The streets of Caldera were a labyrinth of shadow and torchlight, the shops a stark contrast to the chaos of the upper room. Magnus walked side by side with Captain Lyra Blackwood, his steps deliberately unsteady to maintain the illusion of a drunken noble. Each footstep was a calculated act, a mask to conceal the predator within. The cold night air bit into his lungs, sharp and cleansing, cutting through the fog of Magnus's lingering intoxication and the dull ache of his poisoned body.
Magnus questioned, "Where are we going, Captain Lyra?"
Lyra answered, "We're going to the interrogation room for some questions about the recent murder of a merchant. Don't say a word just walk. We'll talk when we reach our destination."
Lyra's steel-clad boots rang against the cobblestone, a metronome of authority. She didn't look back, but Magnus could feel her awareness of him, like a hawk tracking a wounded rabbit. In his mind, Magnus murmured, What a spirited woman. She was no fool. Her instincts were sharp, honed by years of witnessing harrowing things. If he slipped, if he let the assassin's precision show too soon, she'd sense he was more than he seemed. For now, he was content to play the part of a pathetic wastrel.
The watch house loomed ahead, a squat fortress of grey stone perched at the edge of the merchant district. Its iron-bound doors and narrow, barred windows screamed of confinement, of justice dispensed with a heavy hand. Magnus's mind cataloged it instinctively: three visible exits, two on the ground floor, one likely a sally port at the rear. The guard at the entrance was armed with a short sword but not entirely attentive.
Inside, the air was thick with the scent of ink, sweat, and old leather. The main hall buzzed with activity despite the late hour. Clerks scribbled at desks, and guards hauled a cursing thief toward a cell. "Are you going to tell me where Miss Dale's jewelry is or not? TELL!" one guard bellowed.
The prisoner, trembling from the aftermath of torture, cried, "I don't know, sir! Please, I have a wife and children to care for!"
"My God," Magnus exclaimed under his breath.
Lyra led him past the chaos to a small, dimly lit interrogation room. A single wooden table, two chairs, and a flickering oil lamp—no windows, one door. A perfect cage for a lesser man.
"Sit," Lyra ordered, pointing to a chair that looked as though it had borne the weight of a thousand guilty souls.
Magnus complied, letting his body slump with exaggerated exhaustion. His head was straight, his eyes sharp and predatory as he studied her. She stood with her weight balanced, one hand resting lightly on the hilt of her sword, ready to act if he made a move. She leaned against the table, arms crossed, her scar catching the lamplight. "Let's make this quick, Caldryn. Tell me about your argument with Master Torren yesterday. Witnesses say you were screaming about debts, threatening to 'gut him like a pig in a butcher shop.' Sound familiar?"
In his mind, Alex now Magnus thought, What the hell did he do yesterday? I need to act.
He let a flicker of Magnus's petulant tone creep into his voice. "Torren? That miserly old goat? I might've said something in the heat of the moment. I was… not myself." He added a weak, self-deprecating chuckle, letting his hand tremble just enough to sell the act.
"Not yourself," Lyra repeated, her voice flat. "You're never yourself, are you? Always hiding behind wine and your father's name. But this time, your tantrum has consequences. Torren's dead, his ledger's gone, and you're the last person seen threatening him."
Inside, Alex's mind was a storm of calculation. The ledger's theft suggested a motive beyond simple murder. House Caldryn's trade agreements could shift the balance of power in Caldera alliances, tariffs, monopolies. Someone wanted leverage or to bury a secret. The sloppy throat-slit, though, was amateurish. No true assassin would leave such a messy signature. This was either a rushed job or deliberate misdirection.
He leaned back, letting his face settle into a mask of confusion. "Captain, I'm flattered you think I'm capable of murder. Look at me." He gestured to his soft, pale hands, the velvet doublet stained with wine. "Do I look like I could slit a man's throat?"
Lyra's eyes narrowed. "You don't need to wield the blade yourself, Caldryn. Your family's gold buys plenty of sharp edges."
A fair point. House Caldryn's wealth was a weapon in its own right. But the old Magnus would never have had the foresight to hire a killer. He was too busy drowning in his own excesses. Whoever had poisoned this body, however, was methodical. Patient. They'd been weakening Magnus for months, perhaps years, ensuring he'd never be a threat. The question was why.
"I owe Torren money, yes," Magnus said, threading truth into the lie. "But killing him wouldn't solve that. I'm not so foolish as to think my father's coffers are bottomless." He let his voice crack, a touch of the spoiled noble's desperation. "I just wanted him to give me more time."
Lyra studied him, her expression unreadable. "Time," she said slowly, "is something you're running out of. Torren's murder has the merchant guild in an uproar. They're pressuring the Watch to make an arrest. Your name is at the top of their list."
"Then they're wasting their breath," Magnus said, letting a hint of indignation creep in. "I was here, drinking myself stupid, as always. Ask my… friends." He spat the word with just enough venom to sound like his usual self-pity.
Lyra's jaw tightened. "Oh, I will. But your friends are as reliable as a fox in a henhouse. If I find one shred of evidence tying you to this, Caldryn, I'll drag you to the gallows myself."
The threat hung in the air, heavy as the iron chains Magnus could hear clinking in the cells beyond. He met her gaze, letting his eyes soften into Magnus's characteristic cowardice. "I understand, Captain. I'll cooperate. I swear it."
She didn't respond, just pushed off the table and opened the door. "Stay in the city. If you try to run, I'll know."
As she left, Magnus exhaled slowly, his mind already moving to the next step. He was released for now, but Lyra's suspicions were a problem. She was too sharp, too relentless. If she dug too deeply, she might uncover inconsistencies the old Magnus couldn't explain. Worse, the real killer was still out there, and they likely knew more about Magnus's habits than he did.
He rose, his movements still clumsy, and made his way out of the watch house. The guards at the entrance barely spared him a glance, their disdain palpable. To them, he was just the duke's embarrassing son, not worth a second thought. Perfect.
The streets were quieter now, the pre-dawn chill settling over Caldera like a shroud. Magnus moved with purpose, though his body protested every step. He needed a place to think, to plan, to begin the arduous task of purging the poison from his system. His new memories supplied a destination: the Caldryn estate, a sprawling manor on the city's northern edge. It was a risk his family likely despised him, and the household staff would be no better but it was the only place he could find solitude and resources.
As he walked, he let his assassin's senses take over, scanning the shadows. A flicker of movement in an alley caught his eye a cloaked figure, too still to be a drunk or a beggar. Watching him. His instincts screamed threat, but his body was too weak to act. He kept walking, head down, feigning obliviousness. Whoever they were, they didn't strike. Not yet.
The Caldryn estate loomed into view, its high walls and iron gates a fortress of wealth and power. The guards at the gate recognized him, their faces twisting with a mix of pity and contempt as they let him pass. Inside, the manor was a labyrinth of marble corridors and gilded rooms, every surface dripping with opulence. Alex navigated it on instinct, Magnus's memories guiding him to his private quarters a suite that reeked of stale wine and neglect.
He locked the door behind him and collapsed onto a plush bed, his breath ragged. The room was a mess: empty bottles, scattered clothes, a half-finished painting of a woman who looked disturbingly like Elara. He shoved the thought of his betrayer aside. No time for sentiment.
First, the poison. He closed his eyes, focusing inward, searching for the spark of qi that had once burned like a furnace in his old body. It was there, faint but present, an ember buried under years of abuse. He coaxed it, drawing on decades of discipline to guide it through his meridians. The poison was insidious, a slow-acting compound that clung to his organs like tar. Dragon's bane, perhaps, or something similar. He didn't have the tools or time to craft an antidote yet, but he could slow its progress, forcing his body to expel it gradually.
Hours passed in silence, sweat beading on his brow as he worked. By the time the first rays of dawn crept through the window, he felt a fraction stronger, the fog in his mind lifting slightly. It was a start.
A sharp knock at the door shattered his focus. "Lord Magnus!" a voice called, clipped and formal. "Your father requests your presence in the great hall. Immediately."
Magnus's eyes narrowed. Duke Everard Caldryn. A man whose face, even in Magnus's fragmented memories, was a mask of cold disappointment. This was no mere summons. It was a reckoning.
He rose, steadying himself against the bedpost. The game was moving faster than he'd anticipated. The murder, the poison, the watcher in the alley someone was tightening a noose around Magnus Caldryn's neck. And now, his own father was stepping into the fray.
Magnus straightened, smoothing his stained doublet as best he could. The Weakest Young master was about to face its first true test in this new world. He would need every ounce of his old cunning to survive it.
With a grim smile, he opened the door and stepped into the lion's den