Two and I follow One and the Commissioner into the Alchemist's office. Lanterns in the four corners of the room cast a dim glow over her office. The Commissioner stops in the center of a large, woven rug made of concentric, brightly-colored circles. One stands immediately to his right; Two and I stand behind him at the rug’s fringe. On the other side of the rug, behind a sturdy and doubtlessly enchanted cherrywood desk, sits the Chief Executive Officer of Daishen Alchemical Solutions.

The Alchemist smiles and stands up behind her desk. The orc is slightly taller than the Commissioner, although her form is more muscular. Fine crystals embedded in the trim of her dull white coat complement the jagged gray stripes across her green neck and face. The Alchemist tosses her single, dense braid of black hair behind her shoulder. She grins to show more teeth than her two shaved-down tusks.

“I wasn’t expecting you tonight, Maximilian,” she says in a calm, deliberate manner. She glances at Two, then at me. “Especially in such strong company.”

The Commissioner replies with a single nod. One is his consistent protector in each and all of his illicit dealings; its presence is no surprise. To arrive with two more nearly identical constructs should be especially unexpected. If Three, Four, Five, and Fred remain in their positions in and around the building, we should be able to protect the Commissioner from many of the threats we know the Alchemist could launch at us. Still, each of her slightest movements makes me thankful that the Commissioner’s path did not lead him to confront an artificer instead.

The Alchemist spreads her arms open, palms upward, over her cluttered desk. “You need a rush order? I can see what the boys downstairs can do, but I won’t promise—”

“I’ve come to discuss one of your past projects.” The Commissioner clasps his hands in front of his waist; otherwise, he stands still as I would while he speaks.

The Alchemist grins and tilts her head to one side. “Maximilian, my market products are all a matter of public record. And I'm sure you have full, detailed records of all of our market-adjacent transactions.”

“My visit concerns a project that is neither mine nor open to public scrutiny.”

The Alchemist straightens her posture. She places her hands in bare spots on the desk’s unkempt surface.

One lifts its hand and plants one foot forward. The sigils covering its arm plates burst into silvery light.

The Commissioner blocks One’s path with one arm.

The Alchemist’s voice is steady, but her gaze wavers between One and the Commissioner. “Surely you appreciate the candor that comes naturally with my work.”

The Commissioner lowers his arm, but One holds its charged hand level. The Commissioner says, “Of course, I respect your discretion. I have no interest in any beneficiaries of your efforts.”

The Alchemist nods once, jerkily. “Good! Good. I would hate to have to tarnish our relationship over something so tawdry as breaking a client’s confidentiality.”

“Regardless, I do require your assistance in confirming a suspicion of mine.”

The muscles in the Alchemist’s face tighten. “Absolutely, Don Maximilian,” she says too quickly. “I’ll be happy to help in any way I can.”

The Commissioner steps toward the desk. One matches his stride.

“I’m sure you’ve heard of my only daughter, Klóe.”

“Oh, yes, of course. A lovely girl, by all accounts.”

“You know, then, about the injuries she’s suffered?”

The Alchemist’s eyes widen. “No, I’m afraid I don’t. How can I help?”

The Commissioner nods. “Four years ago, I enjoyed a pleasant afternoon in the rear courtyard of my family manor. I monitored Bastien as he trained—”

“Oh, yes, your new security coordinator! He sure got an early… start… didn’t he?”

Silence covers the room once again. Between blinks, the Alchemist glances at an ink vial at the corner of her desk.

The Commissioner stares at the Alchemist. “Do not interrupt me again, Clariss.”

The Alchemist flinches. “Of course, Don Baron.”

“I monitored Bastien as he trained a stray raptor chick that my people had recovered from an alley in the Mystic Prefecture. Klóe visited with us while Bastien administered his training; she had just finished her day’s music lesson, and I wished to hear her progress through a favorite traditional ballad of mine. She performed from her heart, instead of her mind; I have heard performers thrice her age sing with half her control. It was transcendent.”

The Commissioner paces in front of the Alchemist’s desk. He grips his left hand and grinds his right thumb into its palm.

“But, before any of us knew it, the stray beast broke away from my son, who had been training animals for half his life, and tore into my daughter’s back.”

The Alchemist sucks in a breath and holds it. The Commissioner gives the reaction no attention.

“It was smaller than Klóe, but stronger than it should have been. Bastien tried to pry its jaws from his sister’s shoulder; it ripped off half of his hand,” he says, holding up his left hand and exposing the stained sleeve, “before it pinned Klóe to the ground with its jaws. It didn’t let her go until I shattered one of my mother’s finest crystal pitchers and slid the remains across the beast’s throat. It died, wheezing in its own blood.”

The Commissioner stops pacing. “Would you like to hear what hurt me the most in that moment, beyond my son’s mangled hand and my daughter’s exposed musculature?”

The Alchemist offers one shallow, stiff nod.

“It was my failure as a father. I underestimated the threat that I allowed into my home. That decision tore at my mind much like that beast tore at my children. I tried to focus on Bastien’s recovery and Klóe’s rehabilitation in the first weeks after the incident, but for the next two years I could not evade the magnitude of my failure. Questions, like mosquitoes in the dark, plagued my thoughts. What changed the beast’s behavior? What if I had moved slightly faster, or slightly slower? Is this a cruel punishment for my crime of pushing my children to achieve excellence?

“One afternoon, in that same chair, in that same courtyard, I had an epiphany. As I watched that memory in my mind for the hundredth, the thousandth, time, I realized that I lacked a certain… modicum of imagination.”

The Alchemist lifts a gray stylus from its squat inkwell. She looks down, fidgets with loose parchment on her desk, and opens her mouth. When One steps forward with its glowing hand raised, the Alchemist closes her mouth and folds her hands by her stylus.

“Fortunately, Bastien is one to learn from his mistakes. He preserved the creature and kept it in his bedroom as a daily reminder of what can happen if he loses focus for even a moment. Klóe would go nowhere near his room until I had the creature’s remains removed to an acquaintance’s laboratory in Topaz for analysis.

“The beast had a denser brain than expected for a raptor of its size and apparent breed. My acquaintance made particularly detailed mention of the sensory region’s overdevelopment; he suggested that the creature was bred, or potentially augmented, to hunt magic users. Following the clues and sources out of that report made for some riveting nights.”

The Alchemist’s throat tightens. Her face grows ashen. Her eyes open wider, and her hand clutches the stylus.

The Commissioner turns away from One, who focuses on the seated orc. The Commissioner walks around the length of the Alchemist’s desk.

“I have little issue with partners and allies undertaking side ventures without my knowledge. As long as they are successful and don’t interfere with my business operations, I have no karma to judge. You could imagine how I would be remiss to tolerate incompetence that directly endangers my family. Regardless, your failure to contain your pet project has led to a fascinating conclusion.”

The Commissioner puts his right hand on the Alchemist’s left shoulder. He rests his left hand on her desk to lean close to her.

One has yet to discharge or disperse its silvery energy as it takes another step toward the desk. Holding on to its charge for so long must be exhausting, yet One’s sigils show no hint of wavering.

I relax one hand and prepare to summon my own arcane energies once more.

“Each and all singers’ fathers believe that their child’s voice is something special,” the Commissioner says. “But you confirmed a father’s great dream: that my daughter’s voice is not only beautiful, but a powerful gift. I’ve hired one of the greatest elven songcasters of her generation to tutor Klóe, to ensure that the gift you helped me discover in her is not squandered under the ear of someone who could not comprehend its potential. For that, I truly do appreciate you, Clariss.”

The Alchemist relaxes, from her face to her hands, as the Commissioner pats her on the shoulder once, then again. He clenches his fingers into the Alchemist’s coat and stops smiling.

“But you nearly cost my daughter her life.”

The Commissioner spins the Alchemist toward him, grabs her throat, and slams her onto her desk. Books, loose paper, and a luminous white crystal lamp fall to the floor.

I cannot recall witnessing the Commissioner move so swiftly. Even with the element of surprise on his side, though, the Alchemist has the stature to protect herself. Regardless, One commanded that we interfere only if ordered to do so; One and Two have not changed their stances, so nor will I.

The Alchemist tries to slide to her feet, but the Commissioner forces her flat onto the desk. Her hoarse protestations turn into gargled wheezing. She punches at the Commissioner’s head, quill still in hand, but he leans out of her reach.

“Your containment failure collapsed my daughter’s lungs! You ruined her peace of mind – my peace of mind. No mistake escapes punishment, Clariss. Klóe overpaid mine in blood; you will yield the balance with inter– hearrrgh!”

The Alchemist rips the quill from the Commissioner’s bicep. The Commissioner cringes as dark purple fire sprouts from the wound. The Alchemist kicks him to the wall and grabs her now-suspect vial of ink. She slides to the floor behind her desk.