Alchimia Rex

"Set everything ablaze," Rollo growled, his voice echoing off the worn stone walls of the dimly lit workshop.

The plump man sloshed water into the building as he stepped through, the downpour outside practically a flood. The merchant couldn’t believe his luck, had the Lord commanded for a storm or had the Neigix been unable to stop the summoned rain clouds from forming into one?

"Sir?" A question was tentatively thrown into the tense air.

"All the samples of the explosives as well as the infected feral. The notes too. Burn them. I want not a shred remaining," he demanded, his heavy breaths slicing through his words.

"But..."

"That wasn't a suggestion, Matilda." Rollo's eyes met the Witch’s, an unspoken threat hovering in the heated air between them. His heart pounded in his chest, the chill of trepidation coursing down his spine. The rain outside couldn't account for this icy dread. "I want it all gone. Be thorough. Am I clear?"

Swallowing her retort, Matilda nodded tersely. "As you wish, sir."

Inside Rollo, fear and excitement churned together, a heady mix that gripped his senses. When had it last been when he’d felt like this? He couldn’t remember. Just a few hours prior, he had borne witness to a miracle—a fiery red star soaring from the city, knocking a mighty Seraph right out of the sky. The Lord had offhandedly dubbed it a “simple small bomb," with the same lackadaisical tone an Elementalist would use to describe a gaping crater large enough that it would’ve devoured an entire building.

If such a device was “small and simple”, then what, pray tell, would be a monumental creation?

Rollo wasn't fooled. He knew the nobles of his kingdom, as well as the powerful figures across the empire, yearned for a weapon of such power—a tool that could level the playing field. He himself had dipped his coin-purse into such a venture, trying to forge weapons that even a feeble human could use and be effective. Alas, the results were either fragile and overpriced contraptions fit only for hunting small game, or masterful enchantments that could be used once and that demanded a king’s ransom worth of resources.

In the end, it had been too specific of a market, to gain a foothold required a well-known name—a reputation he didn't have. One he had wished to obtain through his dealings with the late Lord Thorley.

He’d rightfully esteemed the new Lord’s creation to be revolutionary, but the merchant had clearly underestimated by how much. The path ahead required deeper connections rather.

Speaking of…

"Arietta," he barked, calling upon the Puppeteer. "You'll assist the Lord with his legal headaches."

The older maiden stiffened at this directive. "Of course, sir," she replied, her words frosted with a hint of reluctance. "But what if he questions my willingness?"

"You'll tell him the bare truth—that you're ready to assist," Rollo shot back, leaving the dusty, tool-laden workshop behind and heading deeper into the heart of his expansive manor. "I need you navigating his bureaucracy, I need you to familiarize yourself with his ways. And someone, bring Ember to me!"

Her stern face hardened even further, her gaze boring into his retreating back. "It's not possible to carry out my tasks efficiently without understanding my true objectives, sir." Despite the situation, Rollo found himself marveling at the silver-haired maiden's ability to infuse disapproval into the act of existence itself. All while her doll-like face kept a void of emotion, a picture of serene impartiality.

Perhaps it was a psychic thing.

"I need a pair of eyes and ears on the inside, Arietta. Someone who's privy to what's coming," I explain, raising my hands preemptively to halt her protests. "Yasir has poisoned the Lord against me, damn that man.” He tightened his fists. “The damage must be undone, we must become as integral to the Lord as his own right hand."

When he entered his office, Ember was already there. The maiden’s arms became a living flame as she reached out to him in an embrace. There was nothing affectionate about the gesture, merely professional. The warm caress turned the water into steam, drying him of all the excess moisture. Rollo would lie if he didn’t find the touch soothing on a more emotional level, but such thoughts were unbecoming of a merchant.

Logic had to dictate his every decision.

"Sir, I was under the impression that our plan was to prepare for escape?" Arietta queried. “You did not make your opinion a secret in regards to the Lord’s plan to abolish ownership of maidens.”

That was indeed the original idea. The Lord, in his lofty arrogance, had little effective protection against covert operations. Procuring a few samples of his explosives had been an easy enough task. Ideally they would have an escape ready by the time they’d cracked the production process. At that point the wildling Lord of Sinco would be unable to stop Rollo from forging a mercantile behemoth that stretched all across the continent.

Every noble from here to a hundred horizons in every direction would seek his explosives.

“And yet things have changed.” He contended. "I am no longer certain of how safe such a betrayal would be,” Rollo murmured under his breath, standing straight as Ember adjusted his clothes around his protruding belly. “This creation on its own will change the face of warfare forever, it could forge an empire. He made this substance within merely weeks of dedicating himself to the task. What if it is true that it is but a taste? ”

Arietta stiffened, back aligning with the aged timber beam behind her. "Sir, I question if this is a wise move. Particularly in light of Miss Donohuei's untimely demise."

The self-appointed leader of the woodcutters had been a constant annoyance ever since Rollo had first set foot in the town of Sinco. Yet, she was a human woman, and the late Lord Thorley had been particularly fond of her. Even though the new Lord had an irredeemably beautiful wife, there was no heir apparent, leaving a void in the succession. It wasn't unheard of for a Lord to shift his affections to a different partner who bore him a human child.

Whatever had unfolded within the Lord's stone manor, it ended with Donohuei's death. The rumor mill churned with speculation, each story more horrifying and scandalous than the last, each serving to tarnish the Lord's reputation further. None of them being truly satisfying in their answers.

"I've heard those tales, and they hold little water. If the Lord had desired her death, he could have carried it out in broad daylight. There's no power in this city that could stop him, not with the Orcs at his fingertips," Rollo dismissively commented, turning to look out the window at the rain-soaked streets below. "But that doesn't concern us."

Arietta visibly recoiled at his statement. Not surprising, human life was seen as sacred for many within the kingdom. The life of a human woman more so. "Sir?"

"Clearly, the Lord is unfamiliar with the more sophisticated technologies of this world, it leaves an opening for a man like me," he said, lifting his well-worn quill. "In a sense, he knows how to make ink, but he is blind to the art of quill-making. Have you seen the crude weapons his wildling wife brandished? They're embarrassing to any expert of the craft."

"Sir, the Lord murdered a nobleman, a Darkton. They will demand his head on a pike," she warned, a clear hint of a broader truth: that any who supported the Lord might find themselves suffering a similar fate.

"An astute trader would flee from an impending snowstorm," Rollo spoke, lips curling into a smug grin as he leaned back in his thickly padded wooden chair. "But a great one stocks up on firewood, furs, and meats."

Sivent trudged through the mud and rain into what remained of the Emerald capital. To an untrained observer, this once-mighty city bore the same appearance as a monstrous overgrown forest. She saw it as the long overgrown ruins that it was. The stone trees that were the backbone to their houses were now monsters looming overhead like mountains, each trunk thicker than many trees were tall. The pattern was unmistakable if you knew what to look for, the monsters of bark and wood were arranged in loose grids, with the smaller more ordinary trees littering and clogging the derelict streets.

It was within the core of the capital that the squatters had made their home. “The Court” they had called themselves, a mockery of the word. Now everything was being upended for them. The signs were obvious. There was a frantic and chaotic quality to their actions – extinguishing fires, discarding waste into holes that were covered up.

They were attempting to forestall their demise by making themselves harder to find. The only true option available for them should have been retreat far far away.

The city had once possessed a functioning defense system, one weaved into the very homes of every citizen. It, much like the city, had broken over centuries of abandonment. Even if the Empress herself were to awaken, all that would be left within her reach would be a shadow of the capital’s former glory.

The Empress…

The mere thought of her sent Sivent’s mind wandering back to a time when her identity was a sequence of letters and numbers.

Her original name, much like many other things, had been lost to the deep sleep, the hibernation that almost all Elven kind entered when they became feral. Centuries under the feral curse had stripped her of many things. Was she an outlier or a mild case? She did not know, and the thought brought dread and fear.

Awakening the Empress of Green was paramount, the longer she took the higher the chances of knowledge lost. It was this mission that drove her forward, through the ruins, making no attempt to conceal her presence.

The squatters responded with open disdain. Their leaders had left them high and dry, devoid of their mightiest and most beloved warrior. Sivent wouldn't have been surprised if the Warlock had framed her for this failure. Yet, it made no difference to her; the squatters had grossly underestimated their adversary and paid dearly.

To her it had been a fruitful endeavor. Though things could have surely gone better.

Steadily, she set a course for the palace. She was certain the Warlock was there, the matron was nearly dead, and nowhere else would be as safe. Once past the main doors, the scent of death led her to the infirmary, where a pair of guards tried to block her path.

There was no need for explanations, a voice spoke from inside. "Let her in." The tone was feeble, barely a croak.

Past the wooden door the air was thick with the sickly-sweet stench of rotting flesh and blood. On a makeshift bed, the Warlock lay dying. Her body was lathered in a great deal of ointments and herbs. The rebels were sparing no expense to prolong the wretched thing’s life just a little further, a very considerate gesture. The Warlock would be useless dead, after all.

"You should have died," the squatter’s matriarch hissed.

Sivent scanned the room. The only other maiden within was a Rapha, an inferior individual than the one from the paltry city. The pink-haired maiden huddled in a corner as if willing herself to disappear. "Out," the Pinielf ordered, causing the healer to scamper away.

The moment the door closed, she urged the palace to grow vines behind it. A crude if effective blockage. Time was precious, and she had no need for interruptions. The delicacy of what was to come was also why she urged her babies to bloom, filling the air with their paralyzing pollen.

"I should've listened to my daughter," the Warlock muttered, shooting a resentful glare from her deathbed. “I will die here.”

"No," Sivent countered, retrieving a seed from her pocket – a seed she'd extracted from Subject 01 before sending her to die. It had been the ensuing fight that had created the chance for her escape. "You will live."

The old woman attempted a feeble spell, her frail arms trembled fiercely with the gesture, betraying her weakness. The incantation faltered and crashed, dissipating into the dank air of the musty room before it could solidify. “Futile,” the Warlock coughed out, her voice as weak as her magic, “we're lost already.”

“Your petty insurrection was never meant to succeed. The moment the Empress awoke, you would’ve been made to kneel or be crushed. Mortal maidens like you are transient, irrelevant,” Sivent retorted, moving closer. With an air of cold detachment, she swatted away the maiden's shaking hand and forced open her chapped lips, revealing a mouth devoid of teeth. In her other hand, she held the seed. She forced it against the maiden's palate, channeling her energy into it, feeling it take root in its new host. “You will find this seed is not as forgiving as the previous iteration,” she stated, matter-of-factly. “The mistake of will is not one I will repeat. Tools are meant to obey.”

Even in the clutches of death, the dark-skinned woman found a final surge of strength to resist. Sivent quickly retracted her fingers, stepping back, maintaining her stoic demeanor rather than take any risks. Thrice the matriarch of the rebellion summoned her powers, and thrice they flickered out.

The Pinielf took to a dimly lit corner of the room, her boots softly scuffing against the wooden floor, and waited.

“H-help…” the Warlock croaked out feebly, her own body falling victim to the effects of the pollen.

Outside, the clang of steel echoed against the sturdy wooden door. The guards had heard, and seeing the door did not budge, began to chip away at it and the vines that followed. Eventually, they busted through, their swords gleaming menacingly under the dim light as they cautiously stepped into the compact room, the confines restricting their movements.

“Stand down if you wish your matriarch to survive,” Sivent demanded, her voice echoing in the small space. Her gaze flickered at the matriarch, the maiden having gone completely still.

In disbelief, one of the guards rasped, “What have you done to her?” oblivious of how her own arm had frozen at her side.

“She wishes to live, and I am fulfilling that,” the Pinielf replied with a nonchalant shrug.

Their hesitation was all she needed, a moment, a minute. When the guards next tried to speak, their eyes widened in terror at the realization their bodies did not respond. It was only then that Sivent stepped towards them.

“And you will aid her in this, too. Subject 02, feed.”

The Warlock’s body twitched, then stirred. Even under the control of the seed, her body was far too weakened. Empty eyes stared out and focused upon the two paralyzed Dark Elves, her own kin. There was recognition in that gaze, but Sivent knew it was not to last. Within the following hours, there would be nothing left.

With a flick of her wrist, she knocked the two guards off balance, leaving them prone on the ground.

“Be content, your deaths will serve a true cause.”

She closed the door upon her exit, locking it tight. Subject 02 would need several days to reach a functional state, possibly a week or two to be fully operative. Their enemy would find their location sooner than later, likely before winter came.

The prudent course of action would be to retreat further into the grove where the Empress and her subject slept, taking everything she could alongside Subject 02. The unsuspecting squatters would serve as a diversion, buying her some time, as would the ancient grove's protectors. If she hadn't secured Subject 01’s seed, the assault on the fortified village would have been a much greater setback.

Sivent pressed deeper into the heart of the decrepit palace. Over the centuries, its roots had twisted and sprawled, transforming corridors into labyrinthine tunnels and walling off entire sections behind dense wooden barricades. These changes, though haunting, served as stark reminders of her mission.

Of the decay that had to be undone, of the glory that had to be returned.

Determined strides carried her to one of the palace's concealed alcoves. It was here she had constructed a makeshift laboratory, a sanctuary for her other experiment. She might be able to capture and bring the first pure-blooded human here, but that was too big a risk. She already had one subject, and it would have to do. This second otherworlder the squatters had captured, the girl, had no connections, and removing her wouldn't sound any alarms.

Sivent made a mental note to orchestrate Subject 02's 'death' convincingly, ensuring her departure would appear as a gracious exit, when inevitably demanded. But she was prepared for any violent action the squatters might resort to if the necessity arose.

A puff of her pollen signaled the vines blocking the entrance to the alcove to retract.

The room was austere in its functionality. Dominating the small space was a lone chair, and in it, a young woman. The human's head had been shaved bare, revealing a complex network of green lines, like the tracery of leaves, beneath the skin. Her body, in contrast, was shielded beneath layers of blankets, a precaution against heat loss. From the ceiling, two slender tubes hung down, each finding its terminus in the woman's nostrils, slowly dispensing water and nutrients into her comatose body.

Adopting the cold, detached demeanor of a clinician, Sivent initiated a diagnostic, pulling from the sparse information she'd scraped together from abandoned textbooks. She had been a High Elf before this, a combatant that used empowered vegetation. Having to work with flesh and blood was something she still paled when compared to the healers of her era.

If only the human had been able to awaken just one more of her sisters…

She muttered, her voice devoid of warmth, to the unconscious form before her, "You humans are a tricky lot." The statement was laced with frustration. "Scant elemental energy, with next to no tolerance..." Regret washed over her. To date she only knew of two pure-blooded humans that had managed to bond a great deal of maidens, and Barry had already failed to bond with the Empress.

Her hope had been that, through studying the ruler of the tiny city named Sinco, she would’ve gained some insight on the matter.

She brushed the sentiment aside and commanded, "Wake up."

Her babies began to flourish, emitting a rich scent that saturated the stale air of her makeshift lab with her words turned into a chemical signal. The roots under the human’s skin pulsed rhythmically in response. The subject—victim really—stirred in her restraints. Emerald eyes slowly fluttered open, a glint of confusion and fear muddled by a drug-induced haze. "You…?"

Sivent mentally checked off the initial markers of awareness—baseline consciousness and focusing ability, both present. Good.

"Happiness."

She uttered the word, and she shifted the scent subtly as the invasive plant housed within the woman twitched in response. Slowly, the human's lips began to curve upwards, eyes growing wide, pulse accelerating. "Why am I…?"

"Anger."

Another word, another shift. What was once a smile gradually twisted into a horrified gasp, eyebrows knitting together in pain and anger. With this change, the woman's focus sharpened significantly. "Let me go!" She struggled against her restraints.

"Submission."

She commanded, and her flowers put out the new command in its chemical form, but the woman in the chair didn't yield. Instead, she fought harder, bucking against the restraints. "Let me go!"

That was disappointing. There would be time for a more thorough experiment later, she waved her hand dismissively.

"Sleep."

The order was followed by immediate compliance—the woman’s eyelids fluttered and she went limp.

Sivent's lips twitched into a grimace. "It still needs more maturation, it seems." Her sigh echoed through the grimy, dimly-lit lab as she lowered herself into a worn-out chair. "Such a nuisance. If only one could form a bond without the need of an ego…"

She interlaced her calloused fingers. The maiden tried to think.

Was there anything she could remember that could aid in this? There had to be a workaround to this issue she had overlooked. She’d been a soldier, unearthing the prototype parasite seed in those sealed off, forgotten zones had been a miracle on its own. But this challenge was different. How did the Maker ensure compliance from the captured humans? What had been the Empress' method?

Sivent’s mind snagged onto a possibility—one that had not been too outside her reach.

"The Succubus."