After I finish my preparation, I take a carriage to the Northern Outskirt Market. The quiet night of the outskirts gives way to a bustling market once I arrive.
I step out, making my way to the smithshop. Inside:
"Good Thursday, Monsieur," the clerk greets me with a smile.
"My order?" I ask.
"All done," he says, leading me to the distillery. "Here, Monsieur." He points to the unassembled parts: bronze retorts, steel frame, tubes, a box of glass flasks—12 flasks inside, and a palm-sized rectangular object. A steel table is included as well.
I pick up the rectangular object and hold it out. "Excuse me, what is this?"
The clerk chuckles, taking it from me. Turning it over, he shows the backside. "This is a thermorik, another trinktek," he explains. "Press the button behind." He pushes it, and a small flame flickers to life.
"Woah—that's neat," I say, clapping. Amused.
"Thank you, Monsieur."
"Can you fill one of the flasks with clear water?"
"Absolutely."
After paying, the clerk calls porters to move everything to my warehouse. I arrange it carefully: the steel table along the western wall, the distillery assembled on top. The box of glass flasks fits neatly into the steel shelf, while a single flask of water rests on the heavy table in the center of the room. The remaining parts go into the shelf.
"Thanks for your work," I say, handing the porters ten rocks each before they leave. I lock the door from the inside, drop my bag beside my chair, and get ready to work.
I grab a flask and place my handkerchief—the one with Ashlynn's blood—inside. Then I seal it and store the flask in the upper part of the shelf.
From the table, I lift the flask of water. Pour it into the retort. Just enough to cover the bottom—a nail-deep pool. The water ripples, catching the pale light from the lantern. I flicker a thermorik beneath the retort, heat blooming quickly along the steel frame. Slowly, the liquid begins to bubble, soft hiss and shimmer.
I take nyxamere from the shelf—the indigo flower that blurs when I look away. Its petals seem to shift, almost vibrating. Into the boiling water it goes, absorbing warmth, taking shape, spilling essence into the liquid. I connect the retort to a tube, the other end emptying into a flask, the system complete, waiting silently for the process to finish.
All that remains is the pause—the quiet tension of waiting. I sink into my chair—my bog oak throne. It molds to me, supporting my weight, anchoring me against the creeping stiffness in my limbs. Comfort wraps around me like a slow exhale.
My hands rest in my lap, my eyes drift closed. The heat of the thermorik, the hum of the metal, the faint scent of nyxamere—all of it fills the space between my senses. Slowly, my vision softens, blurring at the edges. Each breath stretches, long and deliberate, until darkness presses in.
—
I'm standing in a city—not Tauran. The streets are clean, the buildings towering like mountains.
Before me, a road hums with four-wheeled carts. Nothing pulls them. Likely excellent-grade alchemical tools.
People pass in short-sleeved shirts and bright colors. Some wear clothing patterned with imagery, others tight suits. I'm the only one in a long dark coat and tricorn hat. No one seems to mind. They glance once and move on.
I walk along the sidewalk. Across the street, I notice someone—a young man. He doesn't look at me. A girl with blonde hair walks beside him.
I cross, trailing them.
They turn right into an alley. I follow, careful. Each step masked by the rolling carts' sound then the noises become faint. Another turn. An open space within the alley. Empty. Quiet. Just the man and the girl.
They kiss.
I'm about to leave when my step betrays me. My boot scrapes the cement—a sharp, loud sound.
"Who's there?" the man asks.
I step into view.
Our eyes meet. I know him. Dark hair, sharp features, blue eyes—he looks like me.
He doesn't speak. Panic flashes in his eyes.
BANG.
He falls. My hand pulled the trigger, beyond my control. The gun is not mine—but I recognize it.
I turn to the girl.
BANG.
The trigger clicks again. My hand still isn't mine. She collapses. Brunette hair, green eyes and that sweet smile.
She turns to the man.
"Allen," she breathes—her last word.
My chest tightens.
Our time together.
I loved her.
—
I wake up, heart hammering, breath fast and ragged. Sweat soaks my body; my knees threaten to buckle, and I slump forward from my throne.
Sunlight spills into the warehouse. The faint, sweet smell of nyxamere lingers already in the air.
I push myself upright, letting the throne support me, then move toward the source.
The distillery's flask is filled with blurry indigo liquid—nyxamere essence. I place it on the shelf next to the other flask, the one with Ashlynn's blood. I extinguish the flame beneath the retort. My work is done.
I reach into my bag for fresh clothes: a shirt, pants, and a blue student blazer. I slip into them quietly. Finally, I tuck Beatrix's lab key into my pocket. Everything fits. I'm ready for Haverstock.
I leave my warehouse then head to Haverstock, to class. Kayla sits next to me in the front row.
She leans in and sniffs. "You smell of sweat and flower. I like it," she says.
I chuckle, then sniff myself. Sour.
During class, Professor Silva teaches as usual—yelling, charismatic, occasionally kissing female students. I watch only his actions, not his words. Just like usual, I write not the subjects but the incriminating evidence. And just like usual, he calls me to his chamber afterward.
It's just me and him.
"Here's the usual box," he says, smiling. Then adds, "Come back quick."
I avoid his gaze, take the box, and leave.
From Haverstock, I find a carriage.
"Lethor Hospital," I tell the jarvy.
We travel through the Northern Outskirt. Same streets. Same smog. Same scenes. Just usual.
When we arrive, I step out and move through the front doors—into the corridor where Beatrix's lab is. Just like usual.
"Agnes, you're my wife!" a patient humps a nurse from behind.
"No, I'm your mother. Get off me!" The nurse slaps him away.
"HELP! I'M NOT A CITIZEN OF CORVANIA!" another patient shouts.
"You forgot your pills again," a nurse shoves a fistful of tablets into his mouth.
Beatrix's lab waits. I open it with her key, step inside, and drop the wooden box on the table.
But unlike usual, I leave the door open. The box is flipped over, facing outward. Wide. Inviting. Anyone passing through the lab can see it—but not everyone will. Its contents are invisible. But someone will understand.
I leave the hospital and return to Silva.
"Good Friday, professor," I say as I enter his chamber.
Silva already sits in his chair, leaning back and eyes on me.
"Good Friday, Damian—" He pauses, scanning me.
"Professor?"
"You return empty-handed?"
"Beatrix wasn't in her lab. I set the box there and left," I say flatly, shrugging. Casual. Polite. Natural.
Silva nods. "I see."
"About my—"
"Damian," he cuts me off, "next Tuesday, bring your girl here. I know she means a lot to you."
"Thank you, professor." My smile is small. Measured.
"I'll implant a memory to make her fall in love with you." He winks.
I stretch my lips. Light, obedient. But the thought behind it is cold.
"But…"
"But what, professor?"
He stands, walks over, leans close, whispers: "Do me a favor. Take Kayla home today."
"Why?"
"A gift."