I sleep through the night in Ashlynn's embrace. The comfort she gives me is enough to make my body feel whole again.
Morning comes.
I open my eyes slowly and ease myself out of her arms. I set my feet on the floor. My left leg is fully healed. No pain. No stiffness. No strange sensation lingering in my body.
I stand and get ready for the day.
Ashlynn is still asleep. I lean down and kiss her lips—soft, warm, familiar.
Then I leave the room and exit the hotel.
From there, I head straight to the Hearthlight building. To Gary's office.
As usual, he is already seated behind his desk.
"Good Thursday, Len," Gary says.
"Good Thursday."
"Len, officially, as a Hearthlight agent, you're also an alchemist," he says. "Based on my observation, you have almost no knowledge of alchemy."
"Are you suggesting you want to teach me something?"
"Yes." A short pause. "We have enough reason to believe you won't betray us."
I swallow, my throat suddenly dry, and nod.
"You understand what I'm saying, yes?"
"You don't need to say another word."
Gary stands and walks toward the door.
"Come."
I follow him to the highest floor.
Out of the elevator. Down the corridor.
At the end is the door to the Clocktower room. To the right, the Armory.
We go left.
The Alchemy room.
The room is wide and square, about the same size as the armory. The ceiling is high, held up by thick wooden beams. Between the beams, metal pipes run upward and out through the windows, carrying filtered air away.
Wooden shelves cover every wall, packed with books and handwritten notes. Four large rectangular tables stand in neat rows. Waist-high. Polished marble. Evenly spaced, filling most of the room.
Glass containers, distillers, and tools sit on top.
Symbols and drawings are carved directly into the marble. Equations, maybe. I can't read them. Each table is different. Each has its own purpose.
Gary steps forward and stops in the center, between two tables.
"Welcome to the room where magic begins."
"Except we're not doing magic," I say, half-joking.
"Real magic used to exist," he replies. "Alchemy replaced it. That's why we dominate the world."
He turns to me.
"Now. What do you understand about alchemy?"
"It's applied knowledge," I say. "Preparation. You change or modify something so reality can't say no."
He smiles. "Correct. In alchemy there are only two outcomes. Either reality complies—"
a brief pause
"—or the preparation fails."
"What happens when it fails?"
"You already know."
Images flash through my mind.
The feral in the prison.
Aram.
Then Kayla.
Gary continues as if he hasn't noticed.
He explains the basics. How alchemy works. How preparation must provide the source of its own effect. How nothing happens without a cost already accounted for.
He explains grades of alchemy—tools, transmutation, body alteration, even alchemical creatures.
They aren't ranked by destruction.
They're ranked by function.
And by stability.
I've learned enough. By enough, I mean what Gary—maybe what the Hearthlight Order—currently allows.
"The only thing left is application."
"Don't do anything stupid for now," Gary says. "But if you must do something stupid, make sure it hurts."
I nod. Smile.
He smiles back and taps my shoulder once, quick.
I turn toward the door—
"Len," Gary calls.
I turn back. "Yeah?"
"Margaret died because of you. So you'll fill her job until we find a new clerk…"
a beat
"…or a new initiate."
"Fine."
I leave the room. The elevator carries me down to the lobby. Back at my old desk, I do Margaret's job—helping the community like I used to. Telling them everything is alright, even though I can't explain why they just nod and trust me.
I trick them—people—into giving me their phens. Their rocks. Then their hope.
Margaret was scary. But she was only a pawn in a terrifying system.
Finished, I leave the building and take a carriage toward the alley behind the florist shops, to my safety.
I step into the alley. As I near my warehouse, a figure blocks my path.
Two meters tall. Pale skin stretched over thick, strong muscles. Bald, smooth-skinned, with dark eyes shadowed beneath. He wears a long, buttoned dark coat, matching pants, and a fedora. On his chest, the emblem of a dragon curled over a hoard of gold: Gilded Ledger Order.
He notices me and walks closer.
I stop. Look up. Meet his gaze.
He halts an arm's length away. Then he smiles—warm, too warm. Wrong. Like fire in a hailstorm.
"Excuse me," he says, smooth and controlled. "Are you Monsieur Thadeo?"
"Yes. My name is indeed Thadeo Owright," I answer, placing my hand on my chest, polite but firm. "And you are?"
"Excuse my rudeness," he replies, mirroring the gesture with defiled grace. "I am Mordan, your personal taxman."
"Taxman?"
"You see, Monsieur," a beat. "You owe the Republic a substantial amount—"
"Right. 100 Phens," I cut him off.
"Yes. I am merely here to remind you. You may visit the Gilded Ledger building in the City Heart. If not, I will come to you again."
"Again?"
He inhales deeply, exhales, and spreads the widest smile I've ever seen. "Do not worry. Gilded Ledger never fails to recover on behalf of our glorious Republic. Never."
"Understood."
He tips his fedora and steps past me, leaving the alley in silence.
What an odd guy.
After I'm sure he's no longer around, I enter my warehouse and lock it from the inside.
The first thing I notice is my own left eyeball, floating in a flask on a steel shelf in the western hall. The second thing is the distillery on a steel table right next to the shelves.
These are hard evidence of alchemical practice.
But this is serious. An Order has sent someone to visit me. Although their purpose is merely financial, if they want to, they can conduct an official search. That's what I've learned from my job this past month.
Alongside the fact that Orders are trying to kill each other. An alchemist of a hostile Order like me will be the first target.
I have made a new choice.
After I store all my knives—fangs—within the steel shelves, I leave my warehouse and lock it from the outside.
Then I exit the alley and take a carriage.
"Valazam Hotel," I tell the jarvy.
Then we arrive, I step out of the carriage. Just outside of the hotel—its vaporgates.
I quickly return to my room and change into the elegant suit Ashlynn bought. Blue vest over crisp white shirt, brown trousers, and a white frock coat. The sleeves pressing comfortably against my arms, the coat falling heavy over my shoulders.
I go down to the lobby and meet the receptionist.
"Excuse me, can you send food to my room?" I ask.
"What kind?" she replies.
"One that makes a lady happy," I say with a small wink.
She chuckles and nods as if she already knows what I want.
I head back up to my room, arranging the desk into a makeshift table. The polished surface reflects the light from the chandelier turning it into a small stage for the evening.
Time passes.
A knock comes at the door, and a pair of hotel workers enter, carrying trays. Steam curls from silver domes, warm and inviting. They set down plates of delicate smoked salmon, petite tarts filled with seasonal vegetables, and small baskets of fresh bread and pastries. Bowls of lightly seasoned greens and creamy soups in fine porcelain accompany the spread. Crystal glasses are filled with spiced wine, generous enough to warm the spirit and lighten the mood.
They also bring folding tables and chairs, placing them near the window. Outside, the city's lanterns glow softly, spilling golden light into the room. The light glints on the silverware and glassware, warming the space. The scents of the meal mingle with the faint floral perfume lingering from the walls, creating a quiet, comfortable atmosphere.
The table is ready. All that remains is Ashlynn.
A moment later, the door opens, and Ashlynn steps in.
Her eyes widen slightly, brows lifting, a soft gasp escaping her lips. She pauses, taking in the small, neatly arranged table, the warm glow of the lanterns catching the shine of the crystal glasses. Her hand flies to her chest instinctively, a gentle laugh tugging at the corner of her mouth.
"Len… you did all this?" she murmurs, surprise and something softer—delight—mixing in her voice.
I extend a hand toward her. "Come," I say, gesturing gently.
Ashlynn hesitates for a heartbeat, then approaches her seat, settling directly in front of me. Her blue dress clings slightly, damp from today's sweat, but the faint, sweet scent of floral soap lingers in the air around her, soft and comforting.
Her eyes flick up to mine, still wide with surprise, and a shy smile curves her lips.
"You like it?" I ask.
"I love it."
Ashlynn lets out a soft laugh, shrugging off the surprise. She leans back slightly and kicks off her boots under the table. The soft thud against the floor reaches me. A faint rustle follows as she adjusts her stockings, the fabric whispering against itself.
I can't see everything, but the subtle movements—the way her legs shift under the table, the way she stretches one foot forward, brushing close to mine—tell me enough. Her playful smirk meets my gaze, and I feel the warmth and life radiating from her, teasing me with every subtle gesture.
I lean back in my chair, letting my fingers drape lazily over the edge of the table, my expression neutral—or at least what I hope passes for neutral. I sip from my glass, eyes cast downward just long enough to seem disinterested.
But Ashlynn catches the slight twitch at the corner of my lips, the barely-there lift of an eyebrow, the subtle lean of my shoulder toward her. She tilts her head, a knowing sparkle in her eyes, and the soft curve of her smile tells me she sees right through the act.
"Drink more wine," she suddenly says, flat tone hiding her amusement, anticipating me to finish the whole bottle.
I grab the bottle and start chugging.
A warm haze spreads through my head, my body soft and heavy.
She takes the bottle and chugs the rest, cheeks flushing pink. Her eyes glimmer at me.
She rises from the chair, reaching out. My hands meet hers as she gently pulls me toward the bed. I let her lead.
Once on the bed, she lies back and I settle over her, my weight pressing softly but fully. My hands rest on either side of her, fingertips brushing her sides, feeling her warmth through her clothes.
She lifts her hands, slowly undoing my coat, my vest, my shirt. I don't move, letting her take the lead, feeling her presence and trust.
Then, with a sudden certainty, her hand cups my face. Our lips meet—soft at first, lingering.
We press together, chest to chest, breathing in sync. Her hair brushes my cheek, her warmth presses against mine. I rest fully over her, every heartbeat shared.
That night, we cross the line.
That night, we become one.