Unspeakable Secrets The Alchemist Series (A Dark Medieval Progression Fantasy)

Chapter 50 The Guards

He looked over the room again, wondering if it was all an illusion. Visions of himself chained in some dark, dank cell as The Syndicate probed his mind with magic filled his mind's eye.

No. He saw no signs of magic. His mind was clear. Certainly, clear enough to question what was going on around him. No... this was real. He was sure of it.

He looked over the lock to his cell, despite having nothing to pick it with.

It was definitely magical, but he was confident he could pick it with the right tools and enough time. Only, the robed man's earlier words gave him pause.

'It would take more than any of that to break out of this cell...' the robed man had said. Surely, Vadik had told him that Connor could pick magical locks?

There was the scrape of a key and the clack of the door to the room unlocking. Connor faced it as it opened. Catching a glimpse of a lantern-lit hallway beyond as two burly men entered.

Connor studied the men intensely, wringing every drop of information he could out of even the smallest of details.

One of the men could've passed for a Lestrian, though his skin was heavily tanned from intense sun. No doubt from somewhere abroad or endless days of working in the sun on deck.

The other had darker skin and facial features reminiscent of one of the eastern kingdoms. He wondered if that meant the Syndicate's reach extended even there. Sailors had a tendency to come from all manner of places so he supposed he ought not to read too much into it.

Still... it wouldn't surprise him.

Both men wore a black uniform with a phoenix made of red fire emblazoned upon their chests and carried rods sheathed at their hips. No doubt akin to the paralyzing runed rod he'd encountered and even taken one of before. The hilt looked similar at least.

The lighter skinned man carried a bundle of neatly folded clothes with shoes atop them. The other held keys in one hand, his other hand lightly resting on the hilt of his weapon.

As they entered the room, their hawk eyes snapped to Connor and then to one another.

They didn't expect me to be standing, Connor thought.

Not that it mattered. Connor saw the keys on the ring in the one man's hand. None of them would fit his cell.

Connor kept his face neutral, but inside his mind chewed over the information.

The man at the door. The man holding the clothes. The way each carried themselves. That sharp, dangerous, alert look in their eyes. The myriad scars on their skin.

These aren't just sailors. These are soldiers. They look highly trained... and the Syndicate won't give even them a key to my cell? Interesting... and they look at me as though I were a caged dragon. What have they been told? Connor thought.

The one with the keys stayed back, far from Connor's cell as the other approached and slid the clothes through a small gap at the bottom of the cell door. The shoes, he slipped through the bars. Both men rippled with tension.

Though Connor still felt shaky, he was sure he could reach the man giving him the clothes. Wrench his arms through the bars. Snap his neck. Or hold him there as a hostage. Was that why the Syndicate had decided not to allow them a key to his cell? It certainly made trying that utterly pointless.

Connor couldn't see the Syndicate rolling over and giving into his demands over the lives of either of the men.

No... this wasn't the time for such a move. But, perhaps, a time to set up for potential future events. The men said nothing and the way they pressed their lips into a firm line told Connor they had no intention of doing so. That they were trying very hard not to, in fact.