Chapter 16

  “Do you—do you want money?” Markus blurted out, voice high and trembling with panic. He fumbled for a coin pouch beneath his pillow and actually pulled it out.

  “What?” Vin blinked, clearly thrown off. “Why would we want your money?”

  Markus stared at her as if the question were absurd. “To—to keep quiet! So you won’t turn me in to the Inquisition! H–Here!” he stammered, shoving a small leather pouch into her hands. It jingled heavily, and from the weight alone, it had to contain at least three hundred bronze coins.

  The man was in full panic mode. His hands shook, his eyes darted toward every exit like a cornered animal. He wasn’t thinking straight.

  “Easy,” I said softly, stepping closer. My voice was low, calm—meant to soothe. “It’s alright.”

  He backed away from me until his spine met the bookshelf behind him, books rattling slightly. His breathing was shallow, rapid, bordering on hyperventilation.

  “Easy,” I repeated, slower this time. I raised a gloved hand and placed two fingers gently on his forehead. “Let me help you.”

  I whispered a short incantation under my breath. A mental pacification spell—one of the few spells in my repertoire that didn’t rely on a blade. It didn’t look like much from the outside. No flash of light, no spark, no aura. But after a few seconds, the change in Markus was visible.

  His shoulders relaxed. The terror in his eyes dulled to confusion, and then softened into something like tranquility. His hands fell limply to his sides. His chest stopped heaving.

  He was calm. Almost blissfully so.

  I had probably underestimated this spell in the past. Might’ve saved myself a few broken chairs in tavern brawls if I’d used it sooner. Still—better late than never.

  Simon, catching the moment, stepped forward with a crooked grin and slung an arm casually around Markus’ shoulders like they were old friends. I took Markus gently by the wrist and guided him toward the bed. He followed, docile, no longer resisting.

  The absurdity of the scene must have hit Maira full-force, because I could hear her laughing behind us—quietly at first, then barely suppressing a snort of amusement. Even Vin raised an eyebrow, though she seemed more focused on whispering something quietly to Markus as he sat down.

  Once the man was seated on the edge of the bed—still dazed but stable—Simon leaned back against the wall with practiced ease, arms folded. Vin perched beside Markus, speaking to him in a tone somewhere between gentle and probing. Maira stood at the back of the room now, her smirk slowly fading into quiet observation.

  I pulled the nearest chair over from the alchemy table, took my helmet off and take a seat.

  And then, finally, the interrogation began.

  -

  Oddly enough, it was Markus who started the interrogation—if one could call it that.

  Before I could speak a single word, he looked up at us, eyes hollow and trembling. “You want to know if I killed my son, don’t you?” he asked, his voice thin and shaking. “If I was the Ice Wraith... right?”

  His body began to tremble again, more subtly this time—like someone bracing for a blow they believed they deserved. Vin gently reached out and placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder.

  Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

  “Easy,” she whispered, and the tension in him slowly eased again.

  We didn’t need to speak. All of us answered his question with a solemn, unified nod.

  “Yes,” he whispered, finally. “It was me.”

  He swallowed hard, the confession like broken glass in his throat. “And yes... I fought you last night, in the storeroom. I remember the cold... and then nothing.”

  “I mean,” I said, shrugging slightly, “no hard feelings.”

  Simon, ever the scholar, leaned forward with quill and parchment in hand, his voice steady and inquisitive. “Did you act of your own will during the transformation? Were you aware of your thoughts? Did you see anything? Feel anything—while you were the Ice Wraith?”

  Markus shook his head slowly. “No,” he murmured. “There’s... nothing. Both nights are blank.”

  Maira, standing at the side with furrowed brow, tilted her head slightly. “Then how do you know it was you?”

  He drew a deep breath, as if the answer itself was difficult to hold inside. “Because... because I felt the change,” he said hoarsely. “Both times. It began with cold. But not ordinary cold. It was deeper than anything I’ve ever felt—like the world itself had turned to ice.”

  He closed his eyes as if reliving the sensation. “I felt something cover me. Like a white layer, crawling over my skin... a second shell. Smooth, freezing, suffocating. Like I was being wrapped in frost from the inside out. I couldn’t breathe, couldn’t move.”

  His voice trembled. “And then... everything went hazy. Just flashes. Darkness. Silence. And then I’d wake up again, lying in my bed as if nothing had happened.”

  Then he looked at me.

  Really looked.

  His eyes locked with mine—wide, sunken, terrified. There was something almost unnatural in them, something raw and pleading that made my gut twist.

  And then his lips quivered, and he choked out, “Please... help me.”

  His voice broke on the last word, barely more than a whisper.

  “We can help you,” Simon said calmly, stepping slightly forward. “But I need you not to panic when I explain what’s going on.”

  Markus tensed again, his fingers twitching near the hem of his shirt. Simon cleared his throat and continued, his voice taking on that patient, professorial tone he always used when he was explaining something complicated.

  “You’ve been turned into a slave—unwillingly—by Crytomancers who are operating from within this very inn. Or so it appears from the information we’ve gathered,” he added quickly. “They’ve used you, twisted you into doing their dirty work for them.” Then he frowned faintly and muttered, “Pardon the phrase.”

  Markus’s face turned pale. “And how... how can you help me?” he asked, voice cracking.

  Simon gave a sympathetic nod and continued, his hands moving slightly as if drawing invisible diagrams in the air.

  “That depends entirely on the kind of link that’s been established between you and the Crytomancers,” he said. “What I suspect is that they’re using a standard binding ritual—one that allows them to manipulate a host. A person. In this case, you.”

  He glanced at the rest of us, then back to Markus. “The key detail is that this kind of transformation requires some level of soul tethering—nothing damaging, nothing that scars the spirit, but the soul is used as an anchor. A foundation. A doorway.”

  Markus looked like he didn’t quite understand, but he was trying.

  Simon continued, more carefully now: “Such a bond can only be broken if the ones controlling you are killed... or if the link is surgically removed from your soul. That’s delicate, dangerous work, and frankly... I’m not qualified to do it.”

  “I wouldn’t dare try either,” Maira chimed in softly, arms crossed, a crease of concern between her brows.

  Simon nodded. “Even a slight mishandling of a soul-thread can have devastating consequences. It’s not like mending flesh or breaking a curse. This is the deepest kind of magic.”

  He was fully in his element now—standing straighter, more confident with every word. “It’s technically possible to resist a connection like this from the inside, but only powerful mages can even attempt that—and from what I gather, that’s not applicable here.”

  Simon’s tone darkened just slightly. “Sometimes, under very rare conditions, you can negotiate with the anchor—the handler—for release. But I highly doubt the Crytomancers we’re dealing with will entertain any kind of... diplomatic discussion.”

  He paused.

  “In conclusion, the only realistic way to end the condition you're in is to kill the Crytomancers who bound you.”

  The words hung in the air like a weight. Markus’s shoulders slumped.

  While Simon was delivering his clinical breakdown of magical enslavement and soul-binding, my thoughts drifted. One idea, stubborn and sharp, kept scratching at the edge of my mind.

  And then I said it aloud. “What if they would?”

  Simon blinked. “Would what?”

  “What if we could negotiate with them?” I asked, louder now, looking around the room.

  Vin raised an eyebrow, clearly caught off guard. “You want to talk to them?”

  I nodded and straightened up a bit. “Just... let me explain.”