"Why is his mouth gagged?" one of the shadowy figures asked.
"Why?" the second echoed, turning to the largest of the trio, "It's not like anyone out here can hear him scream."
"Well," the big man muttered in a heavy voice which was coated with nervous tension, "they whine. A lot. It gets in my head."
The second man stared at him for a beat, saying nothing, while the big guy looked down at his boots.
Clarembald let out a muffled groan, trying to speak through the cloth. The sound drew their attention.
"Unbound his mouth," the first figure ordered. The big man leaned in and pulled the gag free.
"Ah... thank you," Clarembald wheezed, licking his dry lips, "Can I... may I have some water, please?"
"Why stop at water?" the second figure smirked in a voice dripping with sarcasm, "We've got Bochet- our special fine spiced mead. It'll make you fly right through the clouds."
The first smirked, "act cocky with us and I will have your sorry a** put inside the wine casket and ferment you alive!"
"Fair enough," Clarembald huffed, "When I'm ready, I'll sign whatever confession you want for the Grand Scholar's murder. No need to get your hands dirty beating it out of me."
The three men froze.
"What?" the second man blurted out, "You actually killed the Grand Scholar?"
"Hell no!" Clarembald scoffed, "But why do you care? You grabbed me to pin the crime on me and close the case, right? Or are you still trying to steal my research? Because I won't tell you a single thing, even if it kills me."
"I think you've got us confused with someone else," the first figure said smoothly, "Did you mistake us for the Arcane Watch?"
"You're not?" Clarembald blinked, genuinely caught off guard, "Fair enough. Then who the hell are you?"
"Someone holding the threads of your fate," the first man said, there was a cold smile in his voice, "We can end your story right here and now, OR, hand you over to the Watch to rot, OR give you the freedom and means to finish your life's work."
"I might be a fugitive, but I'm still a scholar of Solara," Clarembald spat back, "Don't try playing God with me. Every kid in this city grows up an atheist. We know that with enough knowledge, anyone can reach Godhood."
"Apotheosis," the first figure nodded softly, "Prometheanism, to be exact."
The other two figures glanced at their leader in confusion.
"Pro... mi..." Clarembald stumbled over the word, "What did you say?"
"It does not matter," the leader replied, stepping closer, "What matters is that if I wanted to, I could break that arrogant a** of yours until you curse the Gods for the day you were born and then beg the same Gods to take your life. You think you control your own fate? Oh please, I can make sure you are not even allowed to die."
Clarembald shrank back into his chair, genuine fear creeping into his voice, "Who are you? Someone from the Church of Sol? Is this another attempt to drag your 'Godless' Solara back into the fold?"
The leader let out a short, sharp laugh, "No. I am no self-appointed holy man on a mission. Trust me, the Gods…. they don't care about us like most people like to believe. And humans trying to protect their 'Gods' is as ridiculous as an ant trying to defend a man's honor."
The big man scratched his head, stepping forward, "Wait... boss, if God doesn't care like you say, what about prayers getting answered? Or divine lightning? What about the priests' miracles and the Holy Paladins' shiny auras?"
The leader turned his head slightly, "Have you ever seen a wealthy lord toss a coin to a beggar child, or glare at a brat who was making too much noise?"
The second man cleared his throat nervously, "Forgive me, my Lord, but... did we drag this guy into a cellar to have a religious debate?"
"Oh... right," the leader hesitated, caught off guard, "No. Of course not."
"Right! You wanted me to confess to crimes I didn't commit," Clarembald reminded them bitterly, "Fair enough."
"No…. That's not…." the leader startled.
"I know!" the big man interrupted, raising a hand eagerly, "Boss wants to lock him in a wine cask and ferment him alive to make a new kind of ale!"
"NOOOO….!" the leader and the second man barked in unison.
A faint, mocking smile tugged at Clarembald's lips, "Are you guys... new at this?"
"Watch your mouth," the leader snapped, as he threatened in a cold voice, "Or I will show you just how experienced I am by skinning you inch by inch."
"Okay, okay! I'm terrified," Clarembald said, faking a gasp of horror, "Fair enough. What do you actually want from me?"
"The truth," the leader said quietly, "Why are you running from the law?"
"Wait, you really don't know?" The scholar looked at them, bewildered.
"I have heard a dozen different stories about you and your work," the leader said, "The only one I am missing is yours. Don't leave anything out. Speak."
"Fair enough," Clarembald said, letting out a long breath, "Do you know how combat scrolls are made, or why Solara keeps such a tight leash on their supply?"
"Enlighten me," the leader said.
"Fair enough," the scholar began, "Crafting a single combat scroll, even for a mid-level spell, is a painfully slow, meticulous, tedious process that takes weeks or months. We don't just use any piece of paper. Our craftsman use pristine vellum made strictly from livestock raised on unblemished pastures. Every single sheet is washed in purified spring water before it ever touches ink.
Then comes the master scribe. They spend days meditating, aligning their personal mana, and mixing rare, expensive mineral inks. They use ultra-fine sable brushes to paint complex runes stroke by stroke. If a single line twitches or their focus slips for a second, the whole page is ruined.
Because it relies entirely on a scribe's limited mana and flawless handiwork, production is painfully slow. That's why our scrolls are so scarce, heavily rationed, and stupidly expensive."
"You sound more like a Solarian salesman trying to justify a markup than a scholar," the leader remarked.
"A fugitive salesman," the second man added.
The leader ignored him, keeping his attention fixed on the bound mage, "Alright, I get it. So, what did you do to make the Enlightened Council want your head? I want to know it all."
"Fair enough," Clarembald nodded, "You see, I always thought the traditional method was a pathetic, bloated waste of time. I tried to find a better way, but the Academy refused to fund my research…."
"Why?" the second guy asked, "like if you could make a faster method to create scrolls, as you are claiming, why they did not support it?"
"Honestly speaking," Clarembald replied, "I myself don't know! While I was a student the faculty used to lament how tedious the whole process was, and wished if the process could be quicker. Yet when I became a magister and applied for approval of my research proposal was rejected."
"Basically, the magic scrolls are your high-cost inelastic goods!" the leader said.
"Inela… what?" again the three looked at the leader.
"Okay, let me explain. You see any product's price depends on its supply and demand. When the supply increase, or demand reduces, price of the product reduces. On the other hand, if the supply of the product reduces, or its demand in market increases, its price also increases!"
"Yes, that I know!" the second person nodded in agreement.
"Now most goods follow a normal relationship between price and demand; like more the price, less its demand, because less people can afford it. They are called elastic goods, for their demand follows their price proportionately.
But for inelastic goods, their demand is more or less independent on their price. No matter how costly they get, their demand does not decrease that much for they often mean life and death. This is the case for Solara's magic scrolls. Basically, they do not have any substitutes. That's why if tomorrow Solara hikes the price of an offensive fireball or barrier scroll by 30%, their customers cannot simply say, "Hell that's too costly, we'll pass." They are forced to empty their treasuries to secure whatever supply Solara allows them to have. And this is all because the supply is too low, that gives them the air of exclusivity. They are basically running a cartel-enforced artificial monopoly"
"Fair enough," the tied-up scholar nodded his head, "Anyway their lack of support meant lack of resource for my research which forced my hand to look for drastic measures. So, I had to build a shortcut- something fast and practical that bypassed human mana and patience entirely.
My early studies made me realise that I didn't need mineral inks or blessed vellum if I used biological energy instead. I needed anima- the raw, volatile life-force harvested from living subjects."
He paused, trying to read their faces, but the dark of the room hid everything. He cleared his throat and kept going.
"My superiors found out that I had not quit my dream, and thus they threw me out. But that too couldn't stop me form my pursuit. I paid people from the slums, the graverobbers to send me people who died recently. That drew the Watch's attention, and they issued a warrant for my arrest, in charge of 'Pursuing vile dark art of necromancy'. I've been running from safehouse to safehouse ever since.
Being broke forced me to adapt again. Through trial and error, I figured out I could harvest anima from freshly butchered livestock and decaying animal tissue scavenged from slaughterhouse gutters.
I started boiling those organic scraps down into a thick, caustic fluid that I could use as my ink. When I paint it even onto cheap, untreated vellum; the slurry acts like a chemical accelerant. Instead of sitting around meditating to channel my own mana, the dying energy trapped in the ink violently snaps the spell right onto the page.
Using this method, I can churn out basic-tier combat scrolls in a days at almost zero cost. Though, I should warn you... the paper smells faintly of rot, and the volatile energy makes the scrolls dangerously unstable. They're lethal, but they burn out fast."
The room went dead silent.
"Have you actually made one of these scrolls before?" the leader stepped forward, his tone suddenly dropped into icy chill, "and sold them to other city states?"