Storm clouds had gathered with relentless intent above Baron Angley's estate, painting the sky in furious shades of gray. Lightning tore across the horizon, illuminating the castle's spires and battlements in fleeting bursts of ghostly light. Torrential rain fell over the plains, a relentless white sheet that obliterated all traces of paths or footprints. Yet the castle, perched beside a winding river, remained unshaken—a fortress of stone silently defying the storm.
In an upper tower, where the rain struck windows in jagged streams, the room was an island of quiet. Only the persistent, methodical bubbling of liquid broke the silence. A boy, appearing no more than fifteen, stood before a copper basin heated over a small hearth. His pale blue tunic clung slightly from the humidity, but his posture was exact, precise, his voice calm yet deliberate as he muttered to himself—or perhaps to an unseen student.
"Distillation is a simple process," he explained, his voice serious though tinged with youthful curiosity. "It separates the components of a mixture according to their boiling points. Nothing magical, only careful observation and patience."
A girl of perhaps twelve or thirteen, clad in a modest servant's uniform, watched in awe. Her large eyes were fixed on the complicated instruments arranged meticulously across the table. In the center was a copper basin filled with water, within which floated a sealed jar. A bamboo tube extended from the jar, passing first through a vessel of cool water before ending in a small ceramic pot. Vapors spiraled from the pipe in curling white clouds, carrying the sharp scent of alcohol.
"Master… you are distilling right now?" she asked, her voice trembling slightly with awe. "But… why alcohol?"
Richard Angley, the second heir of the barony, turned slightly, a faint smile crossing his youthful face, though his eyes remained sharp, calculating. "I aim to obtain pure alcohol—enough for sterilization, and perhaps for preparing a specimen, should the rumored lycanthrope require dissection." He paused, correcting himself thoughtfully. "Of course, absolute purity is impossible at present. Distillation will yield only relatively pure alcohol. Water and ethanol form an azeotrope, giving a fixed boiling point. Ordinary distillation can reach only up to ninety-five percent concentration. To surpass that, one would require a fractionating column and chemical agents like calcium oxide, luxuries beyond our current means."
Lucy Fairwind, his observant servant, tilted her head in curiosity. "So… we make do with what we can?"
Richard nodded, carefully removing a full ceramic pot and placing it aside before setting a new one under the bamboo tube. "Exactly. With this setup, seventy-five percent medical alcohol is attainable—enough for sterilization and basic experimental work. Not ideal, but sufficient. Better than nothing."
Lucy's hands twitched, as if she wished to help but could not find a proper task. She had long since accepted that the boy she served, the second heir of the Angley estate, operated in a realm of logic and science that few could comprehend. Mistakes were not permitted, so she remained still, attentive, absorbing everything in hopes of answering any question he might later pose.
Richard moved to the window, eyes scanning the storm-lashed fields. "How long has Turk Hale been gone with the first guard?" he asked softly.
Lucy hesitated. "Perhaps… two hours, Master? I… I'm not certain."
Richard's eyes narrowed thoughtfully. "Two hours, factoring in the storm's hindrance, is about the round trip needed to reach the Black Forest and return. If they are not back within the next hour, concern will be warranted."
Lucy looked puzzled, but wisely remained silent.
"They are hunting a lycanthrope," Richard continued. "According to reports, one of these beasts can rival three to five men in combat strength. Turk has ten men, and in this weather, capturing one without excessive loss is improbable in under an hour. Add the time for tracking and unforeseen events… they should return no sooner than three and a half to four hours after departure. Any earlier means failure—or worse."
Lucy felt a shiver run through her. She did not need further explanation to sense the gravity.
Half an hour passed. The storm softened into a steady drizzle, washing the castle walls clean. Outside, the fields turned to mud as riders spurred their mounts through the muck, splattering themselves and their horses. Hooves struck with a loud clop-clop, slipping occasionally, yet the guards pressed forward with practiced skill, galloping toward the castle.
Richard returned to his distillation, droplets hissing and vapor curling with precise regularity. Each bead of liquid falling into the ceramic pot seemed to mark the passage of time, the quiet before the inevitable confrontation. To him, alchemy was merely science adorned with drama; magic dazzled others, but the rules of nature were absolute.
Lightning flashed again, illuminating the copper basin and the meticulous boy standing over it. Beyond the horizon, the first guard entered the forest, rain and shadows concealing all, as Richard calculated silently—the world observed and cataloged in his mind, each variable noted, each outcome anticipated.
The storm's lingering patter reminded him of the dangers waiting outside these walls, the wilds that harbored creatures of strength and cunning. Yet within the tower, amidst the copper and ceramic, the world remained controllable—if only for now.