mind. The prices there made him wince, but he had little choice. Seven hours wasn't much time to work with.

As he walked back toward the slums, the merchants' words echoed in his head. Clear as summer rain. He shook the thought away. Coincidence. Had to be. The alternative meant...

No. Focus on the work ahead. Seven hours. He picked up his pace.

Fendrel's boots scuffed against the worn steps leading to his workshop. The familiar creak of loose boards beneath his feet provided little comfort today. His fingers brushed against the supplies in his satchel—fresh Dralk, bone ash, and that precious jar of nightshade.

He reached for his door handle, then froze. The lock showed no signs of tampering, yet something felt wrong. The air carried traces of unfamiliar scents—hints of leather and exotic oils that didn't belong in his shithole of a workspace.

The door hinges groaned as he pushed inside. Afternoon light filtered through the grimy window, casting long shadows across his workbench and the scattered apparatus that filled the cramped room. His eyes darted to his cauldron, where a cloaked figure stood examining the residue along its rim.

Fendrel's throat went dry. The stranger's presence violated his sanctuary, the one place he'd managed to keep despite everything. His precious lab, his survival—all laid bare before the intruder.

"Who are you?" His voice cracked. "How did you get in here?"

The figure remained silent, trailing a gloved finger along the cauldron's edge. The gesture felt deliberate, almost mocking. Sunlight caught the rich fabric of the cloak—definitely not some common thief.

Fendrel's pulse quickened. His latest batch of poison still coated the cauldron's interior. Even the residue told the story of what he'd been brewing.

The stranger turned, hood concealing their features in shadow. "Fascinating work." The voice was cultured, precise. "Particularly the bone ash. Such an elegant solution for stabilization."

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Ice formed in Fendrel's gut. This person hadn't just found his workshop—they understood his formula.

"The sample we acquired proved quite potent. Clean. Efficient." The stranger's head tilted. "Yet here you are, brewing such sophisticated compounds in this..." A pause as they gestured at the straw bed and empty shelves. "...modest establishment."

His knuckles clenched around the leather bag. Hours. They'd needed just hours to follow the toxin's trail straight to him. Was it Garon, or the black market courier?

"The bone ash is the real innovation." The stranger stepped closer. "No common alchemist would think to use it as a binding agent. Someone taught you well."

The implications made Fendrel sweat.

The stranger's words hung heavily in the air. Fendrel's mind raced through his options—none of them good.

"Your talents are wasted here." The figure gestured at the cramped workshop. "My organization can provide you with proper facilities, rare ingredients, protection. All we ask is that you continue your excellent work, under our protection."

Fendrel's chest tightened. The stranger spoke of his poisons with such casual authority, as if discussing the weather. "I'm not interested in working with criminals."

"No?" The stranger's laugh carried no warmth. "Yet here you are, crafting tools for assassins. What did you think would happen when you sold those vials?"

"This was just one time thing. Experiment gone wrong." The lie tasted bitter.

"Ah, one time thing." The stranger's voice sharpened. "Let's be frank. You've specialized in poison, a deliberate choice on the class path for an alchemist. The academy wouldn't touch this work. Which means you developed these formulas yourself, failed accident, or a masterpiece. It makes little difference to us."

Sweat beaded on Fendrel's forehead. "I want nothing to do with your organization." Fendrel tried to steady his voice. "Find someone else."

The stranger's posture shifted, subtle yet menacing. "You misunderstand. This isn't a request. You crossed into our territory the moment you sold that first vial. The only choice now is whether you accept our protection or..." The pause stretched like a drawn blade. "Face the consequences of operating without it."

"Are you threatening me?"

"Merely stating facts. A lone alchemist brewing poisons in the slums? How long before the city guard kicks down your door? Or other groups decide to... appropriate your talents?" The stranger's hood tilted. "You need us as much as we need you."

Fendrel's mouth went dry. They had him cornered—a rat in his own trap. Every word revealed how much they discovered about him, how they understood his position.

"Think carefully about your next response." The stranger's voice carried edge of annoyance. "Your survival thus far has been remarkable, you managed to hide for a long time in here. It would be a shame to see such potential... wasted."

Fendrel's hand trembled against the chair. They didn't know everything, but the stranger's words left no room for interpretation - cooperate or die. His shoulders sagged as the weight of reality crushed down on him.

"Your protection." Fendrel's voice cracked. "What exactly does that entail?"

"Full discretion. Resources. Security from both the law and... competing interests." The stranger's boots scraped against the floor as they paced. "In exchange, you provide us with exclusive access to your creations."

Fendrel's jaw clenched. "And if I refuse?"

"Then our conversation ends here. Along with several other things."

The cold certainty in those words made Fendrel's skin crawl. He glanced at his workbench, the remnants of his latest batch still coating the vessels. The parasite inside him writhed, as if sensing his distress, remaining him of the time ticking away.

"I'll supply your organization." The words tasted like ash. "But I won't join formally. I remain independent."

The stranger paused mid-step. "Independence carries risks."

"It's non-negotiable."

Silence stretched between them until the stranger gave a slight nod. "Acceptable. Now, what supplies do you require?"

"Money." Fendrel crossed his arms. "I've survived the slums long enough to know how this works. You get the product, not the process." Sweat beaded on his forehead.

"Understandable." The stranger's hood tilted. "Though I wonder if that wisdom will serve you well in the long term."

Fendrel's stomach churned. If they tried to replicate it and fail because they don't have the parasite influencing their skills I will get killed in the process.

"The arrangement stands. Money for product."

"Very well." The stranger moved toward the door. "Expect contact within three days. Do try to stay alive until then."

The door closed with a soft click, but the oppressive atmosphere remained. Fendrel slumped against his workbench, finger poking the satchel with coins the person left on the table.

Fendrel's hands moved through the familiar motions. Measure, grind, mix. The routine helped calm his nerves after the stranger's visit. He crushed the fresh Dralk leaves into a paste, purple dust coating his fingers.

[PARASITE STATUS]: Next dose required in 4 hours.

The text flashed across his vision as he added the Nightshade essence drop by drop. The liquid hissed against the bone ash mixture, dark tendrils spreading through the solution.

Steam rose from the cauldron as he stirred. The bone ash stabilized the mixture, preventing the volatile components from separating. Each attempt had ended in failure - four times now. He struggled to recall the precise temperature from that first desperate experiment. So he methodically worked through variations, adjusting the heat and sequence of ingredients with every new trial.

The solution thickened, turning from murky purple to green. Fendrel held a glass vial up to the light. No sediment, no cloudiness. Finally.

His hands shook as he filled the vials.

[CRAFTING SUCCESS]: Xytherium Poison brewed successfully. Residual amount: 60%. 40%. 20%.

He corked the fifth vial and arranged them in neat row. The afternoon sun caught the glass, making the clear liquid sparkle like water.

[PARASITE STATUS]: Next dose required in 3 hours.

The familiar burn started in his gut. Time to pay his dues to the creature that made all this possible. Fendrel reached for one of the vials with trembling fingers.

A clatter outside broke through his brooding. His heart stopped.

Heavy boots scraped against cobblestones. Multiple sets, moving with purpose.

He crept to the window. Five city guards were approaching his door, hands resting on sword hilts. Their faces bore the grim mask of men who were dragged somewhere they never wanted to go.

"Shit."