# Chapter 5: The Hunter's Briefing
The Gilded Flask was silent, but the silence was not empty. It was a vacuum, a space where sound and air had been crushed by the sheer weight of Pres's revelation. Relly could feel the question vibrating in the floorboards, in the dust motes dancing in the single beam of light from the streetlamp outside. *Do you have any idea what I am?* He didn't. He only knew she was a predator, and he was the prey. The grimoire on the shelf behind him felt like a lodestone, pulling all the danger in the room toward it.
Pres took a slow step back, her honey-colored eyes never leaving his. The predatory focus softened, replaced by a look of intense, almost academic curiosity. She was no longer just a hunter; she was an appraiser who had stumbled upon a lost masterpiece. "You're terrified," she observed, her voice losing its predatory edge and regaining its cool, corporate cadence. It was a shift so seamless it was dizzying. "Good. That means you have some inkling of the forces you've trifled with."
She straightened the lapel of her blazer, a gesture of such mundane normalcy in this profoundly abnormal moment that it sent a fresh wave of panic through Relly. "Let me be clear, Mr. Moe. My interest in your establishment was a pretext. My interest in you, however, has become very, very real." She gestured vaguely toward the door. "I will be leaving now. You will not attempt to stop me. You will not call the police—you and I both know they are irrelevant here. You will stay in this room and you will think very carefully about your next move."
She turned and walked toward the exit, her heels clicking with unnerving finality on the grimy floor. Relly's muscles screamed at him to move, to tackle her, to grab the grimoire and run, but he was frozen, a statue carved from pure fear. Her hand was on the doorknob when she paused, her back to him.
"That book is a death sentence," she said, her voice quiet but carrying an immense weight. "But it is also a key. The question you must ask yourself is whether you have the strength to turn it before it turns you. I will be in touch."
The door clicked shut, and the lock slid home with a heavy, metallic thud that echoed in the sudden, ringing silence. She hadn't locked him in; she had locked the world out. Relly stood there for a full minute, his breath coming in ragged, shallow gasps, the scent of ozone and perfume lingering in the air like a ghost. He was alone, but he had never felt less so. The hunt had just begun, and he was the fox.
***
Two hours later, Pres Sanchez stood in the center of a conference room on the ninety-seventh floor of the Sanchez Biotech tower. The room was a masterpiece of minimalist design, a sphere of polished obsidian and frosted glass suspended in the Manhattan skyline. No sound penetrated its soundproof walls. No stray signal could breach its electronic shielding. It was a sanctum, a place where secrets were not just kept, but forged.
She removed her blazer, draping it over the back of a chair made of a single, unbroken piece of carbon fiber. The scent of ozone and old magic still clung to her, a faint but persistent reminder of the bar. She needed to be rid of it. With a flick of her wrist, a panel in the wall slid open, revealing a small, sterile basin. She ran her hands under a stream of ionized water that hissed and vaporized on contact, stripping away the last traces of The Gilded Flask. She felt a thrum of anticipation, a feeling she hadn't experienced in decades. The grimoire. A First Codex. It was impossible, a myth whispered about in the oldest, most forbidden texts of her kind. And it was in the hands of a sniveling, untrained human.
She touched a smooth, black panel on the central table. The air in the room shimmered, coalescing into the life-sized, three-dimensional form of a man. He was not physically present, but his presence filled the room, a palpable pressure that made the very air feel colder. Lord Valerius, Regent of the Aegis Concordat's American Chapter, was rendered in perfect holographic detail. He was tall and unnaturally still, dressed in a suit that seemed woven from shadow and silver. His face was a mask of aristocratic cruelty, his eyes chips of glacial ice. He did not sit; he simply stood, his gaze fixed on Pres with an unnerving intensity.
"Ms. Sanchez," he said. His voice was not loud, yet it resonated in Pres's bones, a deep, resonant baritone that carried the weight of centuries. "Your report was… intriguingly brief. An anomaly in the Lower East Side. You piqued my interest."
"Lord Valerius," Pres replied, executing a shallow, formal bow. She kept her own posture straight, her expression neutral. To show fear before him was a fatal weakness. "The anomaly is more significant than I initially assessed. It is not a hedge mage or a minor charlatan."
Valerius's holographic eyes narrowed infinitesimally. "The energy signature was… crude. Unrefined. It suggested a child playing with a weapon he does not understand."
"It is a child, in a manner of speaking," Pres confirmed. "A human male, approximately thirty years of age. Relly Moe. A bartender. But the nature of the power… it is not hedge magic." She paused, choosing her next words with the precision of a surgeon. "It is Transmutation."
The word hung in the sterile air. For the first time, a flicker of something other than cold disdain crossed Valerius's features. It was not fear, but a deep, ancient annoyance, like the reaction of a king to a rebellious province he thought he had pacified long ago. The hologram's image wavered for a fraction of a second, a sign of a surge in power from its source.
"Alchemy," Valerius breathed the word as if it were a curse. "That lineage was scoured from the earth. We made certain of it."
"Apparently, one ember remained," Pres said, her voice steady. "And it has just been fanned into a flame. The signature was small, a parlor trick. He turned water into a high-end spirit. But the underlying principle is undeniable. He manipulated base matter on a fundamental level."
"An untrained Alchemist," Valerius mused, his gaze drifting toward the panoramic window, though he was seeing something else entirely. Some ancient battlefield, some forgotten purge. "The potential for chaos is… considerable. The Masquerade is a delicate construct, Ms. Sanchez. It does not tolerate such wild variables."
"He is ignorant of the wider world," Pres reported. "He believes he is alone. He is terrified. His control is nonexistent; the act was driven by desperation, not malice. He is a threat by accident, not by design."
"Accident or design, the result is the same," Valerius snapped, his cold composure cracking for a moment. "An uncontrolled Alchemist in the heart of my domain is an insult to my authority and a cancer that must be excised before it spreads." He began to pace, his holographic form gliding silently across the obsidian floor. "The energy signature was localized. The source is his place of business. A bar. The Gilded Flask."
"Yes, my lord."
"You have confirmed this?"
"I have confirmed the power and the practitioner," Pres said carefully. "I have not yet confirmed the source of his knowledge. That is the critical variable."
Valerius stopped pacing and turned to face her fully. The pressure in the room intensified. "You suspect something."
Pres met his gaze, her own expression a mask of professional diligence. "During my assessment, I observed an object. A book. The script was Enochian, but the binding… the materials used, the craftsmanship… it was pre-Concordat. It is my professional opinion that he is not the source, but the inheritor."
The silence that followed was profound. Valerius stood utterly still, his holographic form so perfect it was indistinguishable from reality. The city lights twinkled behind him, a galaxy of insignificant lives. In this room, only two things mattered: his power, and the information she had just delivered.
"A First Codex," he whispered, the words laced with a venomous hunger that Pres had only ever heard him use once before, when discussing a rival elder's downfall. "It cannot be. We burned the libraries. We salted the earth where their scholars walked."
"Perhaps one was overlooked," Pres offered. "Hidden. Lost. And now, by chance, it has fallen into the hands of this… Relly Moe."
"Chance?" Valerius's voice was dangerously soft. "There is no such thing. Only patterns we have yet to perceive. This is a test. The universe is testing my resolve." He stepped closer to the table, his holographic hands resting on its surface as if it were solid. "You are authorized, Ms. Sanchez. Use the full resources of Sanchez Biotech. The R&D division's thaumaturgic sensors, the corporate security cadre, the financial forensics team. I want this man's entire life laid bare. I want to know what he eats for breakfast, who he spoke to in kindergarten, and the exact molecular composition of the dust under his bed."
Pres gave a slight nod. "It will be done."
"Contain this," Valerius commanded, his voice dropping to a low, menacing growl. "I do not want a public spectacle. I do not want the other factions to catch even a whisper of this. The Fenrir Syndicate would see it as an opportunity. The Unseelie Exchange would try to sell the secret to the highest bidder. This is an internal matter. It will be resolved internally."
He leaned forward, his face inches from hers, his holographic eyes burning with cold fire. The scent of old blood and frozen stone seemed to emanate from him. "You have served my house well for over a century, Prescilla. Your clan was granted stewardship of this city's biotech interests under my patronage. Your position, your wealth, your very existence is a privilege I granted. Do not forget that."
"I never forget, my lord," she said, her voice betraying nothing.
"Good," he said, straightening up. The pressure in the room receded slightly. "Because failure is not an option. The Purge is on schedule. The ritual requires absolute stability. An Alchemist running loose, even a clumsy one, could introduce a variable that could unravel centuries of planning. We cannot allow that."
He turned his back on her, looking out at the city once more. "Find the source, Ms. Sanchez. Confirm the existence of the Codex. And then…" He paused, letting the silence stretch, filling it with unspoken menace. "You are to erase it. Erase the practitioner. Erase the book. Erase its entire lineage from existence. Leave no trace. No memory. No echo. As if it never was."
The hologram vanished as abruptly as it had appeared, leaving Pres alone in the silent, sterile room. The command echoed in her mind. *Erase its entire lineage.* It was the most severe sanction the Concordat possessed, a decree of absolute annihilation. It was also, she knew with a certainty that chilled her to her immortal core, a lie.
Lord Valerius had no intention of erasing the First Codex. He wanted it for himself. The power to rewrite reality, to refine the very building blocks of existence—it was the one thing his own ancient blood magic could not achieve. He had sent her to acquire it for him, under the guise of destroying it. If she succeeded, he would claim the prize and all the glory. If she failed, he would disavow her, and she would be the one erased.
She walked to the window, placing her hand on the cold, reinforced glass. Below, the city sprawled, a tapestry of light and life, oblivious to the war being waged for its soul. She thought of Relly Moe, the terrified bartender with the eyes of a cornered animal and the power of a god. He was a pawn, a sacrificial piece in Valerius's game.
But he was also the only person on this earth who had seen what she had seen. Who had touched what she had touched. The grimoire was not just a source of power; it was a legacy. A legacy the Concordat had tried to destroy. And for the first time in a very long time, Pres Sanchez questioned whether she was on the right side of history. Her duty was to her clan, to the Concordat, to Valerius. But a new, more dangerous loyalty was stirring in her heart—a loyalty to the truth. And the truth was in the hands of a man she had just been ordered to erase.