The moment Alaric stepped out of the Order's gates, he felt their eyes on him, like shadows clawing at his heels. Balthazar's warning echoed in his mind, but he'd had his fill of the Order's suspicion, and even more of Balthazar's smug restraint. Now he was alone again, surrounded by the night and his own unanswered questions.
He didn't make it more than a block before he heard it—the sound of hurried footsteps behind him, just close enough to follow. Alaric's pulse quickened, his hand slipping instinctively to the small blade at his belt. He paused at the edge of a narrow alley, giving a curt glance over his shoulder. There, half-hidden in the gloom, was a figure wrapped in a tattered cloak, face obscured.
"You've got something to say, or are you content hiding in the shadows?" Alaric's voice cut through the silence, steady, a warning on its own.
The figure shifted, stepping forward, letting the dim lamplight catch their face. "Seems your fall from grace hasn't dulled that bite, Winters," the man said, his lips curving in a smirk that Alaric knew all too well.
"Loren," Alaric said, his eyes narrowing. "Still skulking around in the dark, I see."
The man gave a mock bow, his grin widening. Loren Dax, once his closest ally among the Chronomancers, now a liaison for the Order's enforcement wing. A snake, as far as Alaric was concerned.
"Just ensuring our prized ex-chronomancer doesn't stray too far from his leash," Loren replied smoothly, tapping his temple with a gloved finger. "Or did you think they'd let you walk out of here without a watchful eye?"
Alaric bit back a curse, the resentment clawing up his throat. "I don't need a minder."
"Ah, but I disagree." Loren's eyes gleamed. "Balthazar wants answers. I'm here to make sure you're on track to get them."
"And you think you'll find them skulking in the shadows behind me?"
Loren shrugged, his expression easy. "Let's just say I'm curious about this little hunt of yours. Who wouldn't be? A dead woman with your mark? Rumors of Magnus Grey playing puppeteer from beyond the grave? It's the kind of intrigue Eldergate hasn't seen in ages."
Alaric fought to keep his expression neutral, but the fury simmered just below the surface. "Whatever interest you have, Loren, keep it to yourself. This isn't a game."
"Ah, but for someone like Magnus? It's all a game," Loren murmured, leaning in closer. "And maybe that's the real reason you're still standing here. Deep down, you miss it. The thrill of the magic, the danger, the feeling of bending time at your will. That woman outside your shop? She's just a reminder of what you gave up."
Alaric gritted his teeth, ignoring the burn of Loren's words. He'd already spent years trying to bury the need for magic, for power, to distance himself from the man he once was. Loren's taunt stung, but he refused to let it show.
"What's your angle here, Loren?" Alaric asked, his voice low, steady. "If you think I'll slip up, hand the Order more fuel to burn me with, you're wasting your time."
"Burn you?" Loren's grin returned, sharper than before. "No, Winters. I'm here because I suspect you may find something valuable. Something I want."
Alaric's expression darkened. "Magnus."
"Magnus," Loren confirmed, his voice barely above a whisper. "He has knowledge the Order never quite contained, secrets even you may not know. He's out there, somewhere, and if anyone's going to find him, it's you."
"Whatever plans you and Balthazar have for him, I'm not interested."
Loren chuckled, stepping back, his arms outstretched as if inviting Alaric to turn and leave. "Believe me, I'm not here on Balthazar's behalf." He leaned forward, voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "You may not realize it yet, but Magnus has already set his sights on you. He's drawn you in, Alaric. The only question is, will you chase him or let him find you first?"
Alaric's fists clenched. Loren's words felt like another trap, one lined with half-truths and dangers lurking just below the surface. Yet beneath it all, there was something he couldn't ignore. If Magnus truly was behind the recent murders, then Alaric had no choice but to find him.
Without another word, Alaric turned and strode away, feeling Loren's gaze linger on his back, a shadow that wouldn't easily disappear. The temptation to lash out, to confront him and demand the truth, weighed on him, but he forced it down, pushed it back.
As he reached the next corner, the lamplight flickered, casting odd shadows against the buildings. He squinted, pausing, a strange prickle dancing along his skin. Something felt wrong, out of place. Alaric's eyes swept the street, his mind on edge, senses heightened.
A figure stepped out of the darkness across from him—a woman, her hair damp and tangled, her clothes splattered with grime. She stumbled toward him, her hands outstretched as though grasping for something just beyond reach.
"Help… me," she rasped, voice hoarse, filled with desperation.
Alaric took a step back, recognizing the eerie familiarity. Her face was pale, far too pale, her eyes wide with an unnatural gleam, much like the girl outside his shop. Another victim.
"Who did this to you?" he asked, his voice tense, holding her gaze.
The woman's lips parted, trembling as though to answer, but no words came. Instead, she lifted her hand, revealing a faint mark, barely visible, etched along her wrist.
Alaric's breath stilled. The same mark. His mark.
"Please…" Her hand dropped, her shoulders sagging as if surrendering to an invisible weight. "It… it wasn't him… the one… with the… clocks."
The words came in pieces, broken, each one filling him with a foreboding dread.
Alaric moved forward, reaching out to steady her, his voice softer, coaxing. "If it wasn't me, then who?"
She lifted her head, a hollow laugh escaping her lips, cold, echoing in the empty street. "The one… the one who waits in the shadow… who twists time… for his own…"
Her body convulsed, her breath hitching as the life drained from her in his arms. He barely caught her before she crumpled, her body slumping against him, lifeless.
A chill spread through him, her last words rattling in his mind, scraping against memories he'd spent years trying to forget. The woman's mention of someone twisting time for their own ends… it could only mean one person.
Magnus.
He laid her down gently, his hands unsteady, the familiar anger and guilt colliding within him. She'd died in his arms, yet another victim with a mark that tied her to him. If Magnus had truly returned, if he'd twisted Alaric's magic to play his deadly games, then this was no longer just a hunt.
It was a reckoning.
With a renewed sense of determination, Alaric rose, leaving the woman's body behind. He felt the weight of his resolve settle over him like an armor. He would find Magnus, face him, and put an end to this cycle of death.
But as he walked away, he couldn't shake the feeling that Magnus had been watching him all along, lurking in the shadows, waiting for this very moment.