Fendrel's fingers tightened around his fork. The offer hung in the air, wrapped in silk and thorns. His mind raced through the implications while maintaining what he hoped was a thoughtful expression.

"You want exclusivity on healing potions?" The words came out measured, careful.

"Precisely." Riven's eyes narrowed. "We've noticed your... varied clientele. This arrangement would provide structure, legitimacy."

The corners of Fendrel's mouth twitched. They have no idea.

His healing potion sales had struggled to get off the ground anyway. The few he sold in the slums were of no consequence.

"Your protection would extend to my workshop?"

"No. You will need to stay in the place we provided for you."

A legitimate front. Regular income. Resources. Protection. The Blackthorns thought they were forcing his hand, but they were throwing him a lifeline. His other business could continue underneath, hidden behind the shield of their name.

"And my current supply arrangements?"

"Will remain intact, provided you meet our quality standards." Riven's fingers traced the rim of his wine glass. "We've reviewed samples of your work. The consistency varies, but the potential is there."

Fendrel fought to keep his expression neutral. With stable resources, and without getting visited by random faction in the middle of the night he could even make a stock of poisons.

"Your offer is generous, Lord Blackthorn." Fendrel set down his fork, meeting Riven's gaze. "I accept."

"Excellent." Riven's smile didn't reach his eyes. "Alaric will handle the details of our arrangement. He is quite familiar with your work, after all."

Fendrel pushed the vegetables around his plate, buying time to collect his thoughts. He glanced up at Riven, whose eyebrow rose at his sudden hesitation.

"About that unrest you mentioned..." Fendrel cleared his throat. "They approached me few days ago."

The clink of silverware stopped. The air in the room grew thick with tension.

"Did they now?" Riven set down his wine glass, all pretense of casual conversation gone. "And what did you tell them?"

"Nothing." Fendrel shrugged, keeping his movements measured. "I refused to even hear them out. Walked away from them."

Lord Blackthorn exchanged a look with a man across the table. "You turned them away without learning what they wanted?"

"I value my neck too much to get mixed up in that sort of business." Fendrel stabbed a piece of meat with more force than necessary. "Besides, I had work to do."

"Master Solinar." Riven leaned forward, his voice dropping low. "Perhaps we could... revise our arrangement. These rebels, they gave you means to contact them?"

Fendrel's hand stilled. "I suppose they did."

"Invite them in, accept their deal." A predatory smile spread across Riven's face. "Listen to what they have to say. Learn who they are, what they're planning."

"You want me to spy for you?" The words came out sharper than intended.

"Think of it as gathering information for your benefactors." Riven picked up his cutlery. "After all, we'll be protecting your interests now. It's only fair you help protect ours."

"And if they discover I'm working with House Blackthorn?"

"They won't." Alaric spoke up from his position near the wall. "Your workshop will remain separate from our holdings. As far as anyone knows, you're still an independent alchemist struggling to make ends meet."

Perfect cover. Fendrel suppressed a smile. The Blackthorns were handing him everything he needed - protection, resources, and now an iron-clad excuse for any suspicious activity.

"Do I get a bonus for this?"

"Don't push your luck Solinar." Riven's eyes gleamed. "It's only right you repay us for what we did so far."

Fendrel stood at his doorstep, rolling an empty glass vial between his fingers. The late afternoon sun caught the glass, sending fractured light across the worn wood of his threshold. He placed it on its side, wondering how much are they watching him.

Back inside his workshop, he latched the door and breathed in the familiar scents of herbs and chemicals. The Blackthorns' generosity had transformed his workspace. Fresh ingredients lined the shelves, neatly labeled and sorted. No more scrounging through the market for dregs or haggling with Old Man Kern over wilted Dralk weed.

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Fendrel scratched his arm and pulled out his ledger. Time to catalog everything properly. He dipped his quill in ink and began noting down his inventory:

"Nightshade essence - 4 vials

Dralk weed - 12 fresh stalks

Bone ash - 2 kilos

Purified Water - none

Crushed Bluecap Mushroom, 4 kilos

Essence of Glowroot, 5 bottles…"

His hand paused over the entry for Widowvine sap. The crystallized form would work better for the Blackthorns' order, but he'd need more raw sap for his own needs.

Fendrel grabbed a fresh sheet of parchment and began drafting his request for the adventurers' guild and the black market contact.

"Priority acquisition:

* Fresh Widowvine sap

* Spiderling venom

* Witherbloom mushrooms

* Bloodthorn resin..."

He added notes about preferred harvest times and preservation methods. For once he could afford fresh, whole ingredients and process them by himself now. Fendrel gritted his teeth and added another item to the list:

"- Deathvine"

The afternoon light faded as he worked, checking stocks and updating his brewing schedule. Three batches of healing potions for the Blackthorns' public face. Two specialized poisons for their other enterprises. And one very particular brew for himself.

Fendrel hung the ingredient requests on his door. The guild runners would collect them in the morning. He was living on the edge of the lower district now, people went to collect jobs directly here. He returned to his workbench and began laying out vials for tomorrow's work.

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

Fendrel sat hunched over his workbench, the grimoire's weathered pages spread before him in the dim workshop light. Glass containers bubbled and hissed around him, as he waited for the next batch of healing potions to finish.

The half-finished potion would have to wait. He was missing ingredients. Despite searching his entire inventory twice, he found no powdered nightshade berries or duskfern charcoal.

He turned back to the grimoire's dense pages. Intricate symbols covered the margins, flowing into complex diagrams that seemed to shift and dance in the low light. The text itself was nearly incomprehensible - a mix of ancient languages and alchemical shorthand.

But as his eyes traced the patterns, something clicked. The parasite stirred, and suddenly certain symbols began to make sense. Not completely, but enough to grasp their basic meaning. This one meant "binding." That curved line represented "essence." The triangular formation suggested some kind of transformation.

"Fascinating," he muttered, pulling a blank sheet of parchment closer. His hand moved almost on its own, copying one of the simpler glyphs. The first attempt was clumsy, but with each repetition, the lines grew more confident.

Each symbol he drew seemed to unlock another fragment of understanding. He couldn't grasp the full complexity of what he was seeing - the deeper meaning remained frustratingly out of reach - but the basic concepts were becoming clearer.

Fendrel grabbed more parchment and began systematically copying sections of text, practicing the unfamiliar characters over and over. Hours slipped by as he worked, the workshop's ambient sounds fading into background noise.

Fendrel's quill scratched across the parchment, copying another set of glyphs. His eyes darted between the grimoire and his work, checking each curve and line. The symbols had started making more sense over the past hour, pieces clicking together like a puzzle.

He paused, squinting at a particular passage. The arrangement looked familiar - similar to a healing draught, but with additional components he'd never considered combining. The glyphs around it pulsed with meaning: purification, enhancement, transformation.

"Wait..." He traced the pattern with his finger. "The mana flow here connects to... yes!"

The revelation hit him like a lightning bolt. The glyphs weren't just for enhancements - they were sort of pathways for guiding magical energy through the mixture. And this formula... it was brilliant. It used acidic components to break down the healing ingredients more efficiently, while mana-directing glyphs ensured the energy flowed properly.

Fendrel grabbed fresh parchment and began writing frantically:

[NEW FORMULA DISCOVERED]: Emberbloom Infusion Draught.

* Emberbloom Petals (10 pieces)

* Shadowroot Residue (4 grams)

* Mana Dust (5 grams)

* Dried Petaline (3 grams)

* Purified Water (200 ml)

He sat back, studying the list. The ingredients weren't particularly exotic, but their combination... He'd never seen anything like it. The Emberbloom petals' natural healing properties would be amplified by the Shadowroot's acidic nature, while the Mana Dust would be used to guide the energy provided by glyphs exactly where it needed to go.

If changing just the ratios could create such a unique effect, what else might be possible? How many variations could be derived from the same basic ingredients? Add one new component, adjust the proportions...

Experimenting with different combinations would get expensive fast. And trying to discover new formulas without a recipe? He shuddered at the thought of wasting rare components on failed attempts.

"No wonder most alchemists stick to the basics," he muttered, already calculating how many coins he'd need to gather the materials for this one formula. "Research is for the rich."

Fendrel stared at the status notification floating in his vision, his shoulders slumping. Two days of being locked out while the system continued its integration. The text mocked him, hanging there like a death sentence.

The door behind him creaked.

Fendrel's heart jumped into his throat. He spun around too quickly, the chair tipping precariously. His hands shot out, grabbing the workbench edge to keep from toppling over.

A woman in a plain brown dress slipped inside, her face obscured by a thick dark veil. She moved with the fluid grace of a predator, each step deliberate and controlled. The door clicked shut behind her.

Without a word, she sat on one of the wooden chairs across from him. Her gloved fingers lifted the veil, revealing sharp features framed by long auburn hair and calculating eyes that swept across his cluttered workspace - taking in the scattered papers, ingredients, and equipment before fixing on him with unnerving intensity.

"You have a talent for breaking and entering," Fendrel said, trying to inject some lightness into his voice. His attempt at humor fell flat in the heavy silence.

She ignored his comment entirely. "The increased security around this place makes approaching you... inconvenient." Her voice was heavy with tired annoyance. "The Cabal grows restless with your continued failure to settle your debts."

Fendrel's mouth went dry. He wondered for a while now when she would come to collect.

"While certain parties seem intent on keeping you breathing," she continued, examining her gloved fingers with casual disinterest, "the Cabal is beginning to wonder if disposing of you might restore the natural order of things."