Chapter 20
Elora
She was unable to breathe, to think straight. Her mind was a blur of anger and hurt, Tehvan’s words echoing over and over in her head.
A tremor ran through her hands as she crouched back down by the flowerbeds, trying to resume her task.
She clutched at the ground, her fingers trembling too much to grip anything properly.
The tears she had fought to hold back now came spilling down her cheeks, each drop hitting the earth beneath her.
No matter how hard she tried, it was impossible to stop them.
Elora sniffed, wiping her face roughly with the back of her hand. She had to pull herself together. She couldn’t let anyone see her like this. But the overwhelming wave of betrayal and grief was too unbearable, and the sobs shook her shoulders.
She was so focused on trying to suppress her emotions that she didn’t hear the footsteps approaching her.
A voice suddenly broke the silence, smooth and edged with amusement. “The new ones always cry so much at first.”
Elora froze, her hands submerged in the cool, gritty soil.
A bead of sweat traced down her temple as she glanced over her shoulder.
Gerard stood behind her, towering over her with his usual smirk playing on his lips.
Another guard loitered beside him, arms crossed, looking more bored than interested.
Elora’s stomach clenched painfully. They had seen her. They knew. She was going to be punished severely.
Before she had a chance to speak, Gerard reached out, grasping her arm firmly enough to pull her to her feet.
“There, there, sweetheart,” he said, the smirk never leaving his face. “No need for all the tears. Your assignment has been changed.”
Panic shot through Elora like ice water. She had no idea what he meant, but the sick feeling in her stomach told her it wasn’t good.
Gerard glanced at the other guard. “Go on. I’ve got her.”
The guard shrugged and wandered off, leaving the two of them alone.
Gerard’s grip relaxed slightly, though he didn’t let go.
He began dragging her toward the building, pulling her back inside.
Elora stumbled, trying to keep up with his pace.
Where are we going? The doors closed behind them with a heavy thud, cutting off the outside world.
Maybe it’s the kitchens, she thought desperately, as the aroma of simmering stew wafted through the air. Maybe they had reassigned her to some other menial task, washing dishes, preparing food, something mindless but safe.
They passed by the kitchens. The hallway grew darker, the scent of dampness and mildew pervading the atmosphere, and then she saw the heavy, iron-bound door at the end of the corridor. The dungeon.
She struggled to escape Gerard’s grip, her feet stumbling as she dug in her heels. “No, please,” she stammered, her voice shaking. “I did nothing wrong!” Her hands scrambled to free herself from his hold.
Gerard just laughed. Her efforts only served as amusement to him. He didn’t even falter as she tried to resist, her body dragging along as he continued forward.
“Orders are orders, sweetheart. Thorn requested you. I’m just following through.”
Elora’s throat tightened as terror gripped her. Thorn requested me? Just as she feared, they caught her. Thorn knew she had sneaked away to speak with Tehvan.
She didn’t know what Thorn had in store for her, but she felt the heavy weight of dread pressing down on her. This wasn’t a reassignment. This was something else. Something much worse.
The door swung open, revealing the poorly lit stairs that led down into the dungeon’s depths.
Her throat seemed to close, panic clawing at her ribs, stealing the air before it could even reach her.
Her body shook with fear, every instinct telling her to run, but Gerard’s grip kept her rooted to the spot.
“After you.”
He left her outside Thorn’s study. Elora entered the chamber, the cold, sterile air burning her nostrils.
The room was brightly lit, with alchemical powered lanterns dawning each wall.
A gurney stood in the center, surrounded by tables cluttered with equipment, tools, and vials filled with liquids of varying colors.
The hiss of something boiling echoed softly and Thorn’s figure hunched over the table, working with meticulous precision.
But it wasn’t Thorn that held her attention.
Upon the gurney, a male ward lay completely still. His chest didn’t rise, and his skin had a pallor that sent chills through her. She recognized him, barely. He had been in the communal area, playing cards with a guard. She hadn’t learned his name.
Move. Breathe. Do something, her thoughts pleaded, but he didn’t stir. Did he deserve this? Probably not. None of the wards ever did anything to warrant punishment besides existing.
A quiet thudding of boots on stone pulled her focus away. The guard didn’t seem fazed by the boy’s limp body he hoisted onto his shoulder. The casualness of it, the complete lack of care, made her insides churn. This was nothing new for him.
“Is… is he going to be okay?”
Thorn, seemingly oblivious to her presence until that moment, straightened up from his work. His hands, stained with the residue of ingredients, paused over the equipment. He peered at her with mild surprise, as though her concern was almost quaint.
“No.” He looked at her like she was foolish to ask such a question. “He’s dead.”
Dead. The boy was dead. She didn’t know him, but the sight of his body, cold, lifeless, overwhelmed her. He was a person—a life—reduced to nothing more than a failed experiment, a body to be cleared away like spilled ash. Which he would soon be.
She felt a need to speak up, to ask the boy’s name, something to not let him just be forgotten, but Thorn interrupted her. “Put her on the gurney,” he said, waving dismissively at the other two guards positioned near the door. “Strap her down.”
Elora’s body went rigid. “No.” The word escaped her lips before she could even think. ‘No’ meant nothing here. The guards advanced on her, and instinct took over. She bolted, attempting a dash for the exit, but they were faster.
Rough, calloused hands seized her arms, squeezing her biceps as they dragged her toward the gurney. She tried using their hold on her as leverage to flail her legs out, aiming for their shins.
“Let me go!” She struggled, frantic, but it was useless. They were stronger, and quickly, they forced her down.
“No, no, please…” she gasped, writhing against them, but they pressed her arms down and buckled the leather straps around her wrists.
Her legs were next, each limb secured tightly, the straps digging into her skin as she thrashed helplessly.
They didn’t strap down her chest, but it felt like they did.
Breathing was impossible. Her lungs seemed as constricted as her limbs.
"It's okay," Thorn murmured. The gentleness in his tone existed in stark contrast to the reality it clothed. "You're my special test subject."
She watched Thorn's lips curve into what approximated a smile but contained none of its essence, merely muscles arranged in a configuration that had learned to simulate human connection while harboring none of its substance.
The expression didn't reach his eyes, which remained obsidian pools reflecting nothing but his own satisfaction at her helplessness.
Her mind raced to comprehend what was happening. Her arms strained against their bindings, an instinctive rebellion against captivity that her rational mind knew was futile. The leather restraints responded by digging deeper into her flesh.
“I won’t let you die,” Thorn continued, almost kind, almost like he didn’t want to condemn her. “Not yet, anyway.” Nevermind.
She was unable to look away from his calm, clinical expression. He was looking down at her as if she were merely a tool, an object to be used in his experiments. Like she was already halfway to the fate of the boy they’d just carried out.
She felt the urge to scream, to fight, to beg, but the terror paralyzed her.
Thorn moved closer, pushing up her sleeve.
His hands were alien on her skin. Thorn didn’t seem to notice her fear, or perhaps he did, but ignored it.
His gaze was focused as he lifted a long, thin needle from the table beside him, the sharp tip glinting in the bright light.
She had no clue what he intended, but her mind raced with possibilities, each more terrifying than the last.
He positioned her arm with the precision of a taxidermist preparing his finest specimen.
The touch held no warmth, only the routine efficiency of someone arranging an object rather than handling a living being.
When she attempted to pull away—that small, futile rebellion—the straps held her with unyielding loyalty to their master.
“Struggle all you want. You’re not getting out of this.” He stabbed the needle into her arm.
Elora gasped, her body jerking involuntarily at the sharp pain.
A long tube connected the needle to a large glass flask marked with numbers, though in her panic, she couldn’t understand them.
A dark, thick ribbon of blood began to snake its way into the flask.
The numbers marked the volume rising steadily, 100… 200… 300…
Blood is an important ingredient, she thought frantically, her mind latching onto her teachings. It attunes potions to a specific person.
Thorn wasn’t just taking her blood. He was collecting it for something, something dark.
A potion designed specifically for her, maybe.
He was capable of making anything, a control serum, something to strip her of her will, her thoughts, her very self.
She understood the terrifying potential of blood-based alchemy.
How it bound the subject to the potion in permanent ways.
Thorn glanced down to her face, his hand moving with unsettling placidness as he wiped away a stray tear with his thumb.
This calculated tenderness was somehow more violating than outright cruelty would have been.
It was a perversion of comfort that contaminated the very concept of gentleness itself.
“You’re providing an important service to the Empire,” he assured her. “Few have the privilege of contributing in such a meaningful way.”
What?! What is he talking about?
The flask continued to fill, the dark crimson liquid climbing closer to the top. Her sight grew hazy, dark spots flickering around the outside of her vision. Her limbs were heavy, her mind foggy, and her heart, once racing with terror, slowed, each beat growing sluggish.
“Thorn,” she gasped, attempting to reach him, yet the restraints held her firm. “Please… don’t…”
He clicked his tongue, silencing her pleas. The dizziness left her floating. She tried to focus on Thorn’s movements, but her brain had trouble keeping up.
When it finally reached the marked 800-milliliter line, he slid the needle from her arm with a quick, practiced motion like he’d done it a hundred times before. Elora winced at the sting, but found herself too drained to resist anymore.
His fingers traveled across her wounded flesh, winding a pale cloth around her arm. It surprised her that he even bothered bandaging her up. But then again, he couldn’t let her bleed out. As he said, she’s his special test subject.
“Wh-what… what do you plan to do with my blood?” she mumbled, her voice faint but steady enough to catch his attention.
He seemed almost pleased by the question, as if this were finally the moment he had been waiting for. His fingers continued securing the bandage on her arm as if wrapping a delicate gift.
“I’m glad you asked,” he said, with an undertone of pride.
He turned back to the flask, now containing her blood, and held it up to the light, the dark liquid shimmering faintly.
“This is the key to a breakthrough I’ve been working toward for years.
Something that will change alchemy and the Empire forever. ”
He placed the flask down carefully among his other equipment, then turned to her fully, as if preparing for a lecture.
“A process I’ve developed to harness the life force–your life force in this case–and make it usable for alchemical purposes.
Potions, enchantments… most of these things require MahōKi Sap to power them. ”
Elora blinked slowly, trying to grasp what he was saying. “Life force…?”
Thorn nodded, his eyes gleaming. “Yes. Your blood, infused with life, contains an essence, something that can be extracted and used in place of Mahōamorah’s sap.
You see, the human life force is a renewable energy source.
A person’s blood can be replenished far more quickly.
We don’t need to rely on external sources when we have people. ”
“You… you’re using people’s life force for alchemy?” The words sounded hollow in her own ears, the implications sinking into her slowly.
“Exactly.” He sounded so excited to talk about this, like it was the greatest discovery in the world since MahōKi Sap.
He was acting like a schoolboy presenting his final alchemy project he had been working on all year.
Hands gesturing to each piece of equipment, her blood, his meticulously organized notes.
The sheer ridiculousness of it almost made her grin.
“It’s not just raw blood, of course. It must be carefully extracted and processed, but once refined, it becomes what I call Vitalis Essence. Not as potent as MahōKi Sap, but it serves its purpose, useful for lesser potions and enchantments, leaving the sap preserved for far more important work.”
Elora gulped, trying to push past the murkiness clouding her thoughts. “But… what happens to the people you take it from?”
“It depends on how much I extract. The more essence I take, the weaker the subject becomes, but with careful management, they can recover.” His eyes shifted back to the flask, admiring the glow of her blood. “In your case, I’ll take only what’s needed. You’re far too valuable to waste.”
Thorn motioned for the guards to unstrap her. Finally. The bindings were causing a tingling sensation in her fingertips. As she rose from the gurney, black spots consumed her vision. She nearly collapsed to the ground, if not for the guards easily keeping her upright.
“Eat something.” Thorn said, as he began the next step of his process, distributing her blood into multiple smaller vials. “You’ll need your strength. I’ll only give you three days to resupply your veins before I take more.”