The grog from the Monktown Pub sat heavy in Tryn's gut, but it was the aftertaste of the conversation that truly soured his stomach. Sir Nigel. The name echoed in the silence of his lab, a grand title stuck in the grimy cracks of Rockshire. A Royal Adviser, a scholar-mage—the kind of man who polished his conscience in the sun-drenched spires of Roseland, not the soot-stained alleys of the lowtown.
He unfolded the newspaper from two days prior, smoothing its creases against his workbench. His eyes scanned past the grisly headlines until they found the snippet of news that now felt like a cornerstone of his own crumbling reality.
"Sir Nigel Appoints New Chancellor to the University of Rockshire"
...In a rare public appearance, Sir Nigel of the Arcane Order presided over the convocation ceremony. In his address, he emphasized the "purging of theoretical rot" and the need for "practical, state-sanctioned magical application." He subsequently appointed Lord Allistair Finch as the new University Chancellor, ending a three-decade tenure by the ailing Lord Hemsworth...
"A rare public appearance," Tryn murmured to the empty room. "And just in time to order a sanitation crew to scrub a house clean of death-essence. How conveniently civic-minded."
The pieces, however fragile, were aligning. A man of Nigel's power didn't dabble in odor-cleansing. He dealt in erasure. And if he was erasing necromancy, he knew something about it. And if he knew something about forbidden arts, a man like that might just know a thing or two about the most legendary of all alchemical texts—the fabled Diary of Rown.
A slow, dangerous smile touched Tryn's lips. He had a lever, and he suspected he had a fulcrum.
He cleared a space on his bench, uncorked a bottle of cheap but serviceable ink, and selected his least-bent quill.
To the Esteemed Sir Nigel of the Arcane Order,
I write to you concerning a recent matter of sanitation at a property on Ulrich Road—the Pinewood House. During my work, I encountered a residue of a most persistent nature. It put me in mind of an old tale, one I believe you will be familiar with: the story of Lazarus.
I believe a discussion regarding this matter, and the methods of its final cleansing, would be of mutual benefit. I will be at the Pinewood House tomorrow, one hour past noon. I assure you, discretion is the essence of our respective crafts.
Yours in curiosity,
Tryn W. Frostblade
Consultant Alchemist
He didn't sign it with his club—he had none. He didn't mention the Department—this was beyond Crawler now. It was a shot in the dark, but the bullet was forged from a truth so dark it could tarnish a royal adviser. Lazarus. The biblical figure raised from the dead by a son of God. A subtle, but to a scholar-mage, an unmistakable allusion to necromancy.
He sealed the letter with a drop of common wax, his mind racing. "The Diary of Rown," he whispered to the flickering lamplight. Legend said it contained alchemical secrets that blurred the line between life and death itself. A scholar-mage like Nigel, neck-deep in a necromancy cover-up, must have clues, fragments, anything. The trade was simple: Tryn's silence for a path to the Diary. It was a gamble of colossal stupidity or brilliant audacity. With Tryn, the line between the two was often vanishingly thin.
Fatigue, fueled by rum and mental exertion, finally pulled him under. He collapsed onto his mattress without bothering to undress, the world dissolving into a blur of stone and shadow.
He was at his workbench, but it was too clean, the air too still. In his hand was a pen. It was not a quill. It was a sleek cylinder of a strange, cool metal, weighted perfectly in his grip. It had a fine, precise tip, like a mechanician's scribe, and it required no inkpot. As he moved it, a rich, black line flowed onto the paper, drying instantly. He was writing, not in his own chaotic script, but in neat, blocky letters. He looked down at the paper.
A betting slip.
For a Mech-Boxing match. The "Crimson Crusher" vs. the "Iron Monk." He'd put fifty Darics on the Monk. The slip felt real between his fingers, the paper coarse. He could smell the ozone of the fighting pits, hear the distant roar of a crowd…
The dream shattered under a series of hard, percussive knocks that seemed to strike the door and his skull simultaneously.
Tryn jolted upright, the phantom sensations of the strange pen and the betting slip evaporating like smoke. Dawn was a grey smear at the window. The knocks came again, insistent and official.
Grumbling, he staggered to the door and yanked it open, ready to curse out a pre-dawn client.
The man on his doorstep was not a client.
He was tall, broad-shouldered, and clad in a long coat of dark leather over a tailored grey tunic. He had the kind of classically handsome, square-jawed face—framed by tousled, dark blonde hair—that looked like it belonged on a royal portrait, not in the dim alleyways of Rockshire. His eyes, a sharp and penetrating shade of dark green, scanned Tryn with detached efficiency, from his unruly bed-hair to his rumpled coat.
"Tryn W. Frostblade?" the man asked, his voice a calm, low baritone that brooked no nonsense.
"At this hour, I'm not sure who I am," Tryn retorted, rubbing his eyes. "What do you want?"
The man didn't smile. He produced a leather-wallet badge, flipping it open to reveal a gleaming sigil—a balanced scale superimposed over a stylized flame. The mark of the Guild.
"I am Arterz," he said, the name spoken with a quiet finality. "Guild Enforcer." His green eyes locked onto Tryn's. "Also known as Arterz. You are called the White Hair Alchemist in some corners, are you not? 'White Hair'?"
Tryn's blood ran cold, the last vestiges of sleep vanishing. That is a serious business.
"I haven't gone by that since I was a student," Tryn said, his voice carefully neutral. "Though my do believe my hair is white, as many of the people"
"Not too many… And titles are persistent things," Arterz said, tucking the badge away. "Tryn Frostblade, you are under summary arrest by the authority of the Alchemist's Guild, charged with the intoxication and enforced compulsion of a guild-officiated officer, Abneizer Dfoul."
No. The world tilted. He'd been too clever by half.
"Intoxication? We shared a friendly drink!" Tryn bluffed, his mind racing for an exit that wasn't there.
Arterz took a step forward, his presence filling the doorway. "Do not insult my intelligence. The serum of Pink Wisehysteria is quite detectable in the system of a victim for up to twelve hours. We have a full confession from Mr. Dfoul, extracted after the effects wore off, detailing your questioning."
He reached into his coat, and for a wild moment, Tryn thought he was going for a weapon. Instead, he produced a pair of slender, silver manacles etched with faintly glowing runes. Nullifier cuffs.
"The use of truth serums on city officials is a guild crime, Frostblade. You will come with me now to face tribunal." Arterz's green eyes were pitiless.
As the cold metal clicked shut around his wrists, a profound numbness settled over Tryn. The magic in the cuffs hummed, a dissonant chord that silenced the subtle energy in his veins. The lever he had tried to wield against Sir Nigel had just snapped back and crushed him. He was no longer the hunter; he was the prey.