Fendrel slumped over his workbench, his vision blurring as he stared at the rows of bubbling concoctions. The lab reeked of burnt herbs and chemical fumes. Scattered papers covered every surface, bearing hastily scrawled ingredient lists and his current obligations. Three empty vials of Venomshroud and Witherfang Resin lay discarded beside him, their residue still coating the glass.

[PARASITE STATUS]: Agitation level decreased. Next dose required in 10 hours

"Its too much," he muttered, organizing the chaos before him into neat rows. Church orders on the left: healing potions and antidotes, their soft blue glow a stark contrast to the darker hues beside them.

The Cabal's Nightshade Reinforcer batches on the right, their amber color deceptively innocent.

He had to wait for someone to pick his list and deliver him the ingredients necessary for the Venomshroud and Witherfang potions to be able to finish the Ironmire's order.

His hands shook as he counted the remaining doses. Not enough. Never enough.

"Fuck." He knocked over an empty vial. It rolled off the bench and shattered on the floor. "Fuck!"

Fendrel yanked at his hair, his fingers tangling in the greasy strands as he leaned over his workbench. "What am I even doing?"

The empty vials before him reflected his gaunt face in their curved surfaces. The church's guards - he'd killed at least one in his escape. Still, he mixed their healing potions, arranging the dark red liquids in neat rows. A foolish hope that they might negotiate rather than hunt him down.

The Cabal's order sat half-finished. Simple enough with his current stock of ingredients, though the amber liquid seemed to mock him as it caught the lamplight. But the Ironmire's demands - his gaze swept over his uselessly plentiful herb stores.

His eyes traced the lines of his codex. The familiar recipes for Xytherium and Silkslither were gone, vanished as if they'd never existed. He remembered each step, each measurement, but attempting them now proved futile. The knowledge was in his head but each time he attempted the process it failed.

Fendrel swept empty vials into a crate, his movements sharp and jerky. The Ironmire's list taunted him - widowvine sap, bloodthorn resin, and ashroot.

None available.

He just drank the last dose for himself, he needed the Cabal order in quickly, or go shopping by himself. He shuddered at the idea.

A sharp knock rattled Fendrel's door. His hands froze over the workbench, a vial of healing potion almost spilling. The knock came again, harder this time, followed by the distinct sound of metal on wood.

Church guards.

The parasite writhed beneath his skin as his heart rate spiked. Fendrel's fingers trembled, spilling precious drops of the red liquid across his notes.

The door burst open. Two armored figures filled the frame, their polished breastplates bearing the church's symbol. Fendrel stumbled backward, knocking over a rack of empty vials. Power surged through his veins, as his fingernails turned dark purple.

The first guard's shield caught him across the face. Pain exploded through his jaw as he sprawled across the workbench. Glass crunched beneath his palms.

"Keep your distance," the guard spat, shield raised. "Make a move and I'll take your head."

The second guard stepped forward, his stance more relaxed despite the sword at his hip. "Now, now. Let's be civil." His eyes scanned the workshop. "We're here to have a conversation about your... continued existence in our city."

Blood dripped from Fendrel's split lip. He pulled himself upright, the mudclaws receding beneath his skin. His gaze darted between the guards and the sack of healing potions he'd prepared.

"I have your order ready." He pushed the sack across the workbench with shaking hands. "Full batch, as agreed."

The second guard picked up one of the vials, holding it to the light. The red liquid cast strange shadows across his face. "This is surprising. But that's not why we're here." He set the vial down with a soft clink. "We need to discuss your other... products."

"Let us be clear, alchemist." The man's voice hardened. "Your poison-making operations end here. If we see you making more of those toxins, we will kill you regardless of what the Cabal or Black Market people say."

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Fendrel nodded, not trusting himself to speak. His hands clenched into fists beneath the workbench.

The second guard's face twisted with contempt. "I don't know what goes through that thick skull of yours. When you decided to kill our people at the same time as the Ironmire scum?" He kicked an empty vial across the floor. "Pick a damn side."

Fendrel's back broke with sweat. His hands gripped the workbench edge until his knuckles went white.

"The only reason you're still breathing is the Justiciar's mercy." The first guard grabbed the sack of potions and the box of reinforcers. "Consider this payment for your worthless life."

"Make your choice carefully," the second guard said. His hand rested on his sword pommel, metal gleaming in the lamplight. "Next time we will have answer one way or other.

Fendrel's kept his eyes fixed on the floor as the guards pocketed the reinforcers, healing potions and antidotes, taking everything they could carry.

The door slammed shut, leaving Fendrel alone in the wreckage of his workshop. Glass crunched under his boots as he slumped against the wall, sliding down until he hit the floor. His jaw throbbed where the guard's shield had struck.

"You're nothing but a tool for them, Fendrel." The words escaped in a hoarse whisper. "A pawn in their game."

His hands shook as he pressed them against his temples. When was the last time he'd slept properly? Two days? Three?

"Why not just end it?" His fingers traced the edge of a broken vial.

How many others had died because of him? The Church, the Ironmire Court, the Black Market - they all used him, squeezed him dry until there was nothing left.

Fendrel's hand closed around the glass shard. The sharp edge bit into his palm.

"No." He hurled the shard across the room. It shattered against the wall. "I didn't survive this long to die in this hellhole."

He pushed himself up, ignoring the protest of his bruised muscles. His gaze swept over the workshop - his prison, his sanctuary. He could leave, abandon everything and run. But where? The city walls were watched, and the wilderness beyond held its own dangers.

His eyes landed on his workbench, the familiar array of vials and ingredients. With trembling hands, he reached for the dralk weed and nightshade essence. The familiar motions of brewing settled over him like a blanket.

"One step at a time," he muttered, measuring out the ingredients. "Just keep moving forward."

For now, this would have to be enough. He'd figure out an escape later, but first, he needed to think clearly. And for that, he needed to brew.

Fendrel's hands moved in practiced motions as he filtered the last antidote through a cloth. The amber liquid dripped into the waiting vial, each drop catching the light of the setting sun through his newly repaired window. The guards' visit had left him shaken, but work helped steady his nerves.

A clash of steel broke the evening quiet. Fendrel's head snapped up, the vial nearly slipping from his fingers. More sounds of combat echoed from the alley - shouts, the scrape of metal, bodies hitting walls.

He crept to the window. In the narrow street below, moonlight glinted off drawn weapons as figures in dark leathers squared off against church soldiers in their white and gold uniforms.

Blood splashed across cobblestones. A church soldier fell, clutching his throat. An Ironmire fighter stumbled back with a sword in his gut.

"What the fuck now." Fendrel backed away from the window. His fingers brushed the fresh scars in his workbench from the guards' visit.

The fighting drew closer. A church soldier crashed into his door, making the hinges groan. Steel rang against steel just outside.

"Die, church dog!" The snarl preceded a wet gurgle.

Something heavy slammed into the window. Glass exploded inward in a shower of glittering shards. A body in white and gold robes tumbled through, smashing across Fendrel's workbench. Vials shattered. Liquids mixed and spilled.

The corpse's face was purple-black, veins standing out stark against pale skin. Fendrel recognized the effects of his Silkslither toxin. His own creation, used against the church. The dead man's unseeing eyes stared at the ceiling.

"Fuck this." Fendrel grabbed his leather satchel. He swept his new brewing set inside. The finished antidotes followed, along with handfuls of dried herbs and his most precious essences. His fingers closed around the last vial of nightshade essence as another body slammed against the wall outside.

Fendrel's hand froze on the trapdoor latch. His mind finding a moment of clarity. They'd days to search his workshop, they must know of each hiding spot. The secret exit wouldn't be secret anymore.

A crash from the front room jolted him into action. He snatched up his satchel and scrambled to the back window. The ledge crumbled under his fingers as he hauled himself up. His boots scraped against the wall, sending bits of mortar pattering into the darkness below.

The drop knocked the wind from his lungs. He rolled behind a stack of crates, pressing himself against the rough wood as voices shouted overhead. Steel rang against steel. Something exploded, painting the alley walls in harsh orange light.

Green mist drifted through the streets, carrying the sharp tang of alchemical compounds. Fendrel pulled his collar over his nose, recognizing the Xytherium in the air.

[EFFECT]: You have been poisoned.

[STATUS]: You neutralized the poisoned effect

More explosions lit up the night sky. The air grew thick with smoke and poison gas.

He darted from shadow to shadow, keeping to the narrowest alleys. Every footstep seemed to echo off the close-packed buildings. The sounds of battle surrounded him - metal on metal, screams of pain, the distinctive pop and hiss of breaking potion vials.

A group of fighters crashed through a doorway ahead. Fendrel pressed himself into an alcove, hardly daring to breathe as they passed. The moonlight caught the serpent-and-chalice insignia of the Ironmire Court on their leather armor.

His workshop was gone. The place where he spent years scrambling for food to barely survive, abandoned in moments. The thought sent cold sweat down his spine. Without his base, without his tools, how long could he keep brewing?

Something clattered in the darkness behind him. Fendrel spun, heart in his throat, but saw only shadows. The fighting seemed closer now. Every doorway could hide an assassin, every window an archer. The weight of his satchel felt like a beacon announcing his presence to everyone hunting him.

He forced himself to move, staying low as he worked his way toward the lower district. The sounds of combat echoed off the buildings, making it impossible to tell which direction was safe. His own ragged breathing seemed deafening in his ears.