Downstairs, the children were already waiting at the table.
"Good morning, Elias!" they chorused.
"Good morning," he answered warmly, settling into his chair. His gaze found Lucian. "You're up early again? Isn't it a little soon for you?"
Lucian hesitated. "We thought… maybe we wouldn't see you for some time."
Elias chuckled softly. "I'm not going anywhere. I'm only making medicine for you, Lucian. It will help—you'll stay awake longer, eighteen hours a day, with just six of sleep. But don't even think of pushing for twenty-four. I couldn't bear it."
The twins laughed, and even Lucian smiled faintly, shaking his head like an old man humoring children. The meal passed in warmth and laughter, Elias's voice carrying most of the conversation, the others adding small remarks that filled the silence just enough.
When breakfast ended, Elias rose. "See that I'm not disturbed. I'll be working."
The room prepared for him was filled with herbs. It was more than alchemy—it was the delicate art of bending mana, of turning nature into medicine. He murmured to himself as he ground leaves and mixed roots, his hands calm and precise.
On the book's first page, new words appeared: Medicine for Lucian.
The process would take time—at least a year for Lucian to heal—but compared to death, it was a blessing. Elias's lips curved in a faint smile. His mind was calm. His father's lesson held true.
Yet beyond his quiet work, others waited—longing to see him, even for a moment. They would have to wait a little longer.
The children filled their days with study, training, and in the evenings, old recordings of Elias. A week with him had felt like years. Already, they missed his voice, his warmth, his presence.
But fate was moving. Before they could meet Elias again, the world would test them.
The hero would meet the villains—or perhaps, the villains would meet the hero.
The first encounter was about to begin.
--
The kingdom answered Elias's request swiftly, sending crates of rare herbs to the mansion. From that day onward, he locked himself inside his laboratory. The heavy oak door rarely opened; it became a barrier between him and the rest of the household. Servants, too afraid to disturb him, left food trays at the doorstep—most of them returning untouched, the steam long gone cold by the time they were removed
Inside, the laboratory was no longer a place of order but of chaos. Books lay open on the floor, torn pages covered in scribbles. Glass flasks cluttered every surface, the air heavy with clashing scents—bitter roots, pungent powders, and sharp oils that stung the nose. The windows remained shuttered, and only the dim flame of the lamp revealed Elias's pale face as he leaned over parchment after parchment, ink bleeding through from countless calculations.
He knew the cure was hidden in the herbs provided; he even knew which plants must be blended—but not how much, not in what sequence. That knowledge eluded him. Too much of one root could turn the mixture into poison; too little would leave it useless. It was like chasing a shadow through smoke.
Days passed. The children pressed their ears against the laboratory door at night, whispering among themselves.
"Has he eaten?" one murmured.
"He's not sleeping either," said another.
Their voices never reached Elias, yet perhaps he felt them in the silence. His quill scratched against paper, his trembling hands smudged the ink. At times, he would pause, staring at the scattered formulas with a hollow gaze, as though the answer might reveal itself if only he burned his eyes into the page long enough.
On the fifth day, his strength nearly failed him. He collapsed against the desk, his forehead resting on cold wood. His thoughts blurred, words swimming into nonsense. But just as sleep threatened to drag him under, his eye caught the faint note in an old record, a line overlooked before: the balance must lean toward bitterness, or the heart cannot endure the strain.
It was the missing piece.
The final two days he worked with renewed determination. His hands shook as he measured, crushed, and boiled, repeating the process again and again until the color, the scent, the texture all matched the image he had long imagined in his mind.
On Elias's side, the very air seemed restless, carrying his storm. To one eye he was a maniac—wild, disheveled, unhinged. To another, he was brilliance wrapped in ruin, a beautiful madman whose fire burned too close to the edge. No word fit him fully. Except the one he muttered to himself through clenched teeth:
Idiot.
"Why can't I find it?" His voice cracked against the silence.
The book had promised him gold—liquid gold, the mark of completion. Yet what stared back from the glass was only orange, a mockery, a dying flame.
"What did I do wrong?" He hunched lower, hands dragging through his hair. Once bright, long, and radiant, his strands now hung tangled, a nest of despair. His lips were split, his eyes bruised by sleepless nights. He had torn away his blindfold, and the price was agony—sharp, unpredictable, merciless, as if knives carved through his mind at will.
But he refused to stop.
I can't do this blindfolded. There's no way.
"I'll do it," he whispered. "I will. I can."
The names of his children rose in him like fragile lanterns—Leah, Ellen, Lucian. Tiny flames flickering against the storm. Learn from the past… but not this time. Never again.
He forced himself to his feet, staring at the mixture. Something was missing—he could feel it, taunting him just out of reach. His pulse quickened. His laugh slipped free, sharp and wrong.
The room mirrored his mind. Books torn open, pages scattered like wings of dead birds, bottles shattered, stains crawling across the wood. Chaos. And within that chaos, an answer.