The air in Varkas's basement felt thinner than usual. Alaric paced the small room like a caged animal, the cold-iron chain on his arm glowing with a faint, angry heat. The brief encounter with Elara had stirred something in his blood that even Evelyn's magic couldn't suppress: a sense of impending doom.
"You were careless," Evelyn said, her voice sharp as she ground a glowing purple crystal into a fine powder. "If Elara speaks to Sir Gareth, this city will be locked down within the hour. We aren't ready for a full-scale confrontation with the Silver Rose."
"I didn't seek her out, Evelyn," Alaric growled, his voice vibrating with draconic resonance. "She recognized me. You can't stitch away the way a man walks or the way he breathes."
"No, but I can stitch a mask onto your soul," she retorted, stepping toward him. "Hold still. The limiter needs to be reinforced. Your adrenaline is starting to melt the iron."
As Evelyn began to chant, weaving threads of mana around his arm, a loud thud echoed from the street level above. The sound of Varkas's shop door being kicked open was followed by the heavy, rhythmic clanking of plate armor.
"Varkas!" a voice boomed—a voice Alaric knew well. It was Brother Thomas, a young but fanatical member of the Inquisition who served under Gareth. "We are looking for a man in a tattered cloak. Tall, broad-shouldered, and accompanied by a woman. A witness says he looks like a dead saint."
Alaric reached for his training sword, but Evelyn grabbed his hand, her eyes wide with warning. "If you fight them here, you expose everything. The mana-sensors in their armor will pick up your dragon-core the moment you draw blood."
"Then what do you suggest?" Alaric whispered, his golden pupils narrowing to slits.
"The ventilation shafts," Varkas's voice came through a copper speaking tube in the wall. "Go now! I'll stall them. Tell the boy I'm just an old man with a bad leg and a worse memory."
Alaric didn't hesitate. He grabbed Evelyn by the waist and leaped toward the ceiling, his enhanced strength allowing him to grip the iron rafters with ease. They crawled into the narrow, soot-filled vents just as the basement door was smashed open.
Through the gaps in the metal floor, Alaric watched as Thomas and two other soldiers began tossing the laboratory. They moved with a clinical, cold efficiency.
"Nothing but scrap and alchemy dust, sir," one soldier reported.
Thomas picked up a stray piece of silver thread—one of Evelyn's discarded surgical sutures. He held it up to the light, his eyes narrowing. "This isn't just alchemy. This is heretical craft. He was here."
Alaric felt the dragon's rage bubbling in his throat—a cold, icy pressure that wanted to erupt in a blast of frost. He forced himself to go still, his heart rate slowing as he exerted every ounce of his will to remain hidden. For the first time, he realized that his greatest enemy wasn't the Church's steel, but the secret he carried inside his own chest.