Ivle's Arc

Chapter 6 of 7

Ivle returned to his workshop before dawn with the vials of engorged leeches. He set them on the workbench and lit the lamp, watching the red shapes coil against the glass. The compound was inside them, concentrated and ready, but using it meant admitting where it came from. The knock came at first light. Three sharp raps, deliberate and unhurried. Ivle froze at the workbench, his hand tightening around the vial. No one came to his workshop uninvited. He moved to the door and opened it just enough to see through the gap. A man stood in the clearing, dressed in fine traveling clothes, holding a leather pouch embroidered with a golden crown seal. Behind him, a covered wagon with reinforced oak sides waited near the tree line, its horse stamping the ground. The man met Ivle's eyes without flinching. "I carry proof," he said, and lifted the pouch. "The Crown wishes to discuss your work." Ivle's stomach dropped. The Crown knew. Someone had talked—the fence, the buyer, or one of the thieves who'd stolen the vial. It didn't matter who. The man before him wasn't making a request. Ivle stepped back and opened the door wider, his mind already calculating what this cost him. The man entered without hesitation, setting the pouch on the workbench beside the vials of leeches. He didn't comment on them. "The Crown has need of alchemists willing to work without limits," the man said. "Your theft at the quarry was noticed. So was your skill." He untied the cord and tipped the pouch, spilling medallions onto the wood. "You will work for the Crown now, or you will answer for what you took." Ivle stared at the medallions, then at the vials of leeches still sitting in plain view. He'd stolen proof of the Crown's experiments, and they'd turned it into leverage. Refusing meant execution. Accepting meant losing control of the serum—the one thing he'd bled to perfect. But the Crown had resources he couldn't match: materials, protection, and access to everything the quarry held. He could finish the work, even if it meant surrendering ownership of it. Ivle picked up one of the medallions and turned it over in his palm. "I'll need my own workspace," he said. "And full access to your mineral stores." The man smiled, cold and satisfied. "Already arranged." Ivle pocketed the medallion and looked at the purple banner now visible through the open door, hanging from the wagon's post. He'd gained what he needed to complete the serum, but the cost was his freedom. The work would continue, but it no longer belonged to him alone.