Eron closed his eyes.
Not from exhaustion, but from a strange euphoria.
A euphoria that did not come from true pleasure, but from an illusion... the illusion that someone was touching him without mockery, without order, without punishment.
He felt her fingers pass over his skin... slow, steady, then—
They stopped.
She withdrew her hand suddenly, as if it had never been there at all.
Eron remained as he was, eyes closed, face tilted like someone awaiting a slap or a kiss.
He said, in a tone half-whisper, half-mocking, as if it came from an unfinished dream:
"Are you... undressing now? Or am I imagining the welcoming ritual?"
Her voice came cold. Decisive. As if water had been poured over a small flame:
"You're an idiot."
He opened his eyes slowly.
His gaze was a mix of surprise, insult, and the confusion of a child whose toy was taken before he could begin.
He stood up, adjusted his robe, his gaze burning:
"Then why did you stop? Is this your version of a preliminary assessment? Half a touch then a report?"
She smiled. Not a smile of regret. But a soft contempt like a glass scratch.
She spoke as she turned her back to him, then stopped... and touched her breast, with cold fingers, massaging it slowly:
"Because this... is enough to silence you."
Eron froze.
He watched her.
Like a dog. Lost. Hungry. In front of a piece of meat he couldn't touch.
The saliva in his mouth turned bitter. And his desire... was like a thread tightening around his neck.
He said, in a broken tone, filled with wounded dignity:
"I will tell Garon... everything. Today. Immediately."
She turned.
Her smile wider, but her eyes were like mirrors revealing his filthiest corners.
"Tell him... and you'll get nothing from me."
She lifted her dress slightly, with a calculated slowness, revealing the joint of her hip, then let it drop.
Then she pointed downward, to the center of his madness, and said:
"You're very transparent, false priest."
Then she whispered, as if revealing an unspeakable secret:
"You're a slave to your cock."
She stepped forward.
"All your courage, all your chaos, all that sarcasm..."
She touched her chest, lightly, then lowered her finger to her belly, and stopped.
"All of it collapses here."
And she pointed to him.
"This... is your weakness."
Eron didn't respond.
Because he couldn't.
All that remained in him was panting... and a soundless curse.
The rage wasn't stormy.
It was cold.
Cold like the water they pour on your face after emotional rape.
Eron didn't scream. He didn't break anything. He just... felt something inside him crack again.
"How many times...?"
A question passed through him like an old stab being sharpened anew.
How many times would he be treated like an animal? How many times would he be seen as a tool? A means? A breathing joke?
He felt contempt devour his chest.
Then...
He laughed.
A short laugh, soulless, as if it came from a man who had just vomited up his dignity.
The alchemist froze.
She watched him, eyebrow raised, lips parted, torn between caution and confusion.
Eron lifted his head and looked at her with eyes no longer still... but glassy, looking as a knife looks at warm flesh.
He said, in a voice that wasn't his... and didn't resemble humans at all:
"You're right."
Then he stepped forward.
"I'm a pervert."
Another step.
"A slave to my cock."
A tilted smile, like a scar beginning to smile in return.
"But this... is what will make me stronger."
He stopped.
He stared at her with a look that made the air coagulate between them.
A look that didn't threaten.
But promised.
The alchemist was silent.
Her eye moved slowly across his face, as if measuring the distance between a broken man's mind... and something else being born in the shadows.
Then, suddenly, she laughed.
A faint laugh, with hidden pleasure, as if she had tasted him without touching.
She took half a step forward and said in a tone that slipped beneath the skin:
"Maybe... I'll reward you soon."
A moment of silence.
Then she licked her lips lightly:
"In a way... that suits a pervert like you."
He sat down.
Slowly. As if his body was still hesitant, but his pride forced him.
He took the ceramic cup in front of him, sniffed it quickly… no clear scent.
"Poison? Curse? Forgotten saliva?"
Then he drank.
First sip, bitter.
Second sip, harsher.
He said as he swallowed the taste as though swallowing his regret:
"So... I have the heart of a bloody rabbit."
He stopped, smiled a faint smile, dusting off the whole scene, and added:
"Actually… I have three."
He partially opened his shirt.
He reached inside as if it were a secret pocket to the end of the world.
He pulled it out.
Dark hearts, small, well-preserved… pulsing with the scent of cold death.
And he placed them in front of her quietly.
Then... the claw.
On the table, beside the hearts, it looked like a souvenir from a battle forgotten as soon as it ended.
The alchemist blinked.
Once. Then again.
She bent slowly, leaned in, looked closely, her fingers touching the air above the items as if sensing their shiver.
She said, in a tone that did not resemble her:
"This... is excellent. Actually, perfect."
She raised an eyebrow, her look holding a hint of genuine surprise, not manipulation:
"These hearts... completely intact. And arranged? How?"
Eron shook his head, smiled:
"I said I would become stronger, and I wasn't joking."
Then added, leaning back:
"I've already started."
A short silence.
Then he continued, in a soft, almost friendly tone, yet heavy with request:
"And I want... to make something from one of them. If you'll allow, of course. Since you're an alchemist and all."
She looked up at him. Then at the hearts.
She stood.
Then began to walk.
Back… and forth… then stopped… then continued.
Finally, she said:
"The claw... isn't fit to make anything valuable here. It looks impressive, but its structure is unstable."
She pointed at it without touching:
"Best place for it? A magical blacksmith."
Then she smiled, with a sarcasm that hinted at a past grudge:
"Dwarf Olde… might take care of it."
She raised her eyes, gave him a sideways look:
"Good luck... with his grumpy temper."
Eron stretched in his seat, lifted the cup again, emptied the rest in a long sip, then said with a heavy sigh:
"Alright… but honestly, what's the difference between you and the dwarf anyway?"
He looked at her with a gaze half boredom, half accusation, as if saying: "You sorcerers all worship chaos… and steam."
The alchemist didn't reply immediately.
Instead, she picked up a small vial from the shelf, rolled it between her fingers, then returned it to its place... just to fill the silence with a faint sound.
Then she approached.
Sat across from him, her body relaxed… but her eyes suddenly ignited, as if someone pressed the storytelling button inside her.
She said, in a tone not devoid of allure:
"In the world of magic, we're not alike. We just... differ in ways lazy eyes can't see."
Eron blinked.
"Translation?"
She smiled. Her tone became softer, as if telling a bedtime story... to a child obsessed with poison.
"Sorcerers are classified into ten main types, based on the source of their power… and how they use it."
Then she began counting on her slender fingers, as if rewriting history:
"The alchemist — like me — masters the transformation of materials. We take what is trivial… and make it rare. We know the reactions of herbs, metals, poisons, and create potions that alter fate. We don't throw fire… we prepare it in a vial."
She smiled as she looked at the array of bottles behind her.
"Alchemy… is a slow science. But it doesn't miss."
She continued, her voice now carrying a faint chime:
"The spiritualist… the one who talks with the departed. He doesn't use his power… he borrows it. Spirits support him… in return for something. A service. A vow. Sometimes… his own soul."
Eron bit his lip, muttering:
"Sounds like a magical debt program."
She ignored him.
"The elemental? Controls fire, ice, wind, lightning. Those are the violent ones. Direct. But limited. They scream at the sky… and forget the earth."
She raised a finger, and winked:
"Women don't like them."
Eron chuckled, a raspy short laugh.
She continued, as if casting her spells in the air:
"The scribe… is the scholar. He doesn't invent magic, he deciphers it. Reads spells, copies scripts, reshapes forces through symbols. This type? Dangerous in battle… boring at parties."
"The druid…"
She raised her chin slightly:
"He is the heart of the forest. Talks to trees… to roots… to the green blood in the earth's veins. He can make a flower kill you, or a wolf guard you."
Eron raised an eyebrow:
"Tree voices?"
"And sometimes their blood."
He shook his head, "This world is declining."
"Then we come to the mentalist."
Her voice dropped slightly, became darker.
"The one you don't need to see… to fear. He manipulates your mind. Your thoughts. Your memory. Makes you doubt yourself. Makes you love your killer… and kill your lover."
Something inside him shuddered, and he didn't know why.
"The sanguine?"
She said it while opening a red vial, placing a drop on her tongue, and closing it.
"He feeds his magic with pain. Every scar on his body… is a spell. Every drop of blood… a call to mystery."
Then she looked at him with half an eye:
"Some cut off their fingers… to write a new fate with them."
"Lovely…" he muttered. "Magic on installments."
"Then the forbidden…"
She paused for a moment.
"Those who open closed books, and read lines that must not be spoken aloud. Spells that break in exchange for a soul. Songs that rewind time… for your existence."
Then she looked at the rabbit claw before him.
"And that? A raw weapon. A piece of metal… until the magical blacksmith holds it."
"Dwarf Olde?"
"Exactly. The magical blacksmith fuses metal with magic. Crafts weapons that pulse… glow… breathe. Tools that sometimes have will. His mood? Like his weapon. Sharp, rusty at times, but deadly."
She sighed.
"And finally…"
She gestured as if writing on the air:
"The caster."
She laughed lightly.
"The fool. Uses stored spells. Doesn't understand them. Doesn't feel them. Just... casts them. Like hurling a spell from a bottle."
She fell silent, then said calmly:
"The caster... is like a waiter heating a ready meal. While the alchemist? Creates flavor from nothing."
Eron rested his arm on the table, placed his hand under his chin as if in an absurd court, pondering his fate while before him sat a judge wearing alchemy instead of law.
He said in a resigned tone:
"So… the claw belongs with the dwarf."
He nodded to himself, as if his mind had finally sorted the chaos.
"But the heart…"
He looked directly at her, his eyes shining with a mix of curiosity and suspicion:
"You can make something from it, can't you?"
The alchemist interlocked her fingers, placed her elbows on the table, and rested her chin too… as if they mirrored each other.
She said, in a soft intellectual tone:
"Hmm… based on the components I currently have… I'm thinking of two options."
Eron tilted his head, his left eyebrow rising automatically.
"First, a potion to enhance vision. Improves night sight, clarifies details from afar."
He sighed.
A long sigh, filled with old boredom and a complex against all things "logical."
"I don't like seeing what I don't want to see…"
She smiled faintly, and didn't comment.
"The second option?"
Here her tone changed.
It became smoother. Warmer. As if she was melting something between them.
"A potion… that stimulates sexual hormones… in the other party."
She paused, then added as she watched him with a half-lidded eye:
"It arouses. Quickens the pulse. Ignites the skin. Makes them… ready."
The air in the room changed.
The table became a stage… the cup no longer tea… but a pretext.
She said, with transparent mischief:
"So which one do you choose?"
Eron didn't smile.
He just looked at her, a tilted, tired gaze, but holding that old spark… the spark that only dies with death or satisfaction.
He said, simply:
"You're seriously asking?"
Then pointed to himself, waving dismissively:
"Obviously… my answer."