“I have meant to speak with you in private since this morning,” Fermina declared as she turned the key, locking the door with deliberate finality. A subtle threat lingered in her actions, the unspoken promise of ensuring we were undisturbed should she choose to raise Princess’s dress and strike our rear.

  I had never before been subjected to physical punishment, which naturally piqued my curiosity. My body, frail and prone to fits of coughing, often accompanied by blood, endured agonies far greater than anything a wooden stick might inflict upon my flesh. The sensation of daggers piercing my lungs, or the scorching churn of an inflamed stomach, had already rendered me well-acquainted with suffering. The prospect of a mere implement striking the ample muscle of the buttock seemed trivial in comparison. Yet, despite my cynicism, a nameless fear stirred within me—no doubt a sentiment born from Princess’s anxieties.

  “I know you have,” I replied, watching her approach the bed. She insisted upon proximity, sitting close enough to command my full attention. Not long ago, such closeness would have sent our heart racing, but I had grown more resistant, thanks to Tirrha.

  “Would you care to explain yourself? I would like to hear it directly from you. What are you doing, taunting me with those stories I thought you did not know or saying those rehearsed lines about astronomy?” Fermina stared at me expectantly.

  It was difficult not to appreciate her beauty, even as her slender brows knit together in displeasure. Her eyes, elegant and blue as a storm-laden sky, shimmered with intensity. I had always admired the delicate bridge of her nose, the graceful contours of her chin, and the faint dimples on her cheeks. It truly was a pity to have disappointed her.

  “I had been waiting for you to confront me,” I assured her, striving to sound conciliatory rather than confrontational. “But first, I would like to hear your reasoning. Rest assured, I do not seek to provoke you. Why do you believe I am behaving in this manner? What compels me to say these things?”

  She studied me with a perplexed expression, oscillating between confusion, intrigue, and doubt. “This is not a game, is it? You are not simply trying to get a rise out of me. There is a purpose behind this,” she stated, though it was more of a question than an assertion.

  I nodded, closing our eyes briefly before half-opening them again, awaiting her response.

  Fermina contemplated for a moment, her azure eyes darting upwards and to the side as she pieced together her thoughts. At last, she shook her head. “It has something to do with Master Dubart,” she concluded. “And it should be something you can’t tell me directly, for some reason? I am baffled, Aufelia.”

  I gently tapped her hands, which still rested on ours. Understanding the gesture, she released her grip. Rising from the bed, I made my way to the drawer in search of ink and paper. I brought them to the vanity desk, signaling Fermina to observe. With Princess’s nimble fingers, I sketched a sigil—one of the most basic, perhaps the first ever discovered. Two circles as the base, an eight-edged star shape in the middle, a central nucleus containing the marks of the mother and the bear, fourteen different edgers across the axis of the figure, and three signatures—the Sigil of Flame.

  This fundamental sigil, perfect for novices, clearly distinguished each of its components. It was the one I had practiced most, and the speed at which I executed it was impressive even to myself. I took quiet satisfaction in seeing Fermina’s surprise etched across her lovely features.

  “It’s an arcane circle!” she recognized.

  “Yes, it is,” I confirmed, flicking the center of the sigil with our middle finger. “Azab-ana,” I incanted, offering a knowingly wasteful, imperfect answer to the equation in my mind.

  The paper ignited as though touched by flame, quickly curling into blackened ash before vanishing entirely, leaving behind only a faint scorch mark upon the opulent surface of the vanity—not that it mattered.

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  Fermina’s wide eyes remained fixed on the remnants of the paper, while mine were focused on her face, noting the slight parting of her pink lips as she watched the sigil’s disintegration. I awaited her judgment in silence.

  She exhaled in astonishment, her left hand trembling as it grasped my right. “Aufelia, that was… what they call the Artan Legacy, like the Magister’s work! How did you do that? H-how could you possibly know how to do that?”

  “Years of diligent study have led to this point—countless royal seals expended, innumerable nights laboriously reading by candlelight, and grappling with an incomplete puzzle, all driven by a relentless determination born from the vast emptiness of a room that was my entire universe. This culmination of efforts, painstakingly amassed, has resulted in this modest and seemingly unimpressive display,” I proclaimed, now acutely aware of my prior ignorance upon confronting the works of those who truly dominated the discipline.

  “T-that cannot be…”

  “What we discussed in our previous exchange was not rehearsed, I should mention. As I said, alchemists have known for centuries that the sun is a star. Starlight and sunlight only differ in intensity for alchemical purposes; they have been observed to be the same type of energy. We had had this conversation before when I attempted to clarify the method of elaboration of the so-called ‘midnight brew’, otherwise known as the lock-eater.”

  “Aufelia! Stop! You can’t know that! I-I think I’m going to scream!” Fermina shrilled with alarm, shutting her eyes and fanning her face with both hands, wrists waving away.

  I fell silent, redirecting my attention to gathering more paper and swapping the ink for a charcoal sketcher. Leaning over the desk, I began sketching the fearful, apprehensive visage before me. The act of sketching was swift, far quicker than painting, and before long, the image began to take shape. By the time Fermina regained her composure through deep, steady breaths, she had drawn closer to observe my work.

  “Please, remain still,” I requested humbly. “I shall be finished soon.”

  “Aufelia… when did you begin using your left hand to draw?” she inquired, noticing the change. Who would know better than the one who had taught Princess how to write? Yet, despite her unease, she obeyed my request, watching as the black markings on the paper gradually transformed into a reflection of what she would see in a mirror. “How can you do this so fast? Is this also how you paint?”

  “Truth be told, this is not the first time I have attempted to capture your likeness on paper,” I admitted, feeling she deserved the truth. “Every previous attempt ended in failure; the figures I produced barely resembled anything human, much like myself. I destroyed all evidence of those attempts—they were… abominable, an insult to your beauty, and I could not have that.”

  I unveiled the finished work. It was rather crude but still recognizable and strikingly beautiful, more due to the model than the artist.

  “Aufelia, you are scaring me. You really are scaring me. I don’t even know how you did it, and I don’t care. I just… I just want you to tell me that this is a joke, that I am not going crazy, that y-you’re not…” she desperately requested, standing up.

  “I had been running out of time,” I admitted, aware of the weight of my words. “But I did not die that night, Fermina. I was merely performing an… experiment. A gamble, if you will. I attempted theurgy—the forbidden art of the old ones, whose sins brought ruin upon the world. The theurgic ritual I conducted was supposed to grant me new life in exchange for the old one.”

  Fermina retreated from me gradually. I endeavored to maintain the distance by taking a step each time she moved back. She intermittently shook her head from side to side, a subtle motion that was initially difficult to discern.

  “Accepting the price, I began my work. Months of research, followed by a fortnight of preparation, led to the final moment. I failed, Fermina; the ritual was a near-complete disaster. I succeeded only in trapping my soul within a small blue gem, which Aufelia inadvertently found. She unknowingly brought me into her own being. You witnessed the first time I accidentally claimed her body—do you remember? It was during the sun’s prayer. She collapsed, unconscious, and it was I who unsteadily rose in her place. You sensed something was amiss even then, did you not? I feared your keen powers of observation, but I persevered. After all, who could even consider what truly happened?”

  “M-Master D-Dubart…?” she softly squeaked. I had to read her lips to catch the words.

  I made a reverence, not raising my skirts, instead bowing forward with my right hand to my heart. “Dubart Cafligen, Baron of Stratna, your fervent admirer, dabbling alchemist, and failed theurgist, at your service.”

  Fermina’s eyes rolled back, and she collapsed before I could catch her.

  “Oh, dear.”

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