"I'm just a failed alchemist, a talentless dropout from the Academy." Fendrel kept his hands visible, watching her grip on the dagger.

"At least try to make it believable." Her knuckles whitened around the weapon's hilt.

"I've become the greatest poisoner you know." He met her gaze, unflinching. "A man desired equally by the underworld and nobility." A slight grin tugged at his lips as he spread his arms. "Living the high life from the slums to the higher district."

Blood continued seeping across the floorboards as they stared each other down. The acrid stench of chemicals burned his nostrils.

"You think this is funny?" Her jaw clenched. "People are dying, Fendrel. Real people."

He waved his hand at the bodies. "And these weren't real?"

"Stop deflecting." She stood, the chair scraping against wood. "The necromancers-"

"Will what? Kill me? Drain my essence?" The words came out sharper than intended. "Get in line."

Her dagger flashed in the lamplight. "You're impossible."

"I aim to please." The glyphs under his skin itched, a reminder of what he'd become. The constant need for more poison, more essence.

The bravado drained from him suddenly, leaving only bone-deep exhaustion. Fendrel slumped into a chair, the wood creaking under his weight. "I just want to live, Eryndra. That's all."

The silence stretched between them, broken only by the quiet hiss of spilled chemicals eating into the floor. When she spoke again, her voice had lost its edge.

"Don't we all?" She lowered the dagger, sliding it back into its sheath. "Sometimes I wonder if that's too much to ask."

"I need a new place." The words felt heavy on his tongue.

"You mean you need to hide somewhere." She gestured at the corpses littering his workshop floor. "I don't think you can just get away with this."

Fendrel surveyed the carnage around his workshop, running calculations in his head. The bodies would need disposal, the equipment would need moving, and time wasn't on his side. His glyphs pulsed beneath his skin, he checked his timer.

[FORM STATUS]: Reinforced Gravebloom Tincture consumed. Next dose required in 4 hours.

"No, hiding isn't an option for me, I need a place to do my work." He ran his hand through his hair, fingers catching on tangles.

Fendrel glanced around the lab, scanning his shelves. He had small fortune of rare ingredients and yet, it was worthless for his current needs.

The essences were the biggest problem and he only managed to buy the shadecap spores the previous morning.

[CODEX]

Gravebloom Tincture

* Witherbloom Mushroom Powder, 20 grams

* Ash of shadecap spores, 10 grams

* Nightshade essence, 13 drops

* Essence of blackwillow ash, 9 drops

* Crushed Bluecap Mushroom, 40 grams

This is a problem, I need to meet that bloody blacksmith and hope he actually has the stuff I need. Then I need a new place. Clean this mess and restart production.

The corpses on his floor weren't helping matters. The Blackthorns had eyes everywhere, and he'd seen how quickly they moved when their interests were threatened. It wouldn't take much for them to decide he'd become more liability than asset.

His gaze fell on his workbench, the familiar tools and bottles a stark reminder of his predicament. He needed space, ventilation, access to water - and most importantly, privacy. The kind of privacy that couldn't be bought with mere coin or threats.

"I need somewhere where people wouldn't think to look." He looked at Eryndra.

She crossed her arms, leaning back in the chair. "How am I supposed to know?"

"You're from Cabal. Don't you have hidden places all over the city?"

"Those are Cabal places." She leaned into the chair. "And you're not Cabal."

Fendrel pointed a finger on her. "The Cabal isn't the Cabal anymore - your words. So help me find a place that needs cleaning up."

Eryndra's brow furrowed. "What?"

This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it

"A place near the slums, lower district. Somewhere the necromancers have taken." He crossed his arms in front of feeling himself to start shaking with either fear or excitement, he couldn't tell. "Someplace nobody important would miss."

"You can't just-" She shook her head. "The Cabal would notice. Even compromised, they have eyes everywhere."

"Do they?" Fendrel's glyphs pulsed beneath his skin. "Or do the necromancers have eyes everywhere?"

She went still.

"There must be someone left." He leaned closer, lowering his voice. "Someone from the original leadership who'd want their territory back."

"You're suggesting-"

"I clear out their infection. The real members get back their safe house." His fingers dug into his biceps. "I get one room for my lab. Everyone wins."

Eryndra got up and started to pace the length of his workshop, boots clicking against the wooden floor. Her mind turning around.

"It's not that simple."

"Why not?"

"Because-" She stopped, jaw clenching. "The old leadership is scattered. Hiding. Those who haven't turned or died."

"But they exist." Fendrel pressed. "And they'd want allies."

She turned away, staring at the wall. The silence stretched until he thought she wouldn't answer.

"There might be a place." Her words came slow, measured. "An old safehouse in the Rustwater district. Three stories, stone foundation. Used to be a warehouse."

"Used to be?"

"Now it's just another necromancer nest." Her lip curled. "Like everything else they touch."

Fendrel pushed himself up from his workbench, joints creaking. "I have a couple errands to run first. You have an hour to make the decision and let me know. If I don't see you by then, I'm assuming you aren't interested."

He moved to his shelves, pulling down vials and ingredients at random. Crystal bottles clinked together as he packed them alongside his recent batches of toxins. The familiar weight of his satchel grew heavier with each addition.

Eryndra's eyes tracked his movements, her fingers drumming against her thigh. "What about the corpses in here? If someone finds them now..."

"It will take care of itself." Fendrel secured the last bottle in place, wrapping it in cloth to prevent breakage. The familiar motions helped steady his hands.

It always does.

He shouldered his pack and headed for the door. "You have an hour Eryndra. After that you're on your own." His hand rested on the handle. "And I'm serious about letting me know you're coming before you decide to open this door again."

She gave him a nod and slipped out ahead of him.

Fendrel traced his fingers along the door frame, leaving behind a fresh coat of venomshroud. The purple liquid seeped into the wood grain, darkening to near-black. He repeated the process with the handle, watching droplets bead up on the metal surface before absorbing into the microscopic pores.

The weight of his packed satchel pressed against his spine as he walked through the winding streets toward the artisan district. Every shadow felt deeper, every passerby a potential threat. His fingers kept brushing the strap of his bag, adjusting and readjusting the load of deadly cargo.

The Ashen Anvil's weathered facade came into view after thirty minutes of careful navigation through the crowded streets. Instead of barging in like last time, Fendrel rapped his knuckles against the heavy wooden door. No response. He knocked again, harder this time, the impact echoing through the empty storefront.

His third set of knocks turned into pounding. The door cracked open to reveal the blacksmith's face, drawn and pale in the dim light. Dark circles ringed his eyes, and a thin sheen of sweat coated his forehead despite the cool air.

"I'm here for my order." Fendrel kept his voice steady. "Got some materials to sell too."

"Not now." The blacksmith's words came out clipped, rushed. He started to push the door closed.

Fendrel wedged his boot into the gap. "Make time."

"Don't test me, alchemist." A muscle twitched in the blacksmith's jaw.

"Seems you haven't asked around about me yet." Fendrel's nails tingled as he activated his mudclaw skill, turning them into purple-green claws. "Whatever problem you think you're having? I'm a far bigger issue if you decide to screw me over now."

His hand trembled near his waist, fingers twitching toward something behind him.

"Just give me my stuff and I'll leave." Fendrel's jaw clenched. Time pressed down on him like a physical force. "We can renegotiate the mana potion facility later."

His heart pounded against his ribs. The familiar pressure built behind his eyes as stress flooded his system. "You have my order, right?"

Sweat beaded on the blacksmith's forehead, his pupils dilated in the dim light. The man's shoulders hunched forward as if carrying an invisible weight.

"I do, but there's an issue." The blacksmith's hand trembled near his waist, fingers twitching toward something behind him. His voice dropped to barely above a whisper. "Wife's sick."

"I have potions for that." Fendrel lifted his satchel, the bottles inside clinking together. "And mixtures for the other stuff too."

The blacksmith's face crumpled. Deep lines etched themselves around his mouth, aging him decades in moments. "There isn't much mixtures can do about the dead." His eyes locked onto Fendrel's, desperate and pleading. "Do you understand?"

The weight of those words hung in the air between them. Fendrel's fingers flexed, purple-green claws catching what little light filtered through the doorway.

"You have no idea who you're talking to."

Fendrel stepped forward, fully expecting the man not to budge as he wanted to force his way in. But instead of resistance, the larger man simply stepped aside, shoulders tense.

"Where?" The word came out soft, like the gentle boil of an healing potion.

"By the forge." The blacksmith's voice cracked. "Four of them."

Fendrel stepped into the dimly lit workshop, his boots scuffing against the sawdust-covered floor. The scents of coal smoke and heated metal hung in the air, but underneath lurked something else - a cloying sweetness that made his nose twitch. The forge's embers cast a dull red glow across the cramped space, throwing strange shadows against the walls.

Tools lay scattered across workbenches, hammers and tongs abandoned mid-task. The place looked normal enough, but the wrongness crawled up his spine like ice water.

The blacksmith shuffled behind him, boots dragging against the floor. "They're... through there." He pointed toward the back room, separated from the main workshop by a heavy leather curtain.

Fendrel's fingers brushed against the vials in his satchel. His mind raced through his available options - most of his deadly concoctions would take too long to work. The Eclipsebane might do the job, but he'd need to get close enough to force it down their throats.

The sweet smell grew stronger as he approached the curtain. His enhanced senses picked up the faint sounds of movement beyond - the rustle of robes, the scrape of metal on stone.

Four of them. Four necromancers. The thought bounced around his skull like a trapped bird. And here I am walking right into their lair because I can't wait another day for equipment.

But waiting wasn't an option. The countdown in his head ticked away mercilessly - less than three hours until he needed another dose of the tincture. Without the proper materials, he couldn't make more. Without more, he'd...

The curtain swayed slightly in a nonexistent breeze.

Fendrel squared his shoulders and reached for the leather barrier. His claws caught the rough material, purple-green tips gleaming in the forge light. The sweet smell mixed with something metallic now - blood, fresh and old.

Dead either way, he thought, and yanked the curtain aside.