Edward froze, wide-eyed. "My Lord, do you mean I… I could truly become a wizard? Use magic, like you?"
As the Castle's butler, he had long since grown used to wonders that would make most men faint: portraits that argued with one another, staircases that rearranged themselves, suits of armor that marched on their own, Ashwinders curling lazily in the hearth. He'd polished silver that floated, dusted chandeliers that glowed with bottled starlight. Yet every miracle he witnessed had only deepened that quiet ache inside him, the yearning of a mortal standing at the edge of a world of miracles he could never touch.
Magic, he'd always believed, was a gift one was born with. And he was ordinary, painfully so. So he had buried that longing and poured himself into his duties, content to serve the one who could wield the impossible.
Until now.
When Sylas spoke those words, the ground seemed to fall away beneath him. His heart thudded against his ribs; disbelief gave way to wild, trembling hope.
Seeing that excitement, Sylas smiled. "I possess a spell that can fuse a human body with the bloodline of a magical creature," he explained calmly. "It grants the gift of magic, but the process is dangerous. If you wish to attempt it, you must accept that risk."
Edward didn't even blink. "I'm willing! I'll risk anything!"
Sylas nodded approvingly. "Then prepare yourself. In a few days, we'll begin the fusion ritual."
A week later, the preparations were complete.
In the potion chamber, a cauldron as large as a bathtub stood over a roaring flame. Inside simmered a thick gray liquid that had been brewing for three days straight, fed with mandrake juice, dried nettles, powdered moonstone, scurvy grass, and Ashwinder eggs.
When the mixture reached the right shade of smoky silver, Sylas drew from his pocket a single fruit of the White Tree, gleaming like a pearl, and dropped it into the cauldron. The liquid hissed and brightened as he stirred: thirteen turns clockwise, seven counter-clockwise.
Slowly, the dull gray turned crystal clear, like mountain spring water.
Satisfied, Sylas quenched the fire and waited for the mixture to cool. Then he hauled in a heavy cask of dragon's blood, unsealed it, and poured it in. The cauldron filled two-thirds of the way; the clear potion flushed crimson, then began to boil violently, glowing like molten iron.
The heat drove the air from the room. Edward could hardly breathe as the steam shimmered red and gold.
Sylas stirred the seething liquid with deliberate motions, the flames painting his face in sharp light and shadow. At last, he stopped, set down the rod, and turned to Edward.
"All right," he said evenly. "Remove your clothes, and step into the cauldron."
Edward's mouth went dry. The potion seethed like magma, waves of heat rippling against his skin. For a moment he simply stared, swallowing hard.
If he jumped in like that, wouldn't he be cooked alive?
But seeing Sylas's serious expression, he still mustered his courage, showing the resolve of a man facing death calmly. Disregarding all shame, he quickly stripped off his clothes and, without hesitation, jumped into the large cauldron.
With a splash, most of Edward's body was submerged in the liquid, with only his head left above the surface.
The next second, Edward's face twisted in agony, and he let out a scream.
It felt like he had plunged into molten lava. His entire body endured unbearable pain in the scalding potion, as though he were melting alive.
The blood-red potion, hot as magma, crawled like countless burning insects through his pores, seeping into his blood vessels.
In an instant, it was as if molten fire surged through his veins, cooking him from the inside out.
As the potion fused into his body, black blood began to seep from every pore, until his whole figure was drenched and slick with it.
Sylas stood unmoved, calm amid Edward's screams.
When Edward, writhing from the pain, tried to climb out, Sylas raised his hand and pushed him back into the cauldron. The fusion was at its most critical stage, if interrupted, it would fail, and failure meant death.
Edward had served the Castle well; Sylas didn't want to lose him.
He could only force him to endure. If Edward survived, the reward would be immense.
Time passed. Edward's cries faded into silence, his strength nearly gone. The potion slowly cooled, its color paling.
The black blood covering Edward thickened, hardening into a cocoon around him.
Then, in the quiet potion room, the cocoon suddenly shuddered.
Two hands tore through its surface, and a naked Edward emerged, gasping for breath like a dragon newly hatched from its shell.
He had been reborn, his body stronger, his muscles taut and defined, his eyes now a deep golden hue, sharp and fierce like a dragon's.
"My Lord, did I succeed?" Edward asked, his voice trembling with both fear and hope.