Chương 131: Chapter 129. Further Down The Rabbit Hole

Adom stood in front of Weird Stuff Store, hand frozen on the doorknob, reconsidering his life choices. He'd spent the morning dodging admirers, ducking behind pillars whenever students spotted him, and once hiding behind a particularly bushy potted plant when Coach Viriam started loudly recounting "The Ghost's greatest plays" to anyone who would listen. He'd come here seeking refuge, assuming the shop would be empty as usual. The muffled sounds of conversation from inside suggested he'd miscalculated.

With a sigh, he pushed the door open. The familiar bell jingled overhead, announcing his arrival to a surprisingly crowded shop. Three customers stood near the front counter, where Mr. Biggins was—shockingly—doing actual shopkeeper duties. The old man was weighing colorful candies on a small brass scale, carefully transferring them into paper bags while discussing their properties in the exaggerated manner of a carnival barker.

"And these blue ones, madam, will make your voice sound like you've inhaled a considerable quantity of helium! Excellent for surprising guests at dinner parties or terrifying neighborhood cats!" Adom blinked. In all his visits to the store, he'd rarely seen Biggins engage in actual commerce. The old man typically spent his time eating his own merchandise, lounging dramatically in odd places, or making cryptic statements before disappearing behind curtains.

Seeing him act like a legitimate businessman was more disconcerting. Adom slipped toward the back of the store, trying to blend in with a display of dancing teacups. He needed to speak with Biggins privately about everything, and about Thessarian. He was examining a shelf of bottled emotions (happiness was on sale, melancholy apparently commanding premium prices this season) when someone tapped his shoulder.

A middle-aged man with an impressively groomed beard had broken away from the counter and was now staring at him with growing excitement.

"Excuse me," the man said, approaching carefully as if Adom might bolt.

"Are you Adom Sylla?" Adom glanced around. The other customers had paused their browsing to look over. Even Biggins had stopped mid-sale, a handful of purple candies suspended above a paper bag. This was exactly what he'd been trying to avoid. If he admitted who he was, this man would tell others, who would tell others, and within an hour half of Arkhos would be crammed into Weird Stuff Store looking for the elusive Ghost.

"No," Adom said, keeping his voice neutral.

"Sorry." The man looked crestfallen for approximately three seconds before his expression shifted to skepticism. He reached into his coat and pulled out a folded newspaper, opening it to reveal a sketch of Adom mid-game, white streak of hair clearly visible despite the artist's mediocre skills.

"I think you are, though," the man said, holding the paper up for comparison.

"You look just like him." Adom considered his options. Fleeing would only confirm his identity. Magical disguise seemed excessive. That left only one reasonable choice: polite but firm denial.

"Adom Sylla has a white streak in his hair," he pointed out reasonably, gesturing to his now completely dark hair.

"And glasses." He gestured to his face, which was notably glasses-free. The man lowered the newspaper slightly, examining Adom more carefully.

"You could be disguising yourself," he said, voice dropping to a near-whisper.

"I would too, if I were suddenly famous."

"That's a reasonable assumption," Adom agreed.

"If I were Adom Sylla, which I'm not."

"Of course you're not," the man said with a knowing nod that completely contradicted his words.

"My mistake." They stared at each other for a moment, locked in the most polite standoff in the history of Arkhos.

"It's just," the man continued, still speaking just quietly enough that the other customers couldn't quite hear, "my son is a huge fan. Read every match report. Even started practicing Krozball in our back garden."

"That's nice," Adom said sincerely.

"Krozball is an excellent sport."

"It is," the man agreed.

"Especially when played by someone who isn't you, since you're not Adom Sylla."

"Exactly." The man reached into his pocket and produced a pen.

"I don't suppose you'd consider signing this newspaper anyway? As a favor to someone who clearly isn't Adom Sylla but happens to share his handwriting?" Adom glanced toward the door, calculating his chances of making a dignified exit. Zero. The other customers had abandoned any pretense of shopping and were now openly watching the exchange, whispering among themselves.

"I don't think that would be appropriate," Adom said carefully.

"Since I'm not him."

"No, of course not," the man agreed immediately.

"But hypothetically, if you were him—which you're not—it would make my son incredibly happy." Adom sighed.

"And if word got out that Adom Sylla was here, everyone on this street would come running."

"They absolutely would," the man agreed, then leaned in closer.

"Which is why I haven't said anything above a whisper since I approached you." Adom had to admire the man's commitment to their shared fiction.

"You make a compelling argument."

"For a completely hypothetical scenario," the man added helpfully.

"Of course." The man extended the newspaper and pen with the solemnity of someone handling sacred artifacts.

"Would you mind terribly?" Adom took them, glancing once more at the other customers, who were still watching with barely concealed curiosity. Mr. Biggins had finally completed his sale and was observing the scene with undisguised amusement.

"What's your son's name?" Adom asked quietly.

"Tomas," the man replied, his face lighting up.

"He's seven." Adom nodded and quickly scribbled 'To Tomas - Work hard and trust your instincts' before signing his name with a flourish. He folded the paper and handed it back, keeping the transaction as inconspicuous as possible. The man accepted it with a small bow that seemed both excessive and entirely appropriate.

"Thank you," he said.

"The person who definitely isn't Adom Sylla was very kind today."

"Happy to help," Adom replied. The man nodded once more, then turned and made his way to the door, managing to appear both casual and like someone carrying a priceless treasure. The bell jingled as he left. The remaining customers watched him go, then returned to their browsing with slightly suspicious glances toward Adom. But to his relief, they seemed content to respect the unspoken agreement that had just transpired.

Over the next twenty minutes, they completed their purchases and departed one by one, until finally Adom was alone with Mr. Biggins.

"Well," the old shopkeeper said, removing his spectacles and polishing them with a handkerchief, "that was the most elaborate case of not-being-someone I've witnessed in at least a century."

"You could have helped," Adom pointed out.

"And deny myself such quality entertainment?" Biggins replaced his glasses.

"I think not." The two of them laughed.

"You're making quite a few waves lately," Biggins continued, leaning against the counter and popping one of the blue candies into his mouth. His voice immediately jumped two octaves.

"Krozball champion and secret autograph dealer all in one week."

"I enjoyed it at first," Adom admitted.

"The attention. But I'm not sure it's good for the long term."

"I wouldn't bet on that," Biggins squeaked, then cleared his throat as the candy's effect faded.

"Fame has its uses. Opens doors. Closes others, of course, but that's the nature of doors." Adom glanced around to ensure they were truly alone.

"How's the egg?" Biggins' face lit up like a child offered a new toy.

"Oh! Follow me!" He bustled past the counter with surprising agility for someone who typically moved with exaggerated leisure. Adom followed him toward the back of the shop, where Biggins stopped in front of what appeared to be a perfectly ordinary door.

"Is this new?" Adom asked, frowning. He was certain that section of wall had been occupied by a bookshelf last time he was here.

"This?" Biggins looked genuinely surprised.

"Not at all. It's always been here."

"No, it hasn't."

"The store is never quite the same twice," Biggins said with a dismissive wave.

"Surely you've noticed. Sometimes the ceiling's a bit higher. Sometimes there's a new smell. Last Tuesday the entire place was three feet wider."

"I thought that was just me," Adom muttered.

"Hardly. Buildings have moods too." Biggins pulled a ring of keys from his pocket and selected one that looked like it was made from bone.

"Especially buildings that house things like me." The door opened without a sound, revealing a small, circular room that Adom was positive couldn't fit within the dimensions of the shop. The walls were lined with shelves containing objects that seemed to shift when he wasn't looking directly at them. In the center of the room, atop a pedestal of dark wood, sat the phoenix egg. It was smaller than Adom remembered, about the size of a melon, but the blue flames that engulfed it burned just as brightly.

They cast dancing shadows across the room without producing any heat.

"It looks good," Adom said, approaching the pedestal.

"Healthy."

"Oh yes," Biggins agreed.

"Very healthy indeed." Adom reached out, hesitated, then carefully lifted the egg. The flames wrapped around his fingers like curious animals, tickling rather than burning.

"I wonder when it will hatch," he said, turning the egg slowly to examine it from all angles.

"Probably in a few years," Biggins replied casually.

"Years?" Adom nearly fumbled the egg.

"It's going to be on fire for years?"

"Oh, possibly longer," Biggins said, adjusting his spectacles.

"You see, young Adom, The creature inside is already conscious. It's just taking its time."

"It's conscious? Now?"

"Of course." Biggins took the egg from Adom and held it up to the light.

"It's registering the outside world. Learning. Growing. When it's ready, it will emerge on its own terms. If disturbed prematurely, it will simply go back to sleep, and the egg will turn to stone."

"That's... a long time to be stuck in an egg."

"Not so different from your own development, really," Biggins said.

"Just more contained." He placed the egg back on its pedestal and sat on a stool that Adom could have sworn wasn't there a moment ago.

"I spent seventy-six years in my egg," Biggins said conversationally.

"Fully conscious for most of it."

"That sounds horrific."

"Not at all. It was quite educational." His eyes took on a distant quality.

"I was traded as a treasure, you know. Passed from hand to hand. I traveled more in that egg than most humans do in a lifetime." Adom raised an eyebrow.

"You remember all that? From inside an egg?"

"Oh yes. Every word, every journey." Biggins smiled faintly.

"I was once given by a tribal chief to his new bride as a wedding gift. She would sing to me at night, place me in ritual fires. She believed the flames would help me hatch. Beautiful voice. Terrible fate." His expression darkened momentarily before he shook it off.

"I understood what I was, even then. That I was a dragon. That there were few, if any, others like me left. An interesting perspective to develop while still unhatched." Adom tried to imagine it: decades of floating in darkness, listening, learning, unable to respond. Knowing you were possibly the last of your kind before you'd even seen the world. The author's tale has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

"Doesn't that make you... I don't know, resentful? Being passed around like an object for so long?" Biggins looked genuinely confused.

"Resentful? No more than a book might resent being read. It's simply what was." He gestured toward the egg.

"When it emerges, it will already be fully formed mentally. That's why beings like phoenixes and dragons can speak and reason immediately after hatching. We do our growing up on the inside." Adom considered this. It explained a few things about Biggins' oddities - if your first decades were spent as a disembodied consciousness, perhaps normal human behavior would always seem slightly foreign. Or maybe age had just worn away his concern for other people's opinions.

"Is there anything we should be doing for it?" Adom asked.

"To help it develop?"

"Talk to it," Biggins suggested.

"Read to it. Play it music. The more varied the stimulation, the more robust its development." He reached out and stroked the flaming shell with one finger.

"This one already knows your voice. It recognized you the moment you entered the room." Adom looked skeptically at the egg.

"How can you tell?"

"The flames flickered differently." Biggins smiled.

"They're flickering differently right now because we're discussing it. It knows." Adom peered more closely at the egg. The blue flames did seem to be moving in patterns, almost like a visual language.

"So it can understand us? Right now?"

"To some degree," Biggins confirmed.

"Not words exactly, not yet, but intentions, emotions. Tone." He leaned in conspiratorially.

"Would you like to say hello?" Feeling slightly foolish, Adom placed his hand on the egg again.

"Hello," he said softly.

"I'm Adom." The flames curled around his fingers more deliberately this time, forming shapes that held for just a moment before dissolving.

"It likes you," Biggins said with certainty.

"How do you know?"

"Because," Biggins said, his expression utterly serious, "it just told me so." Adom looked at Biggins. Biggins looked at Adom. Neither blinked. The staring contest stretched from seconds into what felt like minutes, the only sound in the room being the soft crackle of the egg's flames. Finally, Adom broke first.

"You were joking, weren't you?"

"Of course!" Biggins exclaimed, his face splitting into a wide grin.

"An egg talking! Preposterous!" He waved his hands dramatically.

"It's not as if magic is a thing that's barely understood to this day, or that we live in a world where rocks can think and trees can walk. Not as if I, a dragon disguised as a human who runs a shop that changes dimensions daily, could possibly communicate with an unhatched phoenix." He adjusted his spectacles.

"Completely impossible." Adom rolled his eyes.

"What about Thessarian?" he asked, deciding to change the subject.

"Hmm?"

"You know, the woman you told me you captured? The mage killer?" Adom's tone made it clear he hadn't forgotten, even with everything else that had happened.

"Ah!" Biggins snapped his fingers.

"Right, right. Follow me." Adom expected him to head back through the door they'd entered, but instead, Biggins walked to a different wall of the circular room and tapped three times on what appeared to be solid stone. A seam appeared, widening into yet another doorway.

"Another room? Inside this room?" Adom asked.

"How many dimensions are you violating right now?"

"All of them," Biggins replied cheerfully.

"It's a hobby." Adom followed him through the new doorway, unsure what to expect. His imagination conjured images of a prison cell with iron bars, or perhaps a magical containment field. Maybe she'd be bound in chains, or unconscious in some sort of stasis. What he actually found was none of those things. Thessarian reclined on a cushioned daybed in what looked like a lavish bedchamber. She wore a silky bathrobe, her face covered in some kind of white clay mask.

A small table beside her held an assortment of pastries, chocolates, and a steaming teapot. A lyre floated in the corner, playing itself in a slow, soothing melody. She was reading a leather-bound book, completely absorbed, one hand absently reaching for a chocolate. Adom frowned, wondering if he was seeing things correctly. Thessarian sipped her tea, turned a page, and then—as if sensing the intrusion—looked up. Her eyes widened slightly when she spotted them.

"Oh!" She snapped her fingers, and the lyre immediately fell silent.

"I wasn't aware you were here. My apologies." She set her book down, marking her place with a ribbon.

"Not at all," Biggins said with a small bow.

"I should have announced ourselves. I was fairly certain the ward would alert you to our presence."

"It works perfectly," she assured him.

"But I tend to get very absorbed when reading with music. The ward nudges, but doesn't demand attention." She smiled apologetically, then her gaze shifted to Adom. Her eyes seemed to catalog every detail of him in seconds.

"Hello, Adom Sylla." Adom's muscles tensed instinctively, combat reflexes urging him to strike first, ask questions later. His fingers twitched toward a weapon he wasn't carrying. With effort, he controlled the impulse, keeping his expression neutral as he looked questioningly at Biggins. This woman would someday be called the Mage Killer, would hunt down and destroy his kind with ruthless efficiency. She'd recognized him immediately.

And now she was having what appeared to be a leisurely afternoon in what was supposed to be her prison? Something wasn't adding up. Adom took a deep breath, wrestling his instincts into submission. This woman wasn't yet the Mage Killer who haunted his nightmares. She was simply Thessarian—whoever that was in this moment. Antagonizing her might even create the very future he feared, pushing her down a path she hadn't chosen yet. Probably.... Hopefully. That had to be what Biggins was thinking too.

"I apologize for limiting your movements in the city," Adom said with a slight smile that didn't quite reach his eyes.

"We needed to make sure you were... well." The diplomatic words felt strange in his mouth, like borrowing someone else's teeth. But he trusted Biggins. If Thessarian was here like this—comfortable, unrestrained—the old dragon must have good reasons. So Adom would play along, at least for now. Thessarian set her teacup down and rose from the daybed with fluid grace. The clay on her face cracked slightly as she smiled. She approached Adom with measured steps, bare feet silent on the intricate carpet.

Adom tensed again, instinctively backing up a step. Her future self had killed dozens of mages with less warning than this. Biggins placed a hand on his shoulder, the touch unexpectedly reassuring.

"Why don't you let her explain herself?" he suggested quietly. Adom glanced at him, searching the old shopkeeper's face for any hint of deception or concern. Finding none, he turned back to Thessarian, who was still smiling at him. There was something unsettling about that smile—not threatening, exactly, but knowing in a way that made his skin prickle.

"Fine," Adom said.

"Mr. Biggins mentioned you believe I'm a danger," Thessarian said, breaking the tense silence. She wiped a bit of the clay mask from her cheek with a linen cloth.

"Are you?" Adom asked, direct and unflinching.

"That depends entirely on your perspective." Her voice was casual, but her eyes remained fixed on him with unnerving intensity.

"Yesterday, I was informed of preparations for an attack during the Prince's trial," Adom said.

"Orchestrated by the Farmusian Empire." He watched her face for any reaction.

"You're Farmusian." Thessarian didn't respond, just sipped her tea with perfect composure.

"According to my intelligence, this has been ongoing for many months." Adom continued.

"You arrived in Arkhos recently." He leaned forward slightly.

"What were you doing in Arkhos, really?" Thessarian glanced at Biggins, who nodded almost imperceptibly. She set her teacup down with a soft clink and returned to the daybed, arranging her robe around her legs.

"I was one of the agents tasked with this mission," she admitted simply. Adom's suspicions crystallized into certainty.

"I was sent here a few weeks ago, the very day of your departure for the tournament," Thessarian continued, "congratulations, by the way. I was certain you would win." Adom kept staring at her.

"Hmm. How very cold." She smiled.

"Anyway, I was sent here to establish a network of informants and prepare the groundwork. The mission had two objectives: a formal declaration of war against Sundar, and the extraction of Prince Kalyon." Adom turned to Biggins, about to demand an explanation for why this enemy agent was enjoying tea and pastries instead of interrogation, but Thessarian raised her hand.

"Before you ask why I'm not in chains," she said, "you should understand what I am." She rolled up the sleeve of her robe, revealing a forearm laced with faint silver lines that shimmered beneath her skin like liquid metal.

"I'm a homunculus," she said. Adom didn't react. He'd suspected as much.

"Do you know how the procedure is performed?" she asked, studying his face. When he remained silent, she continued, "I didn't either, until they did it to me." She traced one of the silver lines with her fingertip.

"First, they remove portions of your original organs. Piece by piece, over weeks, replacing each with alchemically enhanced substitutes. They keep you conscious through most of it—the pain is necessary, they say. It binds the new parts to what remains of your original self." She spoke with detachment, as if describing something that had happened to someone else entirely.

"The mana core is implanted last," she said, tapping the center of her chest.

"They harvest it from a captured mage. It's not solid like an organ—it's pure energy, incredibly difficult to extract without destroying it. The Farmusian alchemists have perfected a method that keeps the mage alive just long enough to complete the transfer." Adom fought to keep his face neutral.

"They place it where your heart should be, after removing just enough of the original organ to keep you alive but dependent on the core's energy. The procedure has a sixty percent fatality rate. They start with ten subjects to get four viable homunculi."

"But the physical transformation is merely preparation," she continued.

"The true purpose is the binding spell they weave into your new organs. A mental tether that connects you directly to your handler. They can see through your eyes, hear through your ears. They can override your will entirely if they choose." She smiled thinly.

"A perfect spy. A perfect assassin. A perfect slave."

"You speak of it in past tense," Adom observed.

"Indeed," she said, glancing at Biggins.

"This unexpected gentleman—""Oh, come now," Biggins interrupted with a dismissive wave.

"No need for such formality."

"This surprisingly formidable shopkeeper," she amended, "confronted me as I was completing a reconnaissance of the city's western quarter. We fought—" her eyes narrowed slightly "—a battle I was not prepared to lose."

"Well, you underestimated me," Biggins said, rocking back on his heels with satisfaction.

"Most people would."

"He knocked me unconscious," Thessarian continued, touching the back of her head as if the memory still pained her.

"When I awoke, I was here, and something was... different. He had somehow severed the connection to my handlers." She pointed to a thin golden band around her wrist that Adom hadn't noticed before.

"This prevents them from reestablishing control."

"You're free to come and go as you please?" Adom asked incredulously.

"Within certain parameters," Thessarian said, touching the bracelet.

"This alerts Biggins if I attempt to leave the city or contact anyone from Farmus."

"And we're just trusting that she won't—""The bracelet would stop her heart instantly if she tried to betray us," Biggins interjected cheerfully.

"Though I do think we're well past that concern now."

"I have no love for the empire that butchered me and turned me into a puppet," Thessarian said.

"But I do have valuable information about their plans. Information that could save many lives—including those of your fellow mages."

"Fine," Adom said. He wasn't convinced, but he was willing to listen. For now. Adom rubbed his temple, something nagging at the back of his mind. He couldn't quite focus on Thessarian's words. His eyes kept drifting to the golden bracelet on her wrist.

"This bracelet," he said finally, pointing at the thin band.

"Something about it feels... wrong." Biggins chuckled.

"You're sensing the binding enchantment. Quite potent."

"How did you even create something like this?" Adom asked.

"The level of enchantment needed to override a Farmusian control spell..."

"Homunculi creation isn't new to the world, Adom," Biggins said, adjusting his spectacles.

"It's simply a practice that's been forgotten. Modern mages are merely rediscovering what was once common knowledge. I happen to know its intricacies better than most." Thessarian studied Biggins with renewed interest.

"You're not human, are you?"

"That much should be obvious, no?" Biggins replied with a smile that revealed just a hint of too-sharp teeth.

"Fair," she conceded. Adom shook his head, pushing aside his questions about Biggins for the moment. There were more pressing concerns.

"I need to know exactly what the Farmusians are preparing," he said.

"I have intelligence reports, but nothing detailed. Nothing concrete."

"Of course," Thessarian said.

"I can tell you everything." She leaned back on the daybed, tapping her fingers against her knee as she organized her thoughts. Her eyes seemed to focus on something far beyond the room's walls.

"Where to begin?" she murmured, almost to herself. Then her gaze sharpened, and she looked directly at Adom.

"Do you know of the Sundarian Empire's Grand Chancellor, Lord Mephtilem?"

Three hundred miles to the south, in the gleaming halls of Alkarond, capital of Sundar. Imperial magister Tarven wiped blood from his split lip and glared at the two other mages beside him. The courtyard's stone tiles were scorched from their combined efforts, yet their target remained untouched.

"Again," Tarven commanded, raising his staff. The youngest mage, barely twenty, shook his head.

"It's pointless. We can't—""I said again!" Reluctantly, all three mages formed a triangle, channeling their power. Blue light spiraled from Tarven's staff, red flames erupted from the second mage's palms, and the youngest conjured shimmering barriers of yellow energy. They wove their spells together in a synergy of destructive force. The young man standing at the center of their triangle smiled faintly.

He wore the standard black uniform of the Sundarian Imperial Guard, but with the insignia removed and replaced with an unfamiliar crest—a silver serpent devouring its own tail. His only weapons were a pair of short blades that glinted dully in the morning light. He couldn't have been older than twenty-five, with close-cropped dark hair and a scar that bisected his left eyebrow. The coordinated magical attack surged toward him—enough power to level a small building. The young man moved.

One moment he was standing still, the next he was behind the youngest mage. A quick strike to the back of the neck, and the yellow barriers winked out as their caster crumpled to the ground. Tarven redirected his beam, but the target was already gone—sliding beneath the blue energy and driving his elbow into Tarven's knee. Something popped. Tarven howled, his concentration shattered.

The fire mage managed to track their opponent with a stream of flames, but the young man rolled through them, seemingly untouched, and swept the mage's feet from under him. As the mage fell, the young man tapped him lightly on the forehead with the pommel of his blade.

"Dead," he said matter-of-factly. Tarven struggled to rise, clutching his injured knee.

"You're supposed to be testing our defenses, not showing off, Kell!" The young man—Kell—sheathed his blades with a single fluid motion.

"And you're supposed to be preparing for war, not playing with light shows." He glanced at the youngest mage, who was groaning and sitting up.

"You telegraph your barriers before you cast them. An extra half-second that might keep you alive." He turned to the fire mage.

"Your flames are impressive, but you're afraid of them. You pulled the heat back when I got close. Don't. A mage should be willing to burn." Finally, he looked at Tarven.

"And you, Magister, rely too much on raw power. Three coordinated mages should be able to trap a single opponent, not just blast away hoping to hit something." Tarven spat blood onto the stones.

"Easy to criticize when you've been... enhanced." Kell's expression didn't change.

"Do better next time. The Iron Wolves won't be as gentle as I am."

"Neither will Arthur Sylla," said a new voice. A tall figure stepped into the courtyard, wearing robes of midnight blue embroidered with silver constellations. His white hair was pulled back in a severe tail, accentuating high cheekbones and eyes so pale they appeared nearly colorless. Grand Chancellor Mephtilem moved like someone who had spent decades ensuring every gesture conveyed exactly what he intended. The mages scrambled to bow. Kell merely inclined his head.

"My lord," he said.

"You've improved," Mephtilem observed, watching as the mages limped away to nurse their wounds and pride.

"I should hope so." Kell rolled his shoulders.

"I believe I'm beyond three standard mages now."

"Indeed."

"Perhaps I should be testing myself against more worthy opponents. Arthur Sylla, for instance." Kell's voice remained casual, but there was an undercurrent of hunger.

"Mages of this caliber don't deserve my blade, but the great Star Knight..." Mephtilem's eyes narrowed slightly.

"Remember the mission ahead, Kell. What we do in the coming days will reshape the future of Sundar. And the world. You'll have your time with Sylla, but the success of our operation takes precedence." Kell scowled.

"I've read the reports. You've ensured the commander of the Iron Wolves will be away, sent him chasing phantoms in the northern mountains. It seems I won't get my chance after all." His eyes lit up suddenly.

"I hear his son is quite talented, though. A bit young, still a kid really, but with potential."

"Leave the child alone," Mephtilem said sharply.

"I hope he'll be there." Kell smiled.

"Kill the son, and the father will come seeking revenge. Arthur Sylla would forget duty and protocol if his precious boy were slain." Mephtilem sighed.

"The fire of youth. Always burning, never patient." He began to walk slowly around the courtyard, hands clasped behind his back.

"When you've lived as long as I have, Kell, you learn to manage your enemies like pieces on a game board. You don't rush to take the opponent's knight simply because you can. You wait until taking that piece advances your larger strategy."

"Philosophical today, aren't we?" Kell muttered.

"Patience is not merely a virtue, it's a weapon. The most deadly one in our arsenal." Mephtilem paused beside a scorched stone tile.

"As for the child—yes, he has been a problem once. But he is just that—a child. Leave him for now." Kell's jaw tightened.

"I still think the boy is behind our prison mission's failure. The fact that those noble brats we funded couldn't eliminate him suggests he's more than meets the eye."

"It doesn't matter," Mephtilem said dismissively.

"He's a minor piece on the board. We have kingdoms to topple, alliances to shatter. Focus on what's important."

"As you wish." Kell's tone made it clear he disagreed, but wouldn't argue further.

"You leave for Arkhos today," Mephtilem said.

"Our agents are in place. Do not disappoint me, Kell." Kell's expression hardened into resolve.

"I live to serve, my lord. I will not fail."

"Good." Mephtilem's pale eyes glinted in the morning light.

"See that you don't."