With a step into the alchemist shop, the pungent aroma of various reagents fills the air. An elderly, stoop-shouldered gnome peers over the spectacles perched on his nose, his eyes sharp despite his age.
The gnome peers up at me, voice gruff but not unfriendly. "What can I get for you?"
"I need a bit of iskra, if you have it." I keep my tone casual, as if I'm just another customer.
His gaze hardens. "Iskra? That's an intense, explosive little powder—very volatile, even for a fire mage."
I give a reassuring smile. "Research calls for a strong initiator. I know how to handle it."
He holds out a hand. "Let me see your papers."
"Of course." I fumble through my pockets and produce an ID.
He squints at the card. "Tomerth Academy? A far school from here, what brings you here sir Vilnar Danala."
"Heard there's opportunity in Ansmery—and near the royal capital. Figured I'd see for myself."
He nods slowly, returning my ID. "Wait here."
He disappears into the back, then returns with five small sacks of powder. I place my last coins on the counter.
"Not every day I meet a class seven mage," he says, passing the sacks over. "Take care with that stuff."
With the powder secured, I begin my meticulous work. First, I cast a simple illusion, letting my pale skin melt away until I stand as an elf—amber hair, pointed ears tilted skyward.
Moving with practiced stealth, I leave subtle trails of the iska. Small piles are secreted in the shadows of overhanging eaves, tucked into cracks in wood and stone, and sprinkled in the city's less-trafficked alleyways connecting the buildings. Each deposit is a fuse, invisible and waiting.
Inside the brothel, I drop the illusion and flash a smile at the madam. "Please, if you wouldn't mind—send some company to my room tonight."
She nods with that knowing, businesslike smile.
Later, Arael returns. I question her, but I already know the answer: Marco's manor is impossible to reach. All I need now is to confirm Arael's resolve—how far she'll go with me.
And with my final confirmation, "Good." I drop a burning cloth down into the flowerbed without hesitation.
The bush erupts in a hungry flare—then a hiss, a crackle, and a thunderous WHOOSH as the iska ignites. Flames devour the brothel wall and leap hungrily from building to building. The sky turns a hellish orange. Screams tear through the streets below.
Heavy boots slam up the stairs. Three city guards burst into the room, weapons drawn, faces grim.
That damned gnome must've still alerted them silently while I was in the store. There we stand, me and arael the epicentre of the blaze's terrifying birth. Maybe robbing Marco might've been better.
I spin toward Arael, "well shit, maybe robbing Marco was the best option of the two ideas."
She glares, voice tight with disbelief. "What in the hell did you do?"
There's no time. I seize her arm, the heat of burning timber licking my skin as I hurl us both through the window and into the smoky night.
Arcane energy surges—my will summons a ghostly hand beneath us, breaking our fall and scattering the flames. I grip Arael tight, then drag her into a sprint.
The streets are a maelstrom of fear and chaos, building blaze, and the screams of the city's inhabitants pierce the smoke-filled air.
We weave through the panicked crowds. My eyes scan not for escape, but for opportunity—vulnerable stores, ripe for plundering.
Arael stops resisting. She slips free of my grip and strides beside me now, a confirmation in her resolve to stand beside me. Then I guide her into the maze of the back alleys. The heat from the raging fire is intense, casting dancing shadows that warp the fleeing figures of the townsfolk.
"Arael!" I shout. "Behind the stores! We'll hit the ones already burning—grab what we can, then get out. Move, before anyone organizes!"
She doesn't hesitate. She becomes a shadow herself, eyes gleaming with predatory thrill. Dagger out, she kicks down the back door of a burning merchant's shop.
We raid several stores—empty, abandoned, only flames and the occasional corpse left behind.
Layer by layer, we race toward the city's sewage gate.
Just before freedom, we skid to a halt—two cloaked figures block our path.