"I'm impatient," he murmured, voice raw. "Always impatient."
So he sat. He closed his eyes. He breathed. Ten slow minutes. Inhale. Exhale. His body trembled, the pain gnawed, but slowly, the tide withdrew. The storm dulled.
When he rose again, his hands were steady. He poured gently, mixed calmly. This time, the liquid brightened. Not orange—yellow. Closer.
"It's better," he sighed, exhaustion weighing the words. "But not perfect."
He scoured the pages again, eyes searching for what wasn't there. Then—a sting. A bead of blood welled on his finger and slid down, falling onto a stray drop of mixture.
And the world shifted.
The liquid shimmered, then blazed—golden, radiant, alive.
Elias froze. His breath stopped. For one heartbeat, silence held him. Then laughter burst from him, wild and ecstatic, a sound caught between joy and madness.
"My blood," he whispered. "No… my mana." He laughed again, louder, ragged, triumphant. "Finally. Finally! I found it!"
He collapsed back into his chair, laughter breaking into a sob, hands cradling his head. Around him lay ruin. In his hand burned salvation—the golden medicine, glowing like sunlight in glass.
"I did it," he whispered, voice trembling, as though the words themselves were fragile.
But triumph could not rest. His gaze darted back to the herbs, scattered like ash.
"My own medicine," he muttered, already reaching. "I still need mine."
His hands moved feverishly. Mixing. Grinding. Pouring. Only one herb remained missing. Always, that one.
"It's fine. With this much, I can break through. Fourth Rank—I'll reclaim it." His voice wavered between reason and delirium. "Porcelain God was Fifth… was it? If I reach Fourth and still lack the herb—will I die?" He laughed under his breath, bitter and light at once. "Then so be it."
His hand brushed the blindfold on the table. He stared at it long and quiet.
"This blindfold saved me. Kept me alive. And when I'm Fourth Rank, I'll finally cast it away." His lips curved in a broken smile. "Not cursed. Never cursed. My savior."
He leaned back, rocking gently in his chair, laughter trembling between madness and relief. His eyes gleamed, wild yet tender.
"I can't wait," he whispered, voice soft, almost childlike. "I can't wait to show this to my children."
And finally.....
On the seventh day, when the morning sun painted the shutters gold, Elias finally held the vial in his hand. His reflection wavered in the dark liquid—a reflection that looked both exhausted and alive.
Half a day earlier, in the children's room—silence hung heavy. Leah, Ellen, and Lucian sat together, small figures weighed down by waiting.
"When will he come back? It's been a week," Leah whispered, her voice tight with longing.
"How would I know?" Ellen muttered, though his bravado cracked. "I… I miss him too."
Lucian sat straighter, forcing steadiness. "He'll be back. He has to."
A knock stirred the air. The butler's voice came gently: "May I come in?"
"Yes, please," Lucian replied, sitting upright. Leah and Ellen mirrored him, practicing composure too big for their small frames.
The door opened. The butler entered, with Hema at his side, and Mary behind them—a nineteen-year-old servant girl, soft-eyed and gentle. Not quite family, not quite friend, yet her presence always calmed the room like a warm blanket on a winter night.
"What about going shopping?" the butler asked, eyes kind, studying their faces.
"You've been locked in too long," Mary added, smiling with playful brightness.
The children's lips curved—faint chuckles breaking through their gloom. Hema smiled too. "She's right. You should go."
The three exchanged glances, then nodded together. "Yes. Let's go."
----
The morning was bright, the kind of brightness that seemed almost mocking when hearts were restless.
Elen tugged impatiently at the straps of his vest, his black hair half-tamed and his grin too wide for someone supposed to be "behaving." Beside him, Leya adjusted the basket in her small arms with quiet precision. She hadn't spoken a word yet, but her gaze flitted from street to street, restless in its own way.
Mary trailed after them, trying her best to keep them in line. She was eighteen, not much older than a child herself, her brown dress patched at the sleeves, hair tied in two clumsy braids that made her look younger than she was.
A pair of rosy cheeks betrayed her fluster easily, and her eyes—big, bright, and a little naive—made her seem less like a maid and more like a friend reluctantly pressed into responsibility.
Lucien walked last, hands tucked in his pockets, watching everything with that unnerving quietness of his. His face betrayed nothing, but the way his eyes narrowed slightly when people bargained, when children shouted, when guards strutted—it was clear he saw more than he ever let slip.
"Why are we even here?" Elen groaned, tossing a small fruit into the air before Mary swatted his wrist.
"Because Elias isn't," Leya murmured softly, almost too quiet for anyone to hear.
Elen froze. Even Lucien's steps slowed at that.
They didn't talk about it often—the emptiness Elias left whenever he was gone. But today, with the chatter of merchants, the smell of baked bread, and the way the sunlight caught on trinkets laid out on tables, everything seemed to remind them of him.
"Come on, come on—before all the good stalls are gone!" Elen urged, tugging at Lucien's sleeve.
Lucien gave him a flat look but still checked the coin pouch twice. "Markets don't run away, Elen. You do."
Elen grinned, unbothered. "Exactly. That's why I'll get there first."
Leya followed more slowly, wrapping her scarf tight around her neck. Her eyes drifted back toward the inn. "…I wish Elias was here too."
"We'll make him jealous," Elen declared with mock pride. "We'll eat the best sweets, see the funniest tricks, maybe even buy something shiny—then next time he has to come with us."
Leya smiled a little at that, though her voice stayed soft. "I don't think he'd get jealous. He'd just smile and say he already knew."
"Then I'll make him jealous," Elen shot back, puffing his chest. "I'll tell him how much fun we had without him until he looks sorry."
Lucien snorted under his breath. "If you think Elias ever looks sorry, you weren't paying attention."
That earned a laugh from Leya, though she tucked it quickly behind her hand. "Still… we'll go again. With him. It'll be better that way."
They walked a few steps in thoughtful silence before Lucien spoke again, a little hesitant. "Don't you think it's strange, though? Just calling him Elias. He's older."
Elen blinked, puzzled. "So? He's not old enough to be an uncle."
"And I don't want to call him brother," Leya said quickly, shaking her head. "It doesn't fit."
"Then what does?" Lucien pressed.
The three of them slowed, frowning as though the matter was heavier than the coins in their pockets.
"…Nothing," Leya said at last, her tone firm but quiet. "He's just Elias. Our Elias. No other name works."
Elen grinned wide at that, like the decision pleased him. Lucien sighed but didn't argue further. It was settled.
By the time they reached the edge of the market, the noise had already washed over them—calls of vendors, the scent of roasting meat, colors of banners fluttering. Elen's eyes widened first, Leya's hands clasped together with quiet awe, and even Lucien's guarded expression faltered at the sight.
But none of them forgot, not even for a breath, the one who wasn't there.
---