Low-Fantasy Occultist

Nick watched Gaelen sleep from the opposite side of the dusty cellar, with only the fluorescent stick casting any light. For the first time in weeks, his chest rose and fell in an unbroken rhythm that didn’t look painful. The gray pallor had faded, replaced by a healthier look, and even [Empyrean Intuition] showed no worrying signs.

But Nick knew the quiet was temporary. The cursed blade sat wrapped around a nearby crate, inert, yet its tether to Gaelen remained. The rot had been pruned, not uprooted.

"He needed that," Rhea whispered, sitting beside Nick. She held a leather roll containing small glass vials, brushes, and tins of colored wax and had been busy preparing all sorts of brews and poultices that wouldn’t have lasted long even in her spatial pouch. "He would have pushed himself until his heart stopped before doing anything about it.”

"A man is only as good as the trust he places in his people," Nick replied softly. “This was necessary, aye, but we cannot linger. The longer we hide, the closer Alexander gets to finishing whatever he is plotting, and the more powerful Ephor Ultimer grows.”

He would have really, really liked another month or two. That would have been enough time to complete the climb to Prestige and get used to the new power, making the whole mission much safer, but as they’d seen in the mountains, their enemies would not wait.

I’ll have to make do with the fights I’ll face here. There should be enough high-level warriors to let me gain at least a few levels, and I have the advantage of not needing a Quest to advance. Once I reach the threshold, all my Feats should let me step through with ease. That would certainly be a nasty surprise.

“I agree," she said, unrolling her kit on an empty crate. “And that’s why I’ve been working on a new version of my Disguisement Draught.”

The brewing took the better part of an hour. Rhea was an artist with her alchemical solutions, and watching her work made it clear how much she’d grown since he’d first met her, when she’d been afraid to forage in the Green Ocean.

She might not have been a true master like Ogden, but her skill was already strong enough to earn her recognition from the Guild and set up her own shop.

If the Ultimers hadn’t been in the picture, Rhea could have built a life for herself with her talent, a rich one at that. But they were, and as long as that remained the case, his friend would not be able to rest.

Once she was done, she rubbed a bitter-smelling paste into Nick’s skin, dulling his complexion to the wind-chapped, ruddy brown of a common laborer. A few expertly applied layers of prosthetic wax softened his sharp jawline into a blunt, unremarkable shape. Finally, she administered eye drops. They stung fiercely for a moment, but when Nick blinked the tears away, the striking midnight black of his irises had shifted to a muddy, flat hazel.

“How come there are so many steps? The brew you used last time did all of this in one go,” he asked.

Rhea snorted, shaking her head. “That was good enough to go unnoticed and would have fooled illusion-detecting arrays, but it was time-limited, and a simple alchemical wash would have made it disappear. This is a much sturdier cover and won’t be discovered even under expert inspection.”

Gaelen awoke shortly after, groggy but clearly refreshed, and submitted to the same treatment. His distinct scars were filled and painted over, and his hair was dyed a dull, greasy black. They then dressed in coarse, spun-wool tunics and leather boots typical of the northern working class, and Nick thanked his foresight for buying all sorts of supplies in Floria.

"Remember," Rhea instructed as she secured a faded wool shawl over her head, "we are scavengers. Mercenary camp followers seeking coin. Keep your heads down, do not stare at the patrols, and for the love of the gods, Nick, do not react if a noble sneers at us or tries to throw their weight around. If you radiate even a fraction of your true power, you will shine like a beacon.”

Nick drew his consciousness inward, wrapping his vast mana in a tight, suffocating layer of spiritual restraint. To anyone using standard mystical senses, he would appear as a mundane, low-level civilian.

They left the cellar, climbing the stone steps and slipping into the morning bustle of Toneburg.

The city was a sprawling labyrinth of dark quarried stone and slate roofs. The smell of coal smoke, roasting meats, and unwashed bodies filled the air, while wagons rattled over the cobblestones, merchants shouted over the morning rush, and the ringing strikes of a dozen blacksmiths echoed from the industrial sectors.

But beneath the noise, Nick could feel the tension. There was a strong undercurrent of paranoia, and with that in mind, the flinty look in the merchants whose wares were growing stale, and the nervousness of the guards looking for trouble made more sense.

In a way, this was a city under siege, even if the surrounding army was nominally friendly. Few could get in or out, and everything they brought with them would be subject to multiple layers of inspection, no doubt resulting in significant losses of merchandise along the way.

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“They’re certainly not doing much to help the situation," Nick murmured, keeping his head down as a patrol of four heavily armored mercenaries marched past. They wore no official heraldry, only flat gray tabards, their hands resting idly on their sword hilts. The civilian crowd parted for them instantly, eyes averted.

"Ephor Ultimer holds a tight leash," Gaelen explained in a low voice, tracking the mercenaries with restrained hatred. "Toneburg has always been a city of factions. The Duke resides in the central keep, but he has always been a weak ruler, relying on the prominent noble houses to enforce his mandates. When the war with the dwarves began, House Ultimer would have been among the few with the power to help him, and clearly, they’ve decided to use it in other ways.”

“I knew they’d taken control, but this was more overt than I expected,” Nick murmured.

“It’s not like anyone can go against them," Rhea said, pulling her shawl tighter against the morning chill. "The lesser houses—House Nassun, House Corin, and the others—are trapped. Even before the Elpen’s destruction, they were paying exorbitant 'protection taxes' to keep the Ultimers at bay. Now that we are gone and Ephor has sunk his claws into the Duke, they have little choice but to comply.”

It was quite different from how Alluria was governed. The nobles were still influential there, but no single house dared contest the Duke’s power.

Then again, Anton von Alluria was a Prestige warrior in his own right and a proven commander. The local Duke seemed far less skilled, and with the loss of the only other major noble line capable of contesting the Ultimers, it had only been a matter of time before they grew arrogant.

Keeping their eyes and ears peeled for any interesting nuggets, they veered off the main thoroughfare, blending into a crowded open-air market just outside the noble district. The square was packed with laborers, tradesmen, and off-duty mercenaries spending their coin.

Gaelen led them to a busy, open-air tavern at the edge of the market, securing a table near the warming fires. They ordered cheap ale and watery stew in bowls, playing the part of weary travelers while Nick cast his senses outward, sifting through the city's chaotic noise.

"...third wagon this week," a burly stonemason muttered to his companion from two tables over. "I’ve never seen requisitions like this. The Black Hounds already took all our cold iron, null-glass, and Bleeding Chalk. Who the hell uses Bleeding Chalk for a simple estate renovation?”

"Keep your voice down," his companion hissed, glancing around nervously. "You want to end up like Jon’s boy? The Ultimer quartermasters pay good coin. You just need to take the money and load the wagons, even if the Hounds take their cut. Don't ask what they’re building in the Elpen estate if you want to keep your head.”

Nick leaned over his stew, mulling it over. Cold iron and null-glass were expensive materials used in permanent ward arrays, but they could also be used to construct very solid rituals.

The Ultimers might have been simply rebuilding their old enemy’s estate into an impenetrable fortress, but given that Ephor was a highly skilled Artificer, he suspected at least some of those precious materials were going to him directly.

And Bleeding Chalk, if he remembered correctly, was a natural stone found in the northernmost mountains, most often used for religious rituals.

Is it for Alexander, then? He certainly seemed to have found a way to use that kind of framework for his own purposes, but why would Ephor allow it? He didn’t strike me as mad, just power-hungry.

Whatever it was, the scale of the Ultimers’ machinations required a constant supply chain for rare materials, and that could not be good.

More concerning was Alexander’s silence. The man Nick had seen in his visions had been a fanatic, eager to unleash his righteous fury on the world. But this Alexander was staying hidden, suppressing his profane mana to the point that even Nick could not sense it from within the city walls.

A fanatic who knows how to keep quiet is infinitely more dangerous than one who screams, Nick thought grimly. Alexander had to know that his raising of the dead in the mountains would draw attention, yet he kept to the shadows. He was likely playing the long game, waiting until his design was irreversible before revealing his hand.

“Look,” Rhea breathed, kicking Nick gently under the table.

She nodded subtly toward the edge of the market. A sharp-featured man in a fine, if slightly worn, merchant's coat stood near a fruit vendor. He was pretending to inspect a crate of apples, but his eyes darted rapidly across the crowd, lingering on the tables where the merchants sat.

“That’s Corso," Gaelen whispered, his voice dripping with disgust. "He used to run extortion rackets in the lower wards. He’s an informant.”

"Working for Ultimer?" Nick asked softly.

"Without a doubt," Rhea confirmed. "He must be marking targets. Anyone who complains too loudly about the taxes or the requisitions will get a visit. We know the citizens are terrified because people are vanishing. While a few might be running away, the larger part must be Ephor cleaning house, rooting out potential traitors before his rebellion begins.”

"If he is a spy for House Ultimer, he might know something important." Nick narrowed his eyes. “At the very least, he might have a way into one of their estates, or knowledge of its supply lines. We should follow him.”

They abandoned their stew, leaving a few copper coins on the table, and slipped back into the crowd.

Trailing Corso was an exercise in patience. The informant spent the next two hours winding through the commercial districts, stopping to chat with city watchmen and jotting down subtle notes in a small ledger.

Eventually, he turned away from the bustling squares and headed toward the quieter, heavily shadowed alleyways bordering the high walls of the noble district.

Nick, Gaelen, and Rhea followed at a safe distance, using Toneburg's twisting architecture to remain out of sight.

As Corso turned down a particularly narrow, high-walled alley filled with overflowing refuse, Nick’s [Empyrean Intuition] flared.

"Stop," he commanded, his voice barely audible. He threw out a hand, pinning Gaelen and Rhea against the brick wall as he tried to make sense of what he was feeling.

A cold, featureless void was drifting into the alley ahead of them.

Nick peered around the corner, masking their presence with the [Mire].

Standing ten paces behind Corso was a figure draped in unassuming, slate-gray clothing. It was human, but the air around them shimmered faintly, as a subtle light-bending artifact obscured their exact features. The man moved with unnatural fluidity, as if gliding over the cobblestones without making a single sound.

A King's Shadow.

Corso paused, the hairs on the back of his neck standing on end. Abruptly, he turned, his hand reaching for a concealed blade beneath his coat.

He never completed the motion.

The operative’s hand snapped forward, driving a long, thin needle directly through the base of Corso’s skull, severing the brainstem instantly.

Corso went rigid. He didn't even have the breath to gasp.

The Shadow caught the dead body before it hit the ground, lowering it silently.

He then reached into a pouch and drew an enchanted dagger. Nick recognized the distinctive, serrated crossguard from walking around the city; it was the standard-issue weapon of the 'Black Hounds,’ one of the largest independent mercenary companies encamped outside the city walls.

The Shadow drove the dagger deep into Corso’s chest, pinning the informant's notebook to his coat.

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