Akilliz sat at his desk, the demon essence still singing through his veins like a ballad made of black silk, old blood, and the kind of secrets that get people killed. The world had never been clearer. His thoughts moved faster than they ever had, connecting patterns he'd never seen before, solving problems that had plagued him for weeks in mere seconds.

  Lirien. She never told him which restaurant in the artisan district. Damn. That was probably a test. He should have asked. Now he might wander around aimlessly and miss the date for a whole different reason. His thoughts turned to Sylvara, teaching him poisons and remedies. She had always seemed so kind, but what was that package he delivered? Was it connected to Lirien's aunt's death? It had to be. Should he confront her? He would have to think about it, decide if he should trust Thalindra or trust Sylvara.

  Sleep was a distant memory. An obsolete biological function he'd transcended through alchemy and will. The potion, he thought, might last a whole day this time. Maybe longer. Certainly enough time to read everything. Understand everything. Become everything he needed to be. Bottle the Dragon's Breath, and figure out what happens if you drink it. Yes. He could think of no better offering for the festival.

  Scattered thoughts made it difficult, but he took a deep breath and focused. What mattered was the journal.

  His mother's journal lay before him, small and worn. Brown leather cracked with age. Her handwriting visible through the open pages. Her voice, preserved in ink and paper and desperate love. He'd been afraid to read it. Afraid of what he'd find. What warnings she'd left. What truths she'd discovered that had made her flee Luminael and hide in a border village until death found her anyway.

  But the potion had burned away his fear. Burned away everything except hunger and the insatiable thirst for knowledge. He opened to the first page and began reading aloud. Not because he needed to hear the words, his racing mind devoured them faster than speech, but because speaking made it real. Made her voice live again in this small room, after death and failure had silenced it.

  "Dearest child," he read, his voice steady. "If I am fortunate enough to see this pregnancy through till birth, my hope is that someday you might find this writing. Even the smallest chance is worth taking. If you, reader, are not my child, the words written within these pages are true. They chronicle the history behind our great name."

  His throat tightened. For a moment, something flickered in his chest. Not quite grief, he thought, but the memory of what grief felt like. The shape of it. It passed. "I will leave you this. My knowledge. My warnings. My mistakes, so you don't have to repeat them. Please, my light. Please listen. Please learn from what I couldn't fix."

  The pages turned. One after another. His mother's life unfolding in careful script. And as he read, something strange happened. The words didn't just pass through his mind. They settled. Sank deep like stones into still water. Each sentence becoming part of him. Locked into memory with perfect clarity. He paused. Looked back at the previous page without turning to it. He could recall every word. Every detail. As if he'd written it himself. As if his mother's memories were becoming his own.

  The journal was magic. Not flashy magic. Not dramatic. Just permanent. Once read, the knowledge would never fade. Never be forgotten or misremembered or lost to time. His mother had made sure of that. Just like those magic spellbooks Kael had been talking about. She really had created a magic alchemical journal. He felt the weight of it. The responsibility. This wasn't just information, it was legacy. Inheritance. Everything she couldn't tell him in person, preserved so perfectly he'd carry it forever.

  Clever woman, Taimon whispered from the back of his mind. She knew what she was creating.

  Akilliz turned the page and kept reading.

  Entry One: The Investigation Begins

  "Thalindra came to me today. Formally. With two council members as witnesses. She said the council has questions about my work. About how my potions function with insufficient components. About my unorthodox methods. She was kind. Respectful. But I saw the steel beneath. This wasn't a request. I'm to provide blood samples. Document my processes. Explain my techniques. For the good of Luminael, she said. To advance alchemical understanding. I agreed. What choice did I have? But I saw how she looked at my workshop. How her eyes lingered on my bottles. My tools. My notes. She wants to understand. To replicate? I won't let her know everything."

  Akilliz stopped reading. Set the journal down carefully. Stood. His legs protested, he'd been sitting without moving. The potion kept fatigue at bay but couldn't erase the body's need for motion entirely. He paced to the window. Looked out at the darkness.

  Thalindra had questioned his mother just as she questioned him. She had been quite interested in him once he started training here, that much was true. The visit during his first hybrid potion, the pact they made together.

  She hunted your mother like prey, Taimon whispered. Smiled while she did it. Just like she smiles at you.

  "She was probably following orders," Akilliz said aloud. His voice sounded strange in the empty room. Defensive. "The council wanted to know."

  When the council wants something, Thalindra takes it. No matter the cost.

  He turned back to the desk. Sat down. The journal waited, patient and terrible. He kept reading.

  Entry Two: Blood Testing

  "Three weeks of tests. Samples taken weekly. Thalindra herself conducts them. She's brilliant. I can see why she's the High Judiciar. Her knowledge about the core of a being, about the soul itself, exceeds any text I've studied. She says my blood shows unusual resonance with divine energy. That Aurelia's light responds to it differently than to elf blood or normal human blood. She asked about my family. Where I'm from. Who my parents were. I told her they died when I was young. That I was raised by an apothecary in a border village. All true. I didn't tell her about my father's teachings. About the songs. About the soul. She suspects I'm hiding something. I can tell. But she's patient. She'll wait."

  Songs. Akilliz's hands stilled on the page. Memory surfacing unbidden. His mother, singing while she brewed, while she tended the garden. Simple hymns to Aurelia. He'd thought they were just comfort. Something to pass the time while waiting for potions to reduce. But she'd always insisted he learn them. Made him sing along until he had every word perfect. Every note exact, and especially when he made potions with her.

  He tried to remember all the songs now. The melodies. But his mind was too sharp, too fast, racing ahead to the next entry before he could catch the memory fully. He'd come back to it. After. When he understood more.

  Entry Three: Ashendale

  "I couldn't sleep last night. Thinking about her questions. About my family. I went to the public archives this morning. Started researching my surname. Ashendale. Common enough. Or so I thought. But the archivist went very quiet when I asked for records. He checked with someone. Came back looking uncomfortable. He gave me three documents. Said that's all that exists. Three documents for a name that should have hundreds of records if it were truly common. I read them carefully. References to refugees from Ashendale and survivors of some forest fire. It was rumored they were the last of the First Men. But no explanation of what Ashendale was. Or why it burned. The archivist watched me the whole time. When I asked for more, he said those texts are restricted. Above his clearance, he said. I left. But I'll be back."

  Ashendale. His name. His family's name. He'd never questioned it. Never wondered why there were so few others who shared it. Never asked what it meant beyond being his mother's surname and his grandfather's before her. Refugees. Survivors. The last of the First Men. What had they survived? What had burned and who were the First Men?

  He turned the page faster now. Hungry. The journal's magic pulling each word into perfect memory even as his eyes raced ahead.

  Entry Four: Forbidden Archives

  "I returned to the archives after midnight. Picked the lock on the restricted section. Thank you, Father, for teaching me more than just brewing. Please, my sweet. If you read this, never break into that place. The punishment for such a crime is more terrible than you could imagine.

  Yet, I risked it. I discovered buried documents that are beyond old. Ancient. Second Age. Before Luminael was truly founded. I found it. The truth about Ashendale. It was a dale. A valley settlement. Where the First Men lived before they became elves. Before Aurelia elevated them. The documents describe the war. The creatures from Frosthelm. The desperate prayers. Aurelia's intervention. The transformation of the warriors into elves. And then, the Purification. That's what they called it. The Purification. All those who did not fight in the Final Battle were deemed unworthy. Those who remained in the dale were judged as collaborators with darkness. The settlement was cleansed by holy fire. Cleansed. They burned the dale. Everyone in it. Anyone of any age who hadn't fought. My ancestors escaped that burning. Took the name Ashendale to remember. We are the people from the Dale of Ash. We are the survivors of the Purification. We are the First Men they tried to erase."

  Akilliz stood so fast his chair clattered backward. The room spun. Or maybe he was spinning. The potion's clarity couldn't burn away this feeling, this sick, twisting horror in his gut. They'd burned his ancestors. People who'd never fought. Never had the chance to be deemed worthy or unworthy. Just burned. Along with the cooks. The healers. The families. Anyone who hadn't picked up a sword in the Final Battle.

  And the elves who'd done it, who'd murdered an entire settlement and called it purification, were hailed as heroes. Saints. The founders of Luminael. This was the story he heard from that old lady in the Mistwood village, how she explained to the children that they became elves.

  He laughed. Couldn't help it. The sound came out wrong, too high, too sharp. Hysterical. Kael thought he was broken? He was the monster? No. The monsters built cities. Wrote histories. Called themselves enlightened while their foundations were made of ash and bone.

  Now you see. Taimon's voice was soft and purring within his ears. Now you understand what they are.

  "They were at war," Akilliz said. But his voice was weak. Needing it to be true. Needing there to be a reason. "The dark creatures of the mountain were attacking. They had to—"

  But even as he said it, he heard how hollow it sounded. How desperate. They burned families. They burned the cooks who fed their armies. The healers who mended their wounded. The families who waited for warriors to return home. They called it purification. They called it holy. They called it Aurelia's will. And then they built their beautiful city on the ashes and pretended it never happened.

  The valley of ash. Where was it? Under Luminael itself? Were they standing upon the same ground? Akilliz's hands clenched into fists. His left hand, the marked one, burned cold beneath the glove. His ancestors had been murdered for not fighting. For being human in a world that had decided humanity was unworthiness. And the descendants of their murderers looked at him every day with barely concealed contempt. Called him lesser. Mortal. Unworthy. The same words. A thousand years later. The same contempt. Nothing had changed.

  He walked back to the desk. Picked up the fallen chair. Sat down with deliberate control. Read on.

  Entry Five: The Second Age

  "I've been researching the Second Age. Before Luminael. Before the elves existed at all. It is known as the age of Man. It's hard to find reliable sources from this time, most of what remains is myth. Legend. Stories passed down by words alone and later embellished until truth became a fairy tale. But there are fragments. Pieces. Enough to reconstruct what was. The Second Age was simple and scary. It was an age of men and monsters.

  There were no dwarves or elves. No great civilizations with their libraries and councils and eternal lights. Just humans, scattered in small settlements, trying to survive. Then came the creatures from Frosthelm Mountain. The documents call them different names. Baal spawn. Nightmares. Demons. Taimon's children. Yet they all describe the same things, monsters that came down from the mountain in the deep winter. That hunted humans for sport or food or reasons we never understood. The First Men lived in the foothills. In a valley they called simply the dale.

  The dale was close enough to the mountain to find shelter in the caves. It was alsk close enough to be hunted. The humans prayed to Aurelia and built shrines. They made offerings and begged for protection. Eventually, she answered. Aurelia blessed them and gave them magic. The ability to drive back darkness and to protect their settlements. They began to fight but it wasn't enough.

  The creatures numbered too many, they did not tire and they did not yeild. The war lasted three generations. Entire families were slaughtered. Whole settlements destroyed. Yet the First Men didn't break. They kept fighting. Kept praying. Kept believing Aurelia would save them. In the end, she did.

  The final battle was at the foot of Frosthelm itself. The First Men pushed into the mountain. Drove the darkness back to its source. Hundreds died. Thousands. But they won, and Aurelia rewarded them. The warriors, the ones who fought in that final battle, were transformed. Elevated. Made into something new from her own image, they became Elves. Seemingly Immortal and beyond human beauty. They were born powerful. They were everything humans were not.

  The first elves were born in that moment. They were not a separate race nor a different species, they were simply humans who'd been changed. Rewarded and chosen for their service, but everyone else stayed human."

  The candle beside the journal guttered. Nearly burned down to nothing. Akilliz barely noticed. The history was clicking into place. Perfect and terrible. Every piece of elvish superiority, every condescending glance, every casual dismissal of human worth, all built on this. Elves weren't some gods walking among men. They were just blessed humans. Transformed as reward for service.

  Which meant every elf walking Luminael's streets was descended from a human who'd been deemed worthy. And the other humans around the mountain were descended from those who'd been left behind. The worthy and the unworthy. Sorted by a goddess. Separated by transformation. And then the worthy had hunted the unworthy. Burned them. Purified the world of those Aurelia hadn't chosen.

  Do you understand now? Taimon asked. The Elven civilization is built on genocide. They have the audacity to call you a peasant…

  The author's tale has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

  "They were rewarding sacrifice," Akilliz said. But he didn't believe it. Couldn't make himself believe it. Think of the ones waiting for their families to return home, the hunters and gatherers, the weavers and the old farmers. Unworthy.

  He had no answer for Taimon. There was no answer. No justification that didn't collapse under its own weight. The words settled into the same permanent memory as his mother's writing. Indelible. Unforgettable. If Aurelia had the power to transform warriors into near immortal beings, she had the power to stop the Purification. But she hadn't.

  Akilliz turned the page. Something colder settling into his chest. Something that felt like clarity but tasted like ash.

  Entry Six: Understanding the Blessing

  "I found my great-great-grandfather's workshop. Hidden in the forest north of the city. Father had told me about it, but I never looked. Never needed to until now. His name was Aldric Ashendale. Called Aldric the Brewer in old texts. He was living in the dale before the burning. Texts say he escaped with his wife and infant son, they fled into the wilderness when the first elves began their purge. His workshop is still there, preserved by something. Magic, perhaps, or Aurelia's will. I found his journal which was written in Old Common though it took me weeks to translate. He wrote about the gift and said Aurelia gave it to him directly.

  During the war, he was the camp's brewer. He made the first medicines, antidotes, even stamina potions for the warriors when supplies ran low. He prayed and sang hymns, he asked Aurelia for help when he had nothing left to work with. Shockingly enough, she answered his prayers. She blessed him with the ability to brew with less, to substitute through faith.

  The goddess told me, he wrote, that faith can replace what resources cannot provide. That devotion is itself an ingredient and that the soul can supply what the world lacks. In time, he learned to bottle things that shouldn't be. Fire. Light. Memories. Eventually, even souls. Not full souls, just pieces. The part that holds knowledge and skill. Even the goddesses blessings. Before he passed, he bottled part of his soul, the part Aurelia had blessed, and gave it to his son. That's how the gift passes. Not through blood. Through ones very core. Part of Aldric lives in me, and part of me will live in my child."

  Akilliz read the passage three times. Then stood again. Paced to the window. Back to the desk. To the window again. Soul bottling. Not metaphor. Not poetry. Literal soul transfer. A piece of Aldric Ashendale, the part that held Aurelia's blessing, lived inside him. Mixed with his mother's soul. Mixed with his own.

  He wasn't just descended from the First Men. He was the First Men. Carrying their souls forward. Generation after generation. Keeping them alive in the only way that mattered. His hands were shaking again. He pressed them flat against the windowsill. Stared out at the city below. The beautiful city built on the deaths of “blessed” mortals.

  You have a divine gift, Taimon whispered with wonder in his voice. Blessed by Aurelia herself. Do you understand what that means?

  "It means I'm not just skilled. It's not just talent. I'm—"

  Divine. The word hung in the air. You carry the souls of the blessed. You are more than these elves could ever be.

  The elves had been chosen through transformation. Made near immortal for their service in battle, but he understood Aldric had been chosen too. He was chosen directly. He was given a gift that surpassed normal alchemy, one that made him more than human even without transformation. It was a gift the elves had tried to erase along with everyone else, and whatever their blessings were as well.

  But, they failed. Because here he was. Akilliz Ashendale. Last of the First Men. Carrying souls they'd tried to burn away a thousand years ago.

  He returned to the desk. Sat down. Kept reading with a hunger that bordered on fever.

  Entry Seven: Technique

  "I've been trying to understand how Aldric did it. How he bottled pieces of soul. His journal describes the process in fragments. Metaphors. He was afraid to write it clearly. Afraid someone would find it and misuse it. But I need to know, because if something happens to me before my child is old enough to understand, before I can pass the gift properly, it dies with me.

  The technique starts small. Practice with simpler things before attempting soul work. I started with fire. Bottling fire is straightforward. You need the right vessel, glass treated with volcanic ash. You need the right words, hymns to Aurelia, sung in the old tongue. And you need faith. Absolute conviction that the impossible is possible. This bottling can be replicated through the use of Dwarven runes on specific phials, but nobody sane dares to venture deep into the mountain anymore.

  I've succeeded three times now. The fire stays contained. Burns without fuel. Responds to prayer. It's beautiful and terrifying. It's poof that Aldric's techniques work. Next, I tried light itself. This was much harder, more ephemeral. You can't just trap sunlight in glass as it fades too quickly. However, blessed light called through prayer can be infused and sustained. I have two vials of it now. They glow in the dark and they're warm to the touch. It is Aurelia's presence made physical. I've discovered the songs are the key. The same hymns Father taught me. Each verse corresponds to a step in the process. The melody itself acts as a framework—"

  The entry ended. Mid-sentence. Akilliz turned the page. Blank. Not blank. Torn. Jagged edges where pages had been ripped out. He could see the ghost of ink on the remaining fragments. Words he could almost read. Almost understand.

  "The melody itself acts as a framework—"

  Nothing. The sentence cut off mid-instruction. He flipped forward. One page. Two. Three. Four. Five. All missing. Ripped out cleanly, leaving only ragged edges in the binding. His mother's research on soul bottling. The technique that passed the gift forward. The method by which she would have given him his inheritance. Gone.

  "No." His voice was rough. Desperate. He checked the binding. Looked for loose pages that might have fallen out. Examined every remaining page to see if the information continued somewhere else. But no. The pages were simply gone. Someone had removed them. Carefully. Deliberately. Cut them out and taken them. But who?

  His mother wouldn't have torn out her own research. Not like this. Not mid-sentence. Not when she was documenting everything for him. Someone else had found the journal. Before him. Before it was hidden in the archives. Someone had read about soul bottling and decided that knowledge was too dangerous to leave intact.

  Thalindra, Taimon suggested. She investigated your mother. Questioned her. Took blood samples. Do you really think she didn't search her workshop? Her belongings?

  "If Thalindra had found this journal, she would have taken the whole thing. Not just pages."

  Unless she wanted your mother to know someone had found it. Wanted her to know she was being watched. That her research wasn't safe.

  The thought made his skin crawl. But it made sense. A warning disguised as theft. I know what you are. I know what you can do. I'm watching. Or maybe it wasn't Thalindra. Maybe it was someone else. His father, trying to protect dangerous knowledge. A council member. Another alchemist. A scholar who'd found the journal first.

  He had no way to know. But someone, somewhere, had perfect memory of how to bottle souls. The journal's magic would have ensured it. Whoever read those pages would remember them forever. And they'd removed them so no one else could learn. Stolen his inheritance, but they still didn't have his gift.

  Akilliz forced himself to keep reading. To see what remained.

  Entry Nine: The Horror of Understanding

  "I finally understand why Thalindra is so interested. She knows. Maybe not everything. But enough. She knows I'm descended from the First Men. She knows my gift comes from Aurelia directly. I'm proof. Proof that the Purification was wrong. That Aurelia blessed humans who didn't fight and that the unworthy were actually chosen. No wonder the records are restricted. No wonder my family name barely exists in the archives. They've been erasing us."

  He wasn't just inconvenient to the elves. He was dangerous. If the truth came out, if people learned what his gift really was, where it came from, the social order of Luminael would shatter. Elves weren't all that different from humans, they were humans to begin with.

  They will never let you live freely, Taimon said plainly. They are watching you, studying you. They will erase you when they find out you know the truth.

  "Thalindra said she'd help me—"

  Of course she did. What will she do if the council orders your elimination? She'll kill without hesitation. She serves Aurelia above all else. You, my child, are proof that purification was wrong.

  Taimon was right. The realization sank into his chest like iron weights. Thalindra wasn't his enemy. She genuinely wanted to help him. Genuinely cared. But she cared about Aurelia more. And if helping him meant questioning the goddess's judgment, questioning the Purification, questioning the transformation, questioning the entire foundation of elvish society, she wouldn't do it. She'd choose Aurelia. Every time. Which meant she'd choose his death if it came to that.

  Entry Ten: The High Judiciar's Question

  "She asked me directly today. How is your gift passed down? Is it hereditary? I told her I don't know and that it just appears, but she didn't believe me. Elowen, she said. I have studied the core itself for centuries. I can see when someone is hiding truths from me. I don't wish to force you to reveal your secrets. The council seeks to understand. For the safety of Luminael. For one's own safety as well. That last part felt like a threat. I'm with child now, about three months along. She not yet know, but she will soon. I know then she'll want to know if the gift will pass to my child. I need to finish this journal. Hide it. Before she asks questions I can't deflect."

  Three months pregnant. That had been him. Growing inside her while Thalindra circled closer. While the council's interest intensified. While his mother realized she was carrying proof of their greatest lie. No wonder she'd fled. No wonder she'd hidden in their humble village. She'd been protecting him before he was even born.

  Entry Eleven: The Festival and The Pacts

  "I've been investigating the Festival of Light. Trying to understand what happens to the offerings. Aldric's daughter, Elara, she was one of the natural born elves. Yet in her writings, she opposed the Festival. She said it started as a simple offering and celebration. Gratitude. Voluntary. Symbolic. But it evolved. Changed. Over decades, over centuries. The offerings became expected and later, required. Then, the goddess would age the elves who produced suboptimal offerings, the elderly began to lose their minds and cognition. What occurs when she ages an elf? Where does the life taken go?

  Furthermore, the blessings she once bestowed freely transitioned into formal pacts. It is known that Thalindra traded her eyes for her vast knowledge. Yet I wonder where her eyes actually went? It is forbidden to ask one about their pact, and several of the Nine have offered them to humans. I see many wizards and sorcerers wirh great power, power that bites back. I wish to study what happens when one loses part of their body in exchange for such power. In my research I have discovered that breaking a—"

  The page ended. Torn. Akilliz's breath caught in his throat. He turned the page, already knowing what he'd find. Blank. Not blank. Gone. Torn fragments where paper should have been. He could see the ghost of ink still visible on the jagged edges. Could almost make out the next word. Almost see what his mother had written. Breaking what? A pact? Could he-

  He flipped ahead desperately. One page. Five pages. Ten. All missing. Ripped out so cleanly it must have been done with a blade. With precision. With intent. His mother's investigation into the Festival. Into what happened to the sacrifices and pacts.

  "What did she find?" His voice cracked. Raw with frustration. "What did she discover? Mother, what couldn't you write?"

  But the journal was silent. The pages missing. The truth stolen. And somewhere, someone had those pages. Had read them. Remembered them perfectly thanks to the journal's magic. Someone knew what Aurelia really was. What the Festival really did. And they'd made sure no one else could find out.

  Akilliz wanted to scream. To tear the journal apart. To demand answers that couldn't come. But he forced himself to breathe. To think. To read what remained. There had to be something. Some clue. Some hint about who had taken the pages and why.

  Entry Twelve: Elowen's Final Warning

  "I can't write the even darker truths of what I learned. It's too dangerous. If Thalindra found this journal. If the council found it. They would kill me already and kill my child. Some truths cannot be written. But I'll tell you this, my light. If you're reading this, and if I'm gone, your gift is a blessing from Aurelia herself. You carry the soul of Aldric Ashendale, who carried the souls of those before him. You are god-touched. But that makes you dangerous to the elves. You are proof of their greatest lie. Thalindra will want to study you. To understand how the gift works. She means well, she believes she serves Aurelia. But her loyalty makes her dangerous. If she thinks Aurelia wants something from you, she will take it. Without hesitation. Without mercy. The council will want to control you. Or eliminate you. Trust no one in positions of power. Hide your gift when you can. Use it carefully. Never let them see the full extent of what you can do. And most importantly, don't let them bottle your soul. That's how the gift passes. Whatever you do, survive. You are the last of us. You are proof that we existed. Don't let them erase you. I love you, my little light. Your mother, Elowen Ashendale."

  The words burned themselves into his memory. Every sentence permanent and unforgettable. Akilliz's hand trembled on the page.

  "I love you too," he whispered to the empty room. To the journal that couldn't hear him. She'd been right about everything and he'd never gotten to tell her he understood. Never gotten to thank her for running, for hiding. Even for tearing herself away from the gift she could have mastered in Luminael just to keep him safe. She'd sacrificed everything. And he'd walked right back into the danger she'd died avoiding.

  "I'm sorry," he said. And meant it. Maybe the only genuine emotion he'd felt in over a week that wasn't anger or hunger or cold determination. Just grief. Pure and human.

  He continued on, the journal didn't end there. Akilliz turned the page and found himself in a different section. His mother's handwriting still, but organized differently. Lists. Formulas. Precise measurements.

  Recipes

  A section on potions. Techniques she'd developed. Formulas she'd perfected. He scanned the titles. Essence of Clarity, for focus without madness. Tears of Renewal, healing draught that works on old wounds. Bottled Courage, temporary suppression of fear.

  Dozens of them. Maybe more. Potions he'd never heard of. Techniques that surpassed anything taught at Luminael's academy.

  He wanted to read them all immediately. To devour every formula. To learn everything she'd discovered. But his eyes were burning despite the potion's energy, his head aching from hours of reading. Or maybe from processing horrors and stolen truths.

  He could come back to this. Could study the recipes later, master her techniques when he had time to brew them properly. Right now, he needed to think. To process. To decide what to do with everything he'd learned.

  Akilliz closed the journal carefully. Set it beside him on the desk. Stared at it like it might hold answers it hadn't already given.

  His mother had tried to protect him by leaving. By hiding in border villages far from Luminael's politics and power. By teaching him alchemy but not the full truth, and he'd come back to the belly of the beast anyway. He had walked right into Thalindra's attention and the council's interest. This was everything his mother had feared, but he couldn't unknow what he'd learned. He couldn't unread the journal.

  She was right about everything. If anyone found this journal, he would be purified.

  "I should leave," he heard himself say. The words came out sounding distant. Detached. "Leave Luminael. Go somewhere they can't find me."

  You think Thalindra would let you walk away?

  He was right, he was always right.

  You could embrace what you are. Master the gift they fear.

  "What do you mean?"

  They want your gift. Make it so valuable they can't afford to lose you. They want to bottle your soul? Make yourself essential. Irreplaceable. Prove you're not the last of the First Men. Prove you're the first of something new.

  The words resonated. Fit together with the potion still singing through his veins. He could master the gift. Could learn what his mother hadn't written down and become what Aldric had been, a brewer who bottled the impossible. The pages had been stolen, but he still had the journal. Still had his mother's recipes. Still had the gift itself, flowing through him like inheritance made flesh.

  The elves feared him because he was proof. But if he became powerful enough, valuable enough, necessary enough, they'd have to accept him. He could turn their fear into dependence.

  Yes, Taimon purred. Pleased. Approving. Now you're thinking clearly. Now you understand. Your mother was right to warn you. But she was wrong to run. Wrong to hide. You don't need to hide what you are. You need to become what they cannot destroy.

  Akilliz stood and walked to the small mirror on his wall, examined his reflection in the growing dawn light. The mark had spread. A thin line of gray creeping toward his chest. Barely visible unless you were looking for it but it was there all the same.

  His mother would have been horrified, would have begged him to run. She would want to find a way to break the pact before it consumed him. But his mother was dead, and he'd be damned if he let them erase him without a fight.

  He had a date with Lirien today after seven bells. Some restaurant in the artisan district. He should rest, he should try to be present. Normal. But normal was what they wanted him to be. Small and Manageable.

  He'd go to the date, he'd perform being human. He was going to be the boy she thought she knew, and then he'd continue his work. He had Dragon's Breath to harvest.

  The Festival was in six days. Six days to become powerful enough that they couldn't afford to lose him. Six days to transform from threat into asset. Six days to prove the First Men hadn't been erased. They'd just been waiting.

  Akilliz turned from the mirror. Picked up his mother's journal. Opened it to the recipes section. Essence of Clarity, for focus without madness. He'd start there, learn her techniques and master what she'd taught. When he was ready, when he was strong enough, he'd find whoever had stolen those pages and he'd make them tell him what they knew.

  He had six days until the Festival.

  Time to get to work.