DEADALUS author of AETHERBORN
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CHAPTER 224
🕑 Added 2025-07-01 17:41:57 +0000 UTCThe sapphire door closed behind him with a soft click, sealing out the murmurs of Evermist’s lower district like a stone thrown into deep water.
The first thing Thorne noticed was the stillness.
No, not stillness, suspension.
As if time had slowed the moment he stepped inside.
Dust hung in the air in heavy motes, dancing lazily in beams of amber light that spilled from cracked lantern-crystals overhead. The scent of musty parchment and something faintly metallic coated the room, clinging to his tongue. Everything, everything, looked like it had been waiting here for too long.
The shelves lining the narrow shop walls were ancient, crooked, sagging under the weight of forgotten relics. Some were broken. Others chipped, half-unwrapped, or covered in layers of grime. Loose scrolls slumped between dusty jars, and cracked beakers leaned precariously in nests of yellowed paper.
It looked less like a shop and more like a ruin masquerading as one.
To his left, a long, scarred wooden counter stretched beneath a crooked archway, its surface scrawled with carvings from a hundred unknown hands. Behind it stood an elf, tall, deathly thin, his skin drawn and shallow, as if he was battling some deadly disease. His ears were long, severe, and his ash-blond hair hung in a braid over one shoulder, tied with a frayed cord.
Beside him, a dwarf was standing on a rickety stool, arms full of fragile-looking beakers. He shot a glance over his shoulder at Thorne, then quickly turned back to the shelf, working faster.
There were others in the room.
A woman, swathed entirely in coarse wrappings and a ragged, hole-ridden cloak, stood hunched in a corner flipping through a stack of grimoires. Only her eyes were visible, watchful, rimmed in red.
And in the center of the room two men, cloaked and hooded, wearing plain porcelain masks over their faces. They moved slowly, deliberately, standing before a glass case so covered in filth that one of them had taken to wiping the dust away with his sleeve.
Inside the case, a stick, gnarled and warped, with fungus-like knobs clustered along its length. It pulsed faintly with a sickly green sheen. The masked men were murmuring to each other in hushed tones.
Thorne’s steps were soft as he approached the counter.
But his eyes kept flicking back to the men.
Something about them...
He couldn't place it.
Their movements were too smooth. Too mirrored. One would nod and the other would nod a heartbeat later, almost synchronized. Their robes were clean, too clean for a place like this and while they made no move toward him, Thorne’s instincts, his trained, sharpened instincts were screaming at him.
Something about them was... wrong.
Very wrong.
The elf behind the counter didn’t acknowledge his approach. He simply kept scribbling in a ledger with a quill that dripped slow, purple ink.
The dwarf muttered something and hopped down from the stool, vanishing through a curtain in the back with a huff.
Thorne stepped up to the counter, eyes still flicking toward the masked men behind him.
He cleared his throat.
“I was told this place could help me get rid of some things,” he said, voice low.
The elf didn’t look up.
He continued scribbling in the ledger with meticulous precision, the purple ink glowing faintly as it dried across the parchment. For a moment, Thorne wondered if he’d even been heard.
Finally, the elf spoke, his tone flat and bored. “At the moment,” he said, “we are not looking for new acquisitions.”
He gestured with the end of his quill toward a nearby shelf stacked with filthy, mismatched jars. Some glowed faintly. One vibrated. Another seemed to be slowly growing moss on the inside of the glass.
“You are welcome to browse,” the elf added dryly, “if your interests lie in old curiosities and forgotten failures.”
Thorne didn’t move.
His eyes were on the two masked men again.
They had shifted positions, subtly. Quietly. Now they were both facing a blank canvas propped up on a crooked easel several feet closer to the counter. The glass case with the fungus-wand had been abandoned, as if discarded mid-thought.
The men were motionless.
Too motionless.
Thorne turned back to the elf. “Vellin sent me,” he said, trying to sound more certain than he felt.
The elf’s quill froze.
For a moment, he seemed to ponder something.
Then he blinked slowly, lazily and said, “I know no Vellin.”
Thorne stared at him.
Of course he doesn’t.
His jaw tightened.
So much for that.
He reached for his satchel anyway, unsure if he’d try to bluff a sale or just walk out, but before his fingers could graze the buckle, a sound snapped the silence.
Like a sigh.
Then a pop. Soft, almost polite. And then the whine of something building.
Thorne spun just in time to see the blank canvas, the one the masked men had been staring at begin to shimmer.
Not a canvas at all.
A mirror.
A spell-slicked pane of glass, masked in illusion.
The men moved.
Not fast. Not sudden. Flowing. Smooth and eerily in sync.
One raised his hand, holding a wand, and drew a symbol in the air, a glyph that hissed like steam and the other reached beneath his cloak.
They weren’t here to buy.
They were here to kill.
Thorne barely had time to shout.
The mirror pulsed and the air exploded.
The mirror-pulse cracked the silence like a whip.
One of the masked men moved his wand, plain and lacquered, ready to cast again, while the other pulled free a long, serrated blade, notched and cruel, shaped more like a butcher’s tool than a soldier’s weapon.
Thorne’s Veil Sense flared.
Level 43 for the wand-user.
Level 51 for the one with the blade.
The second one was the danger.
Before Thorne could move, a scream tore from the wrapped woman across the shop. Her staff clattered to the floor, then bounced up unnaturally into her hand. She raised it high and knocked it three times against the dirty stone.
Thud. Thud. THUD.
Green, sticky tendrils burst from the floor like vines and swallowed her whole, coiling in a protective cocoon of shimmering muck. Her shriek vanished with the last strand that sealed her inside.
The mage flung his wand forward, carving a sigil in the air. It shimmered midair, unfinished.
Too slow.
The elf behind the counter came alive.
The bored demeanor dropped like a mask. His arm whipped up, wand in hand, and with a flick, he unleashed a string of searing red bolts, like crackling aether-spikes. The first two missed, exploding into shelves behind the attackers. Dust, scrolls, and broken glass rained across the shop.
The mage staggered, shielding his eyes, and the bladesman surged forward.
Straight at Thorne.
He had no weapon.
No dagger. No blade. Just the wand.
His fingers tightened around it.
The Ashthorn.
It pulsed.
Alive. Awake.
Instinct took over.
Thorne snapped the wand forward like a whip, and something howled through the air. A blast of raw energy screamed from the wand’s tip, white-hot and blinding, no words, no incantation, just will and fury.
The mage panicked.
He swiped his wand across his body, trying to channel a ward.
The ward caught the blast, briefly.
Then buckled.
The force hurled the mage across the room, smashing him through a shelf in a storm of parchment and splinters. He collapsed in a heap, unmoving.
Everyone froze, just for a second.
Then...
The second masked man was on him.
The blade came in a wide arc, whistling through the air.
Thorne ducked, barely. The blade grazed the wall behind him, shaving stone like butter. He pivoted, bringing up the wand again but the attacker was too fast, too close.
A searing bolt of energy streaked across the room.
From the elf.
It struck the masked man square in the back.
But it didn’t pierce.
The man’s talisman flared red, a vibrating hum filling the room as the energy bolt was absorbed and deflected, ricocheting wildly.
It smashed into a shelf.
Boom.
Jars exploded. Bottles burst. A wave of luminous powder filled the air in a shimmering haze.
Thorne coughed, eyes burning.
The masked man came again.
Thorne twisted, raising his wand. The Ashthorn pulsed but before he could unleash another strike, the attacker lunged, blade stabbing low.
Thorne kicked the shelf behind him, knocking it into the man. Glass crashed between them, and the strike missed.
He jumped back, rolled over a fallen scroll case, came up behind the counter.
The elf shot again. The talisman flared again.
Thorne shouted, “Aim for the blade!”
The elf didn’t answer, but his next shot struck the man’s arm, the one holding the blade.
This time the talisman didn’t flare fast enough.
The energy bolt connected, and the man screamed, high and sharp. The weapon tumbled from his hand, clattering across the floor toward Thorne’s boots.
A groan rasped across the shop.
Thorne’s head snapped toward the pile of debris where the first masked man, the mage, had crashed earlier. The figure was stirring, limbs twitching in slow, jagged movements. Blood dripped from his mask.
He raised his wand again, shaky but functional, and pointed it at the elf behind the counter.
Before Thorne could react, a lash of aether exploded across the space.
The elf cried out, stumbling backward. His shoulder smoked, blood splattering against the shelves as he collapsed behind the counter with a curse.
The mage was already rising, aiming again.
Thorne moved.
He crossed the distance in three strides, silent, focused, lethal.
No spells. No warning.
Just the blade in his hand, curved and serrated, already hungry.
The mage turned toward him too slowly.
Thorne’s movement was fluid. He ducked beneath the second spell and drove the blade under the man’s ribs, up and in, fast and brutal. The masked man stiffened. A gasp escaped beneath the porcelain mask. Thorne twisted.
Then yanked it out.
The mage crumpled soundlessly.
Thorne didn’t linger.
He pivoted back toward the last man, the warrior, just in time for the final exchange.
He grabbed the blade by its grip, hot and slick with something and spun, the Ashthorn wand raised in one hand, the jagged weapon in the other.
The attacker faltered, and Thorne didn’t give him the chance to recover.
With a snarl, he slammed the wand’s power forward, this time controlled, a tighter pulse of force aimed directly at the man’s chest.
The blast lifted him off his feet.
He hit the far wall, cracked the plaster, and slumped down, motionless.
Silence.
Broken shelves. Shattered glass. Charred scrolls and flickering wards buzzing in the walls.
Thorne stood in the wreckage, chest heaving.
Behind him, the green cocoon hissed and peeled open, revealing the cloaked woman, her eyes wide with alarm, hands still wrapped tight around her staff.
The elf behind the counter finally lowered his wand.
He looked at Thorne, really looked at him and this time, he wasn’t bored.
He was intrigued.
“...Vellin sent you,” the elf said, voice soft and dry, “and you brought that wand into my shop?”
Thorne didn’t answer.
Not yet.
His heart was still racing.
And the Ashthorn was still warm in his hand.
The elf stepped out from behind the counter, gripping his shoulder with one hand, his robes singed and bloodied. He moved stiffly, wincing as he knelt beside the first of the bodies, the masked warrior.
He peeled back the hood, then the mask. The face beneath was unremarkable. Human. Early thirties. Already paling.
The elf stood, limped to the mage, and knelt again.
He turned the corpse over, then stared down at the broken wand still clutched in its fingers.
“Dead,” he murmured, disbelief thick in his voice. “They’re both dead.”
He looked at Thorne and the expression that met Thorne’s gaze was one of stunned incredulity, maybe even fear.
“You killed them.”
Thorne frowned, still holding the serrated blade, now slick with blood. “Yes,” he said coolly. “You’re welcome.”
The elf just stared. “You killed them,” he repeated, voice rising, thinner now, almost shrill.
Thorne’s brow twitched. What is wrong with this guy?
He had just saved his life.
“They were going to kill you,” Thorne said, flat.
“Maybe,” a new voice cut in, calm, dry, and gravelly.
Thorne turned.
The dwarf had returned from the back room, leaning casually in the doorway, arms folded over a barrel chest. His eyes were sharp beneath his heavy brow, studying Thorne with something close to appraisal.
“Humus had it coming,” the dwarf said, jerking his chin toward one of the corpses. “Third time this month someone’s tried to make a mess in here. That’ll send a message.”
The elf turned on him, aghast. “You’re joking.”
The dwarf didn’t blink. “No. You just never learned to shoot first.”
“But he killed them!”
“I heard you the first time.”
The elf surged upright, his wounded shoulder trembling. “We have to call the enforcers. Report the incident. This is a crime scene.”
Thorne’s fingers tightened on the blade.
He’s serious?
He took a small step forward, just enough to shift the balance of power, his posture loose, but every muscle primed. The space between them shrank like the air had thickened.
Already, his mind had moved into calculations.
Distance to wand.
One strike to the throat, one to the wand arm.
Silence him before he casts anything loud.
He didn’t even need to draw the Ashthorn.
The dwarf chuckled, low and knowing. “If I were you,” he said, tugging thoughtfully at his beard, “I’d be more careful what I said around that lad.”
The elf blinked.
Then looked down and realized Thorne had closed the gap without him noticing.
He yelped, stumbling back and raising his wand like it was a shield.
Thorne rolled his eyes. “Relax.”
The dwarf let out a sharp laugh. “You really aren’t afraid, are you?”
Thorne slid the blade back onto the nearest shelf, blood and all, and adjusted his cloak. “At you two?” He scoffed. “No.”
The dwarf grinned wide now, all crooked teeth and approval. “So. Vellin sent you?”
Thorne met his gaze. “He did.”
The dwarf scratched his chin. “Does he have any idea what kind of menace he just sent stomping into my shop?”
Thorne smirked and pulled the Ashthorn wand from his belt, spinning it once between his fingers before sliding it back into place.
“No,” he said simply.
The dwarf nodded. “Thought not.”
He jerked a thumb toward the curtained back room. “Come on. Let’s talk business before someone else tries to interrupt.”
The elf gaped. “What about the bodies?”
The dwarf waved a hand like he was brushing away a fly. “I’ll have Torren and Miv come by. They’ll clean it up.”
He turned toward the back but paused as Thorne spoke, voice even, casual.
“There’s an overgrown cistern beneath the old south canal, no foot traffic. A collapsing alley tunnel near the city’s edge that runs into abandoned stoneworks. And the deeper wells inside the unwarded garden quarter.”
He had already scouted those places during his trip with Elias. One couldn’t be too careful or prepared. Thankfully his earlier reconnaissance proved useful.
The words hung in the dusty air like the last note of a song no one wanted to admit they'd heard.
The elf’s mouth opened, then closed again.
The dwarf turned slowly. His grin was still there but it was tighter now. Stretched a little too far.
His eyes lingered on Thorne longer this time. Measured.
“You’ve done it before,” he said softly.
Thorne didn’t blink.
“Of course.”
The dwarf’s grin faltered.
Just for a second.
Then he cleared his throat, turned again, and gestured toward the curtain.
“Well then,” he said, voice lighter, but not as steady. “Come on. Let’s talk trade before this place starts stinking.”
Comments
Silver Beard
When did he pick up a blade?! Just the blade in his hand, curved and serrated, already hungry.
Prokopis Manolis
It's not easy getting out!
Tengerr
And back to the slum !
