The apothecaries' tent smelled of camphor, vinegar, and old paper.

  It felt familiar—a welcome change from metal and damp stone.

  "Again," I said, leaning over the worktable. "Slower this time. Your goal here is to emulsify. Stop trying to beat it into submission."

  Master Apothecary Georg stiffened as though I had corrected him in liturgy. He was a thin man with a parchment complexion and liver-spotted hands that trembled when idle. When working, they were precise and almost reverent.

  His bespectacled assistant, Francine, stood beside him with a pestle poised midair. She was young, earnest, and already stained to the wrists in green.

  "We are following the original formution precisely," Georg said, not looking at me. "No different than the First Men samples we had stocked."

  "But look," I said, nudging the bowl with one finger. "See how it separates?"

  Francine leaned in. The mixture had split into a wet slurry and chalky clumps.

  "That's strange," she murmured. "Why would it be doing that?"

  I pinched a bit between my fingers. Gritty. Dry. Wrong.

  "It's the frostwort," I said. "Or rather, what frostwort has become."

  Both of them looked at me.

  I gestured toward the bundle on the table. "Over the centuries we've bred the pnt for yield and shelf life. Thicker stalks. Lower votile oil content."

  Francine's eyes widened. "That would certainly affect binding," she said slowly.

  "Absorption as well," I added. "The old recipe assumes we're using something that no longer exists."

  Georg stared at the bundle as if it had betrayed him personally.

  "Well, the modern strain does have its advantages. Holding moisture better, for example," I said. "All we have to do is compensate for its shortcomings."

  I reached for the mortar and began working the mixture in slow, deliberate circles.

  "Don't grind. Fold. You're coaxing the oils out, not pulverizing the structure."

  Francine mirrored my motion. Georg watched, then reluctantly followed.

  The paste thickened. Smoothed. Turned from grainy sludge into a cohesive, dull green salve.

  Francine inhaled sharply. "Oh."

  Georg prodded it with the tip of a gss rod. It held.

  "This technique should leave a bit of stalk behind," I said, picking it up gingerly with forceps. "We'll remove it in one piece and strain it ter for extra yield."

  I deposited it onto a gss pte.

  Georg watched the motion with intent, and for the first time the skepticism softened into something like professional curiosity.

  He picked up my notes and read them over again, more carefully this time.

  "I notice you adjusted the ratio," he said.

  "And the order of incorporation," I said. "Resin first. Then suspension medium. Powder st."

  He nodded once, absorbing.

  "We'll need to scale this," Francine said, reaching for more bowls.

  I gnced at the supply crates stacked along the tent wall. The Church had come prepared for a siege. Bundles of dried herbs, sealed tins of powdered mineral suspensions, casks of distilled spirits, crates of gssware wrapped in straw.

  "Master Georg," I said. "You have others in your employ, do you not?"

  He hesitated. "They're not nearly as skilled or experienced. This preparation requires delicacy. I'm afraid we'd waste a lot of material on training."

  "We don't have much choice," I said. "If we don't get the antidote out in time, the men out there will tear each other apart."

  Georg frowned.

  Francine was already busy apportioning the doses we'd made.

  "How much do we need in total?" she asked.

  I did the math and didn't like the answer.

  "Four to a man," I said. "A small army's worth."

  Francine grimaced. "And we have a little under a week to do it."

  One week.

  Barely any time at all.

  That was the most Lumiere could wrench out of Halbrecht. He needed the remaining time, he'd said, to polish his trophy for the Sun Court Jubilee. I could still see him through cigar smoke, speaking as though he was doing us a favor by giving us even that much.

  I exhaled.

  Only one week to prepare. One week to prevent catastrophe.

  And maybe—just maybe—persuade him to abandon this act of spectacur stupidity.

  Georg resumed working with renewed urgency.

  "We will require shifts," he said. "Continuous production."

  Francine sighed, pushing up her gsses. "Sounds like more all-nighters."

  When their movements grew confident and the mixture no longer separated under their hands, I took a step back.

  I washed my hands in a basin of sharp-smelling spirits until the green stains lightened, then pushed the tent fp aside.

  Outside, the air felt cooler.

  Rocher stood a short distance away, testing the bance of a spear the Church armorer had issued him to repce the one he'd lost to the giant lizard. The weapon was taller than he was, steel head leaf-shaped and brutally efficient.

  He was mid-thrust when he heard my approaching footsteps. The spear halted inches from its arc's completion, held perfectly still before he lowered it and turned.

  The spear butt touched stone. His posture straightened.

  "You all right?" he asked.

  His eyes moved over my face, taking inventory.

  "You look... tired."

  I felt tired.

  "I'll just be gd when this is all over," I said with a wry smile.

  He nodded. "Likewise."

  I tilted my head toward a familiar direction. "Come on then."

  With the timeline shortened as it was, there was no time to dawdle.

  We walked together through the encampment and then beyond the Forge's double doors to a secluded recess we had found days earlier: a half-colpsed archway and a patch of level stone clear of debris.

  I tapped Rocher's elbow. "Let's see your progress," I nudged.

  He stepped forward, pnting his spear in the ground.

  His eyes closed. He drew a slow breath.

  I felt the air tighten. Something was gathering—faint, circuting—along the length of the spear and through the line of his shoulders.

  I held my breath, watching for any traces of gold. For a heartbeat it seemed like it would hold.

  It didn't.

  It colpsed inward, like a breath that never quite became air.

  Rocher clicked his tongue and opened his eyes.

  Frustration flickered there, gone as quickly as it came.

  He slumped against the wall.

  "How was it this time?" I asked, walking up to him.

  He sighed through his teeth. "Barely any different. No matter what I do, I can't get it to stick."

  I nodded.

  Seraphine had come by earlier, trying to help. But it was difficult for her to put into words something that, to her, came as natural as breathing.

  Her most useful advice had been to practice with a spear in hand—a sort of makeshift staff.

  'I've heard it's helpful to focus mana along one axis, rather than several. At least when you're starting out.'

  I'd argued that was true only for spells with direction. In the game, a staff's main function was improving accuracy; Rocher's magic was entirely self-directed.

  'Even so,' she'd said, looking at the Tear atop Pulseweaver, 'a lot of beginners find comfort in this form. Makes for one less thing to think about.'

  That I couldn't argue with.

  Rocher cleared his throat, interrupting my thoughts. "You're doing that thing with your eyebrows again."

  His voice lowered. "Still worried about Lumiere?"

  "No," I replied automatically. Then, more honestly: "Well... yes, in a way."

  He nodded, unsurprised.

  As far as I could tell, Bishop Halbrecht hadn't made any moves against her. It seemed he would tolerate her for as long as she cooperated with his mission.

  Still, I couldn't help but feel uneasy. I had asked Evelyn to keep an eye out for her.

  "If it's any comfort," Rocher said, as if reading my thoughts, "the Bishop has seemed more reasonable than I expected. He even agreed to help Evelyn secure clemency with the High Synod."

  I snorted softly. "That's all for show. Halbrecht doesn't have that kind of authority. He just wanted the opportunity to sermonize to his men."

  Rocher frowned.

  "The Goddess favors those who demonstrate strength," I said, mocking Halbrecht in a nasally voice. "I couldn't stomach it. Even Evelyn disappeared halfway through."

  "She did do that," Rocher said with a chuckle. "Not that he let it stop him. He called that defiance a form of strength as well."

  With that, Rocher stood, dusting off his knees.

  Then he pnted his spear for another attempt at igniting the magic.

  His face tightened. Brow furrowed. Mouth compressed.

  I watched him do that for five seconds before ughter broke out of me.

  He stopped. "What?"

  "Nothing. It's just that..." I wiped a tear from my eye. "You look constipated."

  Rocher scowled. "Not helpful."

  He reset his stance with wounded dignity.

  I punched his arm lightly. "Chin up," I said. "There's got to be something obvious we're missing."

  He grimaced. "You've let me take first crack at every monster we've fought," he said. "But so far, nothing has sparked."

  "Yeah," I replied. "But that's data. Despite our attempts, we've only seen it work twice. Once for a split second with the lizard. And then again when you fought Seraphine."

  He shifted uneasily.

  "Two points make a line," I said. "There's got to be a common thread."

  I pondered it for a second.

  "Say..." I said tentatively, "when you fought Seraphine, what were you thinking about? I know you said you don't remember it well, but just humor me."

  He stared at the ground. "I... it wasn't too different from any other dream. Hard to say exactly what it was about, separate from what my mind filled in afterward."

  "That's fine," I said. "Whatever you experienced, whatever you thought you experienced—they're both constructs of your mind. What's the version you do remember?"

  He hesitated.

  "It was a nightmare," he said finally. "About you."

  I waited.

  "I don't remember the details. Only that you were in danger." Rocher swallowed. "And that at some point, I realized I was the threat."

  Something clicked into pce.

  I cpped my hands. "That's it."

  He blinked. "That's... it?"

  "Both times," I said, "you thought I was in danger."

  He started to nod—then stopped. Something like realization crossed his face.

  Then his expression hardened.

  "No," he said firmly. "You cannot deliberately put yourself at risk."

  "Wha—I wasn't pnning to," I said quickly, waving my hands.

  Then I narrowed my eyes. "Why is that the first thing you think I'd do?"

  Rocher didn't answer. He only continued to stare, accusingly.

  My mind raced, discarding pns. He was right—I couldn't simply throw myself in front of a charging boar. But the core principle was sound. It wasn't the threat itself, but his reaction to it. A powerful, overwhelming emotion. Fear. Possessiveness. And... something else. A desire so strong it felt like a threat to him.

  The pieces snapped together with an almost painful crity.

  It was reckless. It was unorthodox. And it was something worth testing.

  I met his unwavering gre. "How about this then?" I said, my voice dropping to a near-whisper. "Come closer."

  He hesitated, then leaned in, expecting a conspiracy, a whispered strategy.

  I caught his jaw before he could speak and pulled him the rest of the way.

  Our mouths met.

  His lips parted in surprise, his fingers tightening around the spear.

  I took advantage of the opening and deepened the kiss, slow and deliberate, letting the shock stretch instead of break.

  A tremor ran through him. He leaned into it at first, then pulled back.

  Only then did I let him go, just enough to see his wide-eyed expression.

  "What," he managed, voice rough, "was that?"

  "That," I said, "is the kind of reaction we need."

  He stared at me.

  "I'm not sure when it happened," I continued, "but on some level you've confused wanting me with the sense that you're endangering me. It's something we'll have to unpack ter. But for now, let's use it to our advantage."

  He swallowed. "Use it how?"

  I didn't answer, not directly.

  I wrapped my arms around his head and kissed him again.

  This time there was no hesitation. The surprise was already there, suspended between us.

  The spear slipped from his hand and struck the stone with a dull crack.

  His back met the wall. He slid down it as if his legs had forgotten their purpose. I followed him, the stone cold through my clothes as I settled against him.

  His breathing had gone uneven.

  I kissed along his jaw, then the sensitive hollow beneath his ear. His pulse hammered there, fast and unguarded.

  My hands slipped beneath his shirt. Warm skin. Tight muscle shifting beneath my palms. His stomach tightened reflexively at the contact.

  His hands hovered beside me, unsure where to nd, as if any choice would commit him to something irreversible.

  "Cire," he said, voice rough and unsteady, "is this the infection? Is the antidote wearing off?"

  I brushed my thumbs over his chest, then his nipples, feeling him shudder.

  "No," I breathed against his ear. "I'm perfectly lucid. And this is payback."

  I grazed my teeth along the edge of it.

  A low sound escaped him.

  Then he moved.

  He surged forward, pushing me onto my back with a suddenness that drove the air from my lungs. He caught himself before his weight fully fell, forearms braced on either side of me, breath coming hard.

  For a moment he stayed there, suspended above me, eyes searching mine as if for permission he did not trust.

  Then he leaned down—

  "Look," I whispered.

  He stopped.

  His forearms were glowing.

  Molten gold light threaded beneath the skin, flowing along muscle and tendon like heat trapped beneath gss.

  I couldn't help the grin that spread across my face.

  "It worked."

  Rocher stared.

  Then he sat back on his heels, expression tangled with relief, mortification, and something more complicated.

  "No."

  "No?"

  "Find something else."

  "Why?"

  He turned away, red flooding his face, hands cmping tightly into his p.

  "I won't be able to fight," he said, voice strained. "Not in this condition."