Voshari’s usually impassive face was a canvas of tight lines. He nodded, a slow, deliberate movement. “Jendox,” he rasped, soot clinging to his collar. “He knows the city’s wards better than anyone. He can identify the strain, or tell us if it truly breached our forge’s shielding.” I didn’t need to be told. The thought had already solidified into a cold, hard knot in my gut. Jendox, my kindly, venerable mentor, the man who had nursed me through my own two-year convalescence from what he’d called an ‘uncommon crystalline fever.’ He was the first name that sprang to mind, not out of suspicion, but out of a desperate need for answers. And underneath that, a cold prick of suspicion. “Pack the shard,” I ordered, already moving towards the forge’s outer door. “We’re not waiting. We’re going to his spire now.” The ascent to the Aetherium Spire, Jendox’s personal observatory-cum-laboratory, was always a journey. The spiraling ramps, inlaid with glimmering tesserae, wound around a central column of raw aetherium that hummed with stored energy, lifting us higher and higher above the soot-stained clamor of the Crystal Forges. From this height, Opherix spread out in glowing canal-lines and kiln domes, all capped by the city’s vast ward-dome. Today, that dome looked less like a protective shell and more like a fragile bubble. Jendox’s reception chamber was a vast circular space, all polished obsidian and etched brass, bathed in the soft, diffused light filtering through crystalline skylights. He stood by a complex astrolabe, a figure of serene concentration, his steel-gray hair pulled back neatly, his spectacles perched on the bridge of his nose. He turned as we entered, a warm smile blossoming on his face, the picture of an affable patriarch. “Shavara, my dear! And Voshari, a rare pleasure,” Jendox’s voice was a comforting balm, smooth as polished glass. He moved with an unhurried grace, extending a hand to me, his gaze lingering on the faint char-marks on Voshari’s arm. “What brings you two formidable artisans to my humble aerie? And what, pray tell, happened to your arm, Voshari? Looks like a rather unfortunate encounter with a rogue kiln-spirit.” I held out the blighted shard. It gleamed sickly green in the pale light, the mineral crust a stark contrast to the obsidian table. “It wasn’t a kiln-spirit, Jendox. It was a corrupted viper, animated during a duel. And this grime on the flank is what drove it mad. We found it in Voshari’s forge.” Jendox’s smile wavered, replaced by a look of grave concern. He picked up the shard with a pair of delicate iron tongs, his movements precise. He held it to the light, turning it slowly. “A feral construct in the Heart-Forge district? Impossible. The wards… they are absolute.” His brow furrowed. “And this powder… it’s an unusual composition.” “Curious how?” Voshari asked, his voice rough. He stood a little behind me, a silent, imposing shadow, his eyes fixed on Jendox with an intensity that made the air crackle. He clearly didn’t trust Jendox as implicitly as I once had. Jendox peered at the shard, then brought a small, intricate loupe to his eye. “The vitric lattice… it exhibits a remarkably stable molecular structure for induced rot. Most wild flares are chaotic, ephemeral. But this… this possesses an almost *designed* stability. And the phosphorescent traces, while minute, suggest a catalyzing agent, a blend of terracite dust and refined hydrargyrum. Highly unusual.” My throat tightened. *Terracite dust and refined hydrargyrum.* My own ‘crystalline fever’ had been accompanied by a metallic tang in my mouth, a persistent, sickly sweet odor. Jendox had told me it was a rare mineral deficiency, easily remedied. He had prescribed a daily draught, a thick, sweet syrup that had worked wonders. He had never once mentioned terracite or hydrargyrum. How would he know the precise components of an artificial contagion if he hadn’t… if he hadn’t *made* it? The thought was a venomous coil in my stomach. “You seem very familiar with its composition, Jendox,” I said, my voice carefully neutral, masking the sudden, terrifying shift in my perspective. “Have you encountered such a ‘designed stability’ before?” Jendox lowered the loupe, his expression returning to his usual benevolent concern. He placed the shard gently back on the table. “Ah, merely academic speculation, my dear. I’ve read countless treatises on the theoretical manipulation of feral sparks, of course. My early research, before I shifted my focus to ward-theory. This particular combination… it’s an obscure hypothesis, championed by a reclusive sage from the Sunken Isles. I merely recall his odd theories.” He attempted a dismissive wave of his hand, but the movement was just a fraction too stiff. “Reclusive sage,” Voshari echoed, his tone flat. “Or a very resourceful one.” Jendox chuckled, a forced, light sound. “Indeed. But I assure you, such an operation would require facilities far beyond the scope of a simple forge. I recommend you leave this shard with me, Shavara. I have a more advanced spectroscope, I can conduct a full analysis. For your safety, of course. Such rot can be insidious.” He reached for the shard again, his fingers hovering over it. “No,” I said, covering the shard with my hand, a gesture both protective and defiant. “We’ll keep it. We’re… conducting our own analysis. Thank you for your insight, Jendox. It has been most… enlightening.” We departed the Aetherium Spire shortly after, leaving Jendox with a faint, uneasy smile. The descent felt heavier, the city below no longer an intricate web of light, but a cage. The kind, venerable mentor, the man who had saved my life, was now a potential architect of the city’s doom. The realization landed like a block of ice in my chest. Back at my forge, the air was thick with the lingering smell of ozone and burnt glass. Voshari had retreated to his workshop, leaving a taut silence across the corridor. I was sketching preliminary designs for the dragon’s head, trying to channel my churning thoughts into something productive, when a shadow fell across my drafting table. “Lost something, Kethran?” I asked without looking up, assuming my ex-fiancé had crept back to grovel or demand an apology. My pen scratched across the parchment, drawing a fierce, serpentine eye. “Not Kethran. And no, Shavara, I haven’t lost anything. I’ve come to help you find something.” The voice was smooth, confident, and utterly devoid of the simpering meekness I had come to associate with it. I looked up. Ninza stood there, no longer in the demure, tear-stained gowns Kethran favored, but in practical, tailored breeches and a fitted tunic, her dark hair pulled back in a severe, elegant braid. Her eyes, which had once seemed so wide and innocent, now held a sharp, calculating glint. She was beautiful, ruthless, and entirely in control. “To what do I owe the pleasure, Ninza? Come to gloat about Kethran’s eternally regretful tears?” I leaned back in my chair, a sardonic smile playing on my lips. “Or did you come to offer me a spot in your newfound stable of fawning fools?” Ninza gave a genuine, unburdened laugh. It was a rich, throaty sound that surprised me. “Oh, Shavara, you wound me. I’m here to offer you a proposition. One that will line your coffers and stick Kethran Vael squarely in the financial abyss he so richly deserves.” My smile didn’t falter. “Go on. My interest is piqued. Though I warn you, my asking price for Kethran’s suffering is quite steep.” “Kethran has, in his profound idiocy, given me access to his family’s private vaults. He believes I require… comfort items, after my recent ‘ordeal’ with your public humiliation of him.” Ninza’s lips curved into a predatory smile. “I, on the other hand, believe his family’s collection of ‘priceless’ Vitromancy heirlooms could use a fresh appraisal. A significantly *lower* appraisal. If you, in your esteemed capacity as a master Vitromancer, were to provide said official documents, attesting to their… diminished artistic value, I would be happy to share a substantial portion of the subsequent profits with you. Say, a forty percent cut of everything I manage to liquidate before he realizes what’s happening.” My eyes narrowed, but a slow, wicked grin spread across my face. This was precisely the kind of deliciously petty vengeance I appreciated. Ninza was not just a stand-in; she was a force of nature. “Forty percent, you say? And what’s in it for you, besides the pleasure of Kethran’s financial ruin?” “The entirety of the Vael family vaults, eventually. And the exquisite satisfaction of knowing I’ve outsmarted Opherix’s most self-important imbecile.” She extended a hand, her gaze steady. “So, Master Denth? Do we have a deal?” I was about to grasp her hand, the ink still wet on my dragon sketches, a glorious, scandalous partnership about to be forged, when the entire forge shuddered. A low, resonant *CRACK* echoed through the heavy glass walls, a sound that vibrated deep in my bones. It wasn’t a kiln exploding, or an earthquake. It was a higher, glassy shriek, like a cathedral bell shattering. Above us, through the skylights, the vast, shimmering ward-dome of Opherix split, a jagged fissure spreading across its surface directly above our sector. A localized, iridescent green light pulsed through the rupture, pouring down into the streets like petrifying rain. The Blight-storm had come.

The Mentor's Slip