2. Disaster Strikes A Match
Disaster Strikes A Match
Timeline: Six hours until the opening of the Great Midsummer Market.
Elian
“The first rule of Alchemical Matchstick Making: ‘You do not use the same friction strip for different compounds.’ The second rule of Alchemical Matchstick Making: ‘You do not use the same friction strip for different compounds.’”
— Extract from Professor Canetti’s Introductory Lecture on Volatile Spell Ignitions, The High Academy of Elemental Magic, Law and Elemental Sciences in Emberleigh, Everend.
Iknew the cardinal rule, of course. Duh.
I lived by it. Under any circumstances—no residue crossing.
Ever. The words of Professor Canetti even featured on the wall of my workshop, embroidered onto a decorative tapestry.
To be fair, I didn’t need a physical reminder—not after the minor explosion during my first semester at the Academy.
It had taken three painful weeks for my eyebrows to grow back.
Nonetheless, the lecture lived as a motto within every responsible alchemist.
Yet, at twenty minutes past three in the morning, after lacking a restful night for days, mottos could feel remarkably fucking theoretical.
–Entry from Elian’s personal journal
The marketplace slept under a still, clear night sky, completely deserted save for the soft amber glow of the magical streetlamps spread between the shadows. Inside my stall, a string of whimsical fairy lanterns provided sufficient lighting above my head.
I stretched, the stiff vertebrae of my spine protesting with a dull crack.
Having at last finished arranging my entire inventory onto the tiered displays, I stepped in front of my booth to admire my handiwork.
Everything looked… well, maybe not immaculate, but acceptable, considering my subpar organisation skills.
Either way, I knew that the next day Fern would describe my layout as a total fucking mess and ask his sister, Settie, to redo the whole lot.
For the time being, however, the critical detail remained: every single matchstick ready for sale occupied its proper place on the counter, any wonky alignments notwithstanding.
With some hours to spare, I refused to let the fact that my stall would never win a beauty pageant ruin my mood. Damn right, I allowed myself a wave of smug satisfaction at having beaten my deadline.
Glancing up at the clock tower, I couldn’t deny my exhaustion.
Dawn would arrive in a couple of hours. It wasn’t worth walking back home now, not when I would have to turn right around and trek back before sunrise.
I needed to hoard whatever energy I could muster to run the counter all day.
No, taking a quick, dreamless nap right here in the stall chair seemed less like a luxury and more like a necessity.
And a perfect opportunity to test my new shiny Match of Tranquillity.
I slouched into my seat, reached into my satchel and pulled out the paraphernalia.
While traces of Fern’s herbal enhancer still lingered in my blood, sending slight tremors through my hands, its stimulating effect had mostly vanished.
My reactions slowed to a crawl, as if I were moving through air filled with thick snow-cone syrup.
Heavy pressure pulsated around my temples and I had to fight my eyelids to keep them unglued.
I let my fingers grab the closest friction card within reach.
My groggy mind didn’t even question if it was fresh and pristine.
I assumed so without a second thought. I’d used one other strip that night for lighting the Match of Lost Property—to locate my account ledger, misplaced beneath the pile of display stands.
Convinced I’d thrown that spent one away, I didn’t examine the card’s surface closely.
I didn’t care to double-check the counter. I just wanted to strike the bloody thing and go to sleep.
Having brought the indigo head down against the card, I struck it hard.
The match didn’t ignite with a gentle, soothing flame as it should have done.
I didn’t even have a chance to blink. It felt as though someone had cast a heavy shroud over my head and switched off my senses.
The force of the Tranquillity enchantment hit like a physical blow.
Before I could even register that something had gone wrong, I collapsed backwards into the chair, plunging into instant nothingness.
Idid indeed manage a dreamless sleep, but that turned out to be the only saving grace of the entire situation.
When I came round from my slumber, a dull pulse hammered away at the base of my skull.
Something sharp dug into my palm. I glanced down to see the spent prototype of Tranquillity Match, its charred head a testament to the charm I’d used.
The second thing that came into focus was the friction strip, smudged with two lines of glittering, crystalline residue—coral and indigo, blended together.
Blended together.
My stomach lurched, rising with a sudden, violent heave. Thankfully, there wasn’t much in there to start with and I managed to keep it down.
I rubbed my eyes, stretched my stiff neck and flew off my chair. Suppressing a wave of guilty nervousness, I scanned my surroundings, casting skittish glances left, right, and centre.
It must still have been very early. A handful of vendors had opened their stalls, while others, having just arrived, busybodied over their wares or unloaded deliveries, ignoring me.
The few early risers moving through the market aisles walked with purpose, clearly using shortcuts to get elsewhere rather than stopping to shop. Nobody paid me any mind.
My false sense of security shattered once a crisp, crackling pop reverberated through the air.
The atmosphere grew heavy, thick with static.
It became so intense and oppressive that I struggled to breathe.
Goosebumps erupted across my nape, and I felt the live buzz of magic zinging up and down my fingertips.
Tiny jolts of purple fizzed and zapped in erratic, drunken arcs all around me.
Just one thing could have left a wake like this: the remnants of a potent, devastating enchantment. A sinking weight dropped onto my chest, the edges of my vision blurring. Whatever prepared to transpire, it wouldn’t be good. What have I done?
An ethereal spiral of shimmering particles erupted from the cobblestones, oozing raw energy, humming with power.
A whirl of scorched desert wind and churning grit materialised in front of me, bringing the smell of dry minerals, sun-baked rocks and sand to my trained alchemist’s nostrils.
The funnel changed shape, parting like a curtain to reveal a human silhouette within.
I registered a flash of steel and a glimpse of leather as the force hurled forth the figure and at once dissipated.
Thud!
The man landed face-first into a heap of silk ribbon talismans I’d planned to offer my customers on a mix-and-match, buy-two-get-one-free deal later that morning. Thank fuck none of them triggered on impact. In other good news, my treasured glass charm standee survived untouched.
He gave a winded grunt, followed by a long, shuddering exhale. Having disentangled himself from the bundle of pastel silk strips, he lifted his head, taking a disoriented moment to get his bearings.
I had an honest-to-goddess impulse to reach out and pull him to his feet. But the moment I saw his face, I froze, my heart leaping into my throat.
Visibly fighting a wave of dizziness, he sought the support of the long, curved blade he held unsheathed to bring himself to standing. Then he unfolded to his full, imposing height, his gaze meeting mine.
I could only gape, words eluding me.
For starters, he spat a whole mouthful of grit. Secondly, an accusation: “It’s you!”
Leaning across the stall’s tabletop, he glared and thrust an elongated finger at me.
I’d gone and done it now—lost what little I’d had left of my marbles.
Still, however many times I squeezed my eyes shut and reopened them, my mouth unwittingly mimicking the motion, it continued to be him, all right.
My dream soldier. Just standing there, in the waking world and broad daylight, looking mighty pissed.
Pissed wasn’t the singular adjective that came to my boggled mind. I had little trouble finding a bunch of others—like magnificent. Gorgeous in that raw, unforgiving way discipline and combat chiselled into a man. Statuesque. Stripped of any soft angles or vulnerability.
Dressed in leather armour with steel breastplates over a midnight-tinted uniform, he possessed the flawless majesty of a martial deity.
Crimson on the hilt of his sabre provided a lonely splash of colour against his dark attire.
The reinforced bodice held the fabric flush across his sculptured torso, highlighting a body honed by decades of training.
I found the combination of his stern jawline, glacier-blue eyes and sun-kissed skin—all framed by a long ash-blond mane—mouthwatering.
His hair, pulled off his face into a high crown and secured with a silver ornament, held the rare, cool hue of weathered white oak.
The rest of his smooth strands cascaded down his back like a frozen waterfall, leaving the sharp, uncompromising contours of his face exposed.
While we assessed each other, the silence between us grew wrinkled and silver-bearded.
I cleared my throat. “It… yes, it is me.” Since that appeared to be the single fact I could attest to for the moment, I didn’t mind admitting it. Clearly, that statement drained my supply of sane and coherent thoughts, since I felt compelled to add, “Can you pinch me?”
“Are you a mage?” His voice rasped, low and abrasive, like a heavy iron gate scraping over stone. He sheathed his sabre—a move that at least indicated he didn’t class me as an imminent physical threat.