The Obsidian Veranda – A Banquet of Shadows
The Obsidian Veranda hung suspended in the sky, tethered only by forces beyond mortal understanding. Below, Verdantia sprawled in golden webs of alchemical fire, its spires piercing the storm-choked heavens. But up here, above it all, the world felt… untethered. A place not bound by time, nor by reason.
The floor was a perfect plane of polished black glass, seamless and unbroken, mirroring the heavens above so flawlessly that each step felt like treading across an endless void. The columns, towering and skeletal, were formed from crystallized ink—sentient laws that had devoured those who dared to defy them. The very air hummed with remnants of judgment, whispering forgotten decrees into the ears of those who lingered too long.
Tonight, the Veranda was not a hall of justice. It was a stage. A place of ritual, of power. And at the center of it all—
A banquet table, grotesque in its artistry.
Its surface was carved from frozen screams, the petrified agony of those who had once defied the High Alchemists. Their mouths remained open, their distorted expressions rippling faintly, as though on the cusp of breaking free from their prison of polished stone.
The chairs were no less sinister. Their obsidian arms wrapped around those who sat too long, a quiet restraint disguised as comfort.
And in the center—
Seven alchemical fonts stood in an arc, each filled with a different piece of Finn. His sweat, his tears, his blood—each behaving unnaturally. The sweat boiled despite the cold. The blood moved against gravity, spiraling lazily upward as if drawn toward some unseen hunger.
And beside them stood High Alchemist Veyra, her presence swallowing the air like a storm waiting to break.
Her gown shifted like liquid shadow, pooling at her feet before rising again in delicate tendrils, never quite still. But it was the knife that held all eyes—suspended in the air before her, hovering just above Finn's jugular.
It was a paradox given form—already stained with blood it had yet to spill.
And it was waiting.
---
The Bargain
Veyra smiled, slow and deliberate, as she traced a finger through the air, guiding the floating blade ever so slightly downward. A single crimson bead bloomed at Finn's throat, hovering in defiance of gravity, quivering like a heartbeat before vanishing into the ether.
"Your choice, Flamekeeper."
Lyra's fingers curled into fists.
The Flamekeeper's Brand—the swirling, ember-like mark over her heart—was more than just magic. It was the last barrier between her and the Titan's voice, the whispering presence that had lurked at the edges of her mind since childhood, waiting for an opening.
To surrender it would be to invite the storm inside.
But Finn—
Finn, bound in silver-threaded chains, his breathing too measured, too precise. Something about him felt off, like a mask worn just a fraction too tight.
Something was wrong.
And Veyra knew it.
Her smile deepened.
"Give up your Brand, and he walks free." Her voice was warm, almost tender. "Refuse, and I will unravel him, layer by layer, until nothing remains but a whisper in these walls."
A cold, sharp pressure pressed against Lyra's ribs. The Titan's whispers twined through her thoughts, sensing weakness, testing the cracks in her resolve.
She exhaled slowly.
She needed a countermeasure.
She needed alchemy.
---
CRAFTING SEQUENCE – "THE UNBINDING DRAUGHT"
Time fractured.
The moment stretched, pulled taut like an unraveling thread, as Lyra stepped into the current of creation. The world around her blurred, the storm, the voices, even the weight of Veyra's power fading into the background.
There was only the process.
Her hands moved with instinct, unfastening vials and unsealing powders, her mind already weaving the elements into something impossible, yet necessary.
This had to be perfect.
Ingredients:
1. Bark from the Screaming Tree –
It did not simply exist; it remembered.
Even as she pressed it between her fingers, it muttered in a voice no human throat could produce, whispering forbidden equations in a language the world had long forgotten.
2. Three stolen breaths from Veyra's shadow –
Harvested through a silver straw, stolen from the air as Veyra spoke.
The vapor swirled, thick and ink-black, tasting of unsaid truths and unanswered prayers.
3. The tears of someone who has never cried –
Lyra's gaze found Elaris.
He stilled. Confusion flickered in his eyes—then realization.
His breath hitched. His first sob cracked the Veranda like a war drum, shaking the very foundation beneath them.
The tear rolled down his cheek, slow and deliberate, as if the world itself hesitated to let it fall.
4. A single grain of Titan Ash –
Dangerous. Forbidden. The remnants of a power older than the gods.
It throbbed in her palm like a tiny heartbeat, resisting her grip, resisting her control.
Process:
1. The Mortar & Pestle
She placed the screaming bark into a mortar carved from her own extracted molar, grinding it into a fine black powder.
Every stroke of the pestle unraveled a scream, the echoes curling through the air like tendrils of smoke.
2. The Binding Breath
The stolen breaths had to be woven in carefully.
She tilted the vial, watching as the liquid shadow slithered through the powder, turning it a deep, shifting indigo.
3. The Catalyst – A Rib of Sacrifice
Pain sharpened focus.
She loosened the alchemical weave of her own body—
And pulled free one of her own ribs.
The agony lasted only a heartbeat before the bone hardened into a perfect stirring rod.
4. The Final Step – A Lie Spoken as Truth
The mixture resisted completion. It needed a final push.
Lyra met Veyra's gaze, her voice steady. Unyielding.
"I forgive you."
The air fractured. The world shuddered.
The liquid snapped into perfection—a sentient mercury, smooth as liquid glass, coiling in her palm like a living thing.
It waited.
---
The Test
Lyra turned to Finn.
"Drink."
Veyra's smile faltered. "What trick is this?"
But it was too late.
The silver-black liquid slithered up Finn's cheek, curling behind his ear—
And sank inside.
A pause.
Then—
His eyes flashed gold.
He exhaled, voice distant.
"The third font is a liar."
Lyra's stomach dropped.
The third font, the one labeled Finn's Regret, wasn't his at all.
It was Veyra's childhood fear.
And that meant—
The Finn before them wasn't real.
---
The True Rescue Begins.
And Lyra reached for her next creation.
The Nectar of Unmaking.
And the knife…
To cut the strings.