The interior of the castle in the mist was no less exquisite than the exterior. From the moment they had stepped inside, a near-magical warmth had exuded from the walls, floors and ceilings- drying their ill-fitted second-hand clothing. Asrael took a moment to appreciate the familiarity of the humongous interior- the dark tiles, the tall landscape paintings on the walls and, most impressively, a titanic, twinkling chandelier glistening with the full spectrum of colors to cast dancing shadows on the black floor.

It felt... homely, to stand in the arrival hall and looked up the monstrous, black-marble stair leading up into the body of the castle- as if he had stepped into the past and was looking around the Tower for the first time in his life.

“Get the poppy-drops!” The mysterious woman shouted- regaining Asrael’s attention. The entourage were heading for the left- towards a stair leading down into a dark, subterranean level. The necromancer snapped out of his musings and followed the quartet of forms kidnapping his apprentice, struggling to conceal his growing unease as the dark steps led them deeper and deeper into the abyss.

Even the Tower had not piqued his curiosity to the degree that the Castle’s subterranean corridors did. It took him several steps to realize that there were no torches, chandeliers- no external sources of light, anywhere... instead, the illumination seemed to come from within the tiles, themselves.

As he stepped onwards, he could see the glistening as he shifted his position- as if stars peered out at him from beyond a veil of thick, dark smoke to illuminate his pale hands. Rather than to be taken with the beauty and the wonder of this unexpected manifestation of magic, Asrael felt fiercely irked by the phenomenon.

“In here!” The woman shouted up ahead and pushed a heavy, oaken door open, before the quartet disappeared inside. Asrael discarded his attention on the walls and followed suit- stopping as he stepped into what appeared to be a near-identical replica of a familiar infirmary.

Everything from the deep-black, glossy walls, to the twelve, fine, wooden beds with their pristinely clean, white sheets were a perfect match for the fleshmenders’ wing’s infirmary. Along the walls, gleaming, yellow crystals illuminated the tall shelves of books and supplies. As opposed to the tower’s infirmary, however, these vials and poultices were pristinely clean- free of the thick cobwebs and layers of dust that the fleshmenders had hoarded in their obsession for healing.

The entourage led the girl to one of the beds in the corner, where they lay her small body down on the sheets while the tall, golden-haired beauty’s black dress floated across the floor as she retrieved various supplies from the shelves. Asrael glared at the finely clad servants as they receded back into the halls. He sat down on his apprentice’s left-hand side and continued to read the runic plaques on the shelves. His mind was eager to slip back into the thinking that this place was the home in which he had been raised, but with every breath of the cleanly air and the recently washed sheets, he was reminded that this was not the case.

A whimper sounded from behind his back as Eleanor’s small, cautious hand reached for his. He could feel the warmth radiate from her skin before she had even touched him- hinting that the fever had already begun.

The strange woman turned around to see the two embracing hands, only to quickly shake her head and approach with a handful of vials in her hand.

“I do not know what happened, but I can see that injury is old. What took you so long?” Asrael glared at the woman disapprovingly. She had yet to introduce herself, yet she found it fitting to criticize him for something beyond his control. The mysterious woman sat down on the bed and dropped the vial to the white sheets, before uncorking the first to pour it down Eleanor’s throat to another whimper.

“We were far away- in Pilta. I heard you had facilities for healing here-” The woman’s glistening, blue eyes remained locked on Eleanor’s dark, attentive bulbs. The girl herself continued to look up at her master with a pallor to match his- even her freckles were markably lighter than usual.

“If you were in Pilta, your beast should have brought you here quicker. Then again, I’ve never met a father who knows how to prioritize. Where is your mother, girl?” Eleanor swallowed down the thick, yellow contents of the last of the vials- supine on her back. Asrael remained silent. It had been months since last they spoke of the death of her mother, but the last few times they had breached the subject, Eleanor had wept and sobbed. He uncomfortably glanced about the darkness as Eleanor’s hand twitched against his own- fastening his attention on some of the plaques on the tired shelves that detailed complicated concoctions beyond his understanding.

“She’s dead.” Asrael prepared himself to cut the girl off, as he remembered that they were yet to speak of this mysterious faction’s affiliation with the Inquisition. Just then, however, the girl reminded him that she was undoubtedly the most capable of his associates.

“He’s not my dad. But he’s been taking care of me since my mom died.” Ellie spoke with her common apathy. Asrael watched the woman’s face contort as she attempted to wrap her head around the dissonance. This man- this horribly ugly man with his wide, green eyes staring down at the beautiful girl was actually... kind? The golden-haired woman swallowed before gently moving her hands over to Ellie’s upper arm.

A light glow exuded from between her fingers as she caressed the pained apprentice’s appendage- scanning it for injuries with a grimace.

“Poor girl... who did this to you?” Asrael glared at his apprentice- hoping her inebriation would not lull her to confess to her idiocy. To his relief, Eleanor’s iron grip on her mind victoried over the anesthetics coursing through her veins. She continued- still in short: “A rock fell on my arm...” The woman jerked her head to throw the hair over her shoulder and scoffed.

“No, this injury is magical. Your lies aside, I was not referring to the trauma- I meant the... repairs.” She cringed as she spoke the last word, as if her nervous system itself disagreed with the term. Asrael’s free hand tightened into a tremoring fist, but he maintained his silence. Eleanor was, undoubtedly, better fit for this conversation than he was. A light fluster turned her cheeks rosy as she stammered: “I-I d-did... I’m sure t-that if I didn’t, it’d have g-gone a lot worse.”

The woman glowered over at Asrael as she spoke beneath her breath: “Oh, I am certain you do believe that...” Asrael had suffered through enough of her scrutiny and decided that it was high time he spoke for himself. He barked: “If you are done insulting my foolish ward’s work, perhaps you would be inclined as to tell me who you are?”

The fine lady looked to Asrael with a sideways glance and continued stroking her appendage with her radiant digits- intermittently wincing as she trailed the bones. “I am Nota- Doctor Thomas’ apprentice. If you were hoping to see him, I am thrilled to disappoint you. He is out and will not return before the end of the week... by that time, I hope to be rid of you.” Asrael was uncertain whether to be relieved or disappointed, at first. After a moment’s reconsideration, he realized that there was an opportunity to be had from the despicable sycophant’s absence. Therefore, he brandished a smile as he folded his arms and leaned down to obscure his face- already planning his next move.