Elara's POV
The coin purse was empty again.
Elara's fingers trembled as she turned the worn leather pouch upside down, shaking it like somehow a miracle would happen and silver would appear. Nothing. Not even a single copper piece rolled out onto her cracked workbench.
"Perfect," she whispered bitterly, her breath turning into white fog in the freezing air.
Her stomach twisted with hunger—the kind that made her dizzy when she stood up too fast. She'd eaten half a stale bread roll yesterday. The other half sat on the shelf, covered in green mold now. Even that was gone.
The tiny workshop around her felt like a cage. Broken bottles littered the floor. The ceiling leaked when it rained, leaving brown stains on the walls. One small window let in gray morning light, showing just how far she'd fallen.
Two years ago, she'd had everything.
The memory hit her like a punch to the chest. Her father's beautiful laboratory with its crystal distillers and silver mixing bowls. Shelves full of rare ingredients that shimmered with magic. Respect from the Guild's most powerful alchemists. Marcus's arms around her, his lips against her hair, whispering that they'd change the world together.
"Lies," Elara said out loud, her voice cracking. "All lies."
She grabbed a chipped glass beaker and slammed it onto the workbench, trying to focus. Crying wouldn't fill her stomach. Remembering the past wouldn't pay for food. She needed to make a healing potion—something simple she could sell tonight at the underground market.
Her hands moved automatically, mixing cheap ingredients she'd scraped together. Dried nettle that she'd picked from the alley behind her workshop. Rainwater she'd collected in a bucket. A pinch of silver dust that cost her last three coppers.
As she stirred, the memories came anyway. They always did.
"Elara, you're brilliant," Marcus had said, reading through her research journals. "This emotion-based alchemy—it's revolutionary. The Guild will make you a Master Alchemist for sure."
She'd been so stupid. So trusting. She'd shown him everything—all her father's teachings, all her secret experiments, every formula she'd discovered. She'd loved him completely.
The potion in her beaker started to glow faintly green. Good. It was working.
"We'll publish together," Marcus had promised, kissing her forehead. "Partners in everything."
Elara's jaw clenched so hard her teeth hurt. Partners. What a joke.
The night she'd found them played in her mind like a nightmare she couldn't escape. She'd gone to her laboratory late, wanting to surprise Marcus with a breakthrough she'd just made. She'd pushed open the door, already smiling, already imagining his proud expression—
And there they were.
Marcus and Celeste. Her fiancé and her own sister. Kissing in front of her open research journals, her private notes spread across the table. Celeste's hands tangled in Marcus's hair. His arms tight around her waist.
But worse than the kiss—so much worse—was what Marcus held in his other hand.
Her father's journal. The one with all the formulas. All the secrets.
"Elara!" Celeste had gasped, pulling away from Marcus but not looking sorry. Looking angry, like Elara was the one who'd done something wrong.
Marcus had smiled. Actually smiled. "This isn't what it looks like."
Except it was exactly what it looked like.
Elara blinked hard, forcing herself back to the present. The healing potion was almost done. She just needed to let it simmer for ten more minutes.
Her hands shook as she set the timer. Not from cold this time. From rage.
Marcus had stolen everything. With Celeste's help, he'd copied all of Elara's research and published it under his own name. Then they'd gone to the Guild and claimed she was the thief. That she'd stolen his work. That she was dangerous and unstable.
The Guild had believed him. Of course they had. Marcus was charming and connected. Elara was just the dead alchemist's daughter—a girl who'd gotten lucky with her father's teaching.
They'd stripped her credentials. Banned her from practicing legal alchemy. Taken her laboratory and thrown her into the streets.
And Marcus? He became the Guild's golden boy. The brilliant young alchemist with revolutionary ideas. He was about to be made Grand Alchemist—the highest honor.
Using her work. Her father's legacy. Her entire life.
"I'll make them pay," Elara whispered, watching the potion bubble. "Somehow, I'll make them all pay."
The timer rang. She carefully poured the healing potion into a small glass bottle and corked it. It wasn't much—maybe worth three silvers if she found the right buyer. Enough for food for three days if she was careful.
She tucked the bottle into her coat pocket and looked around the miserable workshop one last time. Then she grabbed her thin cloak and headed for the door.
The underground market opened at sunset. She had two hours to get there, find a buyer, and get back before the city guards started their night patrol. Being caught selling illegal potions meant prison.
But prison couldn't be worse than this.
Elara stepped into the cold street, pulling her cloak tight. The slums smelled like garbage and sewage. People huddled in doorways, coughing. Children with dirty faces begged for coins she didn't have.
This was her life now. This was what Marcus and Celeste had reduced her to.
As she walked toward the market, her mind spun with dark thoughts. Revenge. Justice. Making them suffer the way she'd suffered.
She turned down a narrow alley, taking a shortcut she'd learned, when she heard footsteps behind her.
Fast footsteps.
Elara's heart jumped. She walked faster, not looking back.
The footsteps matched her pace.
She broke into a run, her breath coming in panicked gasps. Were they guards? Thieves? Someone Marcus sent to finish destroying her?
"Elara Veylin!" a deep voice called out.
She ran harder, her boots slipping on the wet cobblestones—
A hand grabbed her shoulder, spinning her around.
Elara stumbled backward and looked up into a face she never thought she'd see again. A face she'd hoped to never see again.
Sharp gray eyes. Perfectly styled dark hair. An expensive black coat that probably cost more than she'd earned in two years.
Dorian Ashcroft. Her old university rival. The arrogant mechanical magic genius who'd made her life miserable with his superior smirks and condescending comments about "outdated alchemy."
What was he doing in the slums?
"We need to talk," Dorian said, his voice urgent and strange. "Right now. Your life depends on it."
Before Elara could respond, before she could demand answers, an explosion rocked the street behind them.
She whipped around and saw flames shooting into the sky.
From the exact direction of her workshop.
Her workshop was on fire.