The Artificer was sleeping peacefully in his modest room. It was a two-story wooden house. Upstairs was his living space; downstairs, his workshop.
A sudden noise shattered the silence. A low, muffled struggle — coming from downstairs.
He bolted upright. Blinked into the darkness. For a long moment, he listened.
Then he threw on his robe, bare feet finding the worn steps as he crept down the narrow staircase. Something was wrong.
He reached the ground floor.
There, in the flickering shadows cast by the dying embers of his stove, was a scene he never expected.
His assistant was bound and gagged, slumped helplessly against a battered workbench. And sitting opposite, leaning casually against the cracked wooden door, was Kael.
"How—?" the Artificer's voice cracked, his eyes darting wildly. "How did you get here? How did you escape Red Morn?"
Kael smiled—a slow, cruel curl of his lips that didn't reach his eyes.
