Iron bars rattled behind Lucien as the guards locked him back in the chamber. The moment the sermon ended, he hurried back to purify the saltpeter.
He checked the ingredients—thankfully untouched—then combined Roschella's portion with his and added water to the pot.
"Did you know," he said, stirring lazily, "there's a special salt recipe in the imperial family, passed down for generations?"
Silence answered him.
He shrugged and went on, "Well, I suppose I'll make it myself. The food here is unbearable."
Ever since he'd asked them if they were human, the guards had spoken less and less, which only confirmed his suspicions.
Once the saltpeter dissolved, Lucien strained it through his handkerchief and set the pot on the brazier. Heat licked at his skin as he sank onto a stool. His gaze flickered toward the guards—who paid him no mind—before returning to the flame.
With everything going too smoothly, a gnawing unease clawed at him. Shaking his head to dispel the negative thoughts, he stirred the pot again.
Hours later, the water had boiled away, leaving a thin crust of white crystals. He lifted the jar from the flame and set it aside. After it cooled, he scraped the residue onto Roschella's handkerchief spread across the floor.
The iron bar clanked open, and a shadow fell upon him.
"You're making something funny, aren't you?!" the guard growled.
Lucien sighed as though deeply inconvenienced. "I've already told you—I'm preparing a special kind of salt. A secret recipe known only to the imperial family." He scattered the last of the crystals with exaggerated solemnity.
The guard snorted. "Hah! You expect me to believe that?"
Lucien clicked his tongue and held out a pinch. "Here. Taste."
The guard snatched it and tossed it onto his tongue—only to gag. "Cough, cough! What the—" He spat onto the floor, wiping his tongue on his sleeve. "What kind of salt tastes this bitter?! It's weirdly cold, too!"
The corner of Lucien's lip twitched, mocking annoyance. "How dare you insult the ANCIENT IMPERIAL SALT! Do you have any idea how many nobles would trade their estates for such a taste? You should be honored!"
The guard stared, baffled. After a long beat, he wiped his mouth again, muttered, "Uh… yes. Ancient salt," and shuffled back to lock the door, still grimacing.
Returning to the damp pile, Lucien's expression hardened. All that remained was for it to dry before he could mix it with the other ingredients. Satisfied, he stretched out on the hard mattress.
Tomorrow would be a long day.
…
When the crackle of wood reached his ears, Lucien opened his eyes. Rising to his feet, he checked on the saltpeter. It had dried to a pale crust.
"Finished your ancient salt yet?" the guard behind the bars sneered. Its hulking form marked nightfall.
Lucien shook his head, pouring the powder into a pot. "Not quite. Still a few steps left."
He slipped Roschella's handkerchief into his pocket and held out a pinch of saltpeter. "Want more?"
The beast's face contorted as though it'd swallowed bile. "Uh, no."
Lucien shrugged and approached the table, measuring sulfur and charcoal into the saltpeter, stirring with a spoon.
"Hey, tell me more about the cult?" he said casually, glancing at the guards as he divided the gunpowder into the clay jars.
The beast's feral eyes landed on him and scoffed. "Why would I do that?"
He slid a makeshift fuse into one jar and sealed it with a strip torn from his cloak. "Who knows? I might be interested in joining. Imagine the glory of recruiting a prince—they'd have to promote you."
The beast let out a harsh laugh, baring its teeth. "Promote me? Don't make me laugh. You think I joined the Akmé for scraps of rank?"
Lucien arched a brow, feigning interest as he twisted the cloth seal tighter. "Then what? What's worth betraying your own kind?"
Its lips peeled back in a sneer. "I've nothing to say to an arrogant whelp like you."
Lucien's mouth tugged upward. "Better that than a mutt licking scraps at another man's table."
The beast snarled, slamming its claws against the iron bars so hard they rattled. "I'll kill you!"
"Hey, calm yourself!" the other guard barked, dragging it a step away from the iron bars.
Ignoring the creatures, Lucien calmly emptied the remaining powder into his handkerchief, tucking it into his pocket. He fastened the jars to his belt with the last of the torn strips. Once the final knot held, he let out a quiet sigh and marched toward his mattress.
All that remained now was to wait for morning.
***
Footsteps echoed through the hollow corridors as Lucien strode toward the sermon hall. Guards flanked him on either side, noses pinched against the stench of gunpowder clinging to his clothes.
At the hall's entrance, Roschella waited. The moment their eyes met, the tremor in her frame eased, and she hurried forward.
"Are you hurt?" Lucien asked softly once she reached him.
She shook her head, a faint, relieved smile touching her lips. It was subtle, but the trauma that once shadowed her eyes seemed to lift. Taking her arm, they stepped into the hall.
Inside, low murmurs rippled through the air. Black-robed figures filled the benches, some speaking in hushed tones, others watching in silence. They settled on the bench nearest the entrance, and Lucien pressed his fingers onto her palm.
[Let's escape.]
Her head whipped toward him, surprise etched on her features as she clutched his hand tightly. Before she could respond, the blue-haired speaker ascended the podium, compelling their attention to the sermon.
Minutes passed, each one stretching longer than the last as the words droned on. His eyes flicked over the crowd: the black-robed figures fixed on the speaker, guards standing rigid along the walls. He discreetly palmed the handkerchief-wrapped gunpowder, feeling the weight of the plan in his grasp.
Lucien exhaled a long breath, steeling himself. Once his mind settled to a calm resolve, he jerked upright and hurled the ball toward the chandelier.
A guard leaped in a blur and snatched it mid-air—but the wrapping tore open in its grasp.
The room fell silent. Every eye locked on them.
Black powder sprayed as the guard landed. Lucien hugged Roschella and dove under the bench just as a massive fire roared overhead. Heat licked his skin; groans and screams filled the air.
The flames vanished in a blink, leaving thick, acrid black clouds. Werewolves shrieked, frantically running or thrashing as fire consumed them.
Amid the chaos, Lucien straightened and presented his back. "Get on!"
As she climbed on, he channeled his Aura into his feet and fled the room. Racing through the corridors toward the faint seeping wind, he lit a jar-grenade at a hanging torch and dropped it before the wall without slowing.
"Stop right there!" a guttural growl echoed from behind.
Lucien glanced back—the werewolves were gaining fast, talons bared. Rounding a junction, he braced against the wall, shielding Roschella with his body.
A tremendous explosion rocked the corridor. The ground heaved; dust rained from the ceiling. She whimpered, clutching him tighter.
He peered around the corner. The winding passage had collapsed—werewolves' shredded limbs lay among the rubble, blood pooling on the stone.
Snarls caught Lucien's attention; more werewolves surged from both sides.
He snatched another jar-grenade and ordered. "Close your eyes."
Sprinting toward the broken wall, he lit the fuse at a passing torch. A wet crunch sounded beneath his boots; the sharp tang of blood and iron pierced his nostrils.
When footsteps thundered closer, Lucien hurled the bomb toward the entrance. It detonated mid-air, shredding the beasts as they crossed the threshold. Blood and flesh burst through the black smoke like fireworks.
"Ah!" Roschella screamed as the shockwave slammed them to the floor.
Lucien surged upright, offering his back. "Come on."
Once she climbed on, Lucien ran. Footsteps echoed behind him; he ignited another jar-grenade as he passed a torch. Waiting until the sound drew near, Lucien tossed it backward.
A blast tore through the space, followed by wails. The ground trembled; dust drifted over them.
"Uuh!" Roschella pointed ahead—the corridor ended in solid stone.
Lucien's eyes darted, searching for any crack or hidden exit, but found nothing. Footsteps pounded again, closing in.
His jaw tightened. Is there truly no way out?
Lucien halted before a torch and sparked his final jar-grenade, pulse hammering in his ears. He hurled the bomb toward the incoming werewolves and pressed Roschella against the wall, shielding her.
A deafening explosion erupted with wailing. Wind howled past them; their cloaks snapped in the gust. Roschella whimpered, clutching him tighter as the ground shook beneath them.
The moment the shockwave faded, Lucien surged forward. Channeling his Aura to his hand, he slammed his fist against the stone wall. A crack splintered across it, but not enough.
Heavy footsteps echoed closer through the haze. He poured more Aura and struck again; the fracture spiderwebbed across the stone.
Once more—!
"Ah!" Roschella yanked his collar frantically, warning him of the incoming beasts.
Lucien drove his fist forward. The wall crumbled with a roar. As her scream split the air, a chill shot through his heart. Ice burst outward from his body.
Mana had returned.