3B. Rylek's Folly

The streets of Blackveil were unusually quiet this morning, but quiet did not mean empty.

Dark-cloaked figures moved in and out of the mist, their footsteps softened by the damp cobblestones. Merchants whispered transactions at shadowed stalls, exchanging glances as much as coin. The architecture loomed overhead—twisting iron balconies, narrow alleys barely wide enough for a man to squeeze through, and bridges connecting upper floors like tangled veins. Here and there, enchanted lanterns with everburning flames flickered uneasily.

High above, the Critic circled, its keen eyes scanning the city from the skies. No immediate danger. No obvious pursuers. But...

Zix’s pace slowed slightly as he spotted something down the road ahead. A gathering. No—a blockade.

The street he had intended to take was partially blocked by a cluster of people—a mix of rough-looking men and a few hooded individuals standing near a broken-down wagon. The cart’s wheel lay shattered beside it, and crates of alchemical supplies were scattered across the street, some leaking faintly glowing liquids onto the stones.

Two individuals were arguing—a lanky man with a scorched leather apron, and a broad-shouldered enforcer with a jagged scar across his chin. The latter’s hand rested idly on the pommel of a short sword.

"…Told you already," the enforcer was saying, voice thick with impatience. "This street is closed for now. You want to take it up with the Council? Be my guest."

The alchemist—probably the cart’s owner—huffed. "I paid for safe passage this morning! Your ‘tolls’ are getting worse by the week. This isn’t regulation—this is theft."

A quiet murmur spread through the onlookers. The enforcer didn’t seem impressed. His hand tightened on his sword.

A complication, Zix thought. The road was technically still passable, but squeezing through would draw eyes.

He had options, though. Turn back and find a new path? Pause and watch how this unfolded? Or, maybe, lean into the role, walk forward with confidence, and see whether this ‘toll’ extended to a very different Rylek than the one who had entered Blackveil last? There were other options, as well...

Zix didn’t slow, didn’t turn, didn’t glance toward the blockade again. His stride remained smooth and confident, his gaze forward, unbothered. He looked every bit like someone with better things to do than waste time in yet another of Blackveil’s petty street disputes.

He let the tension bleed from his shoulders as he turned down a side alley flanked by shuttered buildings and half-wilted spell-lanterns. The air here was thick with brine and mildew—the docks weren’t far. He didn’t need to ask directions. The Critic was above, silent and sharp-eyed, tracing rooftops and chimneys, scanning for threats, paths, shortcuts.

It took time. A few blocks wound longer than expected, and twice he had to cut through twisting backstreets where the mist clung to walls like peeling paint. Once, a feral cat with arcane glyphs scorched into its fur hissed at him from a rooftop. Zix met its eyes, said nothing, and walked on.

But eventually, the street opened—narrow, slanted toward the sea, the distant clatter of ships and gulls echoing through the stones. Here, near the eastern docks, the buildings were closer together, their windows shuttered tight, signs of trade not openly declared.

And there it was: The Thorn & Tallow.

The sign hung low and crooked above the doorway, painted with an image of a candle wrapped in a crown of thorns. The paint was chipped, the wood blackened by age and sea air. Its windows were dark, its threshold worn by thousands of cautious boots.

A seedy place, sure—but not reckless. The kind of establishment where coin buys silence, and regulars know when to mind their own business. Not too dangerous, as long as you didn’t give anyone a reason to care.

Zix adjusted his coat slightly, made sure the hint of Rylek’s presence still simmered in his posture, then stepped into the shadow of the doorway. The real game was about to begin.

---

The door creaked as Zix pushed it open, just enough to announce his presence without drawing undue attention. The interior of The Thorn & Tallow was dim, lit by a handful of low-burning lanterns and a hearth whose coals glowed a sullen orange. The air smelled of smoke, salt, and something sharp—an acrid alchemical tang that lingered in the nose like regret.

Wooden beams crisscrossed the ceiling overhead, some scorched, others patched with mismatched planks. A trio of regulars nursed drinks in one corner—silent, cloaked, watching nothing and everything. A half-orc behind the bar cleaned a glass with a rag that didn’t seem to be helping.

The bartender gave him a look—measured, mildly disinterested— grabbed the coins and jerked his chin toward the back. No words. Just an understanding.

The rear of the tavern held three booths. Two were empty. One wasn’t.

A figure sat hunched at the far table. The man in the booth—Brass, as Rylek had called him—was lean and wiry, with the restless tension of someone who never fully relaxed. His dark hair was pulled back into a short tail, slicked down more by habit than care. A thin mustache traced his upper lip but never quite committed to joining in the middle, like it had given up halfway.

Brass-rimmed goggles rested on his forehead, their lenses smudged and scratched with use. His coat was once a respectable dark green, now sun-faded and battered, heavy with the scent of oil, ash, and unwashed fabric. Alchemical burns and chemical stains marked the sleeves and lapels in irregular patterns—a working man’s ledger of past experiments.

The figure looked up as Zix approached, pupils narrowing slightly. He didn’t speak right away. Just looked at him, long and slow.

"…Well now," he said at last, voice raspy, like smoke curling through a crack in a chimney. "You’re not quite the same as before."

Zix didn’t sit. Not yet.

The seller gestured lazily to the other side of the booth. "Come to buy more, or… what?"

The seller—Brass, though he’d never given the name out loud—studied ‘Rylek’. He didn’t blink. Didn’t flinch. But something in his posture shifted. Not quite submission. Just… adjustment. Recognition that the game had changed.

After a moment, he chuckled—low, dry, and humorless.

"Well, well. You’ve found your spine," he murmured. "Didn’t think you had it in you. Not when we met."

He reached into his coat, slow and careful, and produced a coin pouch. It landed on the table with a muted clink. Not quite full—Zix could tell from the weight and sound—but likely close to what had been promised.

Brass gestured to it with two fingers, then looked up, his voice lowering.

"You’ll get your refund. Seven parts of ten. Fair’s fair, and I’ll take my tinctures back." He paused, tilting his head. "But if we’re both being reasonable, maybe you’d consider a gesture of good faith in return."

He leaned forward, lowering his voice. "There’s a necromancer in Misthaven. Name’s Salem. Fellow student. Attends Lorridian’s lectures—you know, the one who talks like he’s translating ancient prophecies but is really just reading out his own lunch order in code?" A wry smile.

"I need something from her, and she’s not in my contacts list." His smile widened slightly. "I suspect you might have an easier time. You see, what I want is… a heart. Not metaphorically. A real one. Preserved. Not fresh, not stolen. Treated with Excidium. She knows what I mean. She might talk to you. Get her to sell you the heart. Say it’s for a client, or your own studies. I don’t care. Just get it. Bring it to me, and we’ll call this little dance entirely done. Maybe even friendly."

He shrugged, the grin still lingering. "Or don’t. I’ve got my potion. You’ve got your coin. We part ways awkwardly, and I pretend not to wonder who taught you to bargain like that. Or if you're really you."

Then, more quietly, with a flicker of something like respect:

"You’re not the same, Rylek. But maybe that’s a good thing."

The deal hung in the air—not hostile, not desperate. Just dangerous in the way Blackveil deals always were.

Brass tapped the coin pouch lightly with one finger.

"Already in the pouch, friend. I don’t play games with silver once a deal’s struck. You made your case, I bought it—simple as that."

He nudged the pouch across the table with two fingers. The weight was solid, the jingle clean. "Three hundred and fifty gold. Count it if you like. I don’t mind. Not insulted."

Then, settling back into the booth, he folded his arms. "Now, the third matter."

He lowered his voice slightly, just in case a half-listening ear was too curious for its own good. "When you’ve got the heart—or if Salem gives you trouble—you can drop word for me here or at a pawnhouse near the docks. If you go there, ask for a woman named Merrin. Small, pale, black gloves. She’s got a thing for broken clocks. Tell her Brass’s bird is still alive. That’s the phrase. She’ll pass it on, and I’ll find you."

His gaze lingered on Zix for a moment longer, thoughtful now. "No need to rush. Just don’t take forever. And if Salem starts asking questions you don’t want to answer—well, improvise. You’ve clearly got a knack for it."