News travelled throughout Sakrain. His victory over the Chimera became known. Well known. Returning home, Cyrus spotted the guards. From their expression Cyrus garnered that Azaz was less than pleased. Greeting them, he passed through the stone arches that formed the entrance of Azaz’s tower.

Tower Azaz was situated near the southern border of Sakrain. Nearly grazing the city walls, the structure stood upright like a pillar. Nearby buildings were short: they measured a third or fourth of the tower’s height. The arrangement was intentional. Tower Azaz was many things, but, primarily, it was known as an observatory.

Most assumed that meant Azaz observed the stars and celestial bodies. And that assumption was correct. What others missed, however, was that Azaz also observed the territory extending beyond the city walls. The river. The mountains. Even the distant jungle. Azaz was tasked with playing lookout. Sometimes, he would turn his lenses inward, observing the behavior of others in Sakrain. His efforts were occasionally rewarded with payments from the city.

Light filtered through the windows and painted stone steps a vivid orange. Soon, that orange would fade into red. The thought reminded Cyrus of the Chimera’s wounds. He shook his head.

Entering the main hall, Cyrus glanced over assorted luxuries. Furniture was stitched from patterned fabric. Rugs and pelts were placed throughout the space. Weapons and artifacts adorned the walls. Within one corner was a piano, imported from Crestaloz. Within another corner was a person.

Katerina was reading; sitting down, she occupied the plainest chair in the room. Her expression appeared aloof. Cyrus knew better, however, and noticed her choice in attire. Katerina was wearing her priestess garments.

“Afternoon,” Cyrus called out.

She lowered her book and nodded. Brown tuffs of hair nodded along. “Lord Azaz is waiting within the observatory. He—”

“Isn’t happy?”

Katerina bit her lip. “I’m not sure what fouled his mood. His anxiousness was apparent since yesterday, but currently…”

“What’s the damage?”

“Two lamps and a chair.”

“Ah. Drat,” Cyrus replied. “No worries, I’ll smooth over his concerns. Probably. Wait here and prepare my final rites, alright?”

Katerina gave a forced laugh.

Cyrus crossed the room and reached the stairwell. From behind, he heard the whisper of good luck.

He weighed his odds. Cyrus was returning with prizes. Pockets were bloated with feathers, his keepsake from the encounter. He still carried the cylindrical package from the bazaar. Overall, Cyrus was bringing everything Azaz had desired. The man couldn’t be too cross with him.

Reaching the upper floor, Cyrus moved towards the lone door. The door of the observatory. He knocked.

“Enter,” was the instant response. The voice was cold. Even. It chimed with a tremble.

Cyrus obliged. He opened the door.

And found himself faced with a curved blade. Its owner was flushed; their turban was tilted, and their beard was tied into multiple knots. Azaz was glaring. Cyrus noticed he reeked of alcohol.

“Afternoon,” said Cyrus.

“Nightfall,” Azaz began, swaying as he spoke. “You have until nightfall. Explain why I shouldn’t gut you?”

“I purchased that pen you wanted,” Cyrus replied, withdrawing the package. It was followed by a cloud of parrot feathers. They drifted and fell like confetti.

Azaz was staring now. Cyrus waited. Feathers fell, blanketing the floor. Azaz stumbled backwards and lowered his blade.

Cyrus coughed. “Is this about the Chimera?”

“Sunset approaches, Cyrus. I’m currently debating between boiling you alive or chopping you into pieces.”

Cyrus kept his face straight. Azaz was beginning to genuinely unravel. Anything less wouldn’t have caused the confession, allowing the man’s former Shaman to slip through.

Azaz was well regarded. His tower was decorated like a palace. Azaz also held status: the title of lord was granted by another lord—making Azaz both lord and vassal. Specifically, Azaz was a Count. Or Viscount. Cyrus often confused the two. Regardless, he knew Azaz was well regarded. He was useful to the reigning nobility. Once upon a time, however, Azaz had been a Shaman.

And then he found salvation in the Arch Church. Or financial support. Azaz often confused the two.

Cyrus coughed again. “I’m confused. What’s the problem? I was only following your orders.”

“Like hell! You were to poison the brute during the night! Not free it in broad daylight and wrestle it for sport!”

“We didn’t exactly wrestle—”

Azaz slammed his fist onto the nearest table. He then flinched, dropping his sword and hunching over, one hand cradling the other. He let loose a dozen or so curses.

“It wasn’t for sport,” Cyrus said, seizing the opportunity. “Thinking through the situation, I chanced upon a method that was better than what we initially discussed. If the Chimera dropped dead overnight, people would have suspected foul play. An investigation would begin. This way, we can avoid suspicion. It looked like I was just protecting the crowds.”

Azaz flexed his hand. “Oh, of course! How foolish of me! What a wonderful scheme you’ve concocted, killing the Chimera under the guise of happenstance! How fortuitous for the citizens of Sakrain that a humble servant, owned and loyal to Azaz, happened to appear on scene and slay the brute! How coincidental, they will say, that the servant had his brand exposed, open for all to see!”

“Officials would have identified me anyway.”

“SO YOU STREAMLINED THE TASK?!”

Cyrus waited before responding. “They can’t accuse us—you, of anything. Even if they wanted to. Right now, you’re untouchable. They wouldn’t dare punish the lord of a local hero.”

“Hero?” Azaz spat out the word. “Oh, is that the game you’re playing at? You—”

“Oh, I almost forgot! The merchant sends his regards. What’s the point of this thing anyway? You have dozens of quills, why spend a fortune on a single pen?”

Again, Azaz was glaring. The look on his face told Cyrus that this conversation would continue. Later. For now, Azaz would allow the topic of the Chimera to be shoved aside. Cyrus wondered whether Azaz would hold a grudge.

Grudges, after all, were Azaz’s favorite pastime. Grudges were also the cause of their current trouble. Azaz, ever the gentleman, had erupted with anger against another member of the nobility. Cyrus recalled that it happened during a city meeting. Cyrus couldn’t recall the specific circumstances. Somehow, through a tangled thread of politics and Azaz’s own line of logic, Cyrus had been assigned the execution of the Chimera. Because the Chimera was valued by the arena. And the arena was connected to the courts. And the courts were connected to the nobility. And the nobility had angered Azaz, who was wise and great and a gentleman, and who had assigned Cyrus the task of killing the lion-parrot.

And Cyrus followed through. Just not with the method Azaz had suggested.

Cyrus was still holding the package. He pretended to toss it; Azaz flinched with panic, then scowled. Cyrus stepped forward and handed off the good.

While unwrapping it, Azaz suddenly stopped. “How much did you spend anyway? You bartered over the price, didn’t you?”

“Well…”

Another bout of curses later and Azaz finally freed the pen from its container. He held it towards the light. The pen was white, akin to bone, and covered with thin green lines that looked like veins or roots. Cyrus scratched his chin. The object was an eyesore. Personally, he would have stuck with quills.

Azaz examined the treasure for flaws. Cyrus walked past him and glanced over the room.

The highest room doubled as both an observatory and Azaz’s office. Books and scrolls were crammed onto shelves. Stacks overflowed onto desks and tables. Windows lined the circular room, each opening fitted with a telescope. Star charts were present. If one stood still, they could hear a certain clicking noise originate from the room’s center, where a mass of stone and iron stood. A mechanical calendar. Reading it revealed the year: 1017. Over a millennium since the world stabilized…if the stories Katerina told him were to be believed.

Odder items were placed far back. The scent there was tinged with decay. Several bottles of wine rested within a trunk. Another bottle was on a table. It was nearly drained and flanked by glass cups. An import from Zaborc, judging by the shape and color. A luxury. Cyrus guessed the alcohol was derived from Qlips.

Two lamps were on the floor, broken. Beside them was a barrel of branding irons. Cyrus recognized the one that had personally seared him.

“Bring a cup,” Azaz commanded. “And my sword.”

Cyrus shrugged. He grabbed a cup from beside the wine. Walking back, he reached down and retrieved the weapon Azaz had dropped, carefully holding it by the blade. Azaz took both objects. Cyrus extended his hand.

Cyrus felt the sting of iron as Azaz pierced his finger. The cut was shallow. Deeper than usual, he suspected, but shallow.

Blood dripped into the cup. After collecting the sample, Azaz shooed him away. Cyrus found a spare cloth and stemmed the bleeding. Looking back, he noticed Azaz was holding the pen. Its tip touched scarlet. Blood vanished. The pen drank until full.

Cyrus tilted his head. “That’s it? It uses blood for ink?”

Azaz glared. “It uses blood to transmute ink. One becomes the other. Understand?”

“Sure. Is it like a Qlip then?”

Sighing, Azaz tugged his beard. “Almost there.”

“Hold on…” Cyrus blinked. “That thing is a Qlip?”

Azaz nodded. He lifted the object into sunlight. Green veins became ever-slightly brighter.

“Aren’t smaller Qlips mostly weapons? Can’t imagine fighting with a pen.”

“It’s a Qlip. Not a War Qlip. Either way, this Qlip is a tool like all the others. Understood?”

Cyrus nodded along, hiding his reservations. Azaz was treading close to outright blasphemy.

“So,” Cyrus said, stretching his limbs. “How does it work? Like the others?”

“Like the others. You sacrifice blood or flesh. You add sunlight. Water, perhaps. It transmutes one substance into another. You offer your blood,” Azaz walked to a desk. Grabbing spare parchment, he flicked his wrist. “And it produces ink.”

The paper was graced with a line, thin and blue.

Cyrus pondered the utility. If the pen was truly a Qlip, then it would never decay. It was functionally immortal. Cyrus, however, recognized the obvious—

“Couldn’t you just write with blood at that point?”

“No. Not unless you want suspicions of Shamanism. Furthermore, the exchange involved is unequal. The ink produced is always greater than the blood sacrificed.”

“Right…” Cyrus walked towards a window. Absentmindedly, he grabbed a telescope and began viewing the outer lands. “So. Speaking of sacrifice, how are your preparations going? Found something filling to offer the Sakrain Qlips?”

“Of course!” Azaz snapped. “And what of you? Planning on offering the Chimera?”

Cyrus laughed. “Think I could?”

Azaz grumbled before continuing to test his Qlip. One hand scribbled using the pen. The other adjusted his turban.

When Cyrus was younger, Katerina had told him an assortment of interesting rumors. She claimed Azaz’s turban was hiding goat horns. Or antlers. Or an extra eye. The stories varied greatly but reached similar conclusions. All claimed Azaz was secretly a Beast.

Being close to the end prompted speculation. Cyrus couldn’t help but wonder.

Sunset was fast approaching. From the window, Cyrus spied over the land. He used the telescope to trace the distant horizon of mountains. Nothing caught his interest. Nothing was expected. Sakrain prided itself on its fortifications, its living walls allowing peace despite bordering the remoteness of the jungle. The city was the farthest south among those in Parzath. In turn, Parzath was farthest south of the major countries in the world. The paths leading here were occasionally beset by bandits, but, overall, the area was considered safe. Cyrus shifted his sights from the mountains and began following the river. His mind wandered.

Azaz was muttering behind him. Cyrus grimaced. For all his faults, Cyrus would miss the man.

“Hey, Azaz?”

“Yes?”

“Someone passed out near the river. Looks like they’re bleeding.”

Azaz stomped over and shoved Cyrus aside. Grabbing the telescope, he looked.

A moment of silence passed. Then—

“Alert the guards. And fetch Katerina. I can’t quite tell, but I suspect a runaway.”