Chapter 90: A Patron's Wrath
Silas was in the middle of outlining his vision for our "partnership" which sounded a lot like me drawing his propaganda while his thugs held a knife to Laron's throat when the first sound cut through his monologue.
It wasn't a loud sound. Not at first. It was a distant, choked-off cry, followed by the sharp, metallic clang of steel meeting steel. It was the sound of a door being breached, far deeper inside the Coil than any city watch raid should ever reach.
Silas froze, his sentence dying on his lips. His head cocked, the charming façade melting into the sharp focus of a predator sensing a rival in his territory. "What was that?"
I said nothing, my own senses, both normal and Ki-enhanced, stretching out. I could feel it, a disruption in the chaotic energy of the Coil. The usual roar of the crowd upstairs was still there, but beneath it, like a tremor under the earth, was a new, violent rhythm. Quick, disciplined movements. Short, brutal clashes. Silence where there should have been the casual banter of his guards.
Then came the second sound. A deep, resonant WHOMP that shuddered through the stone floor. It wasn't an explosion of fire and shrapnel; it was a concussive blast, the kind used to shatter doors or bones without causing a fire. Mana, but raw and focused, not the intricate spell-forms of a court mage. This was battlefield magic.
Silas was on his feet in an instant, his chair screeching back. All talk of picture books and partnerships was forgotten. This was an invasion. His hand went to the hilt of a slender, wicked-looking dagger at his belt. His eyes darted to the door of our little room, then to me, suspicion warring with alarm.
"Did you lead them here?" he snarled, his voice low and dangerous.
"I've been in your custody," I replied flatly. "Unless I have a secret way of sending messages with my mind."
He glared at me, but the logic held. He strode to the door, yanking it open to bark orders at the guards outside. "Find out what in the seven hells is…"
He never finished.
The world outside the door erupted.
A body, one of his own enforcers slammed into the opposite wall of the corridor with a wet, final crunch and slid to the floor, unmoving. The air filled with the shouts of fighting men, the sizzle of offensive spells, and the screaming of someone who had just encountered something they couldn't handle.
Silas stumbled back, his face a mask of stunned fury. "Impossible! My men…"
The stone wall to the left of the doorway suddenly bulged inward. A web of cracks raced across its surface, and with a sound of grinding rock and shattering mortar, a large section of it exploded inward.
Silas Vane, King of the Serpent's Coil, was lifted off his feet and thrown across the room like a discarded toy. He hit the far wall back-first with a sickening thud, the air driven from his lungs in a pained gasp. He slid down the stone, crumbling into a heap amidst the dust and rubble, his fine clothes now coated in grime and his own blood, the dagger clattering from his limp hand.
Standing in the new, gaping hole in the wall, silhouetted by the flickering torchlight of the corridor beyond, was Patron Evander.
But it wasn't the Evander I knew. This wasn't the calm, calculating art collector. This was a force of nature. His expensive robes were dusted with stone dust, and in his hand, he held not a quill, but a staff of polished dark wood, its head glowing with a malevolent, fading orange light. The air around him crackled with spent power. His face was set in lines of cold, absolute fury. The two legionnaire guards flanking him weren't just vigilant; they were blood-spattered, their swords drawn and gleaming, their eyes scanning the room for the next threat.
Evander's gaze swept the room, passing over the groaning form of Silas and landing on me, still chained to the chair.
"It seems," Evander said, his voice cutting through the chaos outside with chilling clarity, "that my associate required a more direct form of retrieval."
He gestured with his staff, and one of the legionnaires stepped forward, his blade a silver flash as he shattered the cheap iron lock on my manacles with a single, precise blow.
I stood up, rubbing my wrists, my mind reeling. I had expected a subtle play, a bribe, a political maneuver. I had not expected Evander to personally lead a magical assault team through the heart of Silas's stronghold.
"You… you lunatic…" Silas coughed from the floor, trying to push himself up. "Do you have any idea… the consequences…?"
Evander looked down at him, his expression one of pure, unadulterated contempt. "The only consequence, you insignificant gnat, is that you have forced my hand. You stole what is mine. You threatened an investment I have vouched for before people you cannot possibly comprehend." He took a step closer, the tip of his staff hovering near Silas's face. "This little fiefdom of yours survives on the sufferance of greater powers. That sufferance is now revoked."
He turned his back on Silas as if he were already a corpse and addressed me. "The others?"
"The cells. Down the hall," I said, my voice hoarse.
Evander nodded to his other guard, who immediately vanished back into the corridor, the sounds of efficient, brutal violence following him.
"The Aetherium does not take kindly to being challenged," Evander said to me, as if explaining a simple business principle. "And it does not abandon its assets. Remember that."
This was the other side of the coin. The cold ambition, the cultural manipulation—it was all backed by a will of iron and a power I had severely underestimated. Evander wasn't just a patron; he was a warlord of a different kind of war.
Within minutes, the second legionnaire returned, supporting a weak but walking Briza, with a terrified but unharmed Laron shuffling behind him. Elara was with them, her face pale but her chin held high, clutching her precious case of tools to her chest like a shield.
The rescue was a success. Brutal, direct, and terrifyingly effective.
As we were hurried out through the hole in the wall and through the carnage of the Coil's lower levels, a testament to the sheer, overwhelming force Evander had brought to bear, I took one last look at Silas, struggling to rise in the rubble.
His empire of dust and blood had been shattered in minutes. The game had changed. And as I followed Evander out of the darkness, the cryptic, blue letters of MISSION 3: THE PHILOSOPHER'S STONE burned in my vision, a silent promise that the real game was only just beginning.
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