“What are you?” Orina Kowal’s voice was a low, dangerous rumble, her eyes fixed on Jaskier. The ether-meter in her hand now pulsed with a frantic, internal glow, its readings not just off the charts, but beyond them, a chaotic blur of numbers. One of the Watchmen shifted, a nervous clatter of brass. Jaskier held her gaze, a faint, almost imperceptible tremor running through his left hand. The facade of cheerful ignorance he usually wore felt thin, stretched taut. He had pushed too far, too fast. This wasn’t some petty street brawl; this was a trained Weaver, sensitive to the volatile energies of Brzezina, staring at the raw manifestation of his power. He managed a slight, apologetic shrug.
“A bit of a mess, I suppose,” he offered, his voice remarkably even. “These gentlemen… they were rather insistent about discussing my family’s future. Unpleasant business.” He gestured vaguely at the prone figures, some stirring with soft groans. Iskra, a shadowy blur, zipped from behind his leg, darting around the unconscious men with an almost playful curiosity before settling back, a tiny, dark silhouette against the gaslight.
Orina didn’t blink. “Insistent enough to warrant an ambient surge that nearly blew out my scanner? The energy signature here… it’s like nothing I’ve ever seen. Clean, but absurdly potent. You handled these men without a single visible scratch, without a spell, without even touching them, from what my Watchmen report.” Her gaze flickered to the Watchmen, who nodded stiffly. “They saw you move. Too fast to track, they said.”
Jaskier allowed a small, disarming smile. “Perhaps a quick hand, Investigator? A bit of luck?” He knew it sounded ludicrous, even to him. His power had flared, a controlled explosion of pure kinetic force that had left the thugs airborne, then unconscious. It was far beyond mere ‘luck’.
“Luck doesn’t leave a residual energy field capable of frying a district’s illumination grid,” Orina countered, her voice hardening. She stepped closer, her keen eyes scanning Jaskier, searching for an tell, a flicker of something. “You’re a Weaver, aren’t you? What school did you attend? What discipline do you practice?”
“No school,” Jaskier replied, a genuine truth, albeit a carefully curated one. “No discipline. Just… managing family affairs.” He tried to project an air of weary responsibility, but inside, a thrill of danger mingled with a cold, calculating assessment. She was good. Too good. He needed to avoid her attention.
[Echoed Steps: 1,217,304]
[New Threshold Achieved: Swift Reflexes LVL 5. Grants enhanced reaction time and perception of high-speed events. Minor boost to agility.]
“Kin matters don’t usually involve leaving a trail of unconscious thugs and a power reading that would register a small earthquake,” Orina pressed, her hand instinctively moving to the hilt of her sidearm. “You’re coming with us, Lord Drozd. We have questions. Many of them.”
Jaskier knew he couldn’t refuse a direct order from the Watch without escalating the situation drastically. And he certainly couldn't simply walk away. Not yet. He had to play the part, maintain the facade. “Of course, Investigator. Happy to assist the Watch in any way I can. Though, I must confess, the thought of sleeping on a Watchhouse cot doesn’t particularly appeal.” He offered another wry smile, a performance he hoped would seem genuine enough to deter further suspicion, at least for now.
The early morning air in the Rynok Square carried the scent of fresh bread and damp stone, a cacophony of vendors hawking their wares. Jaskier moved through the throng, his pace measured, but his internal counter still ticking up. He had spent a grueling few hours at the Watchhouse, charming and deflecting Orina Kowal’s relentless questions, careful to reveal nothing. They had released him, citing lack of evidence, but her eyes had promised future scrutiny. Iskra, hidden in the folds of his coat, occasionally let out a soft, almost inaudible chirp.
He was on his way to the Drozd archives, searching for anything that might explain the late patriarch’s staggering debt. A sharp, almost imperceptible shift rippled through the air against the background hum of the gaslines. Jaskier’s senses screamed, his newly acquired Swift Reflexes kicking in. He saw it before it registered as a threat – a blur of movement from his left, an outstretched hand aiming for his throat.
He reacted instantly, fluidly, pivoting on one foot, bringing his arm up to block. It was a move honed by hundreds of thousands of steps, by the relentless accumulation of raw physical might. His hand connected with something remarkably solid, yet it slid past, a phantom blow. No impact. The attack was not where he expected it to be. The hand had shifted, somehow, *predicted* his evasion. It was already around his neck, fingers like steel clamps.
Jaskier gasped, his vision momentarily blurring. This wasn’t a common thug. This was a Weaver, and one unlike any he had encountered. The man who held him was unremarkable in appearance: plain clothes, average height, eyes that held an unsettling depth. Jaskier did not know the stranger, but he felt the man’s power – cold, precise, utterly devoid of wasted motion.
“You shouldn’t have come back to Brzezina, Drozd,” the stranger whispered, his voice a low rasp, cutting through the market noise like a shard of ice. His grip tightened, not enough to kill, but to convey absolute control. “You are a calamity waiting to happen. A world-ender. I will not let you walk that path again.”
Jaskier thrashed, his immense strength surging. He brought his knee up, aiming for the man’s midsection, a blow that would have shattered stone. But the stranger simply wasn’t there. He dissolved, not into thin air, but into the crowd, a momentary flicker of movement, then gone. Jaskier found himself standing alone, gasping, a searing phantom pain in his throat, the scent of ozone lingering in the air. The market hummed on, oblivious. He had moved with a speed and precision that should have been unassailable, yet he had landed no blow, had been utterly outmaneuvered.
Humiliation burned through him, a cold fire in his gut. His secret power, his overwhelming advantage, had been nullified, not by greater strength, but by unnatural foresight. He had been a puppet, dancing to a tune only his attacker heard. He stood there, trembling with a fury he rarely allowed himself to feel, the system counter in his vision momentarily forgotten.
Later, in the musty, gaslit quiet of the ancestral study, Jaskier poured over ledgers, his frustration a dull ache. The family’s financial records were a labyrinth of obfuscation, designed to confuse. The man he had thought simple had been far more complex. He flipped through pages, his fingers stained with ancient ink, searching for the source of the ruinous debt, for any hint of the conspiracy that had wrecked his line. Hours passed.
Hidden deep within a series of disbursements, disguised as ‘material acquisitions,’ was a recurring payment. Colossal, stretching back years. The recipient wasn’t a bank, nor a known creditor. It was a single name, scrawled in familiar handwriting: ‘Kacper.’ And next to it, a cryptic notation: ‘Volatile Fuel Corruption Research – Project Chimera.’