The low ceiling trapped heat and the damp stink of old stone, but there were no crystals in the walls, what I had come to call snitch crystals, and no other pulsing glow to catch wandering eyes. I worked by the faint, borrowed light of my own experiments. At least I knew the formula was stable.

  Three cloudy vials sat lined up on the floor, each one breathing out a soft shimmer that faded slowly as the mana bled off. The glow was strongest right after exposure to the snitch crystals. Dangerous. Attention-grabbing. If I waited and let the energy settle, they dulled into something almost mundane. It reminded me of a cheap dollar store glow stick, bright at first, then fading fast. It took all three just to provide enough light to keep working.

  The shimmer, unlike smoke, drifted downward. It sagged. It clung low, hugging the stone the way humidity collects at the bottom of a basement. Like whatever the city leaked, gravity collected.

  The warning icon still watched me, casting its own quiet glow in the corner of my vision.

  UNLICENSED ALCHEMICAL ACTIVITY LOGGED

  Enforcement Risk: Monitoring

  That left an acidic knot in my stomach. Monitoring likely meant something was watching. Watching implied intent. Was that intent to arrest? Impose a fine? I had no money, which meant a fine could easily be worse than jail depending on what happened when I had no money to pay.

  I was examining how the vials and stoppers had formed from what felt like softened glass when footsteps echoed down the tunnel.

  The footsteps were not armored. That was the first relief. The second was shorter-lived, because whoever it was moved like they owned the corridor, steady and unhurried, not bothering to hide the sound.

  I backed deeper into the alcove and tried to make myself smaller than my own breathing. I did not know if this niche was forbidden or forgotten, but it looked built for pressure and control, and right now it felt like a trap with the door left open.

  I forced myself to breathe and rein in my anxiety. I seriously needed the alchemical equivalent of alprazolam. A clean calm, something I could use to self medicate without turning myself into a hazard.

  The name came unbidden for what I would call this concoction if I could synthesize it. “Bliss.” I was a little disturbed by how much I wanted that idea.

  I stilled and watched the entrance.

  A man stepped into the chamber without hesitation. Mid-thirties. Broad-shouldered. His armor was worn thin in the places that mattered. Definitely not a runner, judging by the heavy gear. A long blade hung at his side, clean and well-kept despite a chip near the hilt. A sigil stitched into his cloak marked him as I estimated him to be guild-affiliated or part of some feudal house.

  It reminded me of biker gangs back home. Patches and colors worn like declarations of territory.

  His eyes went straight to the softly glowing vials. His gaze left my face and hands untouched as he obviously focused on the light surrounding me..

  He saw the glow.

  Damned if Trent was not right. Watch for the glow.

  He exhaled slowly and met my gaze. “You know that’s visible from the canal, right? Down slope mana light carries.”

  My fingers curled reflexively, unknowing what to reach for. What was I supposed to do, fight an armed man with just glass bottles?

  “You know trespassing is dangerous down here,” I said.

  He smiled faintly. “So is dying from mana exhaustion. That’s why I’m here. Draughts are expensive around here, and you seem to be using yours as candles.”

  He crouched, close enough that I could see the faint tremor in his hands. It reminded me of the shakes I had seen in addicts back home, bodies pushed too far past their limits.

  “I felt the mana ripple,” he continued. “Anyone with mana sense within a dozen stone throws would have. Clean ripple. No backlash. Good flow. That narrows the list of who could have done it to almost no one. Then I saw the light.”

  His hand drifted toward his sword, slow and deliberate. “You selling?”

  “I’m surviving,” I said.

  Unauthorized content usage: if you discover this narrative on Amazon, report the violation.

  He nodded, as if that answered the question. His hand stayed on the hilt. “Fair. Name’s Allen. Third-rank pathfinder. Guild-backed.” He hesitated, then added, “Technically non-affiliated. No honor-bound duty to arrest someone violating the Alchemist Guild charter, for note.”

  That helped. A little.

  I gestured to the vials. “They’re crude. Low quality. On top of that their just stamina draughts.”

  “Crude is fine,” Allen said. “Crude is honest. Besides, I have a skill that converts mana to stamina and back. Problem is, I’m too drained to swap without dropping where I stand.”

  He said it like the Undercity could starve you the same way a desert could, except the resource was invisible and the thirst was in your bones.

  He reached into his pouch and set a small stack of coins on the stone. To be exact two gold and thirty silver now laid neatly on the stone. Then something else. A folded strip of treated leather, etched with strange sigils. Nodding to himself as he overlooked my attire he also pulled out a spare coin pouch and tossed it down by the leather strap.

  “And that,” he said, tapping the leather strap, “is silence.”

  I stared at it. “You’re paying me not to talk?”

  “I’m paying you so I don’t,” he corrected. “The Adventurers Guild does not need to know I bought from an unlicensed producer. And you do not need your glow reported.”

  My pulse quickened. Payment and discretion bundled together. A familiar bargain.

  Carefully, I slid one vial toward him.

  He uncorked it, sniffed once, then drank without hesitation.

  I watched closely.

  Nothing happened.

  No grimace. No coughing. No backlash.

  Allen let out a breath he had been holding and rolled his shoulders. Color returned to his face. His hand finally left the hilt of his sword.

  “That,” he said quietly, “worked better than the licensed one I took an hour ago.”

  My brow furrowed. “Licensed?”

  He laughed, sharp and humorless. “Alchemist Guild vitality draught. Certified. Taxed. Blessed by three committees and one inspector.” He flexed his fingers. “Gave me cramps and a splitting headache. Side effects buried in the fine print.”

  He looked at the remaining vials with new respect. “Yours didn’t.”

  That hit harder than any warning icon.

  The trade finished quickly. I swept the coins away and tucked the sigiled leather into my clothes. As Allen stood, he paused.

  “You know why licenses matter?” he asked.

  “So someone can control who makes what.”

  “That’s part of it,” he said. “Mostly it’s about mana flow. In a warded city, a license is as you likely know is more than a stamp. It’s a key. A priest blesses a small effigy, and the wards read it like you belong. Predictable. Trackable.” He then looked at me even more intently before stating: “You underground alchemists work outside that system, you scrape at ward integrity and create blind spots. The city hates blind spots.”

  “I already got a warning message,” I replied, thinking flattery and honesty were a good idea when dealing with a stranger carrying a sword.

  “Predictable,” Allen had said, like the wards were less a wall and more a pipeline that had to keep pressure even. Like the city wasn’t only keeping something out, but also moving something unwanted down into its own lowest spaces without admitting it was doing it.

  I folded my arms. “Then why allow any unlicensed activity at all?”

  He shrugged. “Because talent shows up where it wants. So the system leaves doors open.”

  “Doors?”

  “Three ways to get licensed,” he said, ignoring my question and instead holding up his fingers. “First, sponsorship. The Alchemist Guild takes responsibility for you. Expensive. Political. You belong to them after.”

  Needless to say I wasn’t a big fan of that idea.

  “Second,” he continued, “the proving grounds. City-sanctioned trials. Dangerous. Public. Stacked against outsiders. Pass, and you get a provisional effigy and a provisional license mark. Fail, and you are marked.” He continued to hold my gaze, almost whispering now as if someone might overhear. “Marked can mean a priest puts a lock on your craft. It can be reversed, if you can pay for an illicit ritual, but that kind of work is its own black-market.”

  “And the third?”

  Allen smiled thinly. “Acquisition. Licenses are physical anchors. They can be transferred. Lost. Sometimes stolen.”

  The warning icon pulsed again, brighter than before. I needed to choose a path that kept me free, even if it made everything harder.

  He stepped back toward the tunnel. “You should decide quickly. Monitoring turns into action faster than you think. The wards remember pressure changes you know. Or at least you should.”

  He declined to add the rest, despite being so verbose before but I could. Blind spots were profitable, but a snapped ward layer was an invitation. It seemed nobody wanted that, even the people selling in the cracks.

  Before I could respond, Allen was gone, boots fading into the maze.

  I sat back against the stone, heart racing.

  Licensed potions with worse side effects. Crude ones that worked cleaner. Control disguised as safety. Familiar patterns wearing new names.

  The system chimed.

  NEW QUEST: THE COST OF ATTENTION

  Choose a Path:

  [ ] Seek Guild Sponsorship

  [ ] Enter the Proving Grounds

  [ ] Acquire a License Illicitly

  [ ] Remain Unlicensed (High Risk)

  I stared at the options, a slow smile creeping across my face.

  Different world. Same chemistry.

  And the same price for being noticed.