Early Morning
Frey's Day
21st of Avril, Year 824 of the Silent Age
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PROJO'S QUEST LOG:
+ [ONGOING] Understanding the Curse: Work with Falira to uncover the nature of your powers.
+ Repay Bram (Owe 24 Gold)
+ Return to Mira
PROJO'S INVENTORY:
+ Money: 15 Gold, 13 Silver, 52 Copper
- (Previous: 15G 16S 52C - 3S for food)
+ Weapons: Iron Longsword, Gideon's Iron Dagger
+ Armor: Crude Leather Cuirass
+ Supplies:1 Day's Worth of Trail Rations
+ Flint & Steel
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The day began with a quiet routine that felt almost normal. Projo woke on his bedroll to find Falira already at a workbench, grinding herbs in a mortar. The movements were slow, and he could see the tight line of her jaw as she tried to work without aggravating her wounded side. She looked up as he stirred, gave a curt nod that was becoming their standard greeting, and returned to her task.
He didn't speak, simply pulling on a dry shirt and grabbing The Poetics of Dust and Starlight, the silence between them no longer a weapon, but a shared space for thought.
He broke the quiet a few hours later, his thumb marking a passage in the book. "It says here the fundamental principle of alchemy isn't changing lead to gold, but convincing the lead that it was always gold to begin with. That just sounds like a trick."
The question was simple, born of a blacksmith's skepticism. But Falira's head snapped toward him, and the pain in her side seemed to vanish as her eyes lit up.
"It's not a trick, it's about perspective!" she said, her voice stronger than it had been in days. "It's about changing the narrative of the material. A blacksmith uses force to change steel's shape. An alchemist uses understanding to change its very nature. To unlock the potential that was always there!"
The conversation lingered in his mind long after it ended. Unlocking the potential that was always there. He looked at his hands, then at the heavy coin pouch sitting beside his bedroll. He thought of Bram, of the 24 gold he still owed. He thought of Mira, waiting on a farm that felt a world away. He thought of Silas Blackwood's offer.
He was a different man than the apprentice who had traveled north with Gideon and the merchant, but the path back still waited for him.
"Silas is leaving for Greatbridge tomorrow," Projo said quietly.
The warmth drained from the room almost instantly. Falira froze, pestle still in hand. Her shoulders stiffened, the scholar bracing against an uncontrolled variable.
"I'm not sure if I want to go with him," Projo admitted slowly. "I mean, I do, I have a lot I need to get back to down there, but… I haven't learned what I need to here yet."
The silence felt awkward. Uncomfortable. "I mean I have learned quite a bit, I don't want it to sound like I haven't learned anything. I just… wanted to let you know it was on my mind I guess. So we could figure out what to do next."
"Greatbridge," she said at last, voice flat, "represents two primary variables: a financial obligation to your mentor, and an emotional attachment to the woman, Mira."
She set the pestle down with a loud click and turned toward him. The passionate teacher was gone. In her place sat the calculating researcher.
"You say you haven't learned what you need to," she continued. "That is the first accurate assessment you've made. We have a single, uncontrolled data point on symbiotic healing and two on kinetic and elemental manifestation. We have a theory on Mana siphoning, but no empirical evidence. We know nothing, Projo. You are a living grimoire, and we have not even translated the table of contents."
She leaned forward, wincing as pain tugged at her side, but her gaze never wavered. "To leave now would be to abandon the most important experiment of our lives at the preliminary hypothesis stage. It is... illogical."
She took a slow breath, her mind clearly formulating a new plan. "You asked what we do next. What we do next is begin. We establish a controlled environment. We define the catalysts. We measure the output. We map the limitations."
Her eyes bored into his. "You want answers? That is how you get them. Not by running back to a forge."
His brow furrowed in frustration. "I wasn't running, Falira. I was discussing. I do want answers, as do you. So let's do it. Controlled environment—where do we start?"
Her intensity softened for a heartbeat, recognizing his agreement despite his tone. Then the researcher took over again. She pushed herself up, wincing, and limped to the center of the room. "A controlled environment starts with a control. Your Mana channels are inert. Our theory is that they activate by siphoning energy from an external source. That is the first variable we must test."
She stood straighter, despite the limp. "The previous events were chaotic. A dying man, a moment of passion... too many variables." She turned to face him, fear glinting behind a wall of scientific focus.
"We need the smallest possible catalyst. The lowest possible energy state." She took a deep, steadying breath. "I will be the control subject."
She pointed to the floor in front of her. "Sit. Cross-legged. Do not move."
Projo obeyed, settling on the cold stone as she lowered herself across from him.
"The first experiment is simple," she said. "We test for a passive field. I will extend my hand. You will touch one fingertip to mine. I will focus on my own channels and feel for any fluctuation, any drain, no matter how small."
Her eyes locked on his, carrying the weight of everything they'd said in the nights before. "We start there."
Projo's heart hammered. This was it—the first step.
Falira drew a steady breath and extended her fist with one finger out, her other fingers curled so hard her knuckles were white. Her eyes were squeezed shut in concentration.
This was her choice.
Remembering his promise, Projo moved with equal slowness, his hand rising to meet hers, his index finger extended.
Their fingertips touched.
It wasn't the violent surge he'd felt with Mira. It wasn't even the startling jolt he'd felt as a boy. It was... almost nothing. A faint, barely-there tingle, like a hammer's echo in another room. A tiny spark, almost too small to register, jumped between them.
Falira's eyes flew open and she gasped, yanking her hand back to her chest like she'd been burned. The hum vanished, severing whatever connection had occurred.
"There," she breathed, awe trembling in her voice. "Data."
Projo glanced at his finger, then at her. "Wow," he said flatly, not even trying to hide his boredom. "Groundbreaking. I will begin crafting our next thesis on this research."
The sarcasm cut her awe like a blade.
Her eyes narrowed. "Mockery is the tool of the uninformed," she snapped, pushing to her feet. She paced tight circles despite her limp. "You think because the forge didn't explode, it failed? No. That spark proves the lightning exists!"
She spun, fire in her eyes. "That was a siphon. Minimal contact, no emotional catalyst—yet measurable. Proximity, surface area, state of mind—variables! Now we can test them."
Her fear was gone. Only the scholar remained. She looked at him as though he were the most fascinating puzzle in the world.
"Your 'thesis'," she said with a sharp smile, "is that you are a hammer. My thesis is that I am about to find out exactly how you were forged."
He watched her, brows raised, as she spewed theories and hypotheses. When she finally stopped speaking, he smiled. "You're really smart."
The words hit harder than mockery. Falira froze, blinking at him, waiting for the barb that never came.
His smile was small, genuine.
A flush crept up her neck. She spun toward the workbench, fussing with Gideon's crossbow bolts. "My intelligence is a known quantity," she said to the wall, her voice a little too tight, movements a little too jerky. "It is not a relevant variable at this juncture. The focus remains on the experiment."
Projo just tilted his head, still smiling. "I think it's relevant," he muttered quietly to himself. Then louder, he asked, "Okay, what do we do next?"
She steadied herself, mask snapping back into place, though the flush on her cheeks lingered.. "Surface area. More contact, more drain. That's the hypothesis." She returned to the floor. "Full palm-to-palm contact. Ten seconds. Understood?"
"I understand," he said warmly.
Falira extended her hand, palm up. Controlled. Clinical. "On my mark. Contact."
Projo took it gently. His hand was rough from the forge, hers cool and smooth. The faint thrum returned, a little stronger—barely. After a few moments, she pulled away, frowning.
"The drain is... negligible," she murmured, looking at her own palm as if it had failed her. "It's barely stronger than the single point of contact."
Projo studied the confusion on her face. "Falira, if I might… position my own theory. I think the way you kind of… wall off your emotions; I think that might be getting in the way."
Her head snapped up, indignation flashing. "Don't be absurd. Emotional state is a chaotic, unquantifiable neuro-chemical reaction. It has no bearing on the fundamental principles of arcane energy transference. The siphon is a physical, biological process."
"Is it?" Projo asked softly. "With Mira, she was scared and I was dying. The second time, we were... close. Both times, it worked. With you—it doesn't. Because you've been a researcher and I've been a subject. And it's done nothing."
He saw her swallow, the argument dying on her lips. Saw the moment realization sank its teeth in.
Her mask crumbled, replaced by a pale, stricken look of fear. "The experiment…" Her voice was tight, retreating. "is concluded for today." She turned away, retreating to the workbench. "I need to… recalibrate."
Projo wasn't surprised by her retreat. It was becoming a predictable pattern: when the data became too personal, the researcher fled back to the safety of her fortress of logic. He didn't push. He simply gave a quiet, understanding nod and accepted the end of the day's experiments.
He settled back onto his bedroll and returned to The Poetics of Dust and Starlight. The afternoon passed in a quiet, scholarly peace, the only sounds the soft bubbling of the cauldron and the rustle of turning pages. He finished the last chapter as the grey light began to fail, closing the book with a soft thud. The path back to Greatbridge could wait. The path to understanding began here.
He stood, his muscles stiff from sitting. "I'm going to town, I need to tell Silas I won't be traveling with him."
But before he left, he picked up the dark blue tome again. He flipped through the pages, his finger tracing the lines of elegant script until he found the passage he was looking for. It was a line about the nature of observation, one he was sure she used to justify her isolation.
The truest focus is achieved not by silencing the world, but by finding the pattern within its noise. Yet, the novice fears the symphony, and so builds a tower of silence, hearing only a single, lonely note.
He marked the margin with a faint stroke of charcoal.
Crossing the room, he found Falira staring blankly at a row of empty vials. She looked up, eyes wary, braced for another argument. He said nothing, simply placing the book on the bench in front of her, open to the marked page.
He walked to the door and paused, glancing back. She was bent over the book now, brow furrowed, lips pressed tight. When her gaze lifted again, their eyes locked across the room.
Projo tapped his temple twice with his index finger. Think about it.
Then he turned and stepped out into the misty mid-day air, the door thudding shut behind him—leaving her alone with her favorite book and his quiet, piercing question.
He walked down the winding stone steps, his mind a churning sea of Falira's theories and his own uncertain future. The conversation with Silas was a simple task, a loose end to be tied off before he could truly commit to the strange new path he was on. The smell of the town—tar, fish, and damp rot—rose to meet him.
He found Silas at The Salty Dog, overseeing the final tally of his cargo with the tavern keeper. The merchant looked up as Projo approached, a shrewd, calculating glint in his eye.
"Smith," Silas said, giving a nod and a smile. "Decided to take me up on my offer? We load the last of the fish at high tide and leave at dawn."
"I'm staying," Projo said, the words feeling solid and real as he spoke them. "There's... work to be done here."
Silas raised an eyebrow, a flicker of disappointment crossing his face. "A shame. A reliable sword-arm is a valuable commodity." He took a long drink of his ale, his merchant's mind already recalibrating. "Well, if you're staying, you'll need coin."
He leaned forward, his voice dropping. "Word is, a scholar from the capital is staying over at The Chart & Compass. A cartographer—trying to map the Serpent's Teeth reef system north of here."
Silas gestured vaguely up the coast. "Dangerous waters, and even more dangerous cliffs. He's been asking around for a bodyguard."
Projo nodded, tucking the information away. "Thanks for the tip."
Walking back through the crowded boardwalk, he became acutely aware of the grime on his skin. Old blood washed away with salt water left him feeling like a stray dog, and for the first time, he realized he could do something about it. The fifteen gold pieces and all of their silver friends told him he didn't have to live like a vagrant anymore.
He saw a plume of steam rising from a squat stone building near the docks, a simple wooden sign depicting a man in a tub hanging above the door. A public bathhouse.
One silver coin at the counter, and he sank into a tub of steaming water that scalded and soothed all at once. He scrubbed until his skin burned, watching the last traces of grime and blood swirl away. By the time he stepped back into the night, hair damp and body clean, he felt almost human again.
He stopped at the cookhouse, spent three silver on two bowls of fish stew, and carried them back to the tower. Falira looked up when he entered, eyes widening slightly and lips parting. Whether it was from the smell of hot food or the sight of clean Projo, who was to say.
But faintly, he heard her mutter, "...woah."