Winning the wager against Cecilia had carved a narrow sliver of light through the iron curtain of her circumstances. In the weeks that followed, Elara moved like a crouched spider along the boundary between light and shadow, weaving her web silently. By day, she was Elara Thorne, the quietly competent Second-Tier Comforter; by night, beneath the flickering yellow steam lamps of the broom-closet workshop, she became a witch in command of forbidden fire.
Using the ice-core gem as her focal point, and supplementing it with materials gathered through clandestine channels—tasks orchestrated through Lyon on the edges of the Ash Courtyard, or "borrowed" from the Academy greenhouses via Gideon's Watcher access—she produced multiple batches of alchemical potions that far surpassed black-market quality: Owl's Eye (dramatically enhancing dark vision and motion tracking), Steelhide Salve (rapidly sealing non-Abyssal wounds), and the more stable Awakened Mind Elixir—Modified. Each vial was stored in recycled glass, carefully labeled in ciphered script.
She knew the value of her wares. On the black market, a single reliable Owl's Eye could buy an adult barely two weeks' survival in the Embered District. A decent arcane tome, like the one she sought—Breath of Blight—often demanded three bottles of Steelhide Salve plus ten Black-Iron Tokens. To gather sufficient "currency" for her next acquisition, she undertook a perilous midnight delivery: a package of unmarked alchemical powder to a Brotherhood-affiliated warehouse in the docks, earning two Black-Iron Tokens and a scrap of information about Silas's recent activities. She spent nearly an hour navigating the labyrinthine alleys of the district, weaving between smugglers and enforcers, her pulse hammering against her ribs.
The moment came. One early weekend morning, she submitted a fabricated excuse to the dorm supervisor: she needed to consult rare texts in the library's restricted section. Her disguise was meticulous. She donned a patched, faintly oil-scented work suit acquired through Lyon, smeared her pale skin and freckles with a mix of ashgrass and soot paste, and wrapped her red hair in a coarse gray cloth. Finally, she drank a small portion of Quietus Water, suppressing vital signs to near invisibility and masking her psionic aura.
In the mirror, the reflection bore no resemblance to the academy's apprentices—she looked like a sickly scavenger from the Embered District.
Using the morning guard rotation and the steam pipes' rising roar for cover, she slipped through the Academy's high walls, lungs filling with cold, foul air that carried the thrilling tang of danger. She moved among early risers, blending seamlessly into the streams of people eking out a living, making her way to the familiar, inconspicuous façade of Silas's Oddities.
The door was as she remembered, slightly ajar, dust thick on the frame. The mixed scent of old paper, rusted metal, strange incense, and faint preservatives greeted her. Time inside the shop seemed frozen, cluttered with curious, arcane objects.
Silas sat behind the counter, meticulously dismantling a small bronze automaton in the shape of a bird, the ticking faint but constant. The door's creak drew no immediate reaction; his voice rasped lazily: "Posted hours. Can't read, little mouse?"
Elara set down her rough cloth bundle with a crisp thump.
His grey-blue eyes swept over her masked face. For a heartbeat, a glint of recognition—a sharp spark like discovering a rare specimen—flickered, but was instantly buried beneath his habitual lazy amusement.
"Tch," he said, setting down his tools, fingers drumming the counter. "Changed skins? Smells… sulfur and despair this time. Sewers not treating you kindly, eh?"
Elara ignored the jab and opened the bundle, revealing crystalline vials. "Even a mouse has to eat. Inspect."
Silas examined a bottle of Steelhide Salve, placing it on a low-purity psionic crystal base to trace its subtle energy flows. His brow arched. "Purity's solid. Energy far steadier than most workshop junk. Technique… old-school, not mass-produced by the Association. Price?"
"I don't want coin," Elara said, eyes steady. "I want books. On non-Association-registered magical materials, Abyssal minerals, and aberrant flora. The more obscure, the better."
A pause, then a low, amused chuckle. "Interesting. Not wealth, but knowledge. High ambitions for a little mouse. Those texts are restricted, each one steeped in blood. Your small wares won't cover the risk."
He leaned forward, voice lowered with subtle menace. "Especially lately… some of the Brotherhood's more… aggressive jackals are keen on your special potions. They've asked me more than once about the source, planning to use it to… 'modify' disobedient stock, or craft tools to corrode Watcher armor." He studied her reaction. "I've shielded you thrice. Risk isn't something a few ointments can cover."
Elara's heart tightened, but her expression remained calm. "Consider this a deposit," she said evenly, as if she hadn't heard the warning. "If you maintain a stable channel, I can supply long-term—quality, even special batches. In exchange for books… or specific materials." She passed a pre-written sheet of parchment in cipher.
Silas's calculating gaze sharpened, flickering with interest. After a long moment, he chuckled, delved into the dim shelves behind him, and produced an oil-cloth-wrapped, wax-sealed package.
"Breath of Blight: Whispering Canyon Mineral & Fungal Mutations Record—private notes of an exiled, vanished surveyor. Includes some deeper Embered District curiosities. Enough to occupy your mind. Consider it… an investment. Hope your little workshop survives the Association—or those jackals—intact. Next time, bring something that truly 'awakens'."
The deal struck, Elara concealed the bundle and departed swiftly.
On the return route, she deliberately skirted closer to the edges of the Embered District. The impact was immediate. Broken steam conduits hissed like the entrails of some great corpse. Frail, pale residents scavenged through filth, shadows among ruin. A pungent mix of rot, poor fuel, and subtly toxic Blight dust permeated the air. Men with twisted gear tattoos—low-tier Brotherhood enforcers—glared at every passerby.
In a makeshift shack of scrap iron and rotting planks, she froze. A small girl, barely six, crouched over a pulsing, purple-hued mass of malformed flesh. Veins of dark corruption had already started to lace her arms and cheeks.
Elara's chest clenched. Instinctively, she knelt, withdrawing the last of her homemade Purity Salve. Carefully, she applied it to the spreading corruption. The ointment sizzled faintly, a wisp of pale smoke rising. The girl flinched; the dark veins faded briefly, only to return with alarming speed.
"No… good intentions won't help… it's useless…" A feeble voice rasped. A gaunt woman crawled forward, face etched with despair. "The Association… they said mild, no cure. Just… wait for it to worsen… or… be 'cleared'." She clutched Elara's hand, frail nails gripping weakly. "They won't help… anyone! My Mara… she's only six…"
The mother's cry pierced Elara like an ice dagger. Seeing the child's hollow eyes, the woman's hopelessness, the futility of her salve, a surge of icy, furious helplessness consumed her.
She left a few scraps of bread and the ointment, almost stumbling as she fled the district.
Back in the broom-closet, she destroyed all traces of her disguise. Lying on her narrow bed, she clutched the precious tome. The coarse pages, the haunting image of Embered District, the little girl's vacant stare, and the mother's despair burned together in her mind.
Strength. She must grow stronger.
Not merely to escape Kalan's cage, not merely for personal freedom.
But to one day create truly effective purifying potions, to bring even a sliver of light to the darkness, to prevent the next "Mara."
The knowledge that the Brotherhood's radicals wanted to weaponize her skill—and that the Association ignored Embered District's suffering—seared through her.
Within her otherworldly soul, a primal flame ignited—hot, painful, and clear. For the first time, she glimpsed the essence of power: not self-preservation, but bearing the near-impossible responsibility of confronting a darkness this vast.
Her path, silent yet inexorable, had begun.