Duskwatch breathed heavy under the weight of late morning traffic. Allen, however, moved against the tide, head low, steps deliberate. The chaos of the Gloompine was behind him-but ahead, the hunt that mattered loomed larger.
He returned to his rented room at the Winking Wyrm. The door closed behind him with a tired creak, shutting out the noise of a waking city. Dust motes hung in the air, caught in narrow beams of sunlight. His gear thudded softly as he set it down, then crossed to the satchel tucked behind the bedpost.
He drew forth one of the tomes Shardu had entrusted him with. The spine crackled as he opened it.
"Paralytics: A Treatise on Stasis and Stillness."
The illustrations were clean. Diagrams of nerve clusters. Charts of swamp flora. Precise instructions. His fingers traced the inked lines of the recipe-mirthleaf, pitchroot, powdered viper bladder, a touch of distilled gall. Applied by dart or coated blade, the mixture was designed not to kill, but to seize.
"Induce silence. Invite surrender."
Allen memorized it.
He tucked the book away and stepped out into the city once more. Duskwatch's alleys bent in sharp angles, and the sun was a pale eye overhead, watching.
First, he sought the herbalists near the mid-tier districts. A bent-backed old woman in a stall of wilted plants provided the mirthleaf. The pitchroot came from a trader who spoke with an accent Allen couldn't place. The viper bladder… that took coin, and a smile he didn't feel like offering.
With his haul wrapped and secured in a pouch, Allen made his way downhill toward the lower docks. Here the air smelled of salt and fish guts, brine and blood. Men shouted, nets clattered, and seagulls shrieked like broken flutes.
He found what he was looking for behind a fishing shed: harpoons. Weighted, barbed, and strung with rope. He ran his fingers along the shaft of one, testing its weight.
"This'll hold a drake's wing. Maybe two," he muttered to himself.
He bought three. One for each shot, one just in case.
By midday, Allen returned to his room, the pouch of ingredients unrolled onto the desk. The preparation was delicate—he worked with mortar and flask, heat and blade.
Trial One.
The mixture hissed, but the pitchroot curdled too quickly. The glass flashed with heat and spat fumes.
Fshhhhk!
The concoction exploded in his face. Allen stumbled back, cursing, wiping a stinging trail from his cheek. He opened the window, coughing. The smell was like rotting flowers dipped in vinegar.
He tried again. Slower this time. He ground the bladder finer. He let the mirthleaf steep longer in the gall.
Trial Two.
A failure, the concoction was almost ready, almost, then it unexpectedly blew up in his face.
He was stuck there paralysed, for a few hours before it wore off, quite effective.
Frustration was now kicking in, at the back of his mind.
One more trial
Trial three:
The liquid turned amber. Thick. Stable.
Success.
He filled three vials, enough for dartwork. Another to coat one blade. They shimmered faintly in the lamplight- quiet promise in a bottle.
****
By evening, the city's warmth was fading, and Allen returned to Ortolan's forge. The dwarf greeted him with a grunt and wordlessly handed him the cloak.
It was pristine now. The rents had been stitched clean, reinforced with a hidden inner lining. Fresh oil had been applied to waterproof it. The fabric now gleamed darkly in the light like rain-slick stone.
Allen gave a small nod of thanks.
He slipped it on, fastened the clasp, and stepped back into Duskwatch's winding alleys.
One last test.
He took the road out toward the edges of the Eastern Commons, where the city's grip on nature began to loosen. He spotted a lone wolf-old, maybe starving- sniffing at a discarded bone near a crumbled shrine.
Allen crouched low in the tall grass, loaded a dart, and flung it.
Thwick.
The wolf yelped, staggered. It tried to snarl, tried to move- but the paralysis came fast. Its limbs locked. It fell, breathing heavy, eyes wide in fear.
Allen approached.
"Like taking candy from a baby," he muttered.
A single stroke ended the creature. He left the carcass for scavengers.
Night was close now, and the air had cooled.
Back in the room, Allen stripped off his cloak, sat cross-legged on the floor, and lit a single candle. Before him lay a circle drawn in ash- carefully etched, an old symbol he half-remembered from Shardu's murmured lessons.
He placed his hands to the floor. Breathed.
Closed his eyes.
The call of the arcana was faint—but present. Like wind beneath stone. His mind reached… and met resistance. His blood stirred with the remnants of ritual, but the current wouldn't flow.
He growled under his breath. Focus.
The door creaked.
Irvin stepped in, pausing as he saw the scene- the ash circle, the posture, the concentration.
"Trying to touch the weave?"
Allen opened one eye. "Trying."
Irvin closed the door behind him, arms crossed. "New blades look good. Clean. Dangerous. And you—different."
"Still me."
"Sure." Irvin stepped closer, sat opposite. "Alright, try again. You're thinking about the feeling. Don't. Just let it pass through."
Allen exhaled slowly. "Shardu said—"
"Shardu's a genius and a maniac. Watch."
Irvin closed his eyes, muttered something under his breath. A soft glow ignited in his palms- faint, smoky blue. It circled once around him, then extended… toward Allen.
The moment it touched his chest, Allen gasped. It wasn't pain. It was presence.
Suddenly, he felt it. Like stepping into a slow-moving current.
Euphoria struck him—not violent, not loud, but pure.
Warmth spread through his limbs, a tingling heat. His pulse aligned with something deeper, older. His body remained still, but within, something shifted. He felt… more.
Irvin smiled faintly. "There you go."
Allen opened his eyes. "I felt it."
"Good. That's a start."
Allen inhaled sharply. The room felt clearer. The air… lighter. He flexed his fingers and they felt sharper somehow. More capable.
"I can feel the difference already."
Irvin stood. "Don't push it. That euphoria wears off. It could be detrimental to you growth."
Allen nodded, rising to his feet. He stretched, body taut, balanced.
He placed the vials back into his pouch, adjusted his scabbards, checked the straps on the cloak.
Everything in order.
Everything ready.
He sat at the edge of the bed, sharpening one of the shortswords with rhythmic patience.
Outside, the wind had picked up again.
The hunt waited.
Irvin turned toward the window, then moved quietly across the room. He grabbed his coat and slipped out the door with practiced silence.
Allen watched him go—no comment, no questions. Just the flicker of knowing in his eyes.
He finished sharpening the blade.
And slept with his back to the wall.