Chapter 54 Consult the Expert
(Who Definitely Knows You’re Possessed)
Kazimir
The Alchemist’s cell was in the secure wing, behind three sets of wards and a door that could only be opened by my blood. I’d been generous, with a proper cot, a desk, even some books. They’d been here less than a day, but I hoped it was enough time for reflection.
I pressed my palm to the door, feeling the familiar sting as the ward tasted my blood. The locks clicked open.
The Alchemist sat cross-legged on the floor, their robes pooled around them in shifting colors. They didn’t look up. “Lord Blackrose.” Their voice held that same musical quality that had always set my teeth on edge. “Come to gloat? Or perhaps to threaten more creatively than yesterday?”
“Neither.” I conjured a chair and sat facing them. “I need your knowledge, as we discussed. Unless you’d like to release my wife and me from your task.”
“Ah.” They finally looked up. “The mighty Dark Lord needs something from his prisoner.”
I resisted the urge to wrap shadows around their throat. Barely. “Are you being deliberately difficult? You know what’s happening to the ley lines. You know about the Shadow King’s prison.”
“I know many things.” They tilted their head, studying me. “Including what you are.”
I kept my expression neutral, but inside, the Shadow King stirred, sensing danger.
I slammed mental walls between us, focusing on the Alchemist’s masked face. “And what exactly do you think I am?”
“A man fighting a war on two fronts.” They rose gracefully, robes shifting from green to purple to gold. “One against Auremar and his machinations. The other…” They tapped their temple. “Against yourself.”
I said nothing. Denial would be pointless; confirmation could be equally dangerous.
“The question,” the Alchemist continued, beginning to pace the small cell, “is whether you’re winning either battle.”
“I’m managing.”
“Are you?” They stopped directly in front of me. “Tell me, Lord Blackrose—can you learn sensitive information without making certain aspects of yourself aware?”
The question was so precisely targeted I nearly flinched.
“Yes,” I said carefully. “I’ve been practicing. I can compartmentalize when needed.”
“Fascinating.” They resumed pacing. “And when is it most difficult?”
I thought of Arabella, of how the whispers grew louder whenever she was near. How the Shadow King’s hunger sharpened into something almost painful when she smiled at me, touched me, challenged me.
“When I’m having… feelings,” I admitted through gritted teeth.
The Alchemist laughed—a sound like wind chimes in a graveyard. “Feelings. How delightfully mortal of you.”
My shadows darkened the cell. “Don’t mock me.”
“I’m not mocking.” They settled back onto the floor, arranging their robes carefully. “I’m observing. You believe your feelings make you vulnerable.”
“They do.” The words tasted bitter. “The thoughts are more intrusive when I’m around my wife or remembering certain events.”
“Then you’re thinking about it wrong.” The Alchemist stood again as if they couldn’t bear to be still, moving to the small window that looked out over the swirling mists below. “The Shadow King was defeated once before. Do you know how?”
“The First Hero bound him with blood magic and Golden Roses.” Though there were few texts on the subject, I’d barely slept for days, and I’d had time to think about everything we’d learned.
“Partially correct.” The Alchemist turned back to me. “But Soriven didn’t defeat the Shadow King through power alone. He won because he had something the Shadow King didn’t.”
“Which was?”
“Love.” The word hung in the air between us, sickeningly sweet. “Soriven loved his people, his land, his family. That love gave him the strength to do what was necessary, no matter how terrible.”
I thought of Arabella again, of the way she’d looked at me in the training room. How she’d put aside her own pain to ask about mine.
“Love makes me vulnerable,” I insisted. “It gives the Shadow King leverage.”
“Does it?” The Alchemist tilted their head. “Or does it give you a reason to fight?”
I had no answer for that.
“You must keep your loved ones close,” they continued. “Not despite the danger, but because of it. They remind you who you are. Who you choose to be.”
The words echoed Vex’s advice from earlier in the day so intimately that for a moment I wondered if she’d been to see the Alchemist. But I realized she couldn’t have, and wouldn’t. “And if I fail? If the Shadow King uses my feelings against them?”
“Then you’ll have failed trying to be human.” They shrugged. “There are worse ways to fall.”
I stood abruptly. “If I fall,” I growled, “so does your chance of stopping the Shadow King.”
Before they could respond, footsteps echoed down the corridor. Light, confident, familiar. Arabella. The Alchemist heard her too.
“Does your charming wife know about your… condition?”
Frost spread across the stones as my magic responded to the threat. “No.”
“I see.” They didn’t seem bothered by the sudden cold. “And you’d prefer it stays that way?”
I lowered my voice. “If you tell her—anyone—about this, I’ll make what I did to those assassins look like mercy. I might even give in to the Shadow King out of spite.”
I wouldn’t. I’d die before I let that ancient darkness have Arabella. But the Alchemist didn’t need to know that.
“Understood.” They inclined their head. “Your secret is safe with me.”
“Kazimir?” Arabella’s voice carried a note of irritation. “Why didn’t you tell me you were coming down here?”
She appeared in the doorway, hands on her hips, looking beautifully annoyed. Her hair was slightly mussed from dealing with our houseguests, and there was a smudge of something—ink or soot?—on her cheek. I wondered if she’d set anyone on fire—that hadn’t happened lately and she was overdue.
“I haven’t been here long,” I said, moving to her side. “Good news, though. The Alchemist has agreed to continue helping us.”
Her eyes narrowed slightly—she knew I was deflecting—but she let it go. Instead, she conjured her own chair and sat down with the air of someone settling in for a long conversation. “Then let’s hear what they have to say.”
The Alchemist watched our interaction with obvious interest. I could practically see them cataloging every glance, every small gesture. “Very well,” they said finally. “Let’s ensure we’re all on the same page, shall we?”
They began pacing again, robes shifting through a spectrum of dark colors.
“King Auremar has been manipulating the Golden Rose Fields for years, using them to enhance his own power while maintaining the fiction of their sacred nature. The roses aren’t just magical plants.
They’re channels between our world and the dimension where the Shadow King is—or was—bound. ”
A piece clicked into place in my mind. “He’s been poisoning the Hero’s Guild with that power.”
The Alchemist’s eyes glittered with what looked like pride, as though I were a particularly apt student who’d finally grasped a complex theorem.
“Auremar has been feeding his most loyal followers diluted essence from the prison. It grants them power, creates addiction, and—most importantly for his purposes—marks them as servants of the Shadow King.”
They continued. “Every improper harvest weakens the anchor points. Every ritual Auremar performs to extract their essence frays the web holding the prison together. He believes he’s siphoning power safely, but he’s actually—”
“Letting the Shadow King bleed through,” I cut in. “Yes, we remember.”
The Alchemist nodded gravely. “Before I was so graciously invited to stay at Skyspire, I was monitoring the situation through my various channels. The magical collapses are accelerating exponentially. What took decades to degrade is now happening in months, even weeks.”
They moved to the window, gazing out at the mists.
“The Golden Rose Fields themselves are showing signs of rapid deterioration. Entire sections that bloomed just last month have withered to ash. The farmers are panicking, though Auremar keeps it quiet. He’s been sending mages to cast illusions over the dead patches for any visiting dignitaries. ”
“How long do we have?” I asked.
“At the current rate of acceleration?” The Alchemist turned back to us, their mask catching the light. “Perhaps three months before the degradation becomes irreversible. Maybe less if Auremar continues his extraction rituals.”
Arabella and I exchanged a look.
“So what do we do?” Arabella leaned forward. “We have over seventy heroic bloodlines here. How do we use them to stop this?”
“That,” the Alchemist said slowly, “is where things become complicated.”
They moved to the narrow window, staring out at the mists. “The prison must be resealed. The ley lines must be cleansed. These are facts. The question is method.”
“A ritual circle,” I said slowly. “Using the bloodlines as anchor points.”
“Precisely. Though it will be far more complex than that.” They settled back onto the floor.
“Soriven was many things, but compassionate wasn’t one of them.
He loved—yes, loved—his people, his legacy, his vision of order.
But that love was cold, strategic. He bound the Shadow King through blood and suffering.
The roses were planted in soil enriched with the blood of hundreds.
That’s why they maintain their power and connection with the ley lines. ”
Arabella went very still. I reached for her hand, but she pulled away.
“You’re lying.”
“I never lie,” the Alchemist said simply.
“I merely present truth in its most useful form. And the truth is this: Your beloved ancestor built his prison on a foundation of corpses.” They stood again, as if unable to remain still for more than a minute.
“Which brings us back to our current dilemma. We need those bloodlines to repair what Auremar has broken. The question is whether we follow Soriven’s example… ”
“Or find another way,” I finished, glancing at Arabella, who was glaring at the Alchemist, and no doubt remembering the discussion in the war room about sacrifices. “Which is what we aim to do.”
“There is another way.” The Alchemist moved closer, voice dropping to barely above a whisper. “But it requires something far more difficult than death.”
“Which is?”
“Cooperation.” The mask turned between us. “Willing participation from every bloodline. A ritual circle, yes, but one powered by choice rather than force. It’s never been done before on that scale.”
“Because it’s harder to convince people to bleed for you than to simply take what you need,” I said.
“Precisely!” They clapped their hands. “As you perhaps know better than anyone here, Lord Blackrose: Why negotiate when you can simply conquer?”
I thought of the hundreds of people currently crowding my citadel. Heroes and their families, children playing in halls meant for darker purposes. The chaos of it all.
“We’ll find a way,” Arabella said firmly. “We’ll explain the situation, make them understand—”
“Will you tell them their sacred bloodline exists solely to maintain a prison built on murder?” the Alchemist interrupted. “That their choice is to bleed willingly or watch the world burn?”
“If that’s what it takes.”
They studied her for a long moment. “You might actually do it. How fascinating.”
“Is that everything?” I asked, suddenly exhausted. The weight of secrets—mine and history’s—were making my runes burn.
“For now.” The Alchemist waved a hand dismissively. “Though I’ll need access to your library to refine the ritual specifics.”
“You’ll stay in the dungeons,” I said flatly. “But I’ll have books brought to you.”
“Acceptable.” They settled back onto their cot.
I turned and left before I could do something we’d all regret. Arabella followed, her silence damning.
We climbed the stairs without speaking, the only sound our footsteps and the distant echo of a few remaining prisoners making their protests known. It wasn’t until we reached the main level that she finally spoke.
“You’re keeping something from me.”
I stopped walking. “Arabella—”
She held up a hand. “I know you have secrets. I know there are things about your past, about your magic, that you haven’t told me. And that’s fine. We all have darkness we’d rather keep hidden.”
“Then what—”
“Just promise me something.” She turned to face me fully, and the vulnerability in her eyes nearly broke my resolve. “When you’re ready—if you’re ever ready—you’ll tell me yourself. Not because you have to, not because someone forces your hand, but because you choose to trust me.”
The Shadow King laughed in my mind, cruel and knowing.
“I promise,” I said, and meant it.
She studied my face for a moment, then nodded. “Good. Now come on. Lord Torok is threatening to duel Lady Marenti’s eight-year-old son, and I need backup.”
I raised an eyebrow. “The heroes are trying to duel children?”
“Apparently, the boy called his ancestor a ‘pompous windbag.’ ”
I followed, muttering, “And I thought we were the villains.”