The enclave stirred in its strange, muted way. No bells. No horns. Only the scrape of parchment, the hush of whispered incantations, the clatter of weapons in far-off corridors. Allen moved through it like smoke, present but unnoticed unless someone was paying close attention. And some were.
He had returned from the marshland mission late the previous night, dragging the half-dissolved remains of the missing scout. The lizard-beast's acid breath had left its mark in burns and torn leather, but Allen's movements had remained sharp and economical. The beast died with a punctured throat and its innards harvested before the corpse had fully hit the muck. He'd left the site with a pouch of silver, a set of claws, and a deeper scar along his ribs. The Codex paid in silence and silver. That was fine.
Now, he sat at the edge of the same cot, same cracked ceiling, watching the shadows dance across his wall. They still didn't move quite right. Always half a breath behind him. Always stretching in ways they shouldn't. He looked away before they started to writhe.
Allen rose. Time to disappear again.
****
The Low Board bore new postings. Fewer today. Either the enclave was getting cautious, or someone was cleaning up more messes than usual. Allen's eyes skimmed the requests.
>>>Retrieve Ironspore Mushroom (Yellow cap, red spores) from Fungal Grove. Handle with care. Fatal to breathe in. Payment in tinctures.<<<
That one. He plucked it down. Others glanced at him but said nothing.
Behind him, a snort. Low, amused.
"You got a death wish, kid, or just no nose?"
Allen turned, eyes meeting the speaker's. A crooked, wiry man in layered leathers and patched robes leaned against a stone pillar, a scorched glass vial twirling between his fingers. His hair stuck out like lightning had kissed it, and burn marks decorated his gloves like medals.
"You've got two poison pouches and one eyebrow," the man said. "Smells like you've earned both. You bring me back that mushroom in one piece, I'll show you how to make sure the spores don't melt your lungs out. Deal?"
Allen said nothing. Just a nod.
The man grinned wider. "Good lad. Call me Shardu . Don't. Either works."
He turned and vanished into the warren of corridors, leaving behind a lingering scent of burnt sage and copper.
****
Allen left at dawn. Or what passed for it down here. The fungal ridge shimmered in permanent twilight, filtered through miles of stone and thin air. He moved light, as always, shadow blending into ruined archways and twisted roots.
The path narrowed into stone veins choked with sickly moss. Once, a pack of bone-crows passed overhead, clicking their jaws but ignoring him. He spotted the Grove by scent first: a strange metallic tang, sharp and dry.
The Grove was… wrong.
It breathed. Not literally, but the air pulsed around it, trembling. The Ironspore Mushrooms grew in neat lines along the rise of a natural amphitheater—yellow caps, red spores trembling with each passing shift of wind. The ground between them was bare. Nothing lived there. Nothing dared.
Allen crouched low.
One step.
He tested the earth. Loose ash. Good. Absorbs sound.
He began the approach; foot by foot, breath controlled, heartbeat like stone.
He reached the first mushroom and froze. A soft spore cloud rose. He didn't move. Waited a full minute, counting inside his head. Then slipped the sealing jar from his pouch, twisted it open, and carefully ,,,carefully ,,, slid the stalk in. One down. Two more.
He had just sealed the third when the hairs on his neck rose. Not wind. Not spores.
Movement.
He rolled aside just as something heavy hit the space he'd just stood - a blur of skittering legs and a glossy black carapace. Spider-like, but leaner. Faster. Fangs dripped a cloudy venom that hissed where it hit the mushroom spores, igniting them in soft puffs.
Allen drew his blade. No time for showmanship.
The spider lunged.
He ducked under its lunge, spun, and slashed low, carving into its leg joint. The beast shrieked -a thin, glassy sound-and twisted midair, spraying venom. Allen blocked with a broken piece of shale, felt it melt in his fingers. He dropped it and rolled.
Another feint. Then a forward thrust.
The blade punched under its mandible, through soft flesh, into the brain. It spasmed once, limbs jerking in erratic pulses, then stilled.
Allen wiped the blade, cracked open its fang with a rock, and drained the venom into a sealed vial. Took a moment to sever two claws for later. Then he turned back to the mushrooms.
One had broken. He took the other two. Enough.
He moved out the way he came. Footsteps softer now. Breathing steadier.
****
Shardu was waiting when he returned.
"You're alive," the alchemist said, as if mildly disappointed. "Well done. Let me see."
Allen handed over the sealed jar. Shardu sniffed, then opened it slightly, enough to inspect the contents.
"Perfect tension in the stalk. No ruptures. No dead spores. You do have a nose after all."
He waved Allen toward a back room of his lab, past bubbling beakers and singing stones. Laid out a flat sheet of slate. Drew a circle of salt.
"Lesson one," Shardu said, pulling out a small black flask. "This neutralizes Ironspore if you breathe it in. Made from its twin. No, don't ask. Lesson two - if you make a tincture from this mushroom correctly, it cures venom from something called a Widowling Spider."
Allen held up the spider's fang.
Shardu's eyebrows shot up. "You brought me a matching set. You either have astounding luck or a death wish. Either way, I like it."
The next hour passed in fumes and faint burns. Allen watched, memorized. Shardu spoke quickly, but never repeated himself. At the end, Allen walked out with a faint chemical burn on his wrist, a tiny flask of Widowling antidote, and knowledge.
That night, while others gathered in hushed study groups, Allen trained. Footwork. Precision. Ghost-walking. He struck at shadows, refined his stance -not for style, but for silence. Always silence.
On the far balcony above the Spine, the illusionist,Irven watched. Allen didn't look up.
The next morning, a strange mark was left on the wall beside his chamber door. A chalk sigil, vanishing slowly as sunlight touched it from a nearby crystal lantern.
Allen knew what it meant.
Invitation.
Not a trap.
Not yet.
He smirked faintly.
Then got to work sharpening his blades.
****
That evening, after consuming a thin ration and oiling his boots, Allen made his way to the upper training ledges. They were usually empty this time of day. But now?
The illusionist stood at the center of the platform, ringed by small flickers of light- images of himself, flickering in and out, some walking, some standing still.
"Come," the elf said. "You're efficient. But not impossible. Let's test what's real in you."
Allen didn't respond. Just dropped into a stance-loose, quiet, deadly.
The spar was not about power. It was about confusion, motion, rhythm. The illusions flickered in and out, some real, some traps. Allen struck one - it vanished. Spun, ducked, slashed at another-resistance. Flesh. He pressed.
The elf danced back, laughing under his breath. "Good. Very good. You adapt fast."
Allen said nothing. He was already moving again.
****
By the time the spar ended, Allen was winded, sore in places he never knew could be sore, but uninjured. The illusionist had a thin cut along his collarbone.
He touched it, chuckled. "I'm Irvin. Not that you'll use the name."
Allen wiped his blade clean.
"Next time," Irvin said, "you teach me a trick."
He vanished into the dark with a shimmer. Just like that.
Allen stood alone again.
His shadow stretched unnaturally long behind him, splitting faintly at the edges.
He watched it, in thought,always analysing