The alchemical process was a rhythm. Grind, measure, mix. Infuse.
Fyrion worked in the windowless cellar, a place that now smelled of sulfur, saltpeter, and the faint, clean ozone of his own refined aura. He had found his balance. The "First Canto" of the Aura Manual was designed to build control, and this repetitive, precise work was the perfect training. His body was adapting, his hands, once thin and soft, were becoming calloused and steady.
He was in the middle of a refinement—channelling a precise thread of mana into a batch of paste—when the heavy cellar door was thrown open.
Fyrion didn't flinch. The blue flame in the paste wavered for a second, then stabilized.
"Master Fyrion! Master!"
Silas stumbled down the steps, his face, usually a pale, nervous grey, was now the color of old man. He was holding a ledger to his chest like a shield.
"What?" Fyrion's voice was flat, annoyed by the interruption.
"The… the supplies, Master. It's a disaster!" Silas panted, his eyes wide. "The sulfur and coal dust are easy. I've bought every gram in our territory, just as you said. But... but the tallow."
Fyrion stopped kneading. He slowly turned. "The tallow?"
"The butchers," Silas said, his voice dropping to a panicked whisper. "Master, they... they've heard about your bricks. They've heard about the wealth you earned form the light tower and the full story."
Fyrion's eyes narrowed. Of course. The binder. The animal fat. The most common, most vital, and most overlooked component in his formula.
"And? What about it?"
It was overlooked but vital ingredient that allowed the brick to burn hot and slow, rather than just flash and die.
"They've cut us off," Silas continued, trembling with frustration and anger. "The Butcher's Guild. They control every slaughterhouse, every farm, every scrap of fat in this territory. They've refused to sell... to anyone. They say...if 'Lord Rubbish' wants his scraps, he has to come and beg for them himself."
A fly, Fyrion thought. A fat, greasy fly had just landed in his perfectly clean formula. He had been so focused on the real threats—the Crown, the Queen, the future—that he had neglected the immediate, local parasites.
"He wants me to beg," Fyrion said, his voice dangerously quiet.
"His name is Grom, Master. The Guild Master. He... he's a brute. He's richer than we... than we were. He holds the food contracts for the Northern Pass. He is the economy, in this town and all the surrounding outskirts."
Fyrion calmly put the lid on his mixing basin. He wiped his black-stained hands on a clean rag.
"Grom," he repeated. He remembered the man. A mountain of flesh with a face like a bulldog, who would laugh as he "accidentally" short-changed Fyrion's mother on meat rations.
A pest.
"And now this pest," Fyrion whispered to himself, "thinks he's found a leash to put on a dragon."
He looked at Silas.
"Bring my coat. The good one. The one with the fur."
The Butcher's Guild Hall was the only other building in the territory as warm as Fyrion's forge, but it was a different kind of heat. It was a wet, suffocating warmth that stank of old blood, boiling offal, and sweat.
Massive carcasses hung from iron hooks. The floor was a slick, dark red slurry of sawdust and gore.
In the center of it all, a man who looked more like an ogre than a human was slamming a massive cleaver into a side of beef.
WHUMP. WHUMP. WHUMP.
This was Grom. Guild Master. His bare arms were as thick as Fyrion's torso, his leather apron stained almost black with years of blood. He was surrounded by his five sons, all cast from the same brutish mold.
He didn't stop his work when Fyrion entered. He just kept slamming the cleaver down, the sound a deliberate, rhythmic show of power.
Fyrion stood in the doorway, his clean, fur-lined coat utterly alien in this temple of flesh. Silas was hiding behind him, visibly shaking.
WHUMP. WHUMP-
"Well, well," Grom boomed, finally sinking his cleaver into the oak block. He turned, wiping his bloody hands on his apron. "If it isn't the little alchemist. The 'genius' first-born. I heard you made a shiny toy."
His sons snickered.
Fyrion's expression was neutral. "Guild Master Grom. I'm here to place an order."
"An order? UHahehuha" Grom laughed, a deep, rumbling sound. He grabbed a handful of raw fat and tossed it in his mouth, chewing it. "You don't order here, boy. You beg. I heard about your little magic trick with the Southerners. Very clever."
He stepped closer, his massive shadow covering Fyrion. He smelled of sweat and rancid meat.
"But here's a lesson, little lord. Magic tricks don't matter. Resources matter. You made a fire-brick? Fine. But it's just black dust." He poked a fat, sausage-like finger into Fyrion's chest. "Without my fat... my tallow... my binder... you're nothing but the same rubbish you've always been."
Fyrion didn't flinch. "I need 500 kilos of rendered tallow. Delivered by tomorrow. Name your price."
"My price?" Grom's eyes gleamed with a small, cruel intelligence. He had waited his whole life for a moment like this—to have a "Noble" at his mercy.
"My price... is ten times the market rate."
Silas gasped. "Ten times?! That's... that's extortion!"
"I call it a 'genius tax'!" Grom roared with laughter. "HUHAHUHA!! You're a genius, right? So you can afford it. Ten times the price, little lord. Paid in that nice, shiny gold your new mage friends gave you. Pay me... or your little fire-brick business dies today."
Grom smirked, triumphant. He had him. He knew he had him. The boy's entire plan, his family's survival, his one trick... it all depended on him. On his fat.
The hall was silent. Grom's sons crossed their arms, sneering. Silas looked like he was about to faint.
Fyrion just stared.
He stared at Grom, his face a perfect, porcelain mask. The silence stretched. One second. Three. Five.
Grom's smirk began to waver, replaced by a flicker of annoyance. "What's wrong, boy? Cat got your tongue? Or are you too poor to—"
A sound escaped Fyrion's lips.
It was a small, dry, airy sound. A single... huff.
Then, it came again, louder.
Fyrion was laughing. "Hahaha, what load of crap? HAHAHA!!"
It was not a laugh of arrogance. It was a cold, dead sound. The sound of a Grandmaster discovering a cute big kitten's trick.
Grom's face turned red. "What's so funny, you little rat?! I have you by the throat!"
Fyrion's laugh stopped instantly. "You piece of shit-" he closed the gap between them and locked his eyes with the menacing butcher, "Are you…fucking trying to threaten me?"
He turned, not arguing, not negotiating, not even bothering to look angry. He just turned.
"You think you're selling me tallow."
He walked to the door, his bootheels clicking on the blood-slicked stone.
"But you've just sold me your guild."
He walked out, leaving Silas to scramble after him. Grom was left standing in his hall of meat, his massive, powerful hands clenched, his victorious smirk frozen.