Unrepentant

Silas stepped into the Alchemist's Guild of Rhysling, his presence almost swallowed by the grandiosity of the stone and glass structure. The walls bore intricate carvings of mythical creatures and alchemical symbols.

Inside, the air was thick with the scents of rare herbs and exotic spices. Alchemists of various guild ranks moved through the halls, their robes swishing against polished floors. Conversations buzzed around him—debates over transmutation circles, theories about new elixirs, and occasional bursts of laughter punctuated by the sharp tang of an unexpected explosion.

Silas's entrance went largely unnoticed in the controlled chaos. He observed his surroundings, taking in the flurry of activity. Apprentices scurried about, carrying trays laden with vials and ingredients, while senior members supervised with an air of authority. It was a hive of intellectual activity, a dance of minds and matter.

His gaze settled on a female clerk seated at a desk near the entrance. She was of advanced age, her white hair tied neatly into a bun. Silas approached her.

"Where is Arim?" he asked, his voice raspy yet commanding.

The clerk looked up from her work, locking eyes with Silas. A cold shiver ran down her spine. The man before her was handsome, but there was something deeply unsettling about him. His eyes seemed to pierce through her very soul.

"In his office on the third floor," she replied impulsively before adding hastily, "But he isn't accepting visitors right now! He's preparing for an auction!"

Silas gave a curt reply. "He will accept me."

The clerk opened her mouth to retort but found herself unable to speak. The intimidating aura that surrounded Silas left her momentarily paralyzed, her voice getting caught in her throat.

Without another word, Silas turned and made his way toward the stairs. He passed by groups of alchemists engrossed in their work—some manipulating elements within containment fields while others carefully measured out precise quantities of volatile substances.

Reaching the third floor, he approached an extravagant white door bearing the mark of a Guildmaster. The symbol gleamed in gold leaf against the pristine surface.

He raised his hand and pushed the door open firmly, awaiting Arim's reaction, fully aware of the fear that would grip the Guildmaster the moment he realized who had come calling.

Arim sat hunched over his desk, quill in hand, jotting down notes with a fervor. The door to his office burst open with a force that echoed the sound throughout the chamber. He snapped his quill in half, outraged at the intrusion, the ink splattering across the parchment.

“Who dares—” he began, his voice rising with indignation as his hand instinctively reached for an ampule of Necroclasm. He felt the cool glass against his fingers and readied himself to hurl it at the intruder.

“A fool courts death!” he yelled, turning to face the source of his ire. But as his eyes fell upon the figure in black striding toward him, his mind buzzed with static.

Arim’s bravado crumbled instantly. His legs began to tremble, and he fought to keep control over his bladder. Sweat poured down his face in a visible stream, matting his once-perfect hair to his forehead.

“Senior Ji!” Arim stammered, attempting a respectful bow despite the overwhelming fear that gripped him.

Silas continued his approach, eyes locked on Arim.

Just then, two guards appeared at the doorframe, their expressions resolute but uncertain. One of them stepped forward, addressing Arim directly. “Guildmaster, should we—”

Arim didn't let him finish. In a frantic motion, he threw the ampule of Necroclasm at their feet. The glass shattered upon impact, releasing a toxic cloud that sent them scrambling backward releasing wards to not get affected by the proximity of the dangerous potion.

“Get out!” Arim screamed at them. “And never show such disrespect to Senior Ji again!”

The guards retreated hurriedly, leaving Silas and Arim alone in the room.

Silas’s took another step forward, the distance between them now fully closed as Arim struggled to compose himself, wiping away his sweat with a shaking hand.

Silas now stood before Arim, the atmosphere between them was filled with unspoken threats. It was a familiar sight—fear, in all its raw and unfiltered glory.

“I haven’t come to oust you,” Silas said, his voice as raspy as a snake’s hiss.

Relief began to wash over Arim’s face, his shoulders sagging ever so slightly.

“But,” Silas continued, watching the brief hope evaporate from Arim’s eyes, “I know there’s a Bloodmoon Thorn within Rhysling. And you must know of it… I need it.”

He emphasized the word need.

Arim’s eyes darted nervously around the room. He swallowed hard, knowing that a lie would spell death and delaying his answer would mean suffering. “Yes!” he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. “It’s one of the items scheduled to appear at the auction in three days at the Starlight Bidders’ Hall.”

“Why would you need such a dangerous reagent though?” Arim asked cautiously but curiously before quickly physically shutting his mouth, realizing the potential consequences of prying too far.

Silas ignored the question, his mind already moving ahead. “Who has it now?”

Arim hesitated for a fraction of a second too long, but it was enough for Silas. In an instant, Silas’s hand shot out and clamped around Arim’s neck. He lifted him effortlessly, Arim’s feet dangled helplessly above the floor.

Arim’s face turned red as he struggled for breath. Silas watched him with an eerie calmness before tightening his grip slightly.

With a quick smile that seemed almost out of place on his panicked face, Arim choked out, “It’s... it’s Artificer Selen! She’s... she’s staying at the Magistrate’s castle as a guest!”

Silas loosened his grip just enough for Arim to breathe again but didn’t let go entirely. The information was useful—more than useful.

Silas closed his eyes for a moment, inhaling deeply. The scent of fear, mixed with the faint aroma of alchemical concoctions, filled his senses. He released Arim fully, letting him drop unceremoniously to the floor. As Arim gasped and coughed, Silas made his way to the seat Arim had occupied earlier, his face momentarily calmer, almost approachable.

Arim continued to cough, trying to regain his composure. His eyes flickered with a mixture of relief and terror as he looked up at Silas.

“Your late Master would be proud of your usefulness,” Silas remarked, his tone carrying a weight of meaningfulness.

Arim's face tightened as he recalled the haunting memory of that fateful night.

He had plunged the dagger into his Master’s back, right in front of Silas. It was Silas who had his named stained by another sin, saving Arim’s reputation but forever branding him with debt.

“Yes,” Arim finally managed, his voice still shaky. “He would have been.”

“Senior Ji…” Arim began, his voice still trembling, “are you... are you back?”

A low chuckle escaped Silas’s lips. “Back? You speak as if I ever left, rat.”

“But... you’ve been gone for almost a decade,” Arim stammered, the desperation clear in his eyes. “We all thought—”

“You thought wrong,” Silas interrupted, leaning forward with a predatory smile. “A decade is but a breath in the grand game of cultivation. Did you really believe I’d simply go out without a sound?”

Arim swallowed hard, his eyes darting to the floor as if seeking refuge from Silas’s gaze. “I just thought—”

“You thought I was a rotting corpse, hopefully mangled and eaten.” Silas continued, his voice cold and cutting. “Tell me, Arim, do you think a dragon ceases to be a dragon simply because it rests?”

“N-no, Senior Ji,” Arim whispered, his head bowed.

Silas rose from the chair and moved closer to Arim, each step like cannon blasts in Arims ears. “I have always been nearby,” he said softly, his tone laced with menace.

Arim nodded frantically, the sweat on his brow glistening under the light. Silas could see the man’s mind working furiously, trying to piece together the implications of his words.

Silas turned away from Arim and headed toward the window, looking out at Rhysling below. The city brimmed with life, oblivious to the power struggles within its walls.

“Now,” Silas said calmly, still gazing out the window, “tell me more about this Artificer Selen.”

Selen stood in the meeting hall of Castle Rhysling, surrounded by a cluster of defense golems.

Her silver hair radiant under the light as she meticulously adjusted the mechanisms within one golem’s chest cavity. Calloused hands moved with precision, making fine tweaks to the arcane runes etched into the metal.

"Your attention to detail is impressive as always, Master Selen," the Magistrate remarked, standing nearby with a bemused smile.

"Thank you, Lord Magistrate," Selen replied without looking up.

The Magistrate spoke. "I trust you’ve found everything you need for your work?"

"For now," Selen said, closing the panel on the golem and stepping back to observe its reactivation. "Though I could do with a few more toys. Always room for improvement."

The golem's eyes flickered to life, its mechanical joints whirring softly as it stood at attention. The Magistrate chuckled, his rotund form shaking slightly.

"Endless pursuit of perfection, eh?" he teased. "Rhysling is lucky to have you."

Selen turned to him with a small smile. "And it's why I want to stay here longer. I'm considering setting up a permanent shop."

The Magistrate raised an eyebrow in surprise and delight. "Really now? An Artificer of your skill would be a tremendous asset!"

"I'd need more funds though!" Selen said making a gesture rubbing two fingers together, "which is why I'm planning to sell a little reagent that will make the Alchemist moneybags cream their pants."

"A risky endeavor going to auction! You either get rich or incredibly rich!" the Magistrate mused, scratching his chin.

They both shared a chuckle as Selen moved onto the next golem, her hands deftly checking its components.

"You know," she said casually while working, "people say you have a massive stick rammed straight up your ass."

The Magistrate laughed heartily, his eyes twinkling with amusement. "Do they now? Well, someone has to keep this place running smoothly!"

"True enough," Selen agreed with a grin. "But it’s nice to see you are capable of jokes."

Then, as she finished her adjustments to the golem and looked directly at him, Selen's blue eyes shone with sincerity. "Rhysling has become something special because of your dedication Lord Magistrate! So screw the asses talking about your ass and the sticks going up it!" A smile on her face, and a wink in her eye.

He nodded in appreciation at the crude compliment. They continued their small talk.

Arim swallowed hard. "Selen... she's tall and imposing, with silver hair. Her eyes are a piercing blue, almost like they see within you."

Silas nodded, picturing the woman. "Personality?"

"She's confident, perhaps overly so," Arim continued.

Silas asked. “Does she move around the city?”

Arim hesitated before answering. “She tends to stay within Castle Rhysling most of the time now, working on her commissions. Occasionally, she ventures into the city for supplies or meetings with new clients in the Artificer's Guild.”

“And her abilities?” Silas asked, leaning forward slightly.

"She's an expert with condensed energy," Arim explained, his voice becoming slightly more steady now that he was on familiar ground. "Her craftsmanship is great—she's skilled at infusing magical properties into objects and maintaining complex magical structures for very reasonable prices.”

Silas's expression remained impassive as he listened.

“But compared to you senior Ji...” Arim's mind recalled the sheer power which Silas was known to command…power that still haunted him and anyone else that has ever crossed this volatile man's path. “Her skills are significant among ordinary practitioners but trivial when set against your... capabilities.”

“Good,” Silas said curtly, processing the information. “Is there anyone in Rhysling who might recognize me?”

Arim shook his head quickly. “No one of note should recognize you. Most of the current officials wouldn't know your exact face.”

A satisfied smile curled on Silas’s lips as he stood up from the chair.

Silas stood over Arim, his presence casting a long shadow. “I require the paper currency,” he said, his voice slicing through the tension. “And you will invite Selen to meet with me tonight. Tell her I am a client interested in her services under your guarantee.”

Arim’s eyes widened slightly, the implication sinking in. He managed a short prayer under his breath for Selen’s wellbeing before nodding quickly. “Yes, Senior Ji, I will arrange everything immediately.”

Silas’s gaze didn’t waver. “Ensure that the invitation is compelling.”

“I understand,” Arim replied, trying to steady his voice. “I’ll send my best messenger with the request. She will definitely come!”

“Good,” Silas said, his tone dismissive. “And make sure I have adequate room and board.”

Arim nodded vigorously, eager to comply. “I’ll see to it personally!”

Without another word, Silas turned and left Arim's office, leaving the Alchemist to scramble into action. As Silas descended the grand staircase of the Alchemists' Guild, Nyx flew down to perch on his shoulder, flapping his wings briefly before settling.

The scent of rare herbs and spices faded as Silas stepped out onto the bustling streets of Rhysling.

Arim wasted no time. He barked orders to a clerk nearby, instructing her to gather a substantial amount of cash and to prepare a messenger.

He then grabbed another alchemist by the arm, practically dragging him toward the door. “You,” he commanded, “arrange for a suite at The Merry Minstrel Lodge immediately and make sure it’s ready within the hour, then send word to the respected Senior that just left.”

The alchemist nodded quickly and darted off into the crowd.

Back in his office, Arim sat down heavily at his desk, sweat beading on his forehead as he drafted a letter to Selen. He chose each word carefully, ensuring it sounded genuine and urgent enough to pique her interest without raising suspicion.

With trembling hands, he sealed the letter with wax and handed it to a trusted messenger. “Deliver this to Artificer Selen at Castle Rhysling,” he instructed firmly.

The messenger bowed and departed swiftly.

Arim watched him go before slumping back in his chair. He closed his eyes briefly, muttering another prayer for Selen’s life before composing himself once more.

Silas moved through Rhysling's streets.

The city's pulse thrummed around him—vendors hawking their wares, children darting between legs, and the hum of conversations blending into a tapestry of mundane life.

He passed by a bakery where the scent of fresh bread mingled with the tang of street food. A burly blacksmith hammered at an anvil further down, sparks flying with each strike of his hammer.

Continuing his stroll, he slipped into the shadows of an alley, blending seamlessly with the dark. He listened to snippets of conversation—a young woman haggling over fabric prices, an old man recounting tales of past battles to an eager audience of children. Their words were inconsequential, yet they painted a vivid picture of the day to day here.

His mind wandered, as he listed certain ingredients to himself, pausing on the Bloodmoon Thorn that was now close.

Nyx slapped his wings over Silas's head as if sensing Silas's wandering mind.

They continued through Rhysling’s labyrinthine streets, observing but never truly partaking in anything until a messenger arrived to lead him towards the inn.