THE HIGH ALPHA
Her ashes were black—not the soft, mourning grey of most incinerated beings, but a deep, oily obsidian.
I couldn't help but smirk at my treasure, even if it still smelled faintly of scorched blood and the metallic tang of despair. It was the scent of a long-awaited victory.
"Why do you need that junk?"
The voice was sharp, pulling me from my reverie. I turned slowly to face the doorway. Morgana stood there, her body drenched in the cooling blood of the Silverfang wolves. Her skin was stained with soot and sweat, a grim map of the day's slaughter. It had been a long day, one capped with the kind of triumph that felt like a heavy, golden weight in my chest.
There was a flick of genuine confusion in her eyes as she watched me pour the bulk of the black powder into a porcelain jar, though I kept a small, concentrated portion for myself.
"What do you want it for?" she pressed, stepping into the room. "Why is it so valuable?"
