Dion ran as fast as his legs could carry him. Just moments ago, he'd been thinking about how crystalline beasts were somewhat manageable.

  As if the Locus itself decided to prove him wrong, a horde of the cutest-looking creatures now poured from the treeline behind him.

  There was something oddly funny about being pursued by hundreds of bunnies. The contradiction wasn't lost on him.

  Neither was the fact that each one of those glowing green eyes belonged to a creature whose claws could shred through him like paper.

  P-7 had taken quite the head start. Somehow those wobbly, stitched-up legs had found a gear Dion never knew existed, carrying it far ahead while he ate dust.

  He couldn't even be mad. If anything, he was impressed. And maybe a little betrayed. But not mad.

  At least he'd managed to secure the first kill before running for his life. The rabbit was slung over his shoulder, its blood still spurting, staining his clothes a dark, metallic purple.

  Dion ran as the chittering swarm grew louder behind him.

  Yet his only thought, ironically, was the taste of the rabbit.

  It was worth it.

  Somehow, the Locus was turning him into a glutton. Or was it his Brine-touched physique? He couldn't say for certain.

  If it was the latter, which he very much leaned into, then it begged the question, how much worse was it for the Alchemist?

  These days, he found himself constantly comparing himself to them.

  Did the figure have to constantly hunt? Did he even need to eat at all?

  Now that he thought about it, he'd never seen the man eat. Maybe he ate in secret, away from prying eyes.

  Dion shook off the thought, the chittering of the creatures growing louder. It wasn't high on his priority list at the moment.

  With another step, he crossed into the Mid-Locus.

  The change was immediate.

  Behind him, the chittering swarm fell silent. Dion risked a glance over his shoulder and found dozens of glowing eyes fixed on him from the treeline, their crystalline bodies shifting restlessly, claws scraping against the earth.

  But not one of them approached. Not a single rabbit crossed the invisible line.

  The Mid-Locus was far more deadly. They knew it. He knew it. That boundary might as well have been a wall of fire.

  Dion didn't wait to see if their restraint would hold. He turned and ran, making a beeline straight for the shed.

  Dion didn't think much about it. Beasts were usually more sensitive to danger than humans anyway.

  He saw it ahead.

  The gigantic tree sat just at the edge of what felt like a descent into oblivion. Its massive form pulsed with that faint, inner light, roots digging deep into the earth.

  Something about it gave off a feeling of safety. It was an odd thing to think, considering what lived inside.

  The tree reacted to his presence. The bark shifted, creating an opening. Dion didn't hesitate. He stepped through quickly, the entrance sealing behind him.

  He slumped against the inner wall, catching his breath. The dead bunny lay heavy beside him, its crystalline body cold to the touch.

  Not surprisingly, P-7 was already inside. Waiting.

  Its stitched face betrayed nothing at first. Just that blank, mismatched stare Dion had grown used to.

  You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.

  It took a step forward, reaching for the rabbit.

  Dion flicked his arm, tossing the dead creature over without a word.

  P-7 caught it, then paused. Its head tilted. A scratch at its bald scalp. Confusion bled into its patchwork features, something that almost looked like surprise.

  It had expected... what? Anger? Accusation? Instead, Dion just sat there, breathing steady, eyes calm.

  Dion watched the emotions flicker across its face and found himself curious. Sometimes P-7 behaved almost human, showing flashes of something real behind those stitched eyes.

  Other times, it moved like a construct, empty and mechanical. He still couldn't figure out which one was true.

  Dion pushed himself off the wall, his legs steady now. The chase was over. The adrenaline had faded, leaving only the familiar weight of exhaustion in his bones.

  He left P-7 standing there with the rabbit, its patchwork face still caught in that confused expression as it stared at the dead creature in its hands.

  "Cook it however you want," Dion said, heading for the stairs. "Just make sure it's ready by morning."

  P-7 blinked. "...Morn...ing. Ye..s."

  The spiral root-stairs creaked under his boots as he climbed. Past the chambers sealed behind lattices of living wood. Past the soft glow of floating motes that drifted lazily in the still air.

  Past the amber walls where things he tried not to think about slept in their eternal resin.

  His alcove waited at the end of the hall. Dion stepped inside and let out a long breath, the door sealing behind him.

  …

  Rumble.

  Dion did not remember falling asleep. One moment, he was staring into the oppressive gloom, the next, he jolted awake.

  His stomach clenched, hollow and demanding.

  The floating motes shone brighter, their glow shifting from soft bioluminescence to a sharper, more clinical radiance.

  The light seeped into his cot, briefly highlighting a new presence in the room.

  He blinked, disoriented and a bit disgruntled. Every time he woke up, someone was in his room unannounced.

  The thought should have bothered him more. A prince's chambers, invaded. Again. No permission. No courtesy. Just the soft creak of the door and a figure standing in the glow.

  Back home, entering a prince's chambers without permission was unthinkable. A transgression punishable by death.

  But it didn't. This was his new normal. Quite frankly, he was adapting to it too well.

  Dion sat up, he already knew who it was.

  Meanwhile, the Alchemist stood, uncaring about Dion's thoughts.

  "Your next task begins now." His voice was devoid of greeting, stripped of anything resembling warmth.

  He set the familiar stylus on the desk, the same cool, perfectly balanced instrument from before.

  "You will describe the phenomenon that accompanies the grand work."

  "Huh...Phenomenon?” Dion thought out loud, swinging his legs over in a bid to stand up, rather hastily.

  "The drain you experience," the Alchemist replied.

  Dion didn't need the word explained any further. Every time Wither surged through, it drained him.

  First came the vertigo, the world tilting sideways. Then the nausea, thick and crawling. Then the emptiness, as if someone had scooped out a part of him and left the rest to collapse inward.

  "For Mundanes like you, the effects cannot be dismissed."

  The words hung there. Dion felt them settle into his chest like stones.

  "The Alkahest never gives anything for free," the Alchemist continued. "Every exertion demands its due. You will catalog precisely how much it takes."

  Rumble.

  The sound tore through the silence, deep and guttural, impossible to ignore. Dion's stomach clenched and roared, like a hollow animal trapped inside him.

  The Alchemist's head tilted. A slow, deliberate motion.

  "I had forgotten how dependent mundanes are on continuous caloric intake." There was no cruelty in his voice, just observation, the same tone he might use to note that water was wet.

  If anything, it carried a faint edge of annoyance, as if Dion's basic human needs were an inconvenience to the schedule.

  "Perhaps it would be wise to eat before starting."

  "No need." The words came out faster than Dion intended. "We can start."

  The thought of the bunny.

  That beautiful, hard-won, metallic rabbit sitting heavy in his stomach while the Alchemist put him through whatever came next... he could already imagine it.

  The nausea. The vertigo. Losing it all on the floor.

  He'd rather starve.

  A thought he would soon come to be grateful for.

  The Alchemist nodded in response, a small, measured gesture that might have resembled quiet appreciation.

  Or maybe it was just an acknowledgement. With him, it was impossible to tell.

  "Come."

  He turned, already moving.

  A few hours later, Dion crawled into the corner of a room he'd never seen before.

  It was circular, carved from the same living wood as the rest of the shed, but here the walls were lined with thin sheets of burnished copper that reflected his broken image at him.

  A pale, trembling ghost stared back from every direction. His golden hair, usually carrying a faint luster even in this grim place, hung limp and damp against his scalp.

  His amber eyes, the same eyes that had once commanded attention in Lavosian courts, looked hollow. The light behind them dimmed to embers.

  A single floating mote hovered near the ceiling, casting cold, unforgiving light across the space.

  In the center sat a low table. On it, the stylus. A fresh slate. And ironically, another piece of unremarkable rock.

  Dion's expression was hollow. His skin had gone the color of old parchment, slick with a cold sheen of sweat that refused to dry.

  His hands, he couldn't stop them from trembling against the floor, fingers scraping uselessly at the grain of the wood.

  He'd commanded Wither' on the rock seventeen times, and seventeen times the Alchemist had simply waved a hand and returned the rock to its solid state, waiting in that maddening silence for Dion to try again.

  The Drain had come and gone in waves. Each attempt pulled something out of him, not just energy, but something deeper. Something that left his skull throbbing and his vision swimming at the edges.

  Now he sat in the corner, back pressed against cool copper, fighting the urge to retch.

  Thank the gods I didn't eat.

  The thought surfaced through the haze, the only thing that brought even a flicker of comfort. If he had, that rabbit, that hard-won, precious meal would be all over this floor right now. Splattered across the copper. Wasted.

  The meal was safe. But he wasn't sure about himself.

  Across the room, the Alchemist stood in the center, still as stone. As always. Dion forced his gaze up to meet those prismatic eyes, one pale as bone, one dark as obsidian, and what he saw there made his stomach clench for an entirely different reason.

  The man was far from satisfied.