The two arrowheads made a squishy clank as he dropped them into the ceramic bowl. He had cleared a corner of his workshop for this task—a decision he now regretted. Using a specially designed, spoon-like tool, he had removed the arrowheads; despite the searing pain, he suppressed it. Sweat covered him, and the cheap cloth draped over his body was stained with blood, perspiration, the stench of chemicals he had used, and something else—an odor reminiscent of feelings he hadn’t experienced in a long time.

  Applying pressure to his wound with two bandages, he retrieved the container holding the arrowheads. He lifted it to his nose and inhaled deeply. Then, with his pinky fingers, he scraped a bit of the residue from the metal and tasted it. Herbs—those grown in the dark, the pale leaves of Anemoka, Shufta bark, and Starry Flom. The alchemist in him swelled with second-hand pride. Whoever had mixed these ingredients was smart and capable—perhaps even the very woman he had caught. No, she was a dangerous piece of work, nothing more, nothing less. The genius of the mixture lay in its binding: Pale Cap mushroom paste combined with a gelatinous, neutral substance obtained by boiling cartilage and bone. Remarkable.

  A fresh pang of pain reminded him that he needed an antidote. He gathered several clean bowls and began to mix a reactive blend of herbs with a neutral solution to suspend them. But he lacked a proper needle to deliver it into his bloodstream, and drinking it would be far too slow. Alongside the original poison, he had tasted his own blood—it was already beginning to rot.

  Focusing his magic, he conjured something akin to a needle and delivery system. It took every ounce of his concentration and strength. He poured the antidote into the magical container he had formed, focusing to keep it from boiling or freezing. With painstaking precision, he opened a fresh wound in himself, allowing the solution to enter his bloodstream; the clear, healthy blood was already turning brown and nearly black. The antidote worked—it burned as it coursed through him, steadying his failing system. Magic was never meant to be used on oneself in this manner. The pain, the acrid tang of the poison, and the sterile stench of the antidote mingled in his nose. His thoughts drifted to Molly. It was still night, and she slept, but her keen senses would soon detect the smell and come to check on him. He forced himself not to scream.

  Then it was over. He leaned against a tall cupboard filled with items he scarcely remembered acquiring, panting and exhausted.

  “If I were young, this would be easier,” he murmured. But he was old, and this ordeal was especially difficult because he had let it fester, it had finally come for him. It took him a long time to recuperate his strength—a long, long while—and by the time he had enough energy to ready himself, dawn was beginning to break through the ever-growing glow. He had a duty to fulfill.

  With a groan, he suppressed his lingering pain, grabbed the box he had retrieved from beneath one of the floor tiles of his workshop —his emergency supply for exactly this kind of situation—and began to sew up his wound. The work was amateurish; he had only done this to himself a few times, but the wounds—though throbbing and painful—was closed. He then prepared a few more basic antidotes and stashed them away. Finally, bundling his tools and supplies, he slipped quietly through his home toward the bathroom, locking the door behind him. He had to get clean and ready for the day ahead.

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

  “And make sure to get the supplies ready for the next order, and tell Oscar and Valdez to bring actual fresh produce next time. If they think they can fool me, then they are fools,” Eldarion ordered, his tone as firm as always. It was a day like any other in the pub. His subordinate scurried to make his bidding.

  “we need more barrels of beer, and get us more meat from the cold storage”, Phin!” Eldarion called, his resident halfling was busy doing nothing on one table “go and take stock of, well stock, please” he looked at him as if he had insulted him “get up and move!” Eldarion said, his raised voice causing a brief pause in the conversation, Phin move with deliberate slowness and Eldarion shot him a meaningful look.

  “Sir?” Rook approached him after a quick break from the bathroom, he sounded timid, unsure if approaching him was the rigs move. It was mid-morning, and the day was beginning to prove hectic.

  “Yes, lad?” Eldarion replied, handing a warm beverage to a customer while delivering a plate piled high with food to Molly, whose nose had been twitching strangely all morning.

  “The piano’s been making noise, sir,” Rook said hesitantly.

  “It’s a piano, lad—it’s supposed to make noise,” Eldarion retorted with a cheeky smile, the darkness within him momentarily held at bay by humor.

  “Uh... well,” Rook looked embarrassed for a moment, “I mean, the noises are... weird, sir. Can you have it checked out?” His worry was evident.

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  “Worried you’re never going to play again if it breaks?” Eldarion teased lightly while juggling orders and handling plates full of food. “Two blocks down the road, there’s a specialized music store. Go ask them to check it out—tell them you’re coming in my name. They’ll help you out.”

  Rook’s smile faded into a cherry-red blush. “Go on, lad—it’s fine,” Eldarion said, and with that, he returned to his work.

  Eldarion was acutely aware that his odor was more sunken than usual. Despite his clean hair and the purification of his body, he still reeked of what he had lived through last night—despite his clean, new, purple robes. Molly had a very good idea that something was amiss, but she wasn’t going to ask. He had to protect her; he had to keep this haunting remnant of his past at bay and away from what he cared about. And he had to find out what that young elf was doing in his pub with a knife.

  A few minutes passed when he felt the weak wards he’d placed on the windows and doors of his property being tested.

  “And as I was saying, if they do it more gently, things could improve by about 5% for everyone involved,” he was hosting Skalskar once more—without the Director and without Thundok. He was dense, denser than the metal his namesake was taken from. Yet it was interesting; the feeling that his wards were being tested made his expression flatter for a brief second. “And with that, things can be extended far more and far easier than…” he droned on. Eldarion moved his cup, making the clear liquid dance inside—it was water, of course; it was too early in the day for any nonsense. “The Guild works fast,” he thought to himself.

  “Uhm, Mr. Thorne?” asked Skalskar.

  “Uhm, yes?… Sorry, I spaced out,” Eldarion replied, forcing himself to be present, breaking his focus on his wards. The wound on his left shoulder throbbed with the movement, and he made a grimace of pain.

  “You should take a day off—you look tired and strained,” said Skalskar, with all the subtlety of a charging carriage.

  “I apologize, Professor, but the work of a pub owner never ends. Now, if you’ll excuse me…” Eldarion got up and returned behind the counter. Before taking two steps, he turned and said, “What you are proposing is great; it does show at least a basic understanding of how things work here. I suggest you take it to the Director—he would guide you better.” At that, Skalskar’s face shone positively at the praise.

  Seated behind the counter, Eldarion scanned his pub. Yes, there was something lingering all the way in the back… no, it was the shadow of that person. The Guild indeed moved fast. They had no way of knowing that he was the one who had attacked; the reports would have said a young elf was responsible—and he was nothing like that. Yet that also meant they knew of the assassination attempt. That, in turn, meant that the woman he had captured knew the details. Good. He had to keep appearances.

  Rook finally returned with the technicians, and Eldarion looked at him, surprised.

  “Rook, lad, what took you so long?” he asked.

  “I… got lost,” Rook admitted after a brief pause.

  Eldarion laughed and beckoned him toward the piano, with the technician trailing behind. He scanned the pub lazily again; the person he had seen was gone. That meant they were snooping around. The fire returned to him—it was an insult. He had hoped and waited for them to come talk to him, but they didn’t. And yet, as he took orders with a mask of calm on, he began to feel that raw emotion rising again—the stench he recognized from long ago: the stench of battle, the dread it both caused and evoked, and the pure, twisted enjoyment of it. Still, he could avoid the confrontation that was about to happen. His hand slipped, and the beer mug fell from his grasp.

  “Uh, sorry, sorry,” he mumbled as he began to clean it up.

  Molly zipped out of nowhere and said, “Sir, don’t worry—I’ve got it. Please, go take a moment; you seem tired.” Her tone was full of concern. “Rook, who’s been doing nothing all day, can take over for you.” She shot a look at the young lad, who, despite being scolded by someone who looked positively tiny, was nonetheless intimidated by the pain creeping up on him.

  “Yeah, sir, please take a moment—we’ve got this,” Rook said as he removed his coat and readied himself to do his old job.

  “There is no need; go on,” Molly gave him an impatient look. “Okay, okay, I’ll go check on Phin—he hasn’t come back yet.”

  As Eldarion left the main room of the pub pub through a back door, he realized that sending a halfling to check the storeroom by himself wasn’t the best idea. He passed through the door to his workshop—it was closed, looked undisturbed, though that was no guarantee of safety. Running a hand over his long beard, he mused that if this assassin was as capable as the last one, a confrontation was inevitable. He reached the storeroom and, as expected, found it open. Inside, Phin lay, blackout drunk with empty bottles around him about, and Eldarion couldn’t help but sigh. He might have been angry at the lad, but instead he simply grabbed the inventory list and began to check the room—inspecting everything that was needed. Then he left, carrying Phin, unconscious, under his arm.

  Peeking back toward the pub, he saw Molly darting under several tables to reach him.

  "He's drunk. I'm taking him to my workshop to wake him up—my fault really. You don’t send a halfling alone to a storeroom," he remarked.

  "How much did he drink?" Molly asked, both worried and amused.

  "Half as much as your great-grandmother was capable of drinking," Eldarion replied dryly. And Molly chittered, clearly impressed

  "You got the deck, old lass," he added, borrowing a nautical term.

  "I am not my great-grandmother, sir," Molly quipped.

  With an excuse for his absence, Eldarion marched to his workshop with the sleeping Phin still under his arm. He opened the door and stepped inside. Nothing appeared disturbed. He placed Phin on a small table and began preparing his work. Using the movements as a pretext, he discreetly hid the arrowheads—placing them in a neutral solution and stashing them in a flask at the back of a cupboard. Then, he prepared a solution to wake his halfling.

  "Interesting place, I got to say, Mr. Thorne," said a voice at his back. Eldarion grumbled—not out of fear, but out of exasperation.