Sicarius crouched low on the slanted roof across from the artificer’s ramshackle storefront, her weight perfectly balanced on the balls of her feet. From this vantage, she could see everything that mattered. The narrow street, the rusted sign, the stray dog gnawing whatever horror it had found, and most importantly, the front door Emil Braxtown had just vanished through.
She touched the thin silver rune on her wrist.
“Control, be advised,” she murmured, voice the same calm monotone she always used in the field. “Target has entered the artificer shop at the end of Foundry Row. The… questionable one.”
A pause.
The rune vibrated with a simple acknowledgment.
Sica exhaled slowly.
“Will monitor perimeter,” she said. “I have a clear view through the front facing window. No evidence of other contacts at…”
A flare of mana hit her vision like a slap.
Her entire body snapped rigid.
A single glowing glyph, blinding white, sharp edged, unmistakably hostile, detonated in her line of sight.
No sound.
No warning.
Just a sudden, searing burst of spellcraft that struck her square in the irises.
She hissed as her body was magically rooted in place.
A ward. A powerful one. In that moment she had been identified, marked, and completely stunned.
Breaking from her condition took longer than she had liked. She was clearly spotted as she could see the magical flare that covered her body. Sica, now finally able to move, rolled to break line of sight, putting a chimney and a roofline between herself and the storefront.
Her wrist rune was buzzing frantically.
She pressed her fingers to it.
“Control. I’ve been exposed…”
Her words vanished into dead silence.
Her secure channel wasn’t jammed.
It wasn’t intercepted.
It wasn’t overloaded.
It was gone.
Cut off like someone had uninvented communication itself.
She cautiously peeked back toward the shop, testing her enchanted vision, normally able to pierce thin walls, curtains, even low-grade illusions.
Nothing.
The artificer’s wards were hardened, reinforced, and layered with at least three anti-scry matrices. She couldn’t see the mana flow. She couldn’t pick up the heat signatures. She couldn’t even see through the very normal looking front window; to her senses it now might as well have been ten feet of solid stone.
The inside of the workshop was completely gone from her awareness.
Sica felt her pulse spike.
“Control,” she whispered, trying the wrist rune again. “Control, this is Sica, I’ve…”
A sharp shock pulsed through her wrist.
“I’m going to need you to chill out for a bit, please,” an unfamiliar male voice sang through her rune.
She froze.
“Take a load off, unplug, eat a snack or something, Sica. System knows you probably need it.”
She did not like that this man now knew her name, even the alias that it was.
That was enough.
Sica ripped the rune off her wrist and stuffed it into an enchanted mesh pouch, a magical signal blocking bag intended for these exact situations, and bolted. She sprinted low across the rooftops, down into the alleys, then beelined for the Rogue Guild.
Whoever was inside that shop wasn’t just competent.
He was a monster.
Something was brewing in there.
And it was big.
…
Inside the warded workshop, the world felt very far away.
“Hot cocoa?” Calder offered, piloting multiple wall mounted arms that were managing tools, various machine components, ward tuning, and apparently a hot chocolate machine.
“You said this next part was dangerous,” Emil said shakily.
“That’s why we should keep a level head,” Calder explained, using one of the metal arms to lift his own mug to his mouth.
He set the steaming mug down with a soft clink, then rolled his shoulders as the many arms consolidated themselves around the workbench like a mechanical halo.
“Alright, you two,” he said, tone suddenly clinical. “Get ready. We don’t want any funny business.”
Emil’s face hardened.
Luna had been waiting so long for this moment, she was absolutely buzzing.
Several of the mechanical arms produced instruments that looked like they belonged in a shop that did both surgery and cart repair.
Calder pointed at the old concentrator, now fully prepped for the transfer.
“This device,” he said, tapping it lightly, “is built to hold a soul. To bind it. Anchor it. Clip its wings and strap it to a mana cycle.”
He gestured to the new mobile shell beside it, a sleek metal alloy cylinder the size of a roll of iron coins, absolutely covered in etched runes, shining plating, and a graceful float ring wrapping around its middle.
“And this one is built to maximize freedom.”
Luna sent a ripple of excitement and fear through her link to Emil.
Emil placed both hands on her old casing.
“You’ll be okay,” he said. “I have complete faith in this man.” The shaking in Emil's joints and voice said otherwise.
“Good,” Calder said, taking the support. With a spare arm, he flipped a switch that dimmed the light. “Now don’t move, don’t let go, and under no circumstances should you think about any unresolved emotional trauma unless you want to become some kind of wandering vengeful spirit.”
“WHAT DO…” Emil began.
Too late.
Calder slammed a bony palm onto the rune plate.
The workshop hummed.
A low, rising frequency vibrated in Emil’s bones, making the runes across both devices flare to life.
He felt Luna’s mana surge, bright, frantic, alive.
A thin, shimmering thread of white gold energy curled upward from the original concentrator, like water shaped by a master water mage.
“That’s her soul link,” Calder narrated. “Don’t touch it. Don’t sneeze at it. Don’t think near it.”
Emil tried to blank his mind. Impossible at the moment though as he had a storm of thoughts that could be summed up as extreme worry over his friend.
The soul thread stretched, thickened, pulsed.
Luna’s voice flickered like a candle.
“Emil…?”
“I’m here, Luna,” he whispered. “You got this.”
The energy wavered, hesitated, then shot toward the new casing, drawn into the open conduction lattice Calder had pried apart like a sparkling ribcage.
When it touched down…
Luna screamed.
Not in pain.
Not in fear.
In relief.
A rushing torrent of mana raced through the workshop, rattling shelves, flickering lights, and triggering every protective ward Calder had set.
Her entire presence surged into the new shell at once, too fast, too bright, like a river finally breaking a dam.
The mobile casing glowed from within, runes igniting in sequence.
A chime rang in Emil’s head.
Luna Caine
Class: Concentrator
Level: 8
Mana: 0 / 80
Regen: 1.2 mana/sec
Bound to Evolved Concentrator Lvl. 1
Note:
This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it
– You can move while linked.
– You can cast spells while linked.
– You can attack while linked.
Emil inhaled in relief.
Calder grinned.
The new shell levitated a few inches off the bench, unsteady at first, then slowly, the float-ring stabilizing with a soft hum.
Then…
Wisps of energy flowed steadily out of the tiny, intentional gaps in the honeycomb lattice that cradled Luna’s metaphysical form inside the small metal cylinder.
Luna’s voice burst out:
“Snack holes!!”
Emil laughed, shaky, half sobbing with adrenaline.
Calder wiped sweat from his brow. “My finest work.”
The new Luna shell hovered, twisting like a dog shaking off water.
“This is AMAZING. Emil. EMIL. I CAN SEE. I CAN TURN. I CAN WIGGLE. I—”
She spun too fast.
The float ring clipped a toolbox.
The toolbox flipped and crashed into a stack of rune plates that toppled into the lightning jar, which began vibrating ominously.
“CALDER,” Emil yelped, bracing for an explosion.
Calder sighed. “Yes, yes, she’ll need practice.” He plucked up the jar and tossed it casually somewhere into the back of the workshop.
Luna steadied herself, glowing with pride.
“I’m on the loose, bitches!”
Calder saluted her with his cocoa mug.
“Welcome to the world, miss.”
Emil brushed trembling fingers over the warm alloy of her new casing.
“I’m so glad you’re out,” he whispered.
Luna quieted. Just for a moment.
“…Me too,” she said softly. “I can now say with confidence that you don’t look half bad, Emil.”
Calder clapped once. “Welp, you don’t have to go home, but you can’t stay here. It’s spicy mango margarita night and I’m late!”
…
Sica arrived at one of the many hidden entrances to the Rogue Guild, a prop oven in the back room of a trusted bakery.
Scrunched up on all fours, she found and activated the concealed rune that opened the back panel of the oven leading to the hidden corridor that allowed her to stand and continue her mad dash.
She descended into the underlevels of the city like a stone launched down a dark infinite hallway.
Her handlers were already waiting.
Two figures stood in the briefing chamber:
Handler Myris, a thin woman in a long coat, arms crossed, expression cold enough to chip stone.
Handler Brann, bulkier, masked, silent, reading a stack of papers with bored menace.
They both looked up as Sica entered.
Myris’s eyes narrowed. “Report.”
Sica started her debrief by offering the compromised wrist rune, still sealed in its enchanted mesh bag.
Brann whistled. “That was made to hold up to a mana surge from a strong Level 20.”
“I was completely cut off from the shop when the artificer noticed me,” Sica said matter of factly.
Brann straightened and presented a file to his companion. “Calder Mojid.”
Myris stopped breathing for a full second.
“…He’s alive?” Myris finally asked.
“Alive,” Sica confirmed, not yet knowing the significance of the name. “and powerful. He saw me.”
Brann cursed under his breath.
Myris turned away, muttering a sharp string of profanity.
“He didn’t engage?” she asked.
“No,” Sica said. “He mocked me through my own rune. Told me to ‘chill out’ and ‘eat a snack’.”
Brann coughed then went stiff under Myris’s glare.
“What was your last clear visual of the target?” Myris pressed.
Sica recounted her view from the rooftop:
“Emil Braxtown entered the shop carrying the device in a satchel. It was active. Erratic. Growing stronger.”
“Leveling?” Brann asked.
Sica nodded once. “Almost certainly.”
Myris closed her eyes.
“Of all the artificers he could’ve gone to…” she murmured darkly.
Sica continued, “Before I lost visibility, I saw no other hostiles. No secondary contacts. Once Calder’s wards engaged, I was completely shut out. No scry. No thermal. No mana reads. Nothing.”
She swallowed.
“I was no longer able to contact you so I returned as fast as I could.”
Myris tapped her fingers against her thigh.
“That shop has been left untouched for a reason. We do not cross war artificers.”
Sica bristled. She could only imagine the trouble that was to come. Emil had supposedly just handed over living explosive to an explosives expert.
“The boy has certainly gotten himself into trouble,” Myris said flatly. “The question is whether he understands the scale of the crimes.”
Brann continued to flip through the dossier he’d been scrawling in.
“Well,” he drawled. “His father will.”
Sica blinked.
She knew all about Darius Braxtown. Hell, the town was named after the family…or the other way around, depending on who you asked.
Brann clutched the folder tightly before looking up to the others around him.
“Alright,” he said. “That’s good enough for an initial report.”
Sica stiffened. “You’re informing him now?”
“Yes,” Myris said. “The sooner the better.”
Brann held the final page in the folder up for Sica to read.
“Target summary:
Name: Emil Braxtown.
Occupation: Warehouse technician.
Activity: Possession of illegal concentrator.
Status: Device is leveling.
Complication: Calder Mojid confirmed active.”
He turned to Sica.
“Anything else?”
Sica hesitated.
Just for a breath.
“…The entity inside the concentrator. I believe it could be sapient.”
Both handlers froze.
Myris’s eyes sharpened to razors.
Brann’s stylus snapped between his fingers.
“Are you certain?” Myris asked quietly.
Sica nodded. “The mana signature. The response patterns between it and Emil. The emotional resonance he seems to exhibit. It is more likely than not self aware.”
There was a long, heavy silence.
Brann exhaled. “I will add a note of “Possible sapience” because I trust your senses, but we can’t make a definitive claim without more information.”
Myris closed the dossier with soft finality whisking it away from Brann's hands and Sica’s gaze.
“Good work, Sicarius,” she said. “Go home. Rest. You’ll be reassigned tomorrow.”
Sica blinked. “Reassigned?”
“Yes,” Myris confirmed. “As of this moment, this assignment is to be remeasured.”
Sica opened her mouth almost deciding to argue, but remembered her station before she could make a mistake.
“Understood.”
A new fear prickled beneath her skin.
She needed to be far away from the city when the real action started.
…
Darius Braxtown was not sleeping this night.
His main office, three floors above the Guild Hall, windowless by design, was lit only by a single hovering glyph lamp. The shadows were long. The wood paneled walls swallowed sound. The air tasted of ink, paper, and the faint, ever present ozone that clung to all high ranking magi.
The thick door creaked open.
Myris entered first.
Brann followed, silently placing a rune sealed folder on Darius’s desk as if delivering a live explosive.
Darius didn’t look up from his paperwork at first.
Only when he finished signing the current document did he finally raise his eyes.
Cold. Measured. Pale gray like ash.
Myris bowed her head. “We have the full write up here for you, sir.”
Darius scooped up the folder and cracked the seal with a flick of one manicured finger. Runes rippled across the pages as he skimmed at an inhuman pace.
The room grew very still.
Finally…
He exhaled.
Not sharply. Not in anger.
In something far worse,
Resigned disappointment.
He set the collection of documents down with precise care, tapping the stack with a long finger for an eternity before making his statement.
“For the protection of the city,” he breathed, each word falling like a stone into deep water, “and for the protection of the Guild, my son cannot be allowed to proceed.”
The air in the room chilled.
Brann spoke carefully. “Do you intend termination of the device, sir… or the boy?”
Darius didn’t blink.
“The device will likely resist destruction if it has been modified by the artificer. Mojid has no doubt shielded it well. The safest method is to stop the operator.”
He paused.
“Permanently.”
Myris nodded once. There was no hesitation, she had arranged dozens of such contracts before.
“I will prepare the contract,” Brann said.
“Good,” Darius replied. “I expect it carried out quietly and cleanly. No collateral, no spectacle.”
He picked up his quill again.
“And ensure the assassin assigned is informed that Emil is not to suffer. He is to be ended before things get even more out of hand.”
It was the closest thing to kindness Darius Braxtown had ever displayed.
“Yes, sir,” they both said.
“You are dismissed.”
Myris and Brann bowed deeply and exited the office.
The door sealed behind them with a soft, final click.
Darius continued signing paperwork, unmoved, as though he had not just ordered the death of his firstborn son. The muscles in his neck twitched unconsciously in the direction of the prominently hung family portrait, but Darius’ eyes never left his work.
…
Sica stood at rigid attention in another of the Rogue Guild’s underlevel briefing chambers.
She had slept only in the barest technical sense. She had filed a petition for her reassignment to be far away from this city. Her bug out bag was always packed and ready to be scooped up in a moment's notice. She just needed official clearance to leave town before Calder Mojid decided to peel back his shop wards and hunt down the spy he’d caught peeping.
Myris entered, brisk and unreadable.
“You wished to see me?” Sica asked.
“Your reassignment has been expedited,” Myris said.
Sica allowed herself a small breath of relief. “Thank you. I will leave at first light.”
“You misunderstand.”
Myris clasped her hands behind her back.
“Your request for an assignment out of the city has been considered, but ultimately denied. The target is local.”
A cold weight dropped through Sica’s stomach.
“…Who is the target?”
Brann stepped out of the shadows.
His expression was neutral.
His movements procedural.
He unsealed a rolled ledger and held it out for her to take.
The ink shimmered like fresh blood.
Sica read the name.
EMIL BRAXTOWN — TERMINATION ORDER
Authority: Darius Braxtown
Reason: Protection of the Guild
Her breath stopped.
“I thought this matter had been escalated,” she said.
“It was,” Myris replied. “The client has escalated to termination of the target.”
Brann added, “You know his movements. His habits. You can complete the contract quickly and cleanly.”
Sica’s jaw tightened.
A job was a job.
And this contract was as legitimate, and as inevitable, as they came.
She bowed her head.
“Understood.”
She triggered the self destruct rune on the parchment. The paper burst into ashes that dissolved before ever touching the ground.
She then turned and walked out of the room before anyone could notice the slight tremor in her hands.
…
Sica walked out of the underlevels feeling like her ribs were wrapped in cold iron.
Her steps were measured, her breathing steady despite her tangle of thoughts.
Emil Braxtown.
She replayed the rooftop glimpse of him standing beside a Level 32 war artificer like it was nothing. The way she’d felt utterly, completely outclassed the moment Calder’s wards had snapped shut.
The contraband concentrator and the soul inside it now likely primed for disaster.
This job had high stakes. At least the pay would be good.
She channeled her nerves into resuming what she had been doing the last few days. Tracking Emil, but when she found him she would no longer just be observing.
