Alchimia Rex

Dia peered down at the book, its pages creased and yellowed with age, and the ink faded in some places. She hesitated to touch the paper, every caress careful, almost reverentially soft, to make sure not to damage it. The air was thick with the scent of dust and mold, combined with the lingering smell of death and decomposition. But Dia’s thoughts were elsewhere as she murmured the words in the text under her breath, her left hand following each syllable, etching them into her mind.

A voice in the back of her mind urged her to look away from the pages, to recline in her chair and rest her eyes. A stifled yawn slipped from her lips, and Dia only leaned away once she’d finished. The Rapha shifted her focus, reaching out to grasp the vial with her left hand.

Slowly, she trailed her right index finger around the lip of the glass, leaving a faint trace of her power in its wake. “The Doggirl chases her tail, thrice over, and then digs,” she whispered. Her finger moved down the outside of the vial. “But she bumps her head against a rock and cries in pain.” The digit jerked, leaving an angry scratch of energy hovering over the glass. “Scared, she runs back home on the other side of the hill...” Quickly moving her finger back up, she used it to plug the vial. “And shakes off the rain.”

She shook the vial, thickening the lines of energy as she went, pouring more of her power into the pattern, allowing the spell to finish forming and manifest. The blood in the vial bubbled and seethed, and Dia yelped as a pang of heat shot up her finger, nearly causing her to drop the thing.

Too much energy this time, her control was slipping.

With narrowed eyes, she held the vial next to the text and watched as the liquid inside took on a dim orange hue, matching one of the described outcomes.

Dia’s shoulders slumped. With a sigh, she picked up a stick of charcoal and added another tally to the list of negative tests on the list. “Twenty no’s, and one yes,” she muttered, leaning back in her chair and finally closing her eyes. A groan escaped her lips as her empty stomach protested, her bones ached all the way from her soul. “Maybe I should run ten more tests.”

The old text had warned that the spell could give false positives, especially when used on the blood of a corpse. But she couldn’t leave things to chance.

Dia opened one eye and scanned the tallies from the other tests, the ones done on herself and the others. Each had come back ‘no’, but she couldn’t rule out the possibility of a slow incubation period. She had been lucky to “borrow” some books from the previous Lord’s library, but even they couldn’t provide all the answers.

A stray thought made her wonder how Rick’s world could know about viruses and germs without the benefit of elemental energy or spells. She jotted down a note to ask him about it when she got the chance. Another item on another list.

She dropped the vial into a bucket of water and washed the orange residue from her finger. “What do you think?” Dia turned to the only other occupant in the shed. “Think you’d be up for lending me a hand later? We need to find out what’s causing all of this.”

The corpse offered no reply, its face hidden by a tattered cloth. The Mousegirl had lived longer than most of her kind, longer than Dia too. The feral should’ve transitioned into the next stage of her genus by now, a Metalmouse.

The Rapha idly wondered what sort of life the feral would’ve led where she’d survive for so long yet not gain the strength needed to reach the next stage.

Whatever it had been, now it laid here on a slab of ice, dead of a broken neck.

“What pushed you to this?” Dia asked, her gaze fixated on the lifeless Mousegirl before her.

She’d pored over the book, written by a healer who had battled against a nameless elemental virus nearly a century ago. She’d used every test and spell to detect, trace, and identify a potential virus.

All came back ‘no’ save that singular third test.

Either Dia was performing the spell incorrectly, the spell was incapable of detecting this new type of virus, or it wasn’t a virus at all. Was it a fake ‘yes’? Could she take the risk? If it wasn’t a virus, then what could have caused the maddened behavior? Dia twirled the scalpel in her fingers, examining the corpse with furrowed brows.

Old wisdom might not have what she sought, but…

“Maybe the hundredth attempt gets me a new collar…” With a heavy sigh, she leaned in and weaved a minor detection spell. Her hands caressing the corpse’s stomach, trying to reach into the body and identify anything that might be out of place.

Like all the other times, what she felt was like sticking her hand into a cold and slimy mass of irregular things that slithered up her arm, sending shuddering goosebumps rippling down her skin.

Dia recoiled in disgust, her face twisted in a tight grimace as she rubbed her forearms, trying to rid herself of the sensation. “Ew.”

As a healer, Dia had been trained to endure many unpleasant things, but never had she been expected to use her powers on a corpse. Why would anyone need to work on a dead body!? She was a healer, damn it. Her powers could mend fractured bones within minutes and even revive patients on the brink of death.

Dia stuck her tongue out and shook her hands some more before leaving the dingy shed to catch her breath.

She had depleted her elemental energy, and it was time to take a breather and clear her head. There was no use in getting frustrated and twirling herself in circles, not when the stakes were so high. She needed to rest and regroup.

The warm sunshine greeted Dia as she stepped out into the grassy field, along with the acrid smell of burning corpses mixed in with a hint of sulfur, and the sounds of chaos.

She closed her eyes for a long moment, taking stock of her priorities. Rick had emphasized the safety of the city, but Dia was all too aware of the food shortage. The new crop was growing well, and the fields were growing every passing day.

Which was why her job was so important.

There was no way to provide the city with food from the farms without risking infection, assuming it was a virus. But she had no concrete proof of that. “Then it’s reasonable to believe it’s something else… it should be reasonable to look for answers elsewhere,” Dia muttered, wringing her fingers against her dress as she glared at the dirt beneath her shoes.

But what if she was wrong? What if she had overlooked something important? Her gaze shifted to the looming gray wall that separated the shed from the rest of the city, its surface impenetrable and foreboding. She furrowed her brows in silence, contemplating her next move. She could walk straight to Rick and tell him she had found no evidence of a virus, that whatever had caused the ferals’ behavior was some unknown second option, perhaps a feral orpoison.

But if she was wrong, every human in the city would die.

She shook her head.

No, even if it wasn’t a virus, something had clearly affected the ferals. Not figuring out what it was might be the bigger threat! She shouldn’t keep wasting time with the virus.

But what if it was!?

“AGH!” She shook her head violently, ponytail whipping against her cheeks.

It was like being trapped in training again, with oversized shoes she’d been told she’d grow into, and a baggy dress she would have to tie in knots. And maidens wearing gold collars telling her she was wrong, and showing how it should be done properly.

But there were no teachers now. There was no stick to whack at the back of her hand in warning of a wrong move. Yet it felt as if it still hung over her head, a stick with thousands of lives.

Defeated, she slumped onto the nearest rock, tucking her knees against her chest and taking deep breaths. Because it was the most effective way to recover her stamina. The quickest option to get her back into the shed, running the same tests again. To be sure, absolutely sure.

Dia’s gaze wandered towards the sound of scuffling, where the Orcs were pummeling each other. It had become nothing more than background noise to her. The maidens’ insurmountable stamina allowed them to do little else besides wail on one another from dawn to dusk. Every punch and kick was a thundering clap of skin against skin.

In the week since she’d started, she’d grown to appreciate the odd, chaotic dance.

There was a beauty to their simplicity, an elegance to their fighting style that made it look easy. Their bodies were sculpted green marble, with skin as thick and tough as stone and muscles powerful enough to smash boulders. Every inch of their being was geared for one purpose: combat.

And in this, they were as artistically brutal as the drums they loved to play.

Each of the green-skinned warriors hit with enough force that it should’ve left them unbalanced, strong enough to send their target flying away. Yet, like mountains, they did not move. Dia could faintly detect it. How, for a split second, they would stretch their power deep into the ground to anchor themselves like a mighty tree.

Timing was everything. Too soon or too late and they could very well throw themselves before they threw their opponent. But they never missed, always perfectly timed.

It was a level of power that could stand toe to toe with a knight and win.

Dia looked down at the scalpel that trembled in her hand from exhaustion and let out a weary sigh. Orcs were meant for fighting. Everything about them made them perfect for the task.

How could a Rapha compare?

With her chin resting on her knees, Dia turned her attention to the younger Orcs, who had only recently been Goblinas. They were the ones who were most often thrown around and dragged through the dirt, much to the amusement of the older maidens.

But time and again, the younger ones would shake off the dirt, stand up, and eagerly get back into the fight, tusky grins that nearly threatened to split their heads in two. Laughter and jeers all around.

“Something burning at your feet?”

Sheel, the eldest of the Hobgoblins, approached and took a seat next to Dia. Her ashen skin and wet red mane soaked up the sun and sea-breeze like a beautiful desert flower.

“Just thinking of ways everyone might die,” Dia replied, her voice humorless.

Sheel patted Dia’s shoulder reassuringly. “Is it work, or did the husband do something dumb again?”

Dia felt her ears burn. “He… I’m not his wife,” she muttered into her knees, her throat adorned only by a cyan collar. One worn out of habit more than necessity. But maidens weren’t supposed to show that kind of weakness. So she snorted loudly and glanced away. “Maybe I should make a healer’s guild and refuse helping him until he changes that.”

Sheel shrugged nonchalantly. “If you can get what you want, then take it.” A slight pause. “Then again, the Father doesn’t seem to respond well to such tactics. Maybe you’d end up with the short end of the stick.” She made a subtle gesture in Urtha’s direction.

The Orc towered over even her own kind, standing at an always impressive three meters tall. With an effortless grace, the green nude maiden held her own against three other combatants, blocking and punishing those that approached, using only bare hands and feet. It was only because Dia had seen her fight for several days in a row that she could understand the technique the maiden was using. Urtha never fought against all three of them at the same time, instead shifting position and shoving them around, making her opponents get in each other’s way.

“She seems to be enjoying herself,” Dia remarked.

“I was meaning to talk about that.” The tone to Sheel’s response suggested that this was not a conversation that she had intended to have.

Dia nodded, understanding that among the maidens, some topics were best handled discreetly. “What is it?” she asked, her mind already churning with possibilities as to what the issue might be, and what sort of favor she might ask for.

“Does the Father intend to fuck her soon?” Sheel asked sharply.

Dia’s mind ground to a halt, her eyes widening in shock. It was difficult to convey the gall of such a question through mere facial expressions, but she tried her best. It proved to be enough.

“The tribe is talking,” Sheel continued, her tone becoming more urgent. “Urtha has spent just one night with the Father since they met, and not a single moment longer. There’s talk of cold beds and shaded days.”

“She doesn’t feel that way about him,” she snapped back. But then a troubling thought crossed her mind. “Unless... do decapitated heads count as romantic gestures for her?”

“For Urtha, it might as well be,” Sheel chuckled dryly. “Fighting is all she knows. Little bean was as tall as an adult before she was old enough to bond, fists have always been the easiest answer.”

The Rapha couldn’t help but feel a chill running down her spine, her thoughts turning to the image of the towering Urtha and the damage she might inflict on the Father if things went awry. “And how did she treat her previous… ‘husbands’?” she asked in a low voice.

Sheel’s expression turned distant, her lips thinning. “The first dozen left after the third or fourth broken bone,” she said, her voice strained with the weight of the memories. “Once she became chieftess, it was her who threw them out, often bruised.”

Dia’s fists clenched involuntarily at the thought, her mind racing as she considered the implications. “And you thought it wise to nudge her towards Rick’s bed as well? Find out if she broke a bone or two?”

The maiden’s response was immediate and vehement. “No! No, of course not!” she declared, shaking her head vigorously. “The Father has been too good for the tribe. Of course, I wouldn’t want him to be harmed. By Urtha, least of anyone.”

But there was a ‘but’ there, lurking beneath the surface, and Dia wasn’t about to let it go unchallenged. Her gaze bore into the Hobgoblin’s.

“... but he has Monica,” Sheel continued, her voice low and hesitant. “She’s stronger than Urtha, feralborn too. I thought...”

“You thought that if he found a way to be safe with Monica, he’d do the same with Urtha,” Dia finished for her, her voice heavy with meaning. "That he hasn’t...”

“Could only be seen as him not being interested in her,” Sheel concluded, her expression resigned.

Dia couldn’t help but feel a twinge of sympathy for the maiden, caught between a rock and a hard place, forced to make decisions that might harm the very person she was trying to protect.

But her sympathy only went so far.

“You’ve seen the scars,” she whispered, her voice barely audible over the din of the fighting around them. “I will not help put Urtha close to him if she is that much of a threat.”

Sheel’s forehead furrowed as her fingers dug into her knees. “I thought of asking the new Chieftess, but she is not like us. She is feralborn,” she murmured, concern etched on her features as she watched the tall green maiden engage in the play-brawl.

Dia rolled her eyes, a hint of amusement and annoyance mixed with her. “Monica’s figured out that if she plays dumb, people won’t ask her to do things that are too difficult.” She made a vague circular motion with her hand. “But I can talk to her, if you’d like.”

“And what would you offer her in return?”

“She enjoys meat, but she and I understand each other.” Which was to say that Monica also accepted Polita puke-juice, the one resource Dia had a monopoly on. The bug maidens had taken a liking to her after she taught them some basic healing spells.

The Hobgoblin put her hands on her hips, her amusement fading slightly. “Alright, and what would you ask for in return?”

Dia rubbed her cheeks, deep in thought. “Do you think I could ever fight like that?” she asked, motioning towards Urtha with a nod of her head. Her voice carried a bit more yearning to it than she’d expected.

The question was capped by the Orc champion, sending a screaming Orc flying four meters into the air and landing in a heap against a nearby boulder. The maiden’s arms were bent the wrong way, and she was cringing in pain. The rest were laughing, helping set the maiden’s bones in place and leaving her there to heal herself back up before jumping straight back to the challenge against ‘little bean’.

Sheel chuckled, shaking her head. “If you’re trying to fight like an Orc without being an Orc, you’ll just get yourself killed,” she warned, pointing to a scar on her left elbow. “Tried it myself and learned my lesson. Why do you want to, anyway?”

Dia tensed at the question. “You want me to convince Monica to share Rick,” she said with a scoff, although it carried more humor than scorn. “Might as well ask for something impossible myself.”

There was a pause before Sheel spoke again. “You’re a Rapha.”

“I’m aware,” Dia replied, the strain evident in her voice as she glared at Sheel.

“A Doggirl would make a better fighter,” Sheel suggested.

“I’m aware,” Dia repeated, her words clipped. “But I’m not a city girl.” Living in a frontier town hadn’t been some walk, everyone was expected to at least hold their own for long enough for help to arrive.

The Hobgoblin nodded in understanding, standing up and offering her hand. “So long as we’re clear on that.” She offered a hand. “Let’s see what you’ve got.”

“Wait, right now!?” Dia hesitated. “Could it wait? I’m currently-“

“It’s easier to spot where you need the most work when you’re tired.” Sheel retorted. “Besides, I’ve yet to see you fight even once, ‘Spikes’.”

Dia tried not to cringe at the nickname as Sheel threw a simple jab at her face. She ducked under the fist and reached out to grab the arm, but Sheel deftly twisted away before she could lock the hold in place, kicking Dia’s knee and knocking her down.

The older maiden reached down and helped her back to her feet, her tone still light. “That might have worked against a lone feral. What is it you want to learn about fighting?”

Dia raised her fists, trying to mimic the punching attack. “Just to fight, to be better at it.”

“But against what?” The Hobgoblin slapped away the jabs, leg kicking at the Rapha’s leg, forcing her down on a knee a second time. “A feral? Several? Someone with experience?”

“Anyone,” Dia replied.

Her opponent didn’t wait for an attack, jumping at her with raised fists. The healer lunged forward for a grapple, earning herself a knee to the diaphragm and a downward elbow strike to her elbow. The Rapha collapsed on the ground with a solid thud, groaning for air.

“You lack the speed to chase an opponent,” Sheel said, the tone soft and warm despite the harshness of her fists. “Sticking your feet to the ground is a mistake.”

“What?” Dia wheezed, struggling to catch her breath.

“Your body isn’t tough enough to take a blow, but you’re barely moving,” Sheel pointed out, helping her back up. “Is this because it’s easy for you to heal yourself? Would it cost you more energy to mend a broken bone or to dodge?”

Dia nodded, her jaw set. “I also have my scalpel. It should be able to cut even through an Orc’s skin.”

Sheel made a motion with her head towards the Orc, whose arms had been broken, already standing back up with bruises all over, but no longer twisted at odd angles. “Thin cuts will not work on maidens that can mend themselves.”

“Works well for Monica.” Dia snorted humorlessly.

The Hobgoblin laughed with a grimace, “The Chieftess’ claws do not cut, they tear. One swipe and my arm would be gone. And it’d take me at least a week to get it back.”

It was hard not to balk at the statement. To a healer, a maiden that could mend themselves back was a source of equal frustration and awe. Though even if she had such a physiology, it wouldn’t change a thing. Dia remembered her ‘fight’ with Monica, how the Sabertooth had toyed with her, sending her to the ground with barely an effort.

She wasn’t even worth considering a threat.

Dia mimicked Sheel’s attacks, keeping a defensive stance while the Hobgoblin tested her with light blows left and right. The older maiden had a faintly amused expression on her face, evading everything with barely any effort before knocking Dia to the ground over and over again.

Never harshly enough it would actually injure, just barely enough to make it clear how she’d failed.

The Rapha kept pulling herself back until, eventually, she couldn’t anymore. She lay on the grass, completely exhausted, gasping for breath, her head trapped in a storm that tasted of dirt.

Sheel hadn’t even broken a sweat. The Hobgoblin leaned over, her voice earnest. “For a Rapha, you’re not that bad. But you should get yourself a weapon, a proper one.”

Dia’s eyes were closed, her breathing slow and labored. “A spear, maybe?”

The Hobgoblin shrugged. “Whatever feels good.”

“You’re trying to dismiss me.”

“Do you think a Mousegirl could ever fly?” Sheel asked. “Or a human to control fire? I can help you, but you’re never going to bring someone like Urtha down in a fight.”

Dia knew that was true, but it still stung to hear it. The Orcs were still going strong, brawling without so much as a shred of exhaustion. Every blow they landed would cripple Dia if not outright kill her.

“Don’t compare yourself to them,” Sheel said, patting Dia’s forehead. “It’ll turn the fire into smoke and choke you. Just focus on always burning tomorrow a little brighter than you did yesterday.”

It was easy to say, but not so easy to take. She was a Rapha. She’d known since the day she’d been born she’d be a healer. What else could she be? Raphas were meant to heal, built to heal, and learning about healing came as naturally as breathing.

But Rick didn’t need a healer. The day would come when he would get hurt again, and when that time came, her powers would not help. Not against a body that had been scarred as badly as his.

Dia tried to control her breathing, her hands clenching into fists. “I don’t have the time to move slowly,” she whispered.

Sheel’s fingers paused in their warm caress. “I think you should get some dick into you, unwind a bit,” Sheel said, chuckling. “Hob-Wood that burns its brightest right after touching the flame is wood that will blow up and take your hand along the way.” Her careful touch returned, combing the maiden’s pink hair. “Do you know when it’ll be safe for us to go back to our men?”

Dia groaned in response, her thoughts focused on the task at hand. “I’m not sure yet. Maybe two days? It’s…” She closed her eyes, surrendering to the dirt underneath. “If I make the wrong choice, if I make a mistake, many people will die.”

“Or it might be nothing at all.”

“Or it’ll get the city killed.” She snapped back.

The Hobgoblin shot her a long look. “You will never be a good cook if you’re afraid of the fire. If you let that fear paralyze you, then you will get burned.” She raised a hand, stopping her from answering, her gaze turning to the forest. “Do you think it was intentional?”

The change of topic gave her pause. What could she say to such a question?

“I can’t-”

“What does your gut say?”

There were likely rumors already. Not saying anything could only make things worse. Dia’s lips curled. “I know what Rick thinks.”

“We all saw the way he looked at the trees after the fight. The Father is a man of many concerns, most of them unknown to us,” Sheel said, hands glowing slightly, the grass smoldering under her touch. “What I want to know is what you think, healer.”

Dia’s eyes turned distant, looking away from the forest, eyes locked on the gray stone walls of the city. She tried to imagine the people inside, the humans, the maidens, hungry and struggling to survive, desperate.

“I want to dismiss the idea. Controlling ferals to attack a city is unheard of. Not like this. And yet…” She hesitated, a strain growing in her neck. “A part of me feels we haven’t seen the last of it.”