Royal Apothecary Roland hurriedly strode through the deserted corridor, bringing only a dimmed lamp with him. In every step taken, he silently cursed his colleagues who failed to inform him about [b][i]their[/i][/b] arrival. Petty imbeciles, they were, did they not have any inkling how important this matter was now not only for him but also for the entire branch? 

In front of a door, Roland stopped, wondering if this was the correct room. Earlier he had asked around, looking for the maid who brought in the particular guest he was looking for, adding more lapsed time to his already tight schedule. If this was the wrong room, who knows how many more he would have to knock. Or if the Man was in this corridor at all.

Deciding to set aside his worries for later, he knocked on the door. 

He didn't have all night. 

[center]***[/center]


Inside, Solomon sat at a table. He looked at the candle, its flame flickering, and the wax slowly dripping down the side. He was in contemplation. So far, everything was moving according to plan, but surely whatever opposing force keeping the country in turmoil would not let this go on uncontested for much longer. Something bigger must be at play. Petra coughed, and Solomon turned his head.

A polite but hesitant series of knocking could be heard. Solomon stood up from his chair, disengaging the latch, and peered out.

A man stood in front of the door. He looked average if not bookish, wearing a robe dyed in yellow and white and wearing a pair of glasses that seemed too small for his wide face. When their eyes met, the man flinched, seemingly intimidated by Solomon's presence, but then he quickly regained his composure. 

“Well met to you, Sir. My name is Roland, Royal Apothecary.” he introduced himself, bowing and speaking at the same time. “Sorry for disturbing you at this hour.” 

“That is quite alright. I find myself not quite ready to shut my eyes. What brings you so late? Is it something urgent?” asked Solomon. His eyes narrowed, looking directly at the man, “or is it something you wish to keep discrete?”

“Indeed, sir. The matter that I am about to disclose is sensitive. What I am allowed to tell you is we need your expertise to ‘prepare’ a very important individual for tomorrow's occasion.”

“Oh? Then I employ you to enter.” said Solomon

“I must refuse, sir.” insisted Roland, “If you would come with me. More will be explained once we’ve arrived.”

“Very well. Then let us be on our way.” Solomon took a step out of the room, the door drifting to a close behind him.

[center]***[/center]

"I am going to tell you that this is the order from the king himself. Sir."

Roland, who had been silent for the entire walk from the guest house to a secluded antechamber in the west wing, now started to speak again as they began to descend spiraling stairs to the Royal Palace basement.  "I assume you are already familiar with this individual. We found him in the ruins of Black Serpent headquarters...."

They finally emerged into a room that seemed like both a mortuary and a laboratory, buzzing with activities.  Several apprentices could be seen mixing potions, weighing ingredients, jotting notes. 

On the large table, lay a corpse of a middle-aged man with white hair. An apprentice was busy sewing his abdomen close, and it seemed that both the staff and the time itself had done quite a number on him; when they get close, the smell was a mix of putrefaction, chemicals, and curiously, an incongruous strong scent of herbs. The eyes were wide open, looked dull and blackened. Despite he heavy damage on his torso, his face was intact, save several scrapes and the contortion in the muscle that made his general expression looked like he had met his demise in terror. 

That said, the corpse was still missing a substantial amount of flesh and bones around his sternum, leaving a large fleshy crater on his torso, revealing the seared heart and lungs within.

"We will need you to wake him up." said the apothecary animatedly. Behind him, a masked being approached, inserted himself into the group, then spoke in a demanding tone. 

"And talk. We will need him to be alive so folks can hear him screeching when the horses pull him apart." 

The additional person introduced themselves as the Jailor. Man or woman, nobody can tell what form behind their heavy coat and cowled head, and plague mask. The voice seeped out from the metal mask was determined, if not irritated, and distorted.