The smell of scorched thyme clung to the air like guilt.
Elara wiped the back of her hand across her brow, smudging ash into the golden freckles that dusted her pale skin. The crucible before her hissed, its contents an unholy mix of molten silverleaf and powdered wyrm scale. One wrong stir, and the entire concoction could explode—again.
She leaned over her notes, the ink blotted and smudged from where heat had curled the edges of the parchment. The formula made no sense. She had triple-checked every measurement. But the compound refused to stabilize. A low, frustrated growl escaped her throat.
"Still trying to turn steel into moonlight?" a voice drawled behind her, smooth and familiar as aged wine.
Elara didn't turn. "It's not moonlight. It's called Argent Essence. And it's supposed to bind to Aethersteel to form a mutable core."
"Still sounds like moonlight to me."
She finally glanced back. Tovan leaned against the crooked doorframe, his robes half-buttoned and his tousled chestnut hair falling in waves over his eyes. The apprentice alchemist had an annoying tendency to show up when her patience was stretched the thinnest.
"If you're not going to help, get out before something blows," Elara muttered.
Tovan grinned and lifted a hand in mock surrender. "Touchy. But for what it's worth, Master Ryn said if you can't stabilize the reaction, you're not to waste any more of the guild's wyrm scale."
Elara stiffened. "He said that?"
"He said, and I quote, 'If the girl insists on recreating fairy tales, she can do it on her own time.'" Tovan's smile faded at her glare. "I'm just the messenger."
She turned back to the crucible, heart thrumming with quiet fury. Master Ryn had never taken her work seriously. No matter how precise her methods, no matter how groundbreaking her theories. To him, she would always be the charity student from the outer wards—lucky to have a seat at the table, unworthy of its secrets.
Fine.
Let them underestimate her.
She added a final pinch of stardust—a reagent so rare it shimmered with its own light—then stepped back. The mixture inside the crucible bubbled once. Twice.
Then it settled.
The argent liquid swirled, caught between silver and blue, glowing softly as if lit from within.
Her breath caught.
It worked.
Before she could record the reaction, the guild bell tolled thrice—low, urgent, discordant.
Tovan went still. "That's not the hour bell."
"No," Elara said slowly. "That's the city alarm."
They locked eyes, then rushed out the lab doors and into the upper gallery. Others were already gathering near the western windows, murmuring, whispering, some pointing. The guild tower overlooked all of Aetherhaven, and the city lay spread before them like a map drawn in stone and flame.
Flame.
Fires dotted the northern quarter like open wounds. Smoke rose in thick plumes, blotting out the horizon. And in the center of the chaos, a shape moved—dark and massive. Not a beast. Not a siege engine.
A man.
A man wreathed in shadows.
Even at this distance, Elara could feel the pressure radiating from him. Like gravity, like hunger. His cloak snapped in the unnatural wind, his features obscured by a black iron helm shaped like a beast's skull.
"What in the gods' names is that?" someone whispered.
Tovan's face was pale. "I don't know. But he's heading for the palace."
As if on cue, the cathedral bells began to ring, warning the entire city. But Elara wasn't watching the man anymore. Her gaze had shifted to the sky.
Where a streak of golden light was descending fast. Too fast.
A crash of thunder. Then silence.
The light struck the High Tower of the Arcane Guild like a blade of divine judgment.
The explosion hit seconds later.
The blast threw Elara from her feet. She landed hard, stars bursting behind her eyes. Rubble rained from the ceiling. She coughed, choking on dust, ears ringing.
She tried to move, but the world spun wildly. She blinked and saw, through the haze, that the upper gallery's floor had cracked. Craters opened where alchemical reserves had ignited. The crucibles. The scrolls. Her lab—
Gone.
She coughed again, crawling toward Tovan's unmoving form. A beam had pinned his leg, but he was breathing. Barely.
A booted foot stepped into her view.
She looked up—and froze.
He stood tall even amid the wreckage, cloak in tatters, armor scorched but gleaming like obsidian. His face was uncovered now. Not a man, not really. Not with eyes that burned red with runes and a brand across his cheek that glowed like magma.
And yet...
Some part of him looked familiar.
He extended a hand.
"Come with me," he said, his voice like gravel and storm.
Elara stared. "Who are you?"
His lips curved slightly. "The last piece of your puzzle."
Before she could speak again, he touched her temple with one gauntleted finger. Pain exploded in her mind—memories not her own flooding in. A battlefield of crimson sand. A tower of mirrors. A voice calling her name across time.
"Elara!"
The world snapped back. Tovan was pulling at her arm.
"What... what happened?" she rasped.
"No idea. He vanished. Are you okay?"
She wasn't.
Not even close.
But she nodded, pushing herself to her feet. She turned to the shattered remains of the tower, the crater where her crucible had stood. Only a fragment of metal remained, still glowing faintly.
She picked it up.
A single sliver of Argent Essence.
Her hands trembled as she pocketed it. Whatever that man was—whatever he wanted—she would find out. She had to.
And maybe, just maybe, her alchemy would be the only thing that could stop what was coming.
Outside, the city burned.
Inside her, something else had ignited.
Not fear.
Purpose.