The windows shattered inward, and suddenly the room was full of bodies. Men and women in dark clothes, faces covered withmasks, daggers already wet with something green and caustic that sizzled in the air. Not good at all.
"Perfect timing," Rylok said pleasantly, straightening his waistcoat as the mercenaries holding him slumped to the floor. He plucked a vial from his pocket and tossed it to one of the newcomers. "Make sure they stay confused. I want them aware enough to feel everything."
Symond blinked slowly, fighting the fog in his mind. Somewhere to his left, Violette had fallen against a bookcase, her movements sluggish as she tried to uncork a vial at her belt. The lead mercenary was already down, a dagger buried in his throat, blood spreading across the ornate carpet in a pattern that reminded Symond of spilled wine at a boring party.
One of Rylok's masked associates approached Symond, blade extended. Symond laughed—couldn't help it, really. Death approaching and here he was, feeling nothing much at all. Instincts kicked in somewhere beneath the fog, a place the purple vapors couldn't quite reach. A place the alchemical forgetting hadn't quite erased.
The attacker lunged, and Symond moved with the cool mechanics of muscle memory. He sidestepped, grabbed the outstretched arm, and redirected the blade into its owner's gut. Twist, pull. Simple. Like stirring tea.
The room had descended into chaos. Mercenaries fought through their confusion, some more successfully than others. Across the room, the Hive woman with the purple-stained fingers hurled a vial that exploded into a corrosive green flame where it struck, consuming two of Rylok's people instantly. Their screams were surprisingly melodic, like off-key singing.
Violette had managed to drink something from her belt, her movements suddenly fluid again as she drove her dagger into a masked attacker's eye. Brutal, but efficient. He'd always admired that about her.
"Symond!" she shouted. "The door!"
He turned to see Rylok slipping out through a hidden passage behind a bookcase. Probably should stop him, he supposed. That seemed to be the point of this whole excursion, after all.
Another attacker came at him, this one wielding twin blades dripping with something that smelled of almonds and death. Symond ducked under the first swipe, feeling the air above his head sizzle. The second blade caught his sleeve, the fabric dissolving instantly along with a thin layer of skin beneath. Interesting sensation, pain. Remote, like something happening to someone else.
"That stings," he observed, driving his own blade up under the attacker's ribs. "Is that acid? Seems excessive."
The man collapsed, gurgling, as Symond stepped over him toward the bookcase. Behind him, someone screamed in a way that suggested they wouldn't be getting up again. One of theirs or one of Rylok's? Hard to tell, and harder to care.
The fog was thinning as fresh air poured in through the broken windows, but bodies littered the floor. The woman with purple fingers lay motionless by the desk, half her face melted away. The lead mercenary stared at the ceiling, a look of mild surprise frozen on his features, a dagger still protruding from his throat. Two of Rylok's masked allies had been reduced to smoking husks by whatever had been in that green vial.
Symond reached the hidden door just as Violette appeared at his side, blood splattered across her face like freckles.
"Are you hit?" she demanded, eyes scanning him.
"Just a sleeve," he replied, gesturing to the dissolved fabric and the red welt beneath. "Barely counts."
"Four of ours dead," she spat. "That bastard knew we were coming."
Symond followed Violette through the narrow passage behind the bookcase, the stone walls slick with dampness that smelled vaguely of sulfur and something else he couldn't place—maybe regret, if regret had a smell. Probably didn't.
The passageway curved downward in a lazy spiral, like a drunk snake trying to remember how to slither properly.
"Stay close," Violette whispered. "And for the love of whatever you believe in, try to act like you care about what we're doing."
"I'm here, aren't I?" Symond replied, absently trailing his fingers along the wall as they descended. The stone felt warm in places, cool in others. Interesting how temperature worked in confined spaces. "Following you down a damp hole to catch a man who apparently did something terrible to people I met yesterday. Seems like commitment to me."
Violette shot him a look that might have hurt if he still remembered how to feel properly wounded. Her eyes had that mix of disappointment and confusion he was starting to get used to—like she was trying to read a familiar book only to find all the pages had been rewritten in Al’teran.
The passage leveled out, opening into what looked like an old wine cellar that had been repurposed into a living space of sorts. Wooden crates served as makeshift furniture, and alchemicallamps cast a soft amber glow over everything, lengthening shadows into strange, distorted shapes that danced across the floor. Symond thought it looked rather cozy, in a desperate-fugitive sort of way.
Violette held up her hand, signaling him to stop. They pressed themselves against the wall, just outside the cellar's entrance. Symond peered around the corner, curiosity getting the better of his caution. Rylok was hurriedly stuffing items into a leather satchel—vials wrapped in cloth, papers, what looked like a journal bound in red leather. There was a large metal grate on the back wall leading into a dark tunnel beyond. His escape route, no doubt.
“He’s gonna run. We need to stop him now,” Symond whispered to Violette.
“No, we should follow him, see where that tunnel leads.”
But Symond was already moving, stepping into the cellar with his dagger drawn. Funny how bodies knew what to do sometimes, even when minds didn't particularly care about the reasons.
Chapter 42
Symond
"Hello again," Symond said pleasantly, as if they'd merely bumped into each other at a market. "Leaving so soon? The party upstairs just got interesting."
