She was a wielder, of course. Younger than most who found themselves here. Her smooth, youthful skin was ashen and grey, like death, though the mercy of death had not yet been granted.
Other matters had called him away before he finished, so the girl had been strapped to that table for too long.
Yesterday, she’d fought back the panic, pretended, rather believably, that she wasn’t afraid. But now, fear was not so easily defeated. Her hair clung to her sweaty forehead and damp cheeks. Her breathing hitched as her head tilted toward the sound of his footsteps.
Aine was a sweet girl, pleasant and quiet. She had no family, but her disappearance would not go unnoticed. She was friends with some at Hatha House, and like many who had occupied this table before her, she had ties to the impudent rebels infesting Fallowmoor’s slums.
But Aine’s magic was in high demand by his client and the nobility alike. She was a shifter—a fortune in a small package. So sought after was this magic that it never even made it to his shopfronts, the preening peacocks desperate to make themselves beautiful and his client thrilled over the possibilities it offered. The last shifter elixirs sold for more caern per bottle than all of his businesses made in a week.
The trouble was, shifters were hard to spot. They could alter everything. Even their eyes.
How do you pick out a wielder if their eyes hold no rings?
Luck, he thought proudly, slipping on the stained apron and tying it with steady fingers. Good luck for him, bad luck for her.
The girl was always going to end up here, though. They all would eventually.
A wielder’s heart yielded only four elixirs. With half his stock claimed by the Ministry of Arcane Compliance—an offer he literally could not refuse—and demand rising, he’d been forced to take wielders wherever he could.
It was a pity that the blood couldn’t be used. It would regenerate over time. Magic originated in the hearts. It flowed through the veins, sure, yet the blood itself lacked the potency to transfer that power. He had tried. Thoroughly. Not out of guilt over the deaths. His work was no different from a ratcatcher thinning vermin—though the pay was far better. Reducing their numbers served not only humanity, but Baellas as well. Still, an inexhaustible resource would have been better for business.
“Please,” the girl begged as she tugged at the straps. “Let me go.”
Ashcroft slipped to the back edge of the room and lit the incinerator, the flame igniting with a satisfyingwhoosh.
Returning to the table, he pulled on his leather gloves and exhaled contentedly. He preferred this branch of his work over the rest. It was far more fulfilling.
His specialty had always been enhanced items. He’d spent his life studying glyphs, using them to transform ordinary objects into something exceptional. It was how he’d made his fortune, built up his name again after it had been dragged through the mud.
But he had always been drawn to the intricate art of surgery. The science of the human body. That fascination led him to Baellas, Goddess of Life, whose theology captivated him. After all, it was Baellas who created humanity, from the elaborate nervous system to the delicate skin. It was a thing of beauty. A masterpiece.
Then Baellas’ envious sister, Arunas, forged her own creations. The creatures resembled humans, but each was acorruption in her own image. Twisted imitations with foulness coursing through their veins.
Trucagh. Wielders.
By infecting these creations with her magic, Arunas gave them an unfair advantage. Made them dangerous. Their existence was a threat to everything Baellas had created.
It is said that Baellas asked Daeban, Goddess of Death, to kill her sister as punishment, hoping that with her gone, these wielders would cease to exist. But they remained, a stain on humanity itself.
Of course, Ashcroft had his own reasons to despise thetrucagh.
His father had always been a respectable man. He was the warden of Fallowmoor Prison and a prominent member of the ministry. But he harbored a far less respectable taste for wielder women, and had an endless, rotating supply. He made the mistake of underestimating the danger their kind posed. One arrest, one missed classification. A windwielder with a short prison sentence. Harmless with her hands bound. Or so they thought. He showed his interest in her, and the dual-wielder forced her will on him. Marched him out of the prison, compelled him to confess publicly to everything he’d done to those women. Then she ordered him to end his own life.
He left behind a widow who couldn’t endure the loss of status, two young teenage daughters who, after their mother ended her life, married whoever would take them, and a son who found solace in his hobbies and in the teachings of Baellas. He survived on the caern earned through petty crime until he could restore the family name that had been stolen from him.
Dealing with the threat. That was what had driven him to create the elixir. But it satisfied an itch that none of his other dealings scratched. And it was an easy creation, really. This elixirworked on the same principle as the glyphs—taking something simple and shaping it into something greater.
The Ministry of Arcane Compliance had recognized his potential, and while he disliked the idea of working with them, he couldn’t deny the appeal of the extra money. His businesses were thriving in both Fallowmoor and Bedwyck, and this ensured the continued production of his elixir. Plus, it was good for business when the City Watch had orders to turn a blind eye to the technical illegality of certain sales.
He slid the rolling cart closer to the operating table, taking in the state of the room again. It truly was unacceptable. He’d need to hire someone to help with the upkeep.
At least his workstation was organized. He’d had it ready since yesterday. His process was an art perfected over time. Every step was done just so, and each tool had a purpose.
He picked up the trephine, studying the dull edges. Perhaps he should send Liam to purchase a new one tomorrow. There was plenty of funding now.
The girl’s breath quickened, the small locket rising and falling with the movements of her chest.
“Why are you doing this, Ciaran?” she asked, her voice trembling.
