Marches had not yet found the time to leaf through the healing spell books Ryffin had so lovingly picked out for him, thus leaving himself vulnerable to an anticlimactic death from tripping down the stairs or accidentally stabbing himself with a quill.

Neither had he the chance to taste a drop of wine for the last three weeks, not since seizing all the Dark Saints carriages and sending reinforcements across the border.

But most importantly, he had abandoned his bed-tea today for a greater cause.

That was a grave sacrifice he was willing to make, for it meant enjoying Ryffin's company.

Chalk screeched on rough stone, the runes coming alight on the surface for a moment before fading into the wall. Ritual chalks, it turned out, were not so bad after all, and certainly not narcotic, or else Ryffin would've been high out of his mind by now. They made the painstaking work of carving runes into stones far easier, and in the right hands, they could do wonders. Marches had half a mind to learn the rune letters once again, so that he could try out some Ancient Sorcery himself--if the lack of tea and the cool darkness of the tunnel did not lull him to sleep, first.

"Slightly to the right, if you please," said Ryffin, turning from the tunnel wall, correction glasses perched on his nose and chalk dust caught in his auburn hair.

"Yeah--? Right, sure." With an eye-watering yawn, Marches held up the green-glass lantern to illuminate the walls. "This good?"

Ryffin sighed. "Your right."

"I always am." Marches began nodding off again.

Ryffin put the chalk aside, and leaned close to hold the sorcerer's drooping face between his palms. He shook him gently. "El. On your feet, now. Wake up."

Other times, he would've been rendered speechless from the closeness, but now, the sleep-drunk Marches only smiled. "Haven't heard that nickname in years. They used to call me that back at the academy. Good old days, eh?"

Ryffin smiled, but it faded soon and he let go of him to sit down by his side. He took off the glasses. "Mhm. Depends on who you're asking."

Marches woke with a start, for the alchemist sounded so grim. Then realization hit him hard. Ryffin fiddled with the chalk piece in his hands, face painted in gloomy shades of green from the lantern.

And then, Marches finally braved the question he'd been meaning to ask, yet things kept coming one after another.

"Why... did you leave the academy?" he said.

Ryffin got to his feet quietly and got back to work. Marches followed him along with the lantern in silence. For the next few minutes, none uttered a word. Just when the sorcerer was sure Ryffin would never speak to him again in his life--the latter spoke.

"I didn't leave. That would imply I had a choice in that matter," he said. "I fled."

Here within the dark confines of the tunnel, lit by a single lamp, Ryffin told him the tale, one of a sorceress declared dead and her work stolen, and of an alchemist who discovered her work and the injustice done to her, and thus had to leave behind all he'd loved in order to save his life.

"The High Sorcerer did this?" Marches said in disbelief. "Well I never! I've handled matters of the academy before. Not the most fair place, I'd say--not unless you can please the right people. But I never thought the High Sorcerer could stoop so low as to try and kill his own apprentice."

"That's why you must step out there more. Issuing orders from within the luxury of the palace would achieve little in this corrupt city if you aren't out there to enforce them," said Ryffin. "And I mean this as no admonishment. It's a fact, one that has been proven right in King Forthwind's passive way of ruling."

Marches could now see why Lysandra relied much on her council of spies, rather than whatever the Royal Guard had to say about matters around the kingdom.

It was quite to his discredit that despite being the Royal Sorcerer, he'd had no idea why a researcher from the academy had vanished for years. He'd known the academy was an unfair place, but what had he done about it?

He squared his shoulders, standing upright. "I should do that, I think. It's high time I left my office to venture out into the city, maybe even beyond it."

Ryffin grinned, giving a mighty thump to his back. "I'd be happy to accompany you when you do. But one thing at a time. You must make the academy a better place, so no one should have to suffer like Avalyn did."

Marches knew of this sorceress all too well, because it was her works on necromancy Ryffin spent days and weeks poring over. It'd gotten so bad that he, then a young first-year madly in love (not a bit less than he was now), was afraid the alchemist was so enamoured by a dead sorceress, he was planning to bring her back by her own necromancy.

"So you believe Avalyn is alive?" he asked, trying not to sound too relieved.

Ryffin nodded as he finished another rune-letter. "Alive and the one behind those sorcerous monstrosities. I've spoken to Eliora about the autopsies, gathered first hand data from the soldiers who fought the first Vasaen, and another who showed up later. She has followed through all the principles stated in her work. And I refuse to believe someone like her would yield to a couple of hired killers."

Then he heaved a sigh. "But in the end it matters little. We still must fight the Vasaeni."

"Otherwise, the harmony between the realms would be disrupted," said Marches, the words coming to his lips on their own. "As stated in The Potion Brewer's Guide to Alchemical Theories."

Ryffin's eyes snapped up to meet his.

"The thirteenth volume. Fifth chapter-- if I'm not mistaken," Marches couldn't help but add, hoping it would negate the instances where he made a fool of himself in front of him. "I'm no great critic, but you got terribly sidelined from the actual subject in the last volume-- in the best way possible."

Ryffin stared at him, eyes wide. "You read my books?"

Marches was in utter disbelief. Of course he'd devoured every single word Ryffin Wellis had ever put down on paper. How could he not?

"Yes?" He said, almost offended. "All of them. Well-- not all of them, obviously-- you're still working on the fourteenth volume. Once this mess is over, I think you ought to consider teaching at the academy and revive the ancient arts once again."

He fumbled with his next words, because Ryffin watched him in a steady gaze, a strange smile on his lips. "And-- and--"

Marches didn't think he would even spell his own name right, not when this bewitching alchemist looked at him like that. The urge to run was strong again.

"You contradict yourself. You do not even allow the usage of harmless ritual chalks, you shudder at the thought of trading at Ebon street-- yet you've been reading tomes on forbidden necromancy?" Ryffin said, grinning, "why friend, you're downright scandalous!"

Marches huffed an air of mock arrogance. "Well, anything's fair for the pursuit of knowledge. Is it not what they teach us at the academy?"

"Oh yes," Ryffin said slowly. "But do you know what's more scandalous?"

Marches got no time to respond. Next thing he knew, his arms were pinned above his head and the wall pressed up against his back. The lantern clattered across the flagstones. Fingers grasped his jaw to raise his face, their grip roughened with chalk dust.

"Ryffin? What--" he gasped, knowing exactly what. The alchemist watched him in silence, as though waiting.

Up until this moment, he'd hardly noticed how large the Velan stood, towering over him, or how strong his grip could feel against his wrists. All he'd seen was a happy-go-lucky alchemist with an angelic smile-- not this man with sorcery in his veins and passion in his eyes. Yet here he was, pinned against the wall, throat parched dry and disorientation clouding his mind. Ryffin's magic had this effect upon him.

Or perhaps those chalks were narcotic after all. Ryffin leaned closer.

"Does your courage only go as far as sending anonymous gifts and poems?"
he said in a low voice, his accent becoming more pronounced.

"You... knew?" asked Marches, like the moron he was.

"All Midaelia knows by now. All those years at the academy, and you thought I wouldn't notice?" He rolled his eyes. "You aren't exactly what I'd call a...subtle fellow. I've deciphered enough tomes in my lifetime, Ellanher. And you are but an open book. Written in bold letters."

"Wait." Marches frowned, not knowing whether to be flattered or ashamed. "Are you perhaps calling me stupid?"

"At least you are clever enough to understand that."

Then followed a pause, in which his smile faded and he simply held his gaze, eyes a pair of gleaming emeralds in the low light. Much to his horror and delight, Ryffin now leaned in close to his ear, stubble grazing coarsely against the crook of his neck. Shivers ran down Marches' spine.

"Speak up now, spellcaster," Ryffin whispered in the Velan tongue, impatience seething in his voice. "How much longer would you keep me waiting?"

A great surge of bravery stole over Marches.

He didn't know who closed the gap, and he cared little. All that mattered was that he was kissing Ryffin Wellis, and it felt too good to stop even for a gasp of breath-- despite the taste of chalky grit smeared across his lips. Of all the breathtaking places he'd daydreamed of, he didn't think his first kiss would be in a hidden tunnel devised as a deadly trap, where the walls were lifeless stone and the cold floor beneath his feet was scarcely trodden. Yet it mattered not. Ryffin's curls came undone as he slid his hands into his hair, the band snapping and shooting off somewhere unimportant.

When he pulled away at last, Marches was breathless and quite heated, despite the damp chill of the tunnelway. His magic ran uncontrolled through his blood, head reeling. A new feeling of high took hold, unmatched by the strongest whiskey he could find in all Stormvale.

"Don't tell me," said Ryffin, panting as he looked at his dazed expression, "this was your first kiss?"

Before he could further mock him about his inexperience in the ridiculously tricky field of romance, Marches seized his collar and the second kiss, taking charge this time.

And he could have stolen the third. Two was hardly enough to quench the longing of so many years.

But as far as scandalous things go, footsteps clattered down the passage to interrupt what could have gone on for a bit more, had the sorcerer his chance.

Hissing a curse, he pulled away and collected the lantern from where it lay and lowered the wick. Darkness fell, except for the dim glow of the intruder's lamp, who was just around the corner. When he looked back, Ryffin had already gathered up the chalks and stowed them in his pocket, wiping unfinished runes off the wall in one, sweeping motion.

Marches' mind was clear at once. Had it been a month ago, he would have been baffled witless-- given what just took place, but his venture to Kinallen and back had since sharpened his instincts.

"This way." Boots off and gathered under one arm, he sprinted down the passage to where the wall had caved in, providing a cramped but safe nook to hide. Once inside, Ryffin cast a masking spell upon them both, concealing their magic.

Round the corner appeared Miveresk, Captain of the Royal Guard and his brother, Sir Troth in tow, arguing. A gleaming sabre was clutched in the hand of the former.

"You said they would be here!" Sir Troth yelled a whisper.

"Quiet!" said Miveresk. "Wizardfolk have their wily ways to stay hidden."

"Well, he is absolutely right," Ryffin said, before slipping a small vial into Marches' palm, filled with a bluish solution. "No time to explain. Drink."

Marches needed no explanation, as long as it was Ryffin offering him anything. But dread crawled in him soon as it went down and his arms began to disintegrate into thin air. They were still there, for he felt them, and the vial which he clutched seemed to float in mid air.

"Invisibility draughts?" he said as the rest of him dissolved into the darkness. "They can kill you, you know? The side effects-"

"So will they, if they catch us," Ryffin gestured to the men before he too drank the potion and vanished from sight.

Quietly, they slid further into the crack of the wall. Miveresk and Troth came closer, inspecting the walls and peering over their shoulders even at the slightest noise.

"And about the side-effects," whispered Ryffin, "I admit, you may have a bit of a headache. Concoctions as such are hard to perfect, but my formula is safe. Mostly. Worse case scenario: a few of your internal organs may end up missing."

"Pardon?"

"Hush!" Ryffin clamped an invisible hand over his mouth. "I swear they'll grow back after a month. Or two."

I take the kisses back! Marches had suddenly the urge to blow his cover and die by Miveresk's hand.

His wish, the Gods seemed to grant, because the very next moment, the Royal Guard rushed up, brandishing his sword right where Marches stood. "Here! I know I heard something!"

The sabre thrust into the wall with an ear-splitting clang, inches away from his face and Ryffin's left shoulder. Splintered rock and dust flew.

He waited with bated breath, for the potion only rendered them invisible, not intangible. Both were still very much corporeal.

"You'll only dull your blade, fool!" cried Troth, coming up behind Miveresk. "Use your lamp! See if they cast a shadow."

Yet in the splintered second it took to raise the light, Marches pulled Ryffin down to the floor, and crept across to drape themselves against the opposite wall. Firelight flooded the part they'd been leaning against moments ago, not a shadow to be seen. Cursing, the brothers continued their search further down the tunnel--away from the direction of Ryffin and Marches. Many a clangs and clatters sounded, walls were lit, but to avail.

"Let's turn back. We're done for today," said Ryffin once they'd passed.

"What if they come upon the runes you made?"

"Not likely. The completed runes become one with the walls, woven seamlessly into stone. I doubt they know the proper use of correction glasses."

Marches found himself saying the words he'd never thought he'd utter, for he was hardly the risk-taker. But he'd already drunk a potentially lethal potion, hadn't he?

"We must follow them," he said. "It'll help to see what they're here for."

A pause followed. Ryffin took his hand. "Very well. Lead the way."

They found the brothers crouching at the waterlogged end of the tunnel where it opened into a canal. The roar of Lockefell rushing its way into the lower districts muffled their footsteps.

"So they haven't started the enchantment, eh? Walls all bare," said Troth.

"Poor fools won't get to finish it, even if they have. I'll have my men stationed down here from tomorrow," Miveresk said. He went ahead to test the strength of the metal meshwork that covered the open end of the passageway. "I'll have this cut and removed once the siege ensues. Whatever vile stuff that alchemist has concocted won't stand a chance if Reylan's men barge in this way, through the cellars."

Troth rose from his crouch, and regarded his younger brother with a quizzical smile. "And why have you not told Alfred Henris of the location of this passage? It would only make sense, given he is the one tasked with the job of obtaining the palace layouts and sending them to the general." he said, "Would've made things simpler. Alfred could have conveyed it for you."

"Exactly. The layouts may raise the chances of Reylan's victory. But the knowledge of this secret way will ensure it." Miveresk smiled. "We'll be the ones to show him the way when he arrives. Why must Alfred be the only one to win his favour?"

Troth patted him on the shoulder, laughing. "We'll be kings, brother. With our very own provinces to rule."

A quarter hour after the brothers left, the effects of the potion began to wear off. A headache assailed Marches, from more than mere side effects.

Yet Ryffin appeared collected as ever, staring out at the city through the meshwork.

"How on earth can you be so calm about this all?" said Marches, positively displeased that his first ever attempt at romance had just been slaughtered. Treason was quite the mood-killer.

"We chose to devise this trap if the enemy found this entrance. This was supposed to be mere fortification," said Ryffin. "But now our dear Royal Guard captain is going to lead the enemy straight into it. Could we have asked for anything better?"

Marches sighed. "If we manage to complete the enchantment under the Royal Guard's surveillance, that is. Miveresk is gonna send his lads come the morrow."

"Simple solution. We complete the enchantment today. Before sundown. You'll have to abandon more than just bed-tea, I'm afraid."

Marches felt like his guts were indeed vanishing. "Really? And you think they'll just let it be when they come back and find the tunnel has turned into an abyss? They'll try to destroy the enchantment!"

"Such a pessimistic soul you have." Ryffin laughed and held up a finger. "A single rune-letter I will leave out, keeping the enchantment incomplete. The final piece of the puzzle, if you will. Without that, the enchantment will not take effect. The tunnel would appear plain and ordinary, as it is now."

Marches was alert at once. "And?"

"And the moment the palace is under attack, either one of us can slip in here and put down the last piece," he answered, snapping his fingers. "Lights out."

After all was said and done, Marches' blood pressure was sure to rise. He just knew it.

✦✧✦✧

Clickety click. Click. Click.

Boots struck the marble floor restlessly behind Alastair as Sergeant Linder paced to and fro, half-hidden from the sunlight that streamed in through the balcony. Sighing, he leaned against the rails, peering down at the Henris manor. This exorbitant inn two streets across provided quite a clear view of his home and thus served as a vantage point. The soldiers stationed afar were nowhere to be seen, but Alastair knew they were all there, only out of sight.

"Sweet Draedona, this tastes awful. A thousand gold for this sickening hogwash?" said Linder, groaning as he slammed down the carafe of wine on a side table.

Peasants, thought Alastair and continued to stare outside. Then he shook his head as though to clear the venomous thoughts.

So far, Linder failed to find a substitute for coffee, which had mysteriously vanished from where he kept them. And the way it disappeared was most strange. The thief hadn't taken it all at once, but little by little over the past few weeks--so meticulously that he hadn't noticed it at first. But the theft was hard to miss once the can was empty.

"Stop pretending as if the only thing hindering this operation is your lack of coffee, for Rhilio's sake. Ever tried smoking a pipe?" Alastair suggested.

"Not worth the coughing fit," he said, and slid into an armchair dejectedly. Things weren't going so well, the absence of caffeine the least of them.

The new medicines had reached Tassya, and a venture into Alfred's study had unearthed the last of the poison, stashed underneath the floorboards. That went straight to the City Watch as evidence, yet Linder had told them to hold for the right moment.

But the right moment was taking too long to arrive.

Alfred returned from the isles the day after Alastair paid Tassya that agonous visit, pleading to her to allow a last try at curing her ailment.

But Alfred never left home ever since.

Day after day since then, Helmer returned with the news that the fabricated layout plans up at the Royal Archives lay as they were. Alfred made absolutely no move.

Linder's squad from Brittlerock was beginning to grow impatient, weeks of simply laying in ambush and waiting for prey that might well be dead. But Alfred Henris was not dead, if his daily afternoon strolls in his garden were any indication.

It became so that even Linder began to doubt whether they were toiling over a false lead.

With a jingling of armour, Karles now entered, bow slung over his shoulder and quiver full. "Anything new?"

The annoyed silence of the men answered his question. He sat down with a grin. "Hey, at least this plan doesn't involve you nearly dying, Valerie. That's some progress."

"Why are you smiling?" Linder shot him a suspicious glare, cranky as he was these days.

"Am I not allowed to?"

"You're the one who hid my coffee, aren't you?"

Karles' smile vanished immediately. "Why on earth would I-"

Alastair was in dire need of some entertainment, and he seized this opportunity. He sniffed the air. "Right. I knew I caught a whiff of it soon as you entered the room."

"Drop your weapons, Karles. At once," said Linder and sprang to his feet, like an oversized crow about to charge with its talons. "I would have to search you."

"What?" Karles looked as though he'd been slapped across the face.

"You've nothing to fear if you are not guilty, my friend."

"You trust me to hire a killer for you, but not about some stupid coffee? I ain't got it. He's lying, that damned noble brat. Look how he snickers!"

Linder's smile was cruel as he closed in on him. "Only a fool would trust anyone in this wicked, twisted world."

Someone cleared their throat. "Sirs."

The three nearly jumped to find the small, hooded figure perched on the balcony railings. They were four storeys above ground.

Helmer looked between them, then smirked to himself. "Let him be, Sarge. He ain't the one who hid your coffee."

"Helm." Linder slowly turned to face him. "Do... you think this is funny?"

Alastair and Karles backed away.

"Noble, I'd say. You were becoming quite the addict. That's why I tapered the dose, to ease you off," the boy said. "I'm just following corporal's orders, you know? Said she'll bring me a new knife if I succeed."

“Of course she did.” Linder pinched the crook of his nose. "Bribing a child, now. Marvellous."

"She prefers the term positive reinforcement. Also, I'm not a child," said Helmer, and dropped down to the floor. "Will you keep on arguing or would you rather hear about your quarry?"

Alastair was done having fun. "Spit it out, then."

Helmer's eyes narrowed. "Alfred Henris is readying his carriage. About to leave his house, most likely," he said.

"And the plans in the Royal Archives?" asked Linder.

"Untouched, sir."

An unreadable expression crossed his face before he turned to Karles. "The room assigned to me in the Royal Guard barracks. Search under the mattress, and see if there are two copies there. Report to His Majesty first, then run back to me. I'm headed for the harbour."

"Were those the original plans?" wailed Karles in horror.

"Do as I say!" snapped Linder.

The clatter of carriage wheels sounded outside. Alfred's carriage sped past the inn and down the main street.

Linder set off out the door, collecting his claymore from where it lay against the mantelpiece. Alastair hurried after him.

"Bring my horse," said Linder to one of his soldiers when he stepped outside; then to two others: "close off the harbour. Get the rest of the mercenaries from the palace if you need, but move fast."

Alfred was already out of sight.

"You sure he's headed for the harbour?" Alastair asked Linder once they were on horseback, riding down the ramp from the upper district.

"You tell me. He is a merchant by trade. Now which would raise more suspicion: him meeting up with strange folk in an alley, or going to the riverside to see off one of his ships setting sail?" he said, eyes on the road.

All through the market square, Alastair rode in disbelief. How could this stranger know his brother better than he did?

That was, until the carriage took a turn and headed to the riverside port, south of the city.

Karles rushed to catch up with them, expression troubled. "Whatever you stowed in that room, is gone."

"As expected," said Linder. "Did you report to King Forthwind as I said?"

"Aye. I swear that had to be the first time he smiled that big." Then Karles leaned in to whisper-- yet Alastair heard nonetheless. "Come on, just what have you and the old man been cooking up?"

Linder said nothing, because like a certain obnoxious red-haired fool, he too loved to make a great show of things. What were the pretentious black armour and dark billowing cloak for, if not for a play? Alastair huffed.

When they led their mounts through the port gates in a canter, Alfred's carriage stood outside, showing no rush to leave. As ordered, the squad of Brittlerock had closed off all the entry points.

A detachment of coast guards from South Midaelia, recently stationed by the princess, joined in standing at the piers and barking commands to cease all activities. No ship was to leave the docks. The City Watch gathered above the bank, watching with interest.

Sailors and dockworkers fell into stunned silence as Linder and Karles waded through the frozen crowd. Alastair purposely stayed behind, for it had not taken him long to spot his brother.

He nocked an arrow on his bow, just in case. Yet his hands trembled all the same.

Linder's men would likely throw Alfred into the dungeon by the end of the day, and Alastair could go home again. Maybe Tassya would indeed recover by a miracle.

All was going to end well, he told himself.

Alfred Henris turned from where he stood at the quay. An embroidered cloak draped his shoulders, hands free and hanging loosely by his sides. He smiled, looking up at Linder.

"All this haste among the guards...is there a problem, sir? I wonder if smugglers from the Silver Knife are on the move again."

Without a word, Linder dismounted and strode to stand beside Alfred. The latter flinched, but seeing the looks of suspicion on the faces of the soldiers and guards, forced a look of calm. Deadly silence fell in the otherwise noisy part of the city, many pairs of eager eyes trained on the two.

The masts creaked and sails billowed in the rising wind. Ship bells swayed and tinkled. A fishy stench rode the air thick with anticipation.

Arms crossed, Linder stood gazing at the farther bank beyond the blue ripples of the Lockefell, as though he raised this chaos only so he could take a stroll in peace.

"You've quite the cunning, I'll give you that," he said. "You didn't go for the papers in the Royal Archives. A shame. I worked hard on those."

Alfred did not take his eyes off the ships. His trembling hands clenched into a fist. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Give in, Henris," he said calmly. "Those you stole from my room were forged as well."

Alfred paled as though he'd seen a ghost.

“I knew you would come after me, you and the Royal Guards,” said Linder. “That you would follow my every move, no matter how careful I may try to be. No place in the palace was safe from your prying eyes.”

He sighed, a sad smile on his face, dark hair flying in a breeze that swept off the surface of Lockefell. “But I knew one place you would never bother to search, Henris.”

The entire harbour listened, a strange trance descending about them.

“King Forthwind has the original plans in his possession.”

Even from a distance, Alastair heard his brother's breath catch.

“All these years, your Royal Guard pals have worked to render our king powerless. So when I stepped into this twisted game, your focus was on me, for you never thought he may have a part to play, too.” Linder turned, spreading his arms in mock appreciation.

“I applaud you, Alfred Henris. By delivering those forged plans to the enemy, you have done Midaelia a great service.”

✦✧✦✧

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