It had been several quiet days since Ravine had chosen her name. The ache of return had dulled, if only slightly, smoothed by the quiet rhythms of life alongside Arana—shared meals, half-finished conversations, and the strange peace that came from not being asked to explain her silence. But that morning, as mist curled along the edges of the Solmere Bastion, Arana had looked up from a kettle of boiling herbs and simply said, "It's time. He's asking for you." No name was needed. Ravine had known exactly who she meant.
Now they walked together through the fog-veiled path that wound its way to the alchemist's tower. The moss glass windows of the alchemist's tower shimmered with a pale emerald hue, casting shifting, constellation-like patterns across the stone floor. The tower stood at the edge of the Solmere bastion, veiled by fog and warding runes that whispered in forgotten tongues. Time moved slower here. The outside world—its noise, its judgments—seemed like a dream half-remembered.
Ravine followed Arana up the winding staircase, her boots silent on the worn stone steps. The walls were etched with faded glyphs that pulsed faintly in hues of violet and blue. Shelves lined the inner curve of the tower, crowded with glass vials, bone-ink scrolls, dried flowers sealed in resin, and oddities suspended in smoke-filled jars: fanged seeds, tiny glowing moths, a lizard with eyes in its tail. Every item whispered of purpose, of danger, of stories untold.
"We're almost there," Arana murmured, her voice soft but reverent as she placed a hand on the final door.
The chamber beyond was warmer than Ravine expected—not just from the low fire in the hearth, but from the quiet sense of belonging the room held. Rugs woven with spiral patterns padded the floor. Bone-and-copper dreamcatchers hung from the rafters, swaying ever so slightly. The air smelled of parchment, herbs steeped too long, and faint traces of fire-mint.
A round table sat near the fire, set for three. Ceramic cups rested beside a teapot painted with the twelve constellations of the first alchemists. Steam curled from its spout like breath in the cold.
Caelen sat in a wide-backed chair crafted of bramble wood and copper thread. His ink-stained robes hung loosely on his lean frame, silver streaks running like lightning through his dark hair. Though his face bore the wear of age, his eyes still held clarity—sharp and steady, like a truth long known.
When he looked up, his lips pulled into a tired smile.
"There you are," he said. "Come. There's tea, and warmth, and time."
Arana stepped in first, brushing dust from her place at the table. Ravine followed, her gaze catching on the relics arranged along the walls—an hourglass filled with shifting ash, a feather suspended mid-air, a cracked mirror that reflected only childhood.
She sat, and Caelen poured the tea with practiced ease. The scent was deep and earthy, tinged with something bitter but floral.
"Drink," he said gently. "It'll steady your veins."
Ravine cupped the mug with both hands, letting its warmth settle into her bones. It was the first comfort she'd felt in days—subtle, fragile, but real.
After a moment, Caelen spoke again.
"So, I hear you've taken your name."
She nodded. "Ravine. And Myra—for those I trust."
He considered that for a long breath, then smiled, the corners of his eyes creasing. "Ravine—for the space between collapse and return. And Myra… an old tongue word. A hidden flame. One name for the world, and one for the self."
His words lingered in the air like incense. Ravine blinked, as if something in her had quietly settled into place.
Caelen took a sip of his tea, then sighed—a slow, inevitable sound. Not wearied by age, but by truth.
"There's something you must understand," he said, setting his cup down. "You've come back… changed."
Ravine stiffened, the heat in her hands seeming to retreat. Arana looked into the fire, her expression unreadable.
"You didn't just survive the Dead Zone," Caelen continued. "You returned carrying something the world does not forgive. A thread of your soul was bound to something older than death."
He rose, crossing to a recessed shelf set deep into the stone wall. From the shadows, he drew out a thick, black-bound tome and returned to the table. A crimson ribbon marked a page already waiting.
"You are immortal now," he said.
The words fell like a stone into still water.
"In this world, that is not grace," he went on, "it is fracture. A defiance of the natural cycle. A wound in time."
Ravine stared into her cup. The warmth had left it. Her fingers had gone cold.
"The Divine Order calls it blasphemy," Caelen said. "The Circle of Flame calls it heresy. Those who chase it are erased from memory. And those who survive it…"
He trailed off, but the silence said enough.
Arana reached beneath the table, gently curling her hand around Ravine's. The gesture was quiet. Steadying.
Caelen's voice softened. "This tower is shielded—for now. But no protection lasts forever. And the thing you carry—this fracture—will draw eyes, draw questions. You must understand what it means. Not just for you. For everyone who walks beside you."
He turned the book toward her.
"There is a rule in this world. One that doesn't bend. Not even for miracles."
Ravine met his gaze, her expression unreadable. But her voice, when it came, was clear.
"Tell me."
Caelen nodded.
The candlelight dimmed. The rain outside thickened, tapping harder against the moss glass panes.
And the weight of truth finally began to unfold.