Scamantha didn’t rush it.

  For once, she didn’t chatter, didn’t upsell, didn’t pull three more unrelated objects out of nowhere just to prove she could. She stood inside the circle, sleeves rolled up, hair tied back with a strip of cloth that definitely used to be a ritual component, and focused.

  The tiny cauldron pulsed.

  Lucas watched as the divine feather dissolved, not melting so much as giving up, its shape unraveling into threads of light that sank into the liquid. The glow shifted, white to gold, gold to something deeper, almost bruised with color, like dawn seen through stormclouds.

  Scamantha raised both hands.

  The runes flared.

  The air thickened, pressing against Lucas’s ears until sound dulled and his heartbeat became uncomfortably loud. For a brief, disorienting moment, the space felt watched, but then Scamantha snapped her fingers and the cauldron went still.

  She exhaled, long and satisfied, and reached for a bottle waiting just outside the circle; black glass, etched with sigils that crawled slightly if Lucas didn’t stare directly at them. She poured with deliberate care, every drop sliding in as if the bottle wanted it.

  When she corked it, the pressure in the room vanished all at once. Lucas sucked in a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. “That… felt illegal.”

  Scamantha grinned, eyes bright with something triumphant. “It felt mythical.”

  She turned the bottle in her hands, admiring it for a moment longer, then thrust it toward him. Lucas hesitated before taking it. The glass was heavier than it looked, humming faintly against his palm, the liquid inside shifting in ways that made his mana itch.

  “This is it?” he asked quietly.

  She nodded. “Freshly finished” Then she leaned back against a shelf, crossed her arms, and announced proudly, “And for the record…” Scamantha’s grin went feral. “I just leveled up,” she said, delight vibrating in every word. “First mythical potion. Took me long enough.”

  Lucas blinked. “Wait. Mythical?”

  “Oh yes,” she said smugly. “System’s very picky about intent, difficulty, or divine arbitration.” She tapped the bottle. “That little beauty hit all three.”

  His gaze dropped to the vial in his hand, the weight of it suddenly very real. “You’re… sure about this? If Rimelion can affect Earth…”

  Scamantha tilted her head, studying him. For once, her expression wasn’t playful. “No,” she said honestly. “But Charlie is.”

  That landed harder than the system ever could.

  [Potion of Destiny]

  Quality: 8-mythical

  Effect: Be judged by Saevrin and Saevrin may change your Destiny.

  Info: Made by Scamantha? — the one your alchemist told you not to worry about.

  Lucas stared at the text.

  “May?” he echoed faintly. “That’s it? That’s the warning?”

  Scamantha shrugged. “If I put ‘will absolutely ruin your life or make it amazing,’ people hesitate.”

  He let out a shaky laugh despite himself. “Of course.”

  She leaned closer. “Listen. This doesn’t give you power. Not directly. It gives you… something. Depends what Saevrin thinks you’re doing with your life. Or did. Or will do? Charlie was vague, said wolves are friends.”

  “That’s comforting,” Lucas muttered.

  “Oh, don’t look at me like that,” she said brightly. “You survived demons and leadership. Worst case? You come out interesting.”

  He rolled the bottle between his fingers, feeling the faint pulse of it, as if the system wasn’t quite sure how to classify the thing.

  “Do I drink it now?” he asked.

  Scamantha shook her head. “Nope. What if you splat?” She flashed him a grin. “Take it to the City Hall across and splat there!”

  Queen’s Square was still a riot of motion and sound, but the City Hall stood apart from it like it had missed a memo several centuries ago.

  Lucas slowed as he approached it, frowning.

  The building didn’t match anything around it. Where the surrounding architecture curved and flowed, arched balconies, patterned stonework, domes catching the sun, the City Hall was all straight lines and weight.

  Thick columns marched along its facade, pale, not rosy, stone stacked with grim confidence, the kind of structure that looked less welcoming and more enduring. No decorative tiles, just stone, geometry, and an unspoken promise that whatever decisions happened inside were final.

  Lucas didn’t know why it felt wrong, but his instincts prickled anyway. It was like stepping from a bazaar into a courtroom. The air even smelled different; less spice and tea, more dust and old paper baked warm by the sun.

  He adjusted his bag and climbed the steps.

  The doors were massive, dark wood reinforced with iron bands worn smooth by hands that had pushed them open long before Altandai had learned how to be pretty. When he passed through, the noise of the square cut off abruptly, replaced by a cavernous echo that made his footsteps feel too loud, too personal.

  Yep, he thought. This place definitely judges you.

  Stolen novel; please report.

  The hall was enormous, its ceiling lost in shadow, supported by more columns than Lucas felt strictly necessary. Light spilled in from high windows, illuminating a battlefield of desks, tables, stacks of parchment, crates, ledgers, and people, so many people, all moving with the frantic energy of something important happening just out of reach of understanding.

  Clerks hurried past clutching armfuls of documents. Others argued in low, intense voices over tables littered with stamps and seals. Somewhere, someone was yelling about the Queen going farming. Somewhere else, someone else was yelling about her making booze instead of food, which Lucas assumed was worse, but sounded more like her.

  He stood there for a moment, trying to parse it.

  Failed.

  He picked a direction and walked.

  Every desk he passed looked identical and entirely different. Ink-stained hands waved him aside. Someone nearly collided with him, muttered an apology without slowing, and vanished into the crowd. A bell rang somewhere, prompting three people to panic and one to cheer.

  Finally, he stopped beside a clerk hunched over a ledger thicker than his forearm. The man was scribbling furiously, tongue poking out in concentration.

  “Uh, excuse me,” Lucas said.

  The clerk didn’t look up.

  “I’m looking for Lola,” Lucas tried again. “Should have clipboard and is scary competent?”

  That got a reaction, the clerk paused, then slowly lifted his head. He stared at Lucas for a moment, but then laughed. “Oh,” he said, amusement dripping from the word. “Good luck!”

  Luck? Why did he need a luck? “Is that a good sign?”

  “No,” the clerk replied cheerfully. He gestured vaguely into the hall, where the chaos only seemed to intensify the longer Lucas looked at it. “She’s in there somewhere. Probably.”

  “Probably.”

  The clerk chuckled, already turning back to his ledger. “Good luck. If she finds you first, it’s faster.”

  “Faster than what?”

  The man glanced up again, eyes bright. “Than paperwork.”

  Lucas swallowed. “Right,” he muttered, backing away. “Of course.” He shared the love of papework with Charlie. He stepped back into the flow of clerks, ledgers, and shouted numbers, suddenly very aware that he was carrying a mythical potion in his inventory and absolutely no idea what to do it with.

  Lucas quickly left the building, but just as he stepped just outside the City Hall’s, he realized something. He was a player. So he pulled up his messages.

  [Lucas] I have the supplies, but there was a potion for me. Any ideas?

  [Lola] City Hall. Room 14.

  He stared at the reply for a second.

  Of course it was that simple.

  Room 14. No floor specified, or warning. Just an instruction, delivered with the same confidence Lola applied to moving armies and balancing ledgers.

  He went back inside.

  This time, the chaos felt less abstract. Now that he knew why he was here, the frantic motion turned into something almost legible. Clerks moved with purpose, even if that purpose was buried under ten layers of procedure. Ink-stained hands shoved papers into other ink-stained hands. Stamps thudded like heartbeats. Someone argued loudly about grain allocations until another person shut them up with a single, terrifying glance.

  Lucas threaded through it, boots echoing against stone, and found the stairs.

  The second floor was quieter, but only in the way a storm eye was quiet. The sound of the hall below bled upward in a constant murmur, but here the corridors were narrower, the light dimmer, the air heavier with dust and old parchment. Doors lined the walls, each marked with simple numerals, translated by the system, paint chipped from decades of use.

  Room 14 waited at the end, and despite the door beeing ajar, Lucas knocked anyway, out of habit. “Come in,” Lola’s voice called, muffled and tired.

  He stepped inside and stopped short.

  Room 14 was not a room so much as a problem. Tables had been dragged in from somewhere else, pressed together into an uneven island of maps, scrolls, ledgers, and crates. Boxes of sealed documents were stacked against the walls. Strings crisscrossed a corkboard, pinning notes and locations together in a way that looked dangerously close to conspiracy.

  And in the middle of it all sat Lola.

  Her hair was pulled back hastily, dark circles shadowing her eyes. She had her sleeves rolled up, ink smudged across one wrist, and a clipboard balanced precariously on her knee while she wrote with the other hand, lips moving silently as she counted.

  She looked up when he entered. “Oh,” she said, blinking. “Good. You’re alive.”

  “Barely,” Lucas replied. “I brought supplies.”

  She smiled weakly and waved him in. “Put them… honestly, anywhere there’s space. I forgot to request warehouse space at docks.”

  He sent the potions from his inventory onto the nearest table, where it landed with a solid, comforting thud. Lola immediately leaned forward, opening it, scanning labels with speed.

  “Health. Mana. Anti-venom. Emergency salves…” She nodded as she went, efficient even now. “Good. Scamantha behaved.”

  “Mostly,” Lucas said. “She sold to another customer something that dyes your hair like dawn.”

  Lola snorted despite herself. “Of course she did.”

  He hesitated, then asked, “Do you need anything else?”

  The question surprised her. She paused, pen hovering, then shook her head slowly. “No. Thank you.” Her smile returned, smaller this time. “I appreciate the offer.” She set the clipboard aside and leaned back in her chair, rubbing at her temples. For a moment, she just breathed. “After conquering a city,” she said quietly, “there is… a lot to do.”

  Lucas glanced around. “I’m noticing.”

  “Especially when the Queen refuses to grow enough food to feed everyone,” Lola continued, tone carefully neutral.

  Lucas blinked. “She’s what?”

  Lola’s mouth twitched. “Protecting booze plants.”

  He laughed, short and incredulous. “Booze is booze,” he said. “Charlie loves booze. Simple.”

  That got a real smile out of her. “Yes,” Lola agreed. “That is exactly the problem.” She gestured at one of the maps. “That’s why you’re going into the dungeon, actually. She said she’d ‘fix the supply issue somehow.’”

  Lucas grimaced. “Somehow?”

  “Her word,” Lola said dryly. “So we’re scrambling. Fast ship. Enough people to support a return trip. Contingency plans if her plan fails.” She trailed off as her eyes dropped to the potions. Her gaze flicked over labels, fingers sorting without thought.

  “These three,” she said, setting a small cluster aside. “Side effects. Mild, but notable.” She hummed thoughtfully. “Only three. Scamantha’s being generous.”

  Lucas swallowed. “There’s… another one.” Her head lifted as he pulled the black-glass vial from his inventory and held it out. “Scamantha said Charlie ordered it. It’s… for me.”

  Lola nodded once, unsurprised. “That tracks.”

  “It’s called a Potion of Destiny,” Lucas added. “Mythical. Apparently I get judged by Saevrin.”

  Lola exhaled slowly. “That’s… inconvenient,” she said, with the tone of someone assessing a weather forecast that involved fire.

  He stared. “That’s it? Inconvenient?”

  She finally took the vial, turning it carefully in her hands. “Lucas,” she said gently, “anything that lets a god evaluate you directly is, by definition, inconvenient.” She handed it back. “But Charlie said it would work for you.”

  He frowned. “She did. Scamantha said that too. But I don’t—” He gestured helplessly. “I don’t see why.”

  Lola studied him for a long moment. “You helped us since the begining,” she said. “And now? You coordinated mages under fire.”

  He shifted uncomfortably. “I panicked.”

  “Yes,” she said calmly. “And you acted anyway.”

  That shut him up, and she tapped the potion lightly. “Charlie believes this will help you fight better in the dungeon.”

  Lucas stared at the vial, the weight of it pressing into his palm. “So… maybe?”

  Lola nodded. “Maybe.”

  She looked tired again, suddenly. “But not here, knowing Scamantha she wants it to be used over important papers.”

  He tucked the potion away, feeling oddly steadier for having not used it. Like choosing not to call a function you weren’t sure was connected to Pearl’s harmless little hack… or her nuclear option that wiped your data and smiled about it afterward.

  “Alright,” Lucas said. “You tell me when.”

  Lola smiled. “There’s an inn by the docks,” she said. “Go there and… be judged.” She hesitated, then added, dry as ever, “And then we wait.”

  “Wait for what?”

  “For the Queen,” Lola replied, already turning back to her work. “To graciously return from her booze-making trip.”