Fendrel's legs burned as he descended deeper into the lower district. The narrow passages between buildings grew tighter, forcing him to turn sideways to squeeze through some gaps. Broken cobblestones threatened to twist his ankles with each step. The air grew thick with the stench of rotting garbage and stagnant water.

His chest heaved. He pressed a hand against the rough stone wall, steadying himself as another surge of dizziness hit.

A cat yowled somewhere in the darkness. Fendrel jumped, nearly dropping his bag. His hands shook as he pulled it close. Without his workshop, without his supplies... The thought circled in his mind like a trapped animal. He needed resources. Equipment. Raw materials. Things he couldn't get alone anymore.

The sound of steel on steel echoed off the walls ahead. Fendrel pressed himself against the damp stones, edging forward until he could peek around the corner. Two groups clashed in the small courtyard - white-robed church warriors against black-clad assassins. Blood gleamed on blade edges in the dim light.

Both groups had resources. Connections. Protection. Both would value his skills.

Both would own him.

His legs trembled. The weight of the choice pressed down on him. Both groups would lock him in a workshop somewhere. Independence was no longer an option - not if he wanted to survive.

But who can I join?

Movement caught his eye. An assassin dropped from a rooftop, landing in a crouch. The figure's made a step towards the fight then his head snapped toward Fendrel's hiding spot. Their eyes met through the slits of the assassin's mask.

Fendrel's heart jumped into his throat. He scrambled backward, boots slipping on the wet cobblestones. The assassin's footsteps echoed off the walls behind him as he rounded the corner of the building.

A door burst open ahead, spilling warm light onto the street. Two men in leather armor blocked the doorway, their hands on sword hilts.

"You want to live, get in."

Fendrel froze. The assassin's steps grew closer. His legs moved before his mind caught up, carrying him through the doorway. The heavy wooden door slammed shut behind him with a final-sounding thud.

The room stretched before him, empty except for a few broken crates. Five figures stood in a loose half-circle, their faces cast in shadow by wall-mounted torches. The familiar thorned rose of House Blackthorn gleamed on their leather armor.

No one spoke. Fendrel's chest heaved as he tried to catch his breath. Sweat trickled down his back despite the cool air. Outside, steel clashed against steel, boots pounded on stone, voices shouted commands.

Minutes crawled by. One of the men pressed his ear to the door, listening intently. After what felt like hours, he gave a short nod. "Clear."

The man in the center stepped forward, torch light revealing a weathered face crossed by old scars. "Fendrel Solinar. We've been watching you."

Fendrel's fingers tightened on his satchel strap. "Who-"

"House Blackthorn extends its hand to you. On behalf of Elena Blackthorn, whom you saved. She was quite... insistent that we help you, should you ever need it." The man's lips quirked in what might have been amusement. "And it seems you need it now."

The tension in Fendrel's shoulders eased slightly at the girls name. But suspicion crept back in, why would she want to help him? "What's the catch?"

"Just what you'd expect. We want your skills. Your alchemy." The man spread his hands. "In exchange, you get a proper workshop. Protection. Resources. Better than brewing poisons in a condemned building, wouldn't you say?"

The scarred man's words hung in the air. Fendrel's hand brushed against his satchel, feeling the familiar shapes of his vials through the worn leather. The offer was same as always - workshop, protection and resources. Everything he needed to survive. But the obligations attached likely meant he would have little to no freedom regardless of which side he chose.

One of the guards stepped forward, torchlight catching on the polished thorned rose emblem of his armor. "Let's make this clear. This is a one-time offer." His voice was gruff but measured. "You walk away now, we'll inform Lord Blackthorn of your decision and that offer will never be available again."

Fendrel's throat felt dry as he weighed his options. The parasite pulsed beneath his skin, a constant reminder of his ticking time. He needed resources and stability. His life was too much of a mess now.

Stolen story; please report.

"I'll work with you," he said, the words tasting bitter on his tongue.

The scarred man's expression hardened. "Not with us, you work for us. You better make sure you know the difference."

One of the guards opened a trapdoor hidden beneath a moldy carpet, revealing stone steps that descended into darkness. They hurried Fendrel down, closing the heavy door behind them. The sounds of fighting above became muffled, then faded entirely.

The sewers stretched before them, a maze of brick tunnels lit by occasional magical crystals embedded in the walls. Their boots splashed through shallow water as they navigated the passages.

"What is happening in the street?" Fendrel asked, ducking under a low archway. "It can't be just because of me."

A guard walking beside him grunted. "Underground organizations have been at each other's throats for months. But lately? They've gotten bold. Someone's been supplying them with massive amounts of poisons. Before the city could react, multiple officials were found dead in their beds."

"The Church of Adria got involved too," another guard added. "One of their wardens turned up dead few days ago. They're retaliating now - turning the slums into a madhouse. Even the city guard's staying clear until it burns itself out by tomorrow."

Fendrel's stomach twisted. How much do they know about me?

The tunnels wound upward, gradually transitioning from crumbling brick to well-maintained stone. Fendrel's legs burned from climbing what felt like endless stairs. The air changed too - the sewage stench gave way to clean night breeze filtering through periodic grates above.

They emerged through a cleverly concealed door into an alley between two buildings. The upper district sprawled around them, all clean cobblestones and proper architecture. Fendrel blinked at the difference a few streets could make. Even at night, magical lanterns cast warm light from wrought-iron posts.

The group circled back toward the border of the lower district, weaving through side streets until they reached a modest brick house wedged between what looked like craftsmen's workshops. Nothing about it drew attention - perfect for their purposes.

The scarred man produced a key and led them inside. Two rooms branched off a narrow hallway - one outfitted as a basic alchemy lab, the other a sparse bedroom. The lab held distillation equipment, storage shelves, a preparation table. All serviceable if plain. The bedroom contained just a narrow bed and simple chest.

"This is yours now. Get comfortable." The leader's gesture encompassed both rooms. "Tomorrow you will meet with the steward of the Blackthorns and arrange details of this agreement."

Fendrel ran a hand over the lab table's smooth surface. After his condemned building, even this basic setup felt luxurious.

"Guards will keep watch - for your protection," one of the men said. "But you're free to go if you change your mind before morning."

Fendrel nodded, exhaustion hitting him like a physical weight. The men filed out, their boots echoing on the wooden floor. The lock clicked behind them.

He barely made it to the bedroom. The mattress was thin but clean. Fendrel collapsed onto it fully clothed, his body going limp. Sleep claimed him before his next breath.

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

Morning came too soon. Fendrel's muscles protested as the guards roused him from the unfamiliar bed. The same scarred man from last night waited by the door, arms crossed.

"Time to earn your keep."

The streets looked different in daylight. They wound through the merchant district, where shopkeepers swept their storefronts and arranged displays. The morning air carried the scent of fresh bread from nearby bakeries. Fendrel's stomach growled - when had he last eaten?

As they climbed toward the noble quarter, the buildings grew taller, their facades adorned with intricate stonework and magical wards. Gardens peeked through wrought iron gates. The Blackthorn estate dominated the end of a tree-lined avenue, its gray stone walls rising two stories high.

Armed guards patrolled the perimeter, their armor bearing the family's serpent-and-chalice insignia. More stood watch from elevated positions along the walls. Fendrel counted at least eight before they reached the service entrance at the rear of the property.

"Eyes down," one of his escorts muttered. "And keep your mouth shut unless spoken to."

The back door opened into a kitchen area that sparked an unsettling sense of familiarity.

They led him through different corridor this time and Fendrel had a moment to appreciate the polished wooden floors stretched ahead, lined with tapestries depicting pastoral scenes. Everything gleamed with wealth and power.

They passed servants who averted their eyes, hurrying about morning tasks. The guard's boots echoed against the floors, announcing their presence. Fendrel's own footsteps felt small and insignificant in comparison.

"Remember why you're here," the scarred man said as they approached a heavy oak door. "You're useful to them - for now. Don't make them regret this arrangement."

Fendrel nodded, his throat too dry for words. The weight of the building pressed down on him, all that stone and wealth and centuries of noble authority.

The steward's office smelled of leather and old parchment. Fendrel's escorts positioned themselves by the door as a man rose from behind a polished desk. Silver streaked his dark hair, and his robes bore subtle embroidery that marked him as a high-ranking servant of House Blackthorn.

"Fendrel Solinar, the alchemist everyone's been whispering about." The steward's voice carried the cultured accent of the upper districts. "Your reputation precedes you—but so do your mistakes."

Fendrel's fingers twitched at his sides.

"I am Alaric, steward of House Blackthorn." He gestured to a chair. "Sit."

Fendrel perched on the edge of the seat, conscious of his worn clothes against the fine upholstery.

"House Blackthorn maintains a delicate balance in this city," Alaric said, settling back behind his desk. "The church grows bolder by the day, flexing their influence in the Higher District. Meanwhile, the gangs below think they can operate as they please." His lips curved in a cold smile. "We cannot allow either to continue."

He pulled a ledger from a drawer. "Which brings us to you. Elena Blackthorn herself arranged this meeting, believing you saved her life."

Fendrel's breath caught. The steward's eyes narrowed at his reaction.

"Yes, we are aware of you being the source of the poisons made in the city. Imagine the surprise when everyone was looking outside. Wondering where is it being brought in from, only to find out its a little alchemist of no significance from the slums, who is responsible for deaths of dozens of officials."

The room seemed to shrink. Fendrel's mouth went dry. "You are willing to let me live knowing this?"