The rhythm of Elina's new life was measured and precise: brew, inventory, rest, repeat. Ren's deliveries were the metronome, setting the pace for her production. Her small workshop had become a model of efficiency, with labeled sacks of salt and mold, neatly stacked waterskins, and a forge that now glowed with a low, constant heat. But this hermetic existence was a means to an end, and Elina knew her period of quiet preparation was over. She needed an entry point, a stage to unveil her work.
The city provided one for her three days later.
It started as a ripple of alarm near the western gate, quickly growing into a wave of panicked shouts that even Elina could hear from her alley. Curiosity, a calculated risk, compelled her to investigate. She pulled up the hood of her drab cloak and slipped into the flow of concerned citizens, a gray stone in a rushing river.
The crisis centered around the Order of the Griffon. A young man, his blue and silver tunic torn and stained with blood and dirt, was gasping for breath, supported by two of his guildmates. He was the messenger, and his news was dire.
"…pinned down in the Weeping Woods," he choked out, his audience a grim-faced Valerius and his chief lieutenant, a woman with fiery red hair and fiercely protective eyes named Seraphina. "We found the grove, just like the old map said. Full of Moonpetals. But the wolves… they weren't like the beta. They're faster. Smarter. They don't give up. We lost two just getting away. The rest are holed up in a cave, but… Valerius, they're exhausted. They can't fight their way back. They can't even run."
Valerius's noble jaw tightened. This was a disaster. The expedition was meant to be a symbol of hope—proof that the Order could provide for the city. Now it was a high-profile failure that was about to cost him a dozen loyal members.
"How many wolves?" he demanded.
"A whole pack. Ten… maybe fifteen. They just keep coming."
Elina watched as the cold calculus of their new reality settled over the gathered crowd. A rescue mission was suicide. The Order's best fighters were the ones already trapped. Anyone they sent would be tired before they even reached the woods.
"We have to try!" Seraphina insisted, turning to Valerius. "We can't just leave them there!"
"And send more of our people to their deaths?" Silas, the leader of The Syndicate, had appeared, leaning against a nearby wall with a smug, predatory calm. "Sounds like a poor investment, Valerius. But, for a price, I could loan you a few of my 'associates.' Say, exclusive rights to the city's water well for a week?"
Valerius's face flushed with anger. "We will not be extorted. We will handle this ourselves."
This was it. The perfect storm of pride, desperation, and public failure. This was Elina's stage.
While Seraphina frantically tried to rally a small, terrified-looking group of guild members for a rescue attempt, Elina slipped away. She returned to her workshop, her movements swift and deliberate. She selected eleven of her finest brews—ten for the rescue party, and one for the demonstration. She sealed them in clean waterskins and returned to the chaos near the gate.
She found Seraphina away from the main crowd, her back against a wall, her head in her hands. The "rescue party" she'd assembled looked more like a funeral procession.
Elina emerged from the shadows of an adjacent alley. "You're sending them to die," she said, her voice a low, even whisper.
Seraphina's head snapped up, her hand flying to the hilt of her sword. "Who are you?"
"A solution," Elina replied, stepping forward just enough for the flickering torchlight to catch the waterskin she held out. "Your people aren't dying from wolf bites. They're dying of exhaustion. Your rescue team will be just as spent by the time they arrive."
"And you have a better idea?" Seraphina scoffed, her voice laced with weary sarcasm.
"I have a tool," Elina corrected. She nodded toward the most haggard-looking member of the rescue squad, a young scout whose face was pale with dread. "This is not a healing potion. It will not mend broken bones. It restores vigor. Let him drink. See for yourself."
Seraphina hesitated, her gaze flickering between Elina's shrouded face and her desperate soldier. The scout looked at her with pleading eyes. With a frustrated sigh, Seraphina snatched the waterskin and gave it to him. "Drink it."
The scout, expecting little, put it to his lips and took a long swallow. For a second, nothing happened. Then, a remarkable transformation occurred. Color returned to his cheeks. The slump in his shoulders straightened. The deep-set weariness in his eyes, an affliction every person in the city now knew intimately, was replaced by a sharp, alert focus. He blinked, looking down at his own hands as if they were new.
"I… I feel…" he stammered, "strong."
The rest of the small squad stared, their mouths agape. Seraphina looked at Elina, her skepticism vaporized, replaced by sheer, unadulterated awe. "What is this magic? What do you want for it? We have coin…"
Elina raised a hand, cutting her off. "Coin is worthless." She produced the satchel with the other ten waterskins. "I have enough for your entire team. The price is not metal. It is botany."
"Botany?" Seraphina asked, bewildered.
"The Moonpetal flowers your first team found. They are of no use to you. To me, they are essential. When your people return, the entire haul is mine. That is the first part of the price."
"And the second?" Seraphina breathed, her eyes locked on the satchel.
"When they ask you how your brave soldiers accomplished the impossible," Elina said, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, "you will not speak of me. You will not describe my cloak. You will tell them you received aid from 'Aetheria.'"
The name hung in the air, ancient and strange. It held a power Seraphina couldn't comprehend, but the authority with which it was spoken was undeniable. Moonpetals and a name. It was a bizarre, almost nonsensical price for a miracle that could save a dozen lives.
Desperate, she had no choice. "Done," Seraphina said, her voice firm. "You have a deal."
Elina handed over the satchel and, without another word, melted back into the alley's shadows, disappearing as mysteriously as she had arrived.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Seraphina watches the last of the shadows where the figure stood, then turns to her rescue party. Their faces are no longer filled with dread, but with a dawning, fierce hope. She uncorks the waterskins, distributing the precious liquid. As her soldiers drink, she sees the same miraculous transformation play out on each of their faces. They were no longer a suicide squad. They were a weapon.
"To the woods!" she commanded, her voice ringing with a renewed authority that she hadn't felt since launch day. "We're bringing our family home!"
As they charged toward the city gate, a roaring torrent of silver and blue, she clutched the last waterskin to her chest like a sacred relic. She didn't know if Aetheria was a person, a guild, or some new god of this cruel world. But she knew, with absolute certainty, that she had just made a deal with the single most powerful entity in Novus Landing. And soon, everyone else would know that name too.