I wasn't a fucking dullard. I didn't need the fucking alchemist to tell me that he was having secret correspondences, nor did I need him to tell me with whom.
It wasn't long after he had decided to clue me in on the Court of Shadows that I no longer possessed the iron born trust that I had foolishly thought we had shared.
Vitale was always active, and a part of that I believed to be his powder – if I had nothing else to ascribe it to, I would've killed him long ago, as there was a fine difference between industriousness and meddlesome.
He was like a rat, that alchemist, clever and quiet, gathering never ending supplies and materials and storing them within hidden cabinets and trunks with false bottoms. It was something I rather enjoyed when I was younger – a scent I could track, a mystery to uncover.
But when I was younger, the fate of Rodakrov was not a delicate shard of ice in his unstable, disingenuous hands.
