Chapter 7 - The Alchemist’s Study
The private quarters of Lord Malakor, Grand Treasurer of the realm, were located in the highest tier of the west wing—a suite of rooms known for their opulent furnishings, imported Persian rugs, and absolute, impenetrable security.
At 2:00 AM, the hallway was deserted save for a single drowsy guard nodding off against a marble pillar.
A shadow detached itself from the tapestry alcove. Before the guard could blink, Captain Vance slipped behind him, clamping a heavy leather-gloved hand over his mouth and sweeping his legs out from under him. The guard slumped silently into unconsciousness against the floorboards.
From the shadows behind Vance, Helen stepped out, holding a slender steel pick. She knelt before the massive brass-plated oak door of the treasurer's study, inserted the pick into the intricate keyhole, and wiggled it gently.
Click.
The heavy latch gave way with a satisfying subterranean thud.
They slipped inside, closing the door softly behind them. The room smelled of expensive pipe tobacco, old parchment, and a faint, unmistakable chemical tang—the sharp, bitter scent of almonds.
Helen froze, her nostrils flaring. “He's been working here tonight.”
She moved across the carpeted floor with the silent, practiced grace of a hunting cat, heading straight for the treasurer's massive mahogany writing desk. The drawers were locked, but Vance pried the central locking mechanism open with a sharp dagger blade.
Inside lay bags of gold coin, political blackmail letters, and secret correspondence with foreign mercenaries. But buried at the very bottom, wrapped in a square of black velvet, was a small, lead-lined wooden box.
Helen lifted the box out and set it on the desk. She popped the brass latch.
Inside rested three crystal phials filled with a dark, viscous liquid, alongside a small, heavy silver stamp bearing the unmistakable sigil of the Order of the Crimson Thorn—the very same black rose stamped onto the forged letters.
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“We have them,” Vance breathed, his eyes wide with triumph. “We take this straight to Samuel. Charles and Malakor are finished.”
“No,” Helen said, shaking her head slowly as she examined the phials under the moonlight streaming through the window. “If we take this to Samuel now, Charles will claim we planted it. The council is packed with his sympathizers. They’ll twist the narrative, declare martial law, and execute us both before sunset.”
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“Then what do we do?” Vance demanded. “We can't just leave it here!”
“We don't,” Helen replied, a cold, calculating smile touching her lips. “We let them walk straight into their own trap. Tomorrow at the tribunal, when Charles presents his final case against me, we let him hang himself with his own rope.”
