[The Alchemist’s Market — Western District]
The air in the Alchemist’s Market slum tasted of sulfur, burnt sugar, and dried blood. Beneath the shadow of the Green Spire, the district was a chaotic labyrinth of huddled stalls where vendors shouted prices for anaconda scales and illegal hallucinogens with equal fervor.
Clutching his official livery tight against his chest, Limon Haylos drifted through the crowd. He couldn't announce his identity here. In this place, a clean coat and a soft face were usually invitations for a mugging.
Adjusting his collar, Limon felt the fabric suddenly constrict. He muttered a curse directed at a certain prince sitting comfortably in a castle miles away.
At a stall displaying jars of brine containing things with far too many clouded eyes, he paused. Limon picked up a glass vial, feigning interest, though his gaze darted frantically through the crowd, searching for a tether. He bought nothing; he didn't even know what he was holding.
Aimless, he moved to the next stall, then the next.
Behind him, footsteps crunched on the gravel.
Limon found the presence persisting even after turning a corner past a vendor roasting skewered meat.
He glanced back. Carving a path through the crowd was a burly figure in the Tower’s green livery, an unblinking stare fixed on the aide. Limon felt the weight of it without turning.
He walked faster, ducking under a hanging tapestry of dried herbs. Lingerers were never good news in the imperial palace, and they were even worse in the slums. A shiver ran down his spine. "Curses," he murmured. "I should have prepared for this…"
Closing the distance almost instantly, the man stepped in front of Limon, blocking the narrow alleyway with a meaningful grin. “You look lost, little lord. If you’re looking for authentic tower products, this isn’t the place. You’re wandering far from the gate.”
Limon paused, his vision locked on the burly figure. The man’s hand rested on the pommel of his sword. Instinctively, Limon began touching the hilt of a small dagger in his chest pocket. 'If this is what it came to be...'
“Hold. He belongs to me.”
A beautiful, playful voice emerged from the shadows of a nearby awning.
Limon spun around.
From the gloom of a spice shop, a woman in layered cobalt robes stepped out. A silk veil completely covered her face, leaving only a piercing stare exposed, while the hood cast her features in mystery.
'Veiled Poison... This must be her.'
The guard stared at Limon, then at the woman, his jaw tightening.
"My... my love!" Limon’s voice cracked, then pitched up. Throwing his arms wide, he hoped he looked more like a lovestruck fool than a terrified diplomat. "I've found you!"
For a tense second, the outstretched arms hung in the air.
In a matter of moments, the man who had been lingering seamlessly blended back into the crowd.
Limon exhaled, only to flinch at the woman’s sudden closeness. She was mere feet away, tilted back to meet his face. With unsettling precision, a pair of piercing cyan eyes scanned his features.
"Limon Haylos, correct?" she asked, her voice losing its playfulness. "The aide of an… unusual Prince."
Limon swallowed, but this time his demeanor remained composed. "Yes. However, today it was I, My Lady, who sought your meeting. Didn’t you also wish to meet me?"
A playful glint danced in her eyes as she chuckled. “Come now, you made me wait so long. I almost thought you’d forgotten me.”
Turning, she let the cobalt robes swirl through the mud without seemingly touching a speck of dirt. "Follow me."
Limon followed, counting the exits. Three visible. One blocked by the guard. On the mercenaries' shoulders, he spotted the insignias—Black Iron, Red Sash. Men who would slit a diplomat's throat for a copper coin and laugh while doing it. He couldn’t help but wonder why his life couldn’t have remained simple.
The woman led him not to the Tower, but to a towering, crooked timber building at the edge of the market—The Black Mortar.
As they stepped inside, a cacophony of noise engulfed them. The ground floor was a riot of mercenaries and low-level alchemists. Amidst the clashing tankards and the thick gray haze of pipeweed smoke, the smell of roasting meat fought against the stench of sweat.
Limon dodged a dwarf reeking of coal dust and sour ale, keeping his eyes glued to the cobalt robes.
She gracefully approached a staircase in the back. A guard promptly stepped aside.
They ascended to the second floor.
Here, the noise dampened into a low, throbbing hum. The lighting shifted to a bruised purple hue. Sticking to the back of his throat, the air tasted of cloying perfume and stale sweat.
Limon refused to look toward the shadows, where soft moans and the clink of coins were the only sounds. He kept his vision fixed on the cobalt robes ahead.
A hand brushed his sleeve—a woman with painted petals on her skin—and he jerked away, clutching his collar. His attention snagged on the open alcoves where pale limbs tangled in the velvet dark. He swallowed hard, his breath catching in a dry, shallow hitch.
But the woman ahead didn't pause. She ascended another flight of narrow, creaking stairs.
The third floor was different.
Quiet reigned here.
Polished dark wood lined the floor. In the center of the room, the woman stopped. By the far wall, two watchers stood, their hands resting on chains.
She turned to him, her flowing red hair cascading down her shoulders. "Lord Limon," she said, her voice warm and amused, echoing slightly in the timber rafters. "I must admit, you’re quite witty."
He inclined his head once, keeping his eyes forward, feeling the weight of a dozen gazes prickling the back of his neck. "Is that so, My lady? I am undeserving of such praise."
"No need to be so humble, Lord. I’ve taken a liking to you." Folding her hands at her waist, she raised a finger to trace Limon's tunic underneath. "Otherwise, you wouldn’t be standing but crawling on the floor for the rest of your life."
Stiffening, Limon forced his mouth into a strained smile. "Is that so? That’s quite frightening, Lady."
“However, I am intrigued, Lord." The woman’s features sharpened. "What compelled you to come to such a district? A man of your station... doesn't quite fit this squalor.” She turned closer, her cyan gaze inches away.
“It’s because…” Limon placed a hand over his heart, his voice rising to a level that could be heard by the men in the nearby alcoves. “Ever since I laid my eyes on you, my lady, I couldn’t stop thinking about you. I believe I have fallen for you.”
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A ripple of interest spread through the den. In the corner, a scarred servant glanced up, while a watcher by the window shook his head.
Raising an eyebrow, the woman quipped, “Oh my… then I mustn’t disappoint you, my lord. Should I invite you to my bed instead?”
The servant, who had momentarily glanced up, now stared openly, a sliver of something gleaming beneath his clothes. Keeping his eyes fixed on the woman, Limon refused to acknowledge the glint of steel in the corner. “That might be an honor too great for a humble man like me.”
"What a pity." She tilted her head mirthfully. "I could ensure you never wish to leave this room again, my lord."
"If not your bed," he leaned forward slightly, lowering his voice just enough that the eavesdroppers would have to strain to hear, “can we at least have a bit more privacy? My weak heart shivers in fear among so many people around us."
She studied him for a long moment. Finally, she gestured to a private partition at the far end, separated by heavy velvet curtains. Inside, a small table sat lacquered black. Steam curled from the spout of a porcelain tea set already waiting there.
"Please allow me to offer you some tea, my lord. Do quench your thirst." She poured two cups. He observed her hands—steady and unwavering. When she slid one cup towards him, he rested his fingertips on the rim without lifting it. "Thank you, lady. You are too kind."
"Now, my lord," she said, settling into the plush leather seat across from him. "Since you have arrived at my threshold, let this woman with no name serve you with all my heart."
Limon raised an eyebrow. "We can't call the one nicknamed the Veiled Poison 'someone with no name,' now can we?"
The air stilled. Though her tone remained pleasant, the cyan eyes of the woman before him narrowed in an instant. "Aha... you flatter me, lord. However..." She pointed at the teacup in Limon's hand, filled and not yet tasted.
“The tea is getting cold, Lord Limon.” Those eyes stayed riveted to his grip. “Or would you prefer your water unboiled?”
He tapped the rim once, lightly. "Hardly, my lady. My stomach is notoriously weak... And my prince gets anxious if I carry strange aches from here and there."
"My, how tragic." She laughed—a soft sound. "You must be very precious to your prince."
"Undeservingly so, my lady." Limon finally raised the cup and tilted it. He took a short sip. "Now that I have honored your tea..." He paused. For a few heartbeats, no one spoke, the only sound the distant thump of music from the floors below.
Letting the silence settle, he leaned back slightly, hands folded in his lap. "...won't you accompany me, lady?"
As he uttered those words, Limon’s body began to sweat profusely beneath his clothes.
The woman surveyed his features, her posture motionless. "That's quite the demand you are making, lord. Does your prince perhaps also wish this lady's special service?"
Closing his lids, Limon felt goosebumps all over his arms. He cursed his liege once more in his mind, then whispered in a joking tone.
“You jest, my lady. You might be disappointed if you keep that expectation with him.”
Then, with added seriousness, he let his words flow. "However, he seems to hold you in high regard. If I fail to bring you, I might starve for a day or two to appease him." His tone softened. “So, for my sake, won’t you?”
The silence stretched. Outside the curtained booth, glass clinked. Lifting her cup, she took a slow sip, then set it down.
“How greedy,” she murmured. After a pause, her voice was cool. “At first I thought your prince was simply thorough. He sent his men to ask about poisons and check every tower in the capital. But he didn’t send you to every one, did he?”
She leaned closer, the silk of her robes rustling against the leather. "He sent you here. To this district, asking specifically for me." Resting her elbows on the table, she brought her veiled face closer to his. "Not Tower Master Torvenn. Not the tower council. Me."
"My prince," Limon said carefully, his voice level, "values competence."
“Competence… How astute!” She laughed again, but this time, it was sharp. “Not only is he aware of my secret nickname, but also…” She picked up Limon’s cup and sipped from it, right through the gap in her veil. “…that my poison neutralizes itself after a minute.”
Limon’s eyes widened as he stared at the cup, his heart pounding wildly in his chest.
She didn't wait for an answer. Pacing the small booth, she spoke as if he weren't there. "Your prince is—what, sixteen? seventeen? And somehow he knows what half the imperial court doesn't?"
Limon kept his lips sealed, absorbing every word she spoke. "Torvenn has held his position for twelve years. He signs the documents. He attends the council meetings. He receives the emperor's envoys. And I?"
She turned back to him, her voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. “To the Tower, I am a ghost. To the Tower Master, I am a regrettable inheritance. And to the city…” She gestured vaguely at the floor below. “I am a whisper. Why does a Prince chase whispers?”
Limon stood up from his seat. "My Lady, although I do not know the prince's exact purpose, I can tell you one thing. I was not told to bring the late Tower Master's daughter or Torvenn's so-called mistress." His chestnut eyes didn't shake, gazing straight into the woman's blue ones. “The one he wishes to meet is the ‘Veiled Poison.’”
The silence stretched.
"Alright," she replied, setting the porcelain down. "Kaelen, The Veiled Poison, will accompany you to your prince. But make sure to tell him that if he intends to play this game, he should know the board is larger than he thinks."
Limon bowed—shallow, precise, hiding the relief that washed over him. "I will convey your words exactly, my lady. Or you might choose to convey them yourself? His Highness wouldn’t mind hearing that from someone he’s invested in."
Kaelen pulled the veil back up, tucking it into place with quick, nimble fingers. "Indeed. This prince of yours is truly intriguing, Lord Limon. Should I apply for his consort position?"
His limbs stiffened.
From the side, Kaelen smirked audibly, observing the aide’s reaction. "Why the hesitation, my Lord? Do I not possess beauty enough to rival the court ladies?"
Limon swallowed hard, instinct taking over before his brain could catch up. "Ah... of course, your beauty is quite well known—"
The laugh died in his throat. He saw the shift in her eyes—the playfulness snapping shut like a steel trap.
"Well known, you say?" She watched him squirm for a moment longer before her demeanor shifted. The playfulness vanished, replaced by a razor-sharp focus.
"Lord Limon..." Kaelen said, her voice dropping as she stopped playing with her veil.
Limon straightened, sensing the shift in atmosphere. "Yes?"
“Does your Prince even recognize my appearance?” She fixed him with a piercing gaze.
Shaking the uneasiness in his heart, Limon straightened his posture, trying to recover his footing. “I can sense beyond the veil that my lady must be breathtaking.”
“Is that so? You have a silver tongue, Lord Limon. Let us hope it doesn't turn black before the night ends."
She moved toward the curtained exit, and he followed, stepping aside to let her pass. As they stepped out of the tavern—passing the frantic pleasure of the second floor and the drunken roar of the first—she cast a sidelong glance.
"I mean it as a compliment. It takes a rare sort of loyalty to carry a message you don't fully understand and make it sound like absolute certainty."
“Thank you, Lady. That’s a very kind compliment.” Limon maintained a calm and composed demeanor, though he nearly tripped over a drunkard on the threshold.
Outside, the market air felt cooler, though no cleaner. A carriage waited in the mud, the horses stamping impatiently against the slush. Limon walked ahead, opened the door, then extended his hand in a gentlemanly posture. "Allow me, my lady."
Pausing at the step, Kaelen looked back at the towering silhouette of the Green Spire against the night sky one last time. Then, taking Limon's outstretched hand, she stepped up into the carriage. Limon followed, signaling the driver.
As the door closed, shutting out the city noise, and the carriage lurched forward, she leaned back against the plush velvet cushions. The interior was dim, lit only by the passing streetlamps through the curtains.
“So, you say I must be quite the beauty? Should I let you discover this time?” Before Limon could respond, she gracefully lowered the fabric of her veil with a fluid motion.
Limon froze.
The silk slid down.
There were no scars or burns. Her face, a weapon of porcelain and sharp angles, was flawless and cold. The beauty wasn’t soft; it was lethal—an allure she had deliberately concealed. And now, as she revealed it, she smiled, a smile with edges.
He remained silent, unable to speak. The heat crept up his neck, a damning flush against his pale collar. He forced his eyes to a neutral point over her shoulder, but the image was already burned into his mind.
“Tell me, Lord Limon,” she smiled brightly. “Does this face suit your prince?”
Maintaining a neutral expression, he rested his hands firmly on his knees. “It’s difficult to say, my lady. His Highness has... exceptionally high standards.”
“Oh…” She smiled and settled into the corner of the carriage. “I eagerly anticipate learning about those standards.”
'Hells,' Limon cursed internally, feeling the heat linger on his face. 'I am utterly out of my depth.'
[Emerald Castle, Prince Alden's Bedchamber]
With a click, the heavy door severed the noise of the castle. The curtains were drawn low.
Alden didn’t pause. Swiftly, he moved to the bedside table and slid the top drawer open.
It was there.
The Ichor.
In the dim light, the central stone emitted a faint, rhythmic crimson glow against the velvet lining. Its platinum chain pooled like liquid mercury.
Brushing his fingers against the cold metal, he whispered, “Too close.”
He lifted the crimson pendant and fastened it around his neck, tucking the stone beneath his tunic’s high collar.
The change was instant. The shadows in his irises dissolved like ink in water. The light from the window, which had been swallowed by his gaze a moment before, suddenly found a reflection.
He drew a small knife and sliced his fingertip. A bead of red welled up. He watched it, waiting.
The skin didn’t knit, and the wound remained visible.
Blood dripped onto the floor.
Alden let out a shuddering breath, his shoulders sagging as the tension melted away. He closed his eyes, listening to his racing heartbeat gradually slow down.
He turned and walked out.
