Fendrel followed the priest down the winding stone staircase, his footsteps echoing against the cold walls. The parasite beneath his skin coiled tighter with each step, responding to the tension knotting in his gut.

The main hall stretched before them, its vaulted ceiling disappearing into shadow despite the afternoon light filtering through stained glass windows. Rows of wooden pews lined the path to the altar, where the messenger stood waiting. His tailored black coat bore the subtle emblem of the Ironmire Court - a serpent wrapped around a chalice - stitched in silver thread at the collar.

The messenger's dark eyes fixed on Fendrel, tracking his movement like a predator sizing up wounded prey. Fendrel's fingers twitched, instinctively reaching for vials that weren't there.

"Your masters presume much." The priest's voice carried across the empty hall, each word sharp as breaking glass. He stepped in front of Fendrel, shoulders squared. "Master Solinar has sought sanctuary within these walls. He remains under the protection of the church."

A smile curved the messenger's lips, more threat than amusement. "The church's influence ends at its threshold, Father. Your walls cannot shelter him forever."

"You mistake courtesy for weakness." The priest's tone dropped lower, dangerous. "The Ironmire Court holds no power here. Leave, before your presence becomes an affront we cannot ignore."

The messenger adjusted his cuffs, the movement deliberate and unhurried. "Consider carefully, Father. Your... charitable works rely on certain arrangements. Arrangements that could become... complicated." He turned his predatory gaze back to Fendrel. "The Court's reach extends far beyond these sacred halls. There are consequences for refusing their generosity."

Fendrel's hands shook as he watched the two men square off. The parasite twisted beneath his skin, feeding off his growing panic. The church's laboratory had equipment he desperately needed, ingredients that could help him fight the creature inside him. But the thought of staying locked away in the church's underground chambers made his breath catch.

"Your protection comes with chains of its own, doesn't it, Father?" Fendrel's voice cracked. "How long before I'm just another asset in your collection?"

The priest didn't turn around. "We offer sanctuary, not imprisonment. Unlike some, we honor our agreements."

"Honor?" The messenger's laugh echoed off the stone walls. "The Court knows about your special arrangements with the guard captain. About the shipments that disappear from the docks. Your hands aren't as clean as you pretend."

"Yet we don't murder those who fail to meet our demands." The priest's shoulders tensed. "How many bodies have washed up this month bearing the Court's mark?"

Fendrel's stomach lurched. The parasite writhed faster, responding to his fear. He'd seen those bodies himself - bloated corpses with serpent brands burned into their flesh. But the church's pristine walls felt like a cage closing in around him. Their laboratory might save him from the parasite, but at what cost?

"The Court rewards loyalty generously." The messenger's fingers brushed his silver serpent pin. "Your skills would be well-compensated, Master Solinar. No need to hide in shadows and cellars."

"Until I outlive my usefulness." Fendrel's bitter laugh triggered a coughing fit. Dark spots danced at the edges of his vision.

"Enough." The priest's voice cut through the air. "Master Solinar remains under our protection. Your threats change nothing."

The heavy church doors burst open with a thunderous crack. A young acolyte stumbled through, blood streaming from his nose and split lip. His white robes were torn and stained crimson.

Fendrel's heart hammered against his ribs.

"Father Marcus!" The injured priest clutched his side, gasping. "The Guild... they're coming. Dozens of them gathering in the shadows." He spat blood onto the stone floor. "They mean to storm the compound."

The senior priest's serene mask cracked. His eyes went hard as steel. "Alert the wardens. Now."

Two acolytes who had been lingering near the altar rushed into the back doors of the church. Their footsteps echoed through the vaulted ceiling.

"Do you have a death wish?" Father Marcus rounded on the Ironmire messenger, voice tight with barely contained fury.

The messenger straightened his already immaculate cuffs, seemingly unbothered by the chaos unfolding around him. "Ah. It seems my subordinates grew... impatient. They do tend to act rashly when negotiations stall." His lips curved in that predatory smile. "The Court extended a generous offer. You chose to refuse it."

Stolen story; please report.

Father Marcus barked orders to the remaining priests, who scattered to different sections of the compound. "Seal the entrances. Get the noncombatants to the underground chambers." His weathered face had transformed from peaceful guardian to battle-hardened commander in moments.

"The Court's reputation for efficiency is well-earned." The messenger adjusted his silver serpent pin. "Though their methods lack... subtlety. Still, they get results."

"You unleashed assassins on holy ground." Father Marcus's voice dropped to a dangerous whisper. "The consequences-"

"Will be severe, yes." The messenger cut him off with a wave. "But only for those who stand in our way. Step aside, release Solinar to our custody, and your flock need not suffer."

Fendrel watched the tense exchange, his breath caught in his throat. The messenger's words hung in the air, met with cold silence from Father Marcus. In that frozen moment, the air shifted.

The messenger vanished.

Fendrel's eyes couldn't track the movement - one instant the man stood several paces away, the next he materialized beside Father Marcus, a wicked curved dagger slicing through the air toward the priest's throat.

The blade never connected. An invisible barrier erupted around Father Marcus, catching the assassin mid-strike. The force hurled him across the chamber like a rag doll. He crashed into the stone wall with a sickening crack and slumped to the floor.

"You aren't a messenger." Father Marcus's voice carried none of its earlier warmth. His weathered face hardened as he watched the assassin struggle to his feet. "One of the Court's Phantoms? Well, it matters little. Seems you don't know much about us either."

The assassin barely regained his footing when Father Marcus raised his hand. A rosary dangled from his fingers, its metal catching the lamplight. Fendrel glimpsed the Winged Flame symbol before crackling energy erupted from the priest's palm. The bolt of light struck the assassin's shoulder, tearing his arm clean off in a spray of blood and burned flesh.

Fendrel's stomach heaved. His mind reeled, unable to process what he was seeing. The gentle priest who had offered him sanctuary now wielded combat magic like a seasoned warrior. What was a Phantom? Since when did the clergy command such power?

The assassin's face contorted with dawning horror. "Justiciar," he spat through clenched teeth, blood dripping from his remaining hand. "The intel... they fucked up..." His eyes darted toward the door, he vanished again.

A shimmer of air materialized beside the entrance. A broad-shouldered figure in gleaming armor appeared, his mace already swinging in a devastating arc. The weapon caught the fleeing assassin in the chest with a crushing impact. The Phantom crumpled to the floor, still.

The Warden lowered his mace, scanning the chamber for additional threats.

Fendrel's head spun as he processed the violence before him. His hands trembled, and the parasite inside him writhed, sensing his distress. The old priest in front of him had transformed into something else entirely - a Justiciar, whatever that meant.

Father Marcus turned to him, his earlier warmth replaced by steel. "We will deal with them Master Solinar. You go under the church and start brewing."

The command brooked no argument. Fendrel opened his mouth to speak, but Marcus cut him off.

"Healing potions, mana potions, whatever you can do, do it. And make a lot." His jaw clenched. "You will owe us for this." The words ground out through his gritted teeth.

A young acolyte went to Fendrel's side, grabbed his arm, and pulled him toward a narrow doorway. They descended worn stone steps into the church's underground chambers. The sounds of combat above became muffled, replaced by the echo of their footsteps.

The acolyte led him to a small room lined with shelves of ingredients and equipment. "The alchemy lab," she said, lighting several oil lamps. "I'll be outside if you need anything."

Fendrel's hands shook as he surveyed the workspace. The parasite twisted inside him - a reminder he couldn't ignore. Three hours until his next dose. He'd need to work fast.

He grabbed ingredients for healing potions first - dried Petaline herb, Bluecap mushrooms, purified water. But his eyes kept darting to the components he needed for his own survival: Dralk weed, Nightshade essence, bone ash.

The church's lab was well-stocked. Better than anything he'd worked with in years. He set up multiple brewing stations, positioning burners and beakers in efficient arrangements.

He crushed herbs with practiced movements, measured liquids with trembling hands. The familiar motions of brewing helped steady his nerves. He started three batches of healing potions simultaneously, watching the color changes as they simmered.

Between steps of brewing healing potions, Fendrel's hands moved with practiced efficiency, gathering ingredients for his personal needs. Silkslither cocoon fibers gleamed in the lamplight as he measured them. Widowvine sap dripped from the dropper, each precious drop counted. The familiar scent of shadecap spores filled his nostrils as he ground them into fine ash.

The first batch of healing potions bubbled, turning from pale green to dark red. He bottled them quickly, his movements mechanical while his mind focused on the darker concoction beside it.

[CRAFTING SUCCESS]: Intermediate Healing Potion brewed successfully. Residual amount: 60%.

[CRAFTING SUCCESS]: Intermediate Healing Potion brewed successfully. Residual amount: 20%.

The Venomshroud Poison simmered with a sinister sheen, exactly the shade he needed.

[CRAFTING SUCCESS]: Venomshroud Poison brewed successfully. Residual amount: 50%.

The door creaked. The young acolyte stepped in, a basket of fresh herbs in her arms. Her eyes swept across the workbench, lingering on each vial. When she reached the dark green poison, her face drained of color.

"What are you doing?" She stumbled backward, herbs scattering across the floor.

Fendrel's heart hammered against his ribs. "Wait. I can explain." The words tumbled out before he could think them through.

"I hope so, Father will want to know." Her hand gripped the doorframe.

Could he risk letting her alert the Justiciar? The image of Marcus's combat magic flashed through his thoughts. Fendrel's nails darkened to a sickly purple as fight-or-flight instincts warred in his mind.

The acolyte's eyes widened at his transformed nails. She spun toward the door.

Fendrel's body moved before his mind caught up. His fingers closed around the nearest vial of Venomshroud. The glass felt cold against his palm as he hurled it.

The vial shattered between her shoulder blades. Green liquid soaked through her robes as she stumbled into the hallway.

Her scream echoed off the stone walls. "Help! The alchemist-" Her voice broke into a pained gasp.