Alchimia Rex

The dense canopy of trees loomed overhead, their gnarled branches intertwined in a twisted embrace that shut out the last vestiges of daylight. The forest floor beneath was a mottled patchwork of dark loam and decaying leaves, the air thick with the earthy scent of damp wood and the faint stench of rot. It was as if someone had taken her fond memories of the forest in Astunes and twisted it into something perverse.

There was a wrongness to the air, stagnated and putrid.

“We stop here.” She declared, sliding off of the Centaur’s saddle and giving the girl a pat on her flank.

Rosalind bowed. “Thank you, miss Dia.” The equine maiden’s legs had the faintest shiver of exhaustion. The maiden had thresholded barely a few months prior, and had yet to gain the full breadth of skills a proper fledged Centaur might have. The fact that she’d kept up with the others throughout these past two days of hard travel had only been possible due to Dia’s meddling. Physical exhaustion could be mended to a degree, stamina returned, but this was as far as they’d go.

Because even a Centaur would find the root and water-riddled path ahead a nightmare to traverse.

“If only we had a Selkie…” Camilla said idly, jumping off of her steed.

Like everything else she did, the Elf Queen’s every movement was the pinnacle of grace. If not for the elemental energy that coated her form like the thickest of armors, Dia would’ve thought her to be royalty. It hadn’t gone unnoticed that the ancient maiden’s demeanor had turned far more regal since their journey had begun.

“Well, we don’t.” Dia snapped, teeth grinding slightly.

“Hm…” Though the sound was one of affirmation, the maiden’s gaze lingered on Rosalind for a long quiet moment. It was the sort of look Monica would give a dead boar when wondering how to prepare it for a meal.

The Centaur shivered, quickly looking away.

“There is a meadow ahead.” Camilla stated. “We will make camp there, it is more defensible.”

Dia didn’t bother asking how she knew that, it was just another annoying fact about the Elf Queen: she knew things. Whether it was because her ‘ghosts’ were informing her through some unknown means, or somehow because of her powers, it didn’t matter. By now it had happened often enough that, much to her chagrin, the rest of their group just followed along without waiting for Dia’s input.

Well, everyone save one, one whose voice was taken far more seriously.

“Not safe,” Monica proclaimed, emerging out of the shadows, pointing somewhere to the north of them. “Go there.”

Was it a little petty to see the hesitation in Camila’s gaze? Maybe. But Dia savored it. At this point it was the only glimmer of satisfaction to be had. Not enough food, not enough rest, and pushing the pace as hard as their maidens bodies would allow. All of it while remaining ever-vigilant and ready for battle.

But as annoyed and irritated as Dia was, their single human travel-companion was the one truly suffering the gruelling road.

Viscount Gabriel Darkton was an old man, but one who’d clearly kept himself well trained for the hardships of the road. He’d been made to wear a full set of non-enchanted armor for his protection, while also being given a “coil” by Camilla. Around the man’s neck was a singular black vine, one that would, according to the Elf Queen, rip his head off were she to give the command.

“How much longer until we reach the wardens?” Dia asked, staring at their human captive, truth-detection medallion within her grasp.

The man’s haggard face regarded her with contempt and anger, the sort of stare that would’ve made her wilt… once upon a time. “The wardens of the deadlands remain at the periphery of this accursed territory. There should be small dirt roads leading to their watch posts.”

There was no lie, and yet… “You did not answer my question.” Dia’s voice lowered, brows furrowed. The air grew colder as everyone stared.

The former Lord of Aubria hesitated, face stern even though it lost some of its color. “Unless you can travel faster on foot than on Centaur, then it should be two day’s north and west of here.”

“Good.” Dia ignored the feeling of Camilla’s eyes boring into the back of her head. “Everyone in the blue team stays with the Centaurs, guarding them while they rest. Everyone else, follow Monica to prepare camp. No fires tonight.”

The corresponding maidens with blue armbands began to move. The color-coded division had been a suggestion from the Elf Queen, one supposedly meant to make command and delegation easier. Dia had begrudgingly adopted the concept, and made a few tweaks of her own. Their group was thirty maidens strong, and they’d been divided into teams of six. Two of those teams were Ghosts, the Golden Elves under Camila’s command. Two teams were composed primarily of whatever individuals could be vetted by Monica as “good for sneaks” and “good for fight in dark”. The last team, white team, were the four best healers Dia could bring, and two flight-capable maidens.

Turning her attention towards the Centaurs, Dia gave them a once-over. “Once you’ve rested, follow the plan, and set-up a small camp an hour’s gallop from here.”

One of the older individuals stepped forward. “When should-”

“Rosalind will know, she is bonded to our Lord.” Dia stated flatly. “Your priority is to remain alive but within helping distance. Retreat rather than fight. If we are not back within a fortnight…” Closing her eyes, she sighed. “If we’re not back in ten days, make your way back to Sinco and immediately inform the militia we failed.”

If they failed, then their only hope would be to make a mass mobilization. The militia would also get the news to their least-favorite Succubus. Dia didn’t like the thought of the ageless charmer being their last hope, but there weren’t many alternatives to be had. At the very least, she could trust that Kiara would do everything in her power to get Rick to safety… even if it meant sacrificing everything they’d built in Sinco.

“And what of the Viscount’s son?” Camilla asked, staring directly at the man as one would a worm.

“He dies.” Dia answered flatly, making sure the Centaurs knew to deliver that part of the message as well. If it became impossible to recover Rick, then better make sure the nobles responsible for the attack on Sinco paid.

It also served as an incentive for the viscount to collaborate. The man had just one heir, and were they both to die, then their family would no doubt fall into ruin.

The viscount silently glared, but turned away once their gazes met.

“We hunt.”

Monica cut the silence, grabbing Dia’s arm and yanking her away as the others hurried to follow orders and set-up camp. Before the healer could so much as complain, she’d been yanked into the suffocating darkness. They emerged some distance away, with Dia gasping for air, half-blind, and thoroughly lost.

Not even getting the chance to recover her balance, something thick and fluffy struck her side, sending her careening into a tree. Dia reacted, lashing out with her unsheathed rapier, barely almost nicking Monica’s tail.

Almost.

She did not complain or comment on the hatefully abrupt nature of the attack. She flared her bony wings out, using them to propel herself out of the way of Monica’s claws. The black metal of her armor screeched in complaint, sparks flying off. Even though she’d dodged the attack, the glancing blow caused her to lose balance and stumble.

Dia wrapped herself in her wings, lashing out with her blade at anything that got too close. The metal whistled, turning the air in front of her into an unavoidable dance of death.

Monica didn’t avoid it.

Her paw shot out, straight towards Dia’s head.

The healer’s blade could no more stop the blow than she could a rockslide. Yet the sharp tip tore through tendon and muscle, even as Monica’s attack came to a complete halt an inch from her face.

“Dead.”

Lips curling, she could only glare. “But you intentionally-”

“Dead.” Monica growled, voice seeping with power as the darkness around them vibrated. The oppressive feeling was gone the moment after, the feline yanking the rapier out of her arm and presenting the limb. “Heal.”

“I don’t…” With a long winded huff, she grasped the limb and poured her powers out. “I could’ve won last time, she ran away, I-”

“Throag not know what you could do, how you fight. Wanted to run, had to run.” Monica admonished, tail slapping the back of the Nightingale’s head. “And Rick fighting with you.”

“No!” She snapped. “I was protecting him, I-” Biting her lip, she lowered her gaze. “Again.”

The feline looked at her and huffed, rolling her eyes. “Finish heal first.”

So she did.

And they fought again.

And again.

And again.

And every time, she would lose. Not just by a small margin either. Dia’s hands moved faster than Monica could react to, this was her one advantage. Yet every time, every single time, the feline would allow herself to be crippled in exchange of bringing the fight to an immediate close.

With every loss, Dia’s frustration and anger mounted.

She’d fought Throag, she’d mangled the maiden’s hand, a Sabertooth! Why could just not win!?

“Rick fought with you.” Was all Monica would answer.

It was true, of course it was true. She’d felt his presence throughout that fight, pushing her, leading her hand. The feeling had been as if she could read Throag’s intentions, something she was now failing at miserably against Monica. There was a barrier now, a layer of obscurity that made it impossible to tell where the next blow would come from.

And still she refused to accept that Rick was necessary.

Because every time he fought, every time he put himself on the front, he’d suffer. They needed to be stronger, strong enough that nothing could ever threaten him again. Strong enough that he’d never ever be needed near the front.

The frustration had blinded her of the fight, so much so that by the time she’d noticed the shadow janking her arm aside, it’d been too late. Monica’s pristine claws came to a halt an inch from her head. “Dead.”

“How?” The Nightingale demanded. “How do I win?”

The Sabertooth pulled away, helping her back up to her feet. “Learn from Rick.” She proclaimed sagely. “Cheat.”

Throag’s brow was furrowed. There was a wrongness in the air that did not sit well with her, and she wasn’t sure whether it was because of the watchers or something else.

Following Mother’s instructions, she’d been scouting and keeping a close eye over the watchers. They were alert and on edge, clearly aware that something had transpired, perhaps even that the clan had made it through and was now coming back with a bounty of fresh slaves.

The deadlands had been too quiet the past few days.

Throag could only assume the reason for this strangeness had come about due to the blood-suckers. They’d done some ritual ro another that had left the very air thick with the scent of fresh blood. So powerful it had been that the whole clan had changed their camp location just to make sure they wouldn’t be discovered by accident. And yet, she felt as if something else was watching her. It couldn’t be Mother, the curse of stinkiness had not yet gone away, or at least she thought it hadn’t.

Maybe the matriarch had figured something out.

Whatever the case, the Sabertooth did not feel at ease, and likely would not until they made it safely past the Watchers.

Making her way back to where they held their new slaves (separate from the rest of the clan to avoid… accidents), she caught the scent of cooked meat trailing in the wind. Nostrils flaring, at the mouth-watering flavor wafting through, she hurried a little.

What she found was not what she’d expected.

At the center of the gathering was a small fire, the humans cooking meat on sticks and sharing it amongst themselves. Meanwhile, the Tigresses glared from the sides. Every time one of them looked like she’d move to take a piece out of the meal the humans were having, the others would glare, putting a stop to it.

At the center of it all was Rick. The human sat, tending to the flames, talking to the other humans in a loud voice. The man went quiet once he noticed her approach. Meeting her gaze, his lips twitched, barely suppressing a smirk.

Throag snarled, marching straight towards him.

The other felines hesitated, but made no moves or threats as Throag crossed the clearing, tail lashing and wrapping around his arm, yanking him up into the air. Yet without so much as flinching, he used his free hand to bring the half-cooked piece of boar-meat up to his mouth, taking a bite. “Want some, mistress?”

She took a deep breath, catching all the scents lingering on the man. Boar, death, blood, dirt, muck, and… something else, something that’d been muddled and hidden underneath. Throag realized the reek of dead boar was pervasive, unnaturally so, as if he’d rolled inside the corpse before dipping into a stagnant pond.

“You’re hiding something.” She growled, tightening her hold, hearing the bones in his arm creak.

“If you say so, mistress.”

Never had she heard a word spoken be so full of condescension.

Rick took another bite, and smiled.