Tryn could not sleep that night—partly because he'd overslept the day before, and mostly because he'd decided to organize his lab. It started as a search for clues about his missing three days and ended with him scrubbing the table, sorting glassware, and discovering the depressing truth about his housekeeping habits. He found a stale loaf of bread, two potatoes growing roots, and a corner claimed by a family of rats. But not a single clue of these three days.
Is it possible that he slept for three days? - Can any human do that?
Maybe with the right potion in his throat - with that thought, Tryn looked at the table.
The trinket sat on his workbench, mocking him. Tryn had tested it every way he knew—scratches, acid dips, heat resonance. It was undeniably metal, but no metal he'd ever seen. It radiates faint warmth, syncs heat just like steel, and refuses to deform even under hammer blows. When struck, it vibrates like any other strong stone. These are no properties of glass.
He'd never met a material so uncooperative.
By dawn, he gave up and turned his attention to the green liquid—the mysterious potion that had nearly knocked him unconscious the night before. He planned to apply Lemon Breath, a neutralizing draught that dulles sedative properties. If it still puts creatures to sleep afterward, well… the rat family in the corner will find themselves part of scientific progress.
He was cleaning a pipette when a soft thud came from his door. The morning newspaper. And tucked within its pages—an envelope.
Tryn didn't need to open it to know who it was from. The fragrant ink gave it away. Only one man in Rockshire believed letters should smell distinguished.
He slit the letter open while holding the newspaper.
If you are Tryn Frostblade,
If You are an alchemist of no club.
If You are a man appointed by Crawler Padfoot, Head Maintenance Officer of the City Sanitation Department.
Please report to the address below after sunset.
You are required to cleanse an unpleasant and persistent odor. Be advised: the odor is unusually clingy. Prepare a strong air cleanser.
Pinewood House, Ulrich Road
(Opposite the Hubré Abbey)
Empowered by
Crawler Padfoot
City Sanitation Department
Tryn raised an eyebrow. Ulrich Road. That was near the Hades Faction quarter—an area known for its gangs, gypsies, and convenient stabbings.
The Rockshire authorities loved to call this place the heart of the capital. In truth, it was more like the intestines—indispensable, foul, and usually ignored. The King's palace gleamed in the Roseland, while the lowtowns drowned in soot and cheap gin.
And now, apparently, someone in lowtown has an odor worth official attention. That is new. City Sanitation rarely cares when half the sewers overflowed; yet today they want to hire an alchemist to clean the air?
Tryn leaned back in his chair. "Interesting priorities"
He went to the stove and made himself tea—the Charamal flower blend his mother always sent from home. The dried petals were dull brown at first, unremarkable. But when dropped into boiling water, they transform. The liquid shifts color from earthy brown to a bright, luminous purple, blooming like the flower.
As a child, Tryn used to sit by his mother's elbow and watch the miracle unfold.
"That's what alchemy can do, Tryn," she'd say, her smile soft and tired. "Turn the ordinary beautiful—for a little while."
The tea steamed violet in his cup as he sat by the tall window, the morning light cutting across his face. One of the twelve glass panes was red; the others clear. It cast a strange patch of crimson over his hands, as if the sun itself was bleeding, just in the middle, where the heart lies in men. This has always intrigued him.
He unfolded the newspaper.
Fires at Lorrin Market. Three cobbler boys died from smoke inhalation.
Murder at the Peddler's Abbey. Widow of an ex-military wizard slain by her daughter-in-law.
Disturbance at Rillwater Docks. A crate burst open, revealing a moving brass automaton. The Guild denies ownership.
Sir Nigel appoints a new canelor to the University of Rockshire - after three decades.
Body Found Beneath the Clock Spire. Heart missing. Identity unknown.
Explosion at Brasspoint Foundry. Four workers injured after alchemical residue ignited in the furnace.
Green Fire Over Hubré Abbey. Witnesses report humming lights last night. Abbey sealed by the Watch.
"Green fire," Tryn murmured. "Now that's new."
He took a slow sip of tea, mind already connecting dots. The Hubré Abbey again. The same place mentioned in Crawler's letter.
Coincidence? He doubted it.
Only magic burns green—alchemy can't do it without expensive reagents, and even then, not cleanly. And after the Great Mage War, magic is restricted to the licensed users only. Guilds do not take kindly to violations.
So why was City Sanitation suddenly involved?
Tryn smirked faintly. "An odor. Sure, Crawler. Odor."
He set the empty cup down, the faint scent of Charamal still clinging to the air. The light had shifted; the city outside was waking. Somewhere, a street piper is playing some country music of the river folks.
Tryn rose from the chair, already planning his day.
Before sunset, he'd need to brew a batch of Aerocleanser—paper straws laced with neutralizing salts and fragrant powders. When lit, they'd smoke like incense, absorbing the essence of the air and devouring any clinging miasma..
He glanced once more at the letter on the table.
"Pinewood House," he muttered. "Let's see what sort of stink the city wants scrubbed clean."
Outside, the wind rattled the red glass pane, casting streaks of bloodlight across the alchemist's desk.
Tryn rose from his chair, the empty teacup cooling in his hand. He rinsed it clean, placed it upside down on the counter, and turned toward the workbench.
Time to make the aerocleanser.
He cleared the table with methodical precision—vials in one row, papers stacked, burners checked. The air smelled faintly of oil, parchment, and morning dust.
From a drawer, he drew out a bundle of pale strips—paper straws, thin and hollow, made from pulp laced with salt of camphor and feather ash. When lit, they burned slow and steady, drawing fragrance from the air like a wick pulling oil.
He began grinding the base mixture—chalk dust, lemon oil, and crushed sage-pearl moss—each ingredient measured by instinct more than scale. A few drops of ether tincture hissed as they met the powder, releasing a curl of minty vapor.
"Fragrance," he muttered, stirring, "Just the essence that fools the nose into feeling something." He smirked at his own thoughts.
The mixture thickened into a silvery paste. He smeared it onto the paper strips, rolled them one by one, then set them aside to dry.
For the enhancer fuel—a backup in case the odor was truly stubborn—he poured a thin line of burning spirit into a glass vial and mixed it in powdered amber. It shimmered gold like trapped sunlight.
By the time the last straw dried, the day had already slipped toward noon.