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The Alchemist's Descent
Chapter 38: Meetings

Chapter 38: Meetings

Fendrel's gaze drifted to the corner where Kaelor's body had lain. Empty. The stones showed no trace of blood either. His fingers traced the edge of Nyssara's papers as pieces clicked into place.

Yeah, she definitely has something to do with the dead.

He shook his head and stumbled toward the new bed. The gnawing emptiness in his chest could wait until morning.

Pounding jolted him awake. Fendrel rolled from his bed, cursing as his feet hit cold stone. He yanked open the door to find familiar Blackthorn guards flanking a well-dressed man whose clothes likely cost more than Fendrel's budget.

"May I come in?" The man's cultured accent dripped with assumed authority.

"Can I say no?" The words slipped out before Fendrel could stop them, his new found confidence quickly mellowing with the shift in air.

The man's face hardened. "We are not here to play games Master Solinar."

Fendrel noticed two types of people who called him Master - those who viewed him as beneath them, and those who didn't take him seriously. This man definitely belonged to the first category.

The Blackthorn official stepped inside, his polished boots clicking against stone as he surveyed the workshop. His eyebrows rose at the gleaming equipment and organized shelves - a far cry from yesterday's shabby interior.

"We have been contacted by the church regarding one of their Clerics not reporting back the previous evening. Care to elaborate?"

Fendrel studied the official, calculating how much poison it would take to drop him. A scratch, maybe less with his nails. The thought surfaced for the second time since Eryndra's visit.

I still need them, they are the best source of materials I have had since this shitshow started.

"Dead," Fendrel said.

The guards' hands tightened on their weapons. The official's spine stiffened, his face hardening into still mask. "Dead? Just like that?"

"The cleric arrived at my workshop yesterday." Fendrel leaned against his workbench, keeping his voice steady. "He demanded access to all my research and everything I've been producing for House Blackthorn." The lies wove together smoothly, each one supporting the next. "When a church official shows up in Blackthorn territory making demands, what choice did I have?"

"So you killed him?" The official's voice cracked.

"No. I gave him what he asked for." Fendrel spread his hands. "I assumed he came with your blessing. But then he tried to drag me to the church for questioning."

Fendrel crossed his arms. "So I poisoned him. I imagine you're aware as to why I'm being housed by the lord Blackthorn?"

"And the body?" Sweat beaded on the man's forehead.

"Solved."

The man's jaw clenched, his face cycling through rage and uncertainty. His hands shook as he adjusted his collar.

Well, you are in a shop of a poison making alchemist who somehow managed to kill holy cleric of Adria. I would be shitting myself too.

"Solved," the official echoed, his voice hollow. "And the church took all our product?"

Fendrel's heart hammered against his ribs, but he kept his face neutral. "Every vial."

"I see." The man clenched his fists. "The Steward will want to hear this directly from you."

"I imagine he is too busy of a man for a lowly alchemist such as myself to bother him with something like this." Fendrel's voice remained steady despite the cold sweat running down his back.

He watched the guards shifting their weight, their white-knuckled grips on their weapons betraying their fear. The official wasn't any better - his perfectly pressed clothes couldn't hide the tremor in his hands.

They're as terrified as I am. The realization steadied him. If I crack now, I'm finished.

"It would be most prudent-" the official started.

Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

"For me to start working on new batch of potions." Fendrel gestured to his workbench, where various ingredients lay scattered. "And for steward to be promptly informed. Unless you'd prefer to explain to Lord Blackthorn himself why his healing potions are delayed?"

The official's mouth opened and closed like a fish. He shot a glance at his guards, but they avoided his gaze.

"I'll... convey your situation to the Steward." The man backed toward the door. "Good day, Master Solinar."

Fendrel watched them hurry away, maintaining his composed expression until the door clicked shut.

Fendrel pushed himself up from the workbench, his legs still unsteady. The fungal aura spread from his skin in an invisible cloud, seeping into the air around him. The effect wasn't that strong in the city as it might be in the marshlands, but when someone didn't expect it, it confused people for long enough to get around.

He slipped out of the laboratory and headed toward the artisan district. If any of the stuff he was told was true, he doubted anyone would manage approach his shop. The thought brought him little joy as he navigated the crowded streets.

The specific materials he'd ordered couldn't wait another day.

It didn't take long before he picked up couple man trailing while trying too hard to be casual. Young, inexperienced.

There is no way I would notice assassins or church agents. Rebels.

Fendrel turned down a side street between two workshops. There wasn't anywhere to hide in this district, the whole place was fairly open and bustling in the early morning. He pressed himself against the rough stone wall and waited.

The footsteps quickened. Two men rounded the corner, nearly stumbling when they found Fendrel staring at them. The shorter one had a fresh scar across his chin. The taller wore a threadbare coat that had seen better days.

"You're not as subtle as you think," Fendrel said.

The scarred one recovered first. "Elian sent us. Said you might be willing to help."

"Lead the way." Fendrel gestured for them to continue down the alley.

They exchanged nervous glances before setting off toward the slums, Fendrel following a few paces behind. The buildings grew more dilapidated with each block they passed, until they stopped before a sagging structure that looked ready to collapse.

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Stale air thick with alcohol and sweat assaulted Fendrel's senses as he entered the building.

The dim hallway echoed with creaking floorboards beneath his feet. His escorts moved with practiced familiarity through the gloom.

Unfamiliar faces populated the poorly lit room, their features obscured by pipe smoke and shadows. The sharp bite of cheap spirits permeated the air, mixing with the unmistakable odor of unwashed bodies. Women in worn dresses leaned against walls while men conducted their business, leaving little doubt about the establishment's true nature. A few patrons cast wary glances his way before returning to their drinks.

The revelation clicked into place for Fendrel. All those years living in the slums, he'd walked past this building assuming it was nothing more than another den for drinking and whoring. The perfect cover for rebellion - who would suspect revolutionaries of gathering in such a disreputable establishment?

His guides led him down a back hallway and descending staircase, the rotting wood protesting with each step. The basement's musty air clung to his throat.

In the larger chamber below, illuminated by cheap crystals, Elian sat at a scarred wooden table studying a map of Kerneke while others gathered around him.

The man sat with two women, his clean-shaven face animated as he gestured at the rough leather map. His clothes, while not fancy, were well-maintained - a stark contrast to the building's decay.

When Elian caught sight of Fendrel, his expression shifted. The easy smile vanished, replaced by something more calculating as he took in Fendrel's rigid posture. The basement's dim lighting cast long shadows across Elian's face.

"Didn't you get the message from The Ashen Anvil?" Fendrel asked.

Elian's fingers drummed against the table. "We did, but it was impossible to approach you. Even your workshop was surrounded by all sorts of groups."

Fendrel hesitated, wondering how to approach this. The momentum of recent events pushed him forward. I need to keep pushing, if I stop I might never start moving again.

"What do you need from me?"

The question caught Elian off guard. He blinked, clearly having expected Fendrel to be the one in need of something. His composed demeanor returned quickly.

"Around a month ago the city dynamic shifted rather abruptly. Old rivalries reignited and groups who laid low started to make their moves." Elian motioned for Fendrel to take a chair at the table in front of him.

The wood groaned as Fendrel sat. About the time I started selling poisons, has to be coincidence right? The thought made his skin crawl.

Elian leaned forward, his voice dropping lower. "This gives us opportunity to take control of our own destiny."

"How do I play into this?" Fendrel repeated, keeping his voice level.

"We need weapons, potions, information. Things we believe you have access to."

Fendrel sighed, more to himself than anything. "What do you hope to achieve? Overturn the nobility and take over the city?"

"I know to most that's just a pipe dream," Elian conceded, "but what options do we have? Keep living under their rule and die to their whims?"

Fendrel stayed quiet, glancing over the two women who now stood at the side of the table. Their postures spoke of something more rather than just seduction.

They aren't just whores are they?

"Are you aware the Blackthorns blocked the supply of healing potions? You work for them, you should know," Elian continued.

"I don't just work for them," Fendrel felt a rush course through his body at the idea spinning in his mind. "They told me to infiltrate your group and help root you out. I agreed."

That got everyone's attention rather abruptly. One of the women's hands disappeared beneath her dress. The other shifted, taking step towards his direction.

"Imagine if I were to be more inclined to your cause instead. Considering I have spent my time in the slums and am tired of getting pushed around." Fendrel put his arms on the table, keeping his movements slow and deliberate. "I need ingredients to keep doing what I do."

The tension in the room thickened. Elian's eyes narrowed as he studied Fendrel's face, searching for any sign of deception. The basement's musty air grew heavier with each passing heartbeat.