Chapter 18 (Part 1): The Alchemist's Masquerade
(Where Lies Unravel Like Spent Spellwork)
Part 1: Dungeon Diplomacy
The dungeon's damp clung to Bennett's velvet sleeves like a beggar's plea. Rolin Castle's underbelly reeked of mildew and desperation—a far cry from the perfumed intrigues of court. Yet here, in this vault of shadows, Bennett sensed opportunity sharper than the iron bars.
Lady Rowling—no, Knight-Captain Rowling now—stood guard, her transformation as jarring as a sword thrust through silk. Gone were the tavern's flirtatious smirks and thigh-baring skirts; in their place, a steel gorget hid her collarbones, and cropped auburn hair framed a face stripped of artifice. She bowed stiffly, the gesture at war with her lingering guilt.
"My lord," she began, "the prisoner—"
"—is still breathing. How novel." Bennett swept past her, his boots echoing like a gallows drum. "You've grown fond of playing jailer, Rowling. Does virtue itch beneath that armor?"
The barb struck true. Her jaw tightened.
Part 2: The Mage's Confessional
The captive mage resembled a plucked crow—pallid, shivering, dignity molted. Gareth (for that was his name, whispered once in a drunken boast) huddled on a stone slab, his once-proud robes reduced to rags. At Bennett's entrance, the brute of a guard—Thorne—grinned through missing teeth and withdrew, dragging his cudgel like a child's toy.
"You," Gareth hissed, though the venom faltered. Two days without sleep or spells had hollowed him.
Bennett leaned against a moss-slick wall, feigning nonchalance. "Let's dispense with the theatrics, shall we? You're no more a true mage than I'm a choirboy. But pretending? Ah, there you excel."
The prisoner flinched.
"A transmutation of credentials, if you will." Bennett tossed a silver coin—engraved with the Mage Guild's sigil—onto the slab. "How does a hedge wizard counterfeit this?"
Gareth's laughter curdled into a cough. "You think it's easy? The Guild's examiners—"
"—are as blind as temple priests. Come now. I've seen your 'spells'—parlor tricks amplified by alchemical powders. That fireball in the tavern? Ammonium nitrate and powdered sulfur, ignited by a flint ring. Quite inventive… for a charlatan."
Silence pooled, thick and viscous.
Part 3: The Bitter Draught of Truth
Dawn leaked through a high slit window as Gareth unraveled:
The Guild's Open Secret: "Every master mage hoards a dozen apprentices—free labor draped in false hope. We grind herbs, clean cauldrons, chant until our throats bleed… all for crumbs of real magic."
The Alchemy Gambit: "When I failed the trials… I stole my master's formulary. Turned to potions. A tincture to mimic spell fatigue… a salve to feign mana burns…"
The Price: "Do you know what it's like? To bow to boys half your age, call them 'master,' while they sneer at your herbalism?"
Bennett's mask slipped—a flicker of kinship. Here was his mirror: another outcast clawing at walls of inherited privilege.
"And the instant casting?" he pressed.
Gareth's smirk held ashes. "A child's trick. Guild mages chant to focus their power. I… pre-charge." He tapped a vial hidden in his sleeve—glass glowing faintly blue. "Liquid moonlight. Harvested during eclipses. Siphon a spell into it, and…"
"A stored spark." Bennett's pulse quickened. Portable magic. The implications—
"Unstable," Gareth warned. "The vial shatters after one use. And the Guild… if they knew…"
Part 4: The Bargain Struck
Bennett straightened, the coin vanishing into his palm. "Serve me. Not as a mage—as an alchemist. Brew your potions in my labs. No groveling. No pretense."
Gareth's eyes narrowed. "And my freedom?"
"Earn it. Create something useful."
"Useful to whom? You?"
"To progress." Bennett gestured to the dungeon's dripping walls. "Out there, they chain magic to bloodlines and chants. But you? You cheat. So do I."
The alchemist stared, then barked a laugh. "What's your game, lordling? Why dabble in gutter tricks?"
"Because," Bennett said, turning toward the stairs, "the stars care nothing for our rules. And neither shall I."
Chapter 18 (Part 2): The Alchemist's Revelation
(Where Fire Burns in a Flask)
The Lie of the Lattice
Bennett leaned against the dungeon's damp stone wall, torchlight carving shadows across the captive mage's hollow cheeks. The man's voice—cracked from dehydration and disillusionment—unspooled truths that stung sharper than any spell.
"You think magic is a ladder?" The prisoner laughed, chains clinking. "No, boy. It's a filter. A sieve to separate the wheat of talent from the chaff of hope. And we—" He rattled his manacles. "—are the husks they feed to the furnace."
His words painted a grotesque tapestry:
Masters hoarding knowledge like dragons.
Apprentices duped into eternal servitude with false promises.
The "Gifted" like Bennett himself—spared only by blood, not merit.
"Your precious exam in the capital?" The mage spat. "A farce. Had you been born a blacksmith's son, that charlatan Clark would've bound you to a cauldron until your spine bent."
Bennett's fingers whitened around his dagger's hilt. The memory of Clark's obsequious praise (Chapter 5's "auspicious potential") curdled into something foul.
The Copper Crown
The prisoner's silverleaf pin glinted mockingly—a true mage's badge, not the copper disc of alchemists. Bennett's mind raced to the night he'd pried it from the man's cloak (Chapter 17's tavern brawl).
"How?" The word escaped like a prayer.
The mage's eyes kindled. "They hunt for lightning in the sky. I learned to brew it."
The Element in the Elixir
What followed was heresy in cadence:
Fire not conjured from ether, but distilled from firethorn sap.
Wind compressed from desert lilies into ampoules.
Water harvested moon-drunk from weeping willows.
"Your teachers speak of 'communing with nature.'" The mage's smile turned feral. "I dissect her."
Bennett's pulse roared. This—this was the key to Seymel's star-magic! No need for innate attunement when elements could be bottled, quantified, controlled.
The Fractal Truth
The prisoner leaned forward, madness and genius entwined:
"Ask yourself—why do alchemical flames burn blue? Why does frostwort powder chill wine? Because everything holds shards of the elements. The old fools wait for epiphanies. I—" He brandished scarred hands. "—take them."
Bennett's mind flashed to Seymel's encrypted journals (Chapter 16's starmaps). Hadn't the witch-astronomer scribbled margins with formulae for "celestial essences"?
The dungeon's chill evaporated. Here lay the bridge between stars and soil—between a magicless heir and his ancestor's legacy.
Chapter 19: The Alchemist's Gambit
(Where Genius Bows to Ambition)
The Spark in the Dark
Bennett leaned against the damp stone wall of the dungeon, arms crossed, eyes narrowed. The man before him—pale, shivering, yet radiating a feverish pride—was no ordinary captive. A heretic. A visionary. A genius. The realization struck Bennett like a lightning bolt. This Sorskrall (for the mage had finally surrendered his name) had cracked a code even the Arcane Guild deemed unsolvable: How to conjure magic without the Maker's blessing.
"Explain it again," Bennett ordered, voice sharp but tinged with awe. "Slower."
Sorskrall's chapped lips split into a grin. "Imagine… a deaf man at a symphony. He feels nothing. But if you amplify the music—blast it until the walls shake—even he'll sense the vibrations. That's what I did with fire essence."
Bennett's mind raced. Amplify elemental density through alchemy. Use it as a crutch for weak magical attunement. A concept so blasphemous, so brilliant, it reeked of desperation and glory.
"Your 'yellow powder,'" Bennett pressed. "How?"
"Years!" Sorskrall's chains rattled as he gestured wildly. "Decades of failed brews! But finally—finally—I distilled it from sunbloom roots and ashthorn sap. When aerosolized…" He mimed scattering dust. "The air sang with fire. For the first time in my wretched life, I felt the elements. And this—" He flicked a frail spark between his fingers. "—was my reward."
The tiny flame guttered out, but its ghost lingered in Bennett's retinas. A spark. A beginning.
The Cage of Ambition
"Why stop at sparks?" Bennett's voice dropped to a whisper. "If higher concentration allows stronger spells—"
"—then drown the world in flame? Tried that." Sorskrall's laughter turned jagged. "To cast a mid-tier firebolt, I'd need ambient essence fifty times denser than my powder provides. Fifty! Do you know what that looks like?" He gripped Bennett's sleeve, eyes manic. "A conflagration. A furnace. I'd roast alive before uttering the first syllable!"
Bennett frowned. A bottleneck. Yet within the problem lay opportunity. "What if… the powder could be refined? Concentrated further?"
"With what? Gold? Time?" The mage sagged. "I'm no lordling with vaults to plunder. My 'laboratory' is a leaky shed in the Southlands. My tools—scavenged. My funds—" He spat. "—stolen by bandits thrice last year."
Bandits. Bennett's pulse quickened. Bandits, or Guild spies? The Arcane Orders tolerated rogues but not revolutionaries. Sorskrall's work threatened their monopoly. No wonder he's hiding.
The Devil's Bargain
Bennett straightened, the torchlight carving his face into a mask of resolve. "Serve me."
Sorskrall blinked. "What?"
"Become my alchemist. My patron. My—" Bennett's smile flickered, cold and bright. "—partner in heresy."
"You'd trust a charlatan?"
"I trust hunger. Yours for recognition. Mine for power." Bennett leaned in. "The Roland name opens doors even the Guild can't bar. Resources? Unlimited. Protection? Absolute. And your 'leaky shed'—" He tossed a velvet purse onto the stone bench. The clink of gold froze Sorskrall mid-breath. "—will be replaced by a fortress-laboratory. If you swear fealty."
The mage's throat worked soundlessly. Years of ridicule, exile, and stolen breakthroughs warred with suspicion.
Bennett pressed his advantage. "You seek respect? Imagine standing before the Guild not as a beggar—but as a patron. Your methods codified. Your name etched in grimoires. All it costs is… loyalty."
Sorskrall's shackles chimed as he trembled. "My research… the risks…"
"Are mine to bear." Bennett's hand closed over the purse. "But first—we retrieve your work. Every formula. Every speck of powder."
"The Southlands are three weeks' ride! And my lab's traps—"
"—will recognize their maker." Bennett turned to leave. "We depart at dawn."
Chapter 20 (Part 1): The Ember Road
(Where Ambition Meets the Blade)
Part 1: Southbound Sparks
The southern horizon simmered like a forge, heatwaves rippling over fields of golden wheat. Bennett's caravan cut through the haze, its pace unhurried—a lordling's procession masquerading as a scholar's pilgrimage. At its heart rode Solskya, the fire-mage-turned-alchemist, his newly tailored robes fluttering like caged flames.
Old Steward Marcle's disapproval had been a muted thing. A first-tier mage? Hardly worth the silk. Yet Bennett's smirk lingered. What the steward dismissed as mediocrity, he recognized as malleability. Solskya's eyes—still raw from dungeon shadows—burned with the desperation of a man who'd tasted ashes and now craved fire.
The retinue sprawled like a dragon's tail:
Twenty mounted guards (half veterans from the capital, half fresh-faced locals).
Sir Robert, the taciturn knight-captain, whose loyalty smelled of steel and saddle leather.
Rowling, her sword now sheathed in propriety, though her gaze still cut sharper than her blade.
Bennett's fingers drummed the carriage window. Seven days. Seven days of feigned interest in granaries and irrigation ditches. Seven nights of Robert's drills—the knight's patience as unyielding as his sword arm.
Part 2: The Knight's Gambit
Sir Robert was a puzzle wrapped in chainmail. At dawn, he'd oversee sentry rotations with the precision of a siege engineer. By noon, he'd dismantle recruits in sparring matches, his broadsword a blur of controlled brutality. Yet when Bennett requested lessons, the knight's severity thawed.
"Again," Robert grunted, parrying Bennett's wooden practice sword into the dirt. "Feet apart. Shoulders down."
The truth hung unspoken between them: Bennett's body—frail as parchment, lungs still scarred from childhood fever—would never wield true power. Yet the knight indulged him, drilling stances meant to fortify bone rather than break enemies.
"Why?" Bennett gasped after a particularly vicious disarming maneuver. "Why humor this?"
Robert sheathed his blade, sunset glinting off his fourth-tier medallion. "A lord who understands sweat values loyalty differently."
Part 3: The Edge of the World
Cort Province's southern border announced itself with crumbling watchtowers and sun-bleached shrines. Farmers here bowed slower, their deference tinged with curiosity. Bennett's chest tightened. Beyond lay Rill Province—a land of merchant lords and military outposts, where the Lannin name rang fainter.
At the border town of Halfmarch, the air thickened with spice and suspicion. The inn's sign creaked—a gilded horn split diagonally, commemorating some forgotten siege. Inside, mercenaries clustered like wolves, their armor clinking with foreign coins.
It happened at supper.
The door burst open, sunlight framing three figures in Rill's cobalt livery. Captain Span, his insignia polished to a warlord's gleam, swept toward the mercenary band.
"By Imperial Decree 7-42," his voice cleaved the tavern's chatter, "your company is conscripted for operations in the Halfmarch Valley. Assemble in the courtyard. Now."
A merchant—all oiled smiles and nervous fingers—scurried forward. "Honorable Captain, our caravan—"
"—will proceed unguarded or not at all." Span didn't blink. "The Crown's needs outweigh your silks."
Bennett's spoon hovered over his venison stew. This was the game he'd studied in ledgers: power stripped of velvet, raw as a fresh wound.