The Guild officers' shouts were swallowed by the maze of alleyways, their pursuit broken off by Tryn's farewell gift—a roaring blossom of alchemical fire erupting from a refuse cart. He had whispered the ignition spell under his breath, a quick pyrochant, and the resulting explosion sent chaos rolling through the market. As hawkers screamed and shadows scattered, Tryn vanished like smoke, leaving behind only the flutter of a burning wanted poster and the sharp scent of ozone.
He moved with the instinct of someone born to the city's underbelly, darting through narrow courtyards strung with laundry and markets that stank of fish and brine. Eventually, he reached a small alcove—a slit in the world known only to rats, thieves, and those who listened to the city's hidden heart. His fingers traced a pattern across a row of bricks, the sequence long practiced and polished smooth by habit. With a low groan, a piece of wall swung inward.
Inside, the air felt thick, almost alive. It smelled of old parchment, dried herbs, and dust—centuries of forgotten knowledge pressed into one small space. The Mystic Shop was a chaos of shelves and relics, crowded with the weight of history. Behind a counter carved with faint sigils, Grandmama Philo looked up from her work. She was mending the spine of an ancient book with silver thread. Her eyes, bright and sharp as glass, twinkled with recognition.
"Tryn," she said, her voice dry as crackling paper. "Boy you are alive! The city trembles with news of your arrest, and yet here you are. My, my."
"The city does love a good story," Tryn replied, brushing soot from his coat. "It's one of its more charming flaws."
"And you," she countered, "are one of its more troublesome ones. What brings you this time? The Enforcers aren't exactly easy to outrun."
"I need some information," Tryn said, leaning on the counter. "About an invention—a kind of pen. Not a quill, but a cylinder that holds its own ink. It writes smoothly, dries instantly, and never leaks. The tip is finer than any craftsman's tool. Ever heard of it?"
Philo's eyes turned distant, her mind riffling through centuries of knowledge. At last, she shook her head.
"No. I know of the Quill of Eternal Script, of Starlight Ink, and even the Mage-Staves that carve words into the air. But this? It sounds like something from another world. Or perhaps a very detailed dream." She fixed him with a stare that felt like it could peel back layers of his soul.
Tryn smiled lightly, sidestepping her curiosity. "Then let's change the subject. What do you know of Sir Nigel of the Arcane Order?"
A shadow crossed her face. "That one," she murmured. "I knew him back when he scrubbed tables in the Grand Library. A boy with a lord's pride and a beggar's purse. Brilliant, reckless, and arrogant. He devoured books he couldn't afford, dabbled in alchemy, and looked down on machines as if they were beneath him. All edges and ambition." She sighed, soft as dust. "But he had one weakness—chess."
She gestured to a marble chessboard built into the counter. "He played here, sometimes. He was Westland's first official chess champion, you know. Used to spend hours at the Homar Club before he became someone important. The board was the only kingdom he could truly rule." Her expression darkened. "Now I hear he only plays against himself."
That was it—the clue Tryn needed. The Homar Club, in Rockshire. Nigel's old haunt. If he still lingered in the city, that was where he'd be.
Tryn lowered his voice. "And tell me, Philo—would his ambition ever stretch to necromancy?"
Her face grew grave. "A man who believes the world belongs to him doesn't see boundaries, Tryn. He only sees—"
The doorbell chimed, slicing through her words.
The woman who entered seemed to draw the light toward her. Sophia Hixen—robes of dark wool, smile bright and dangerous. Her eyes found Tryn instantly.
"Aunt Philo," she began, "I came for the—well. Tryn Frostblade. So the rumors of your arrest were, as usual, exaggerated." Her smile deepened, equal parts amusement and challenge.
"The courts move slowly," Tryn said with a grin, already stepping toward the hidden exit. "Unlike me."
He nodded to Philo. "Thank you, Grandmama. You've given me much to think about."
Then he slipped through the secret door, sealing the sanctuary behind him with a grinding sigh of stone. The conversation felt unfinished, but he had his thread: chess. The Homar Club. If Nigel had returned to Rockshire, that was his stronghold. His next move.
Outside, the old sign swung gently above the doorway—The Mystic Shop, Proprietor: Philomena Branch—its letters nearly lost beneath years of grime.
Tryn pulled the shadows around himself like a cloak and disappeared into the city's current.
The streets of Rockshire's central district were alive and roaring, a current of motion and sound. Tryn moved against it—a lone figure cutting through the crowd like a shadow through candlelight. Around him, the city pulsed: laughter spilling from taverns, carriage wheels rattling over cobblestones, the shimmer of lanternlight reflecting off polished boots and glass shopfronts. The air was thick with perfume and roasted spices, alive with the hum of wealth and indulgence.
He passed from one world into another as he neared the Homar quarter. The noise dulled to a cultured murmur. Hawkers and fishmongers gave way to perfumers and jewelers. The tang of sweat and smoke was replaced by saffron, ambergris, and lilac drifting from open windows. Every face here was carefully composed, every step measured. Tryn could feel the eyes—subtle, practiced glances assessing his dark coat and the way he carried himself. He straightened his hat brim and lowered his gaze.
There it was: the Homar Club. Its famed oak door stood under the soft glow of two brass lamps, their light pooling like liquid gold across the marble steps. The building was quiet in its grandeur—smooth stone columns, velvet curtains drawn just enough to reveal laughter and movement beyond. A place of games and secrets, where men like Nigel hid behind civility while planning worlds to conquer.
Tryn stopped across the street, half-shadowed by the eave of a tailor's shop. He watched the entrance carefully, counting the rhythm of doormen's movements, noting the carriages that came and went. The air here was too still, too rehearsed, and it set his instincts twitching.
He began to calculate—his approach, the story he'd use to gain entry, the questions he'd need to ask to find Nigel without raising alarms. He could almost feel the chessboard in his mind shifting, pieces clicking into place. Every move mattered. One mistake, and—
A sudden pressure bit into his wrist.
Cold. Unforgiving.
The sound came next—a sharp click that cut through the hum of the street like a blade through silk.
The nullifier cuff.
Instantly, the world lost its depth. The magic that hummed at the edge of his senses went dead, leaving behind a hollow ache that reached all the way to his bones. Tryn's breath caught in his throat. His pulse hammered. He didn't need to turn to know who it was.
But he did anyway.
Behind him stood Arterz Arterz, tall and immaculate as ever, his fine coat gleaming faintly under the lamplight. His handsome face was drawn in sharp, controlled satisfaction, every line of him radiating the quiet confidence of a man who had waited patiently for this exact moment. His green eyes burned with a predator's focus—the look of someone who enjoyed the hunt as much as the victory.
"Evening, Frostblade," Arterz said softly, almost kindly. "You're a difficult man to keep track of."
Tryn's lips curved into the ghost of a smile. "You've been improving, then."
Arterz's grip tightened. "Don't try your tricks. The cuffs stay on this time."
The street around them carried on, oblivious—carriages passing, laughter echoing from open doors. To anyone watching, it might have looked like two gentlemen pausing for conversation beneath the glow of brass lamps. But to Tryn, the world had narrowed to that iron clasp around his wrist and the steady, merciless gaze holding his own.