Chapter 18
Orange lamplight flooded the back room of The Gilded Mortar as the buzz of the night market crowd seeped in through the pipes. The shop had closed early, and the young employee, an irritatingly talkative man hired a few months prior, was sent on his way.
There were important matters to tend to. Strict deadlines to meet. And Ashcroft was already running behind.
The room was in a state of disarray—empty bottles placed haphazardly on cluttered countertops, blood-stained towels strewn across tables. An uncommon state for his businesses. But again, deadlines. Constraints. It would be unwise to anger this particular client.
A single wooden operating table sat in the centre of the room, surrounded by grimy sawdust to catch any runoff while he worked. Had the table been empty, the layers of blood would’ve been visible, the wood stained from months of use.
But it was not empty.
He grabbed his apron from a hook on the wall and folded it neatly across his arm like a server’s cloth, then swiftly crossed the room. The movement stirred the flames inside the lamps, sending the elongated shadows dancing gently across the girl’s face.
She was a wielder, of course. Younger than most who found themselves here. Her smooth, youthful skin was ashen and grey, like death, though the mercy of death had not yet been granted.
Other matters had called him away before he finished, so the girl had been strapped to that table for too long.
Yesterday, she’d fought back the panic, pretended, rather believably, that she wasn’t afraid. But now, fear was not so easily defeated. Her hair clung to her sweaty forehead and damp cheeks. Her breathing hitched as her head tilted toward the sound of his footsteps.
Aine was a sweet girl, pleasant and quiet. She had no family, but her disappearance would not go unnoticed. She was friends with some at Hatha House, and like many who had occupied this table before her, she had ties to the impudent rebels infesting Fallowmoor’s slums.
But Aine’s magic was in high demand by his client and the nobility alike.
She was a shifter—a fortune in a small package.
So sought after was this magic that it never even made it to his shopfronts, the preening peacocks desperate to make themselves beautiful and his client thrilled over the possibilities it offered.
The last shifter elixirs sold for more caern per bottle than all of his businesses made in a week.
The trouble was, shifters were hard to spot. They could alter everything. Even their eyes.
How do you pick out a wielder if their eyes hold no rings?
Luck, he thought proudly, slipping on the stained apron and tying it with steady fingers. Good luck for him, bad luck for her.
The girl was always going to end up here, though. They all would eventually.
A wielder’s heart yielded only four elixirs. With half his stock claimed by the Ministry of Arcane Compliance—an offer he literally could not refuse—and demand rising, he’d been forced to take wielders wherever he could.
It was a pity that the blood couldn’t be used.
It would regenerate over time. Magic originated in the hearts.
It flowed through the veins, sure, yet the blood itself lacked the potency to transfer that power.
He had tried. Thoroughly. Not out of guilt over the deaths.
His work was no different from a ratcatcher thinning vermin—though the pay was far better.
Reducing their numbers served not only humanity, but Baellas as well.
Still, an inexhaustible resource would have been better for business.
“Please,” the girl begged as she tugged at the straps. “Let me go.”
Ashcroft slipped to the back edge of the room and lit the incinerator, the flame igniting with a satisfying whoosh.
Returning to the table, he pulled on his leather gloves and exhaled contentedly. He preferred this branch of his work over the rest. It was far more fulfilling.
His specialty had always been enhanced items. He’d spent his life studying glyphs, using them to transform ordinary objects into something exceptional. It was how he’d made his fortune, built up his name again after it had been dragged through the mud.
But he had always been drawn to the intricate art of surgery.
The science of the human body. That fascination led him to Baellas, Goddess of Life, whose theology captivated him.
After all, it was Baellas who created humanity, from the elaborate nervous system to the delicate skin.
It was a thing of beauty. A masterpiece.
Then Baellas’ envious sister, Arunas, forged her own creations. The creatures resembled humans, but each was a corruption in her own image. Twisted imitations with foulness coursing through their veins.
Trucagh. Wielders.
By infecting these creations with her magic, Arunas gave them an unfair advantage. Made them dangerous. Their existence was a threat to everything Baellas had created.
It is said that Baellas asked Daeban, Goddess of Death, to kill her sister as punishment, hoping that with her gone, these wielders would cease to exist. But they remained, a stain on humanity itself.
Of course, Ashcroft had his own reasons to despise the trucagh.
His father had always been a respectable man.
He was the warden of Fallowmoor Prison and a prominent member of the ministry.
But he harbored a far less respectable taste for wielder women, and had an endless, rotating supply.
He made the mistake of underestimating the danger their kind posed.
One arrest, one missed classification. A windwielder with a short prison sentence.
Harmless with her hands bound. Or so they thought.
He showed his interest in her, and the dual-wielder forced her will on him.
Marched him out of the prison, compelled him to confess publicly to everything he’d done to those women.
Then she ordered him to end his own life.
He left behind a widow who couldn’t endure the loss of status, two young teenage daughters who, after their mother ended her life, married whoever would take them, and a son who found solace in his hobbies and in the teachings of Baellas.
He survived on the caern earned through petty crime until he could restore the family name that had been stolen from him.
Dealing with the threat. That was what had driven him to create the elixir. But it satisfied an itch that none of his other dealings scratched. And it was an easy creation, really. This elixir worked on the same principle as the glyphs—taking something simple and shaping it into something greater.
The Ministry of Arcane Compliance had recognized his potential, and while he disliked the idea of working with them, he couldn’t deny the appeal of the extra money.
His businesses were thriving in both Fallowmoor and Bedwyck, and this ensured the continued production of his elixir.
Plus, it was good for business when the City Watch had orders to turn a blind eye to the technical illegality of certain sales.
He slid the rolling cart closer to the operating table, taking in the state of the room again. It truly was unacceptable. He’d need to hire someone to help with the upkeep.
At least his workstation was organized. He’d had it ready since yesterday. His process was an art perfected over time. Every step was done just so, and each tool had a purpose.
He picked up the trephine, studying the dull edges. Perhaps he should send Liam to purchase a new one tomorrow. There was plenty of funding now.
The girl’s breath quickened, the small locket rising and falling with the movements of her chest.
“Why are you doing this, Ciaran?” she asked, her voice trembling.
It wasn’t the first time one had asked him this.
He usually ignored it, but sometimes, if he was in the mood for it, he’d answer, recounting the tale of his goddess, and his father’s story, which deserved to be told.
When it was relevant, he’d mention the resistance and the threat they posed to his income.
He checked his pocket watch, then offered the girl a small smile.
There was still some time before he was to meet with his client, and there were experiments to be done before he removed her heart—he’d never waste the opportunity for research.
So, he’d gladly explain what it was she was dying for while he worked.
The girl’s strength was a stubborn thing, refusing to yield even under the relentless assault of tests and procedures. Her heart was still beating, pumping corrupted blood through her veins, the pulsation of her carotid artery faintly visible beneath the soft skin of her neck.
Her eyelids drooped loosely over hollow eye sockets. He had just finished the corneal examinations, meticulously dissecting each one. He’d also conducted analyses of small bone tissue samples. But he’d found nothing new. No information he didn’t already know.
Ashcroft removed a glove to check his pocket watch again. He was nearly out of time.
He breathed a weary sigh. What was it that made them different?
Wielders possessed the same physiological characteristics as ordinary humans, and that irritating fact wore at his patience.
Why could wielder bodies handle this substance that pumped through their veins while ordinary bodies had such adverse reactions?
How could he make his elixir more stable?
Frustrated, he gathered the remnants of his research and added them to the incinerator before closing the door and slamming the latch back into place.
“You don’t have to do this,” Aine whispered, her voice a dry, rasping plea.
His grip tightened on the latch, and he stared silently at the flames through the small window. He had already explained to the girl why he did, in fact, have to do this.
Aine was clever, but she didn’t seem to comprehend. They never did.
He crossed back to the operating table, then lifted the thin necklace over the girl’s head and set it neatly on the table. It was a cheap locket. Worthless. But he’d rather not have to dig it from the incinerator.
From the rolling cart, he grabbed the scalpel, ensuring a steady hand before its edge touched her skin. The blade sliced a swift path down her chest, and blood bloomed from the line.
A soft whimper escaped her lips, but the fight had finally drained away.
He could end their lives before removing the heart.
It wouldn’t affect the elixir to grant them this mercy.
But there was an anger inside him, a sharp yet quiet kind of resentment, and he allowed himself this one small indulgence.
He let them feel every bit of pain as their lives slipped away. He enjoyed seeing it on their faces.
For Baellas and her exquisite creations, and for every human killed by Arunas’ foul imitations. For his father. For the life he could have had if his family hadn’t been torn apart.
He placed the scalpel on the table, and after peeling the skin and muscle aside for a clear view of her ribcage, he grabbed the surgical saw and cut through the sternum.
It was a tiresome procedure done only to prevent damage to the heart.
Once through, he lifted the ribcage open like a door on a hinge.
The girl had gone silent, but her heart still beat steadily in her chest cavity.
Ashcroft moved quickly, severing the blood vessels and watching as the heart stopped beating.
The elixir was the real reason he was here, and now that the heart was free, it was time to finish this.