I stepped into the corridor with Alice in tow. Turns out, the little porcelain menace could move. Her stubby legs zipped along at a pace that had me squinting—a blur of glazed alabaster on a mission. Honestly, it was a relief—I’d half-expected to lug her around like a cursed handbag. I mean, she was a doll, after all.

The dormitory stood nestled behind the Alchemy Tower, its aged silhouette a contrast to the gleaming modernity of Alchemy Tower. You could tell this place had been patched up rather than built with the seamless magic-tech that dominated the rest of the Varkaigrad. Here, magic enhancements were like clumsy band-aids slapped onto creaky, stubborn old wood.

The thick oak walls bore a dull, over-cleaned sheen, like they’d seen one too many overzealous cleaning spells. Speaking of which, I really needed to pick up one of those. Or better yet, teach it to Belle. Oh, Thalador help me—she’d be ecstatic. Cleaning spells? A dream come true for her. That is, if she could even use magic. I'll have to wait and see if this ritual to turn her into my supplicant comes with a bonus mana veins bundle. Fingers crossed.

Just before the massive enchanted gates of the dormitory, I slowed my strides. There was a corner. Corners required care. My steps turned precise, deliberate. My posture straightened, an air of effortless aloofness washing over me. Graceful. Calculated. Exactly the kind of demeanor expected of a supposed Bloodtide sect princess. They believed me to be one of their high-ranking scions, so play the part I must.

The Warden was waiting. She was a rakari—a lion-kin—and despite her years, the woman was still imposing. Her mane, once fiery, had faded to a stormy grey, but her sharp eyes and commanding presence had dulled not an inch. When she saw me, she smiled, her gravelly voice carrying a warmth that felt…unexpected.

“Can’t believe Jade is actually late today,” she teased.

I clasped my hands neatly in front of me, bowing slightly, my face a mask of impassive grace. “Good morning, Warden. I may have been a little too engrossed in my studies. I trust Master Vasilisa will pardon my tardiness.”

Her laugh rumbled low, a sound like rocks grinding together. “Oh, don’t worry your pretty little head about it. She will.”

Before I could reply, Alice chimed in from behind me.

“Undercurrents of sadness and worry in her posture. Worry—likely misplaced keys. Sadness—perhaps a dead lover?”

I almost raised an eyebrow at her audacity. Almost. My expression remained schooled, cool as winter steel. The Warden either didn’t hear her or pretended not to, and I wasn’t about to test which.

Instead, I nodded politely to the Warden and glided past, my pace unhurried and composed. Behind me, Alice trotted along, her absurdly quick legs a blur of motion. Yet, strangely enough, the Warden hadn’t even glanced at her. No flicker of recognition. Nothing.

I waited until we rounded a quieter corner before glancing down at her. “Alright, spill it. What the hell did you just say back there?”

Alice tilted her blindfolded porcelain head. “The truth, Mistress. The first step to entering the sea of collective consciousness and attuning oneself to it is reading people beyond what their surface conveys. The undercurrents speak volumes if you listen.”

I sighed, already feeling a headache brewing. “Fine. But how are you hiding yourself from them?”

She stopped, tilting her head slightly upward as though addressing the heavens—or perhaps just to flex her superiority. “My existence is attuned to the sea of collective consciousness. I manipulate it, subtly nudging the perceptions of those around me to create a blind spot. Ensuring their gazes slide right past.”

I blinked. The sea of collective consciousness.. Hmm..

She spoke of it like it was a tangible realm, something you could wade into with hip-high boots and a lantern. The thought caught me mid-step. Then I started moving again, my mind already churning.

What if it was a real place?

Alice wouldn’t give me the answers I craved—Lotte’s orders, of course. But that didn’t mean I couldn’t dig my way around the restrictions. Loopholes were a staple of roundabout teachers like Lotte. If Alice wouldn’t tell me outright, I’d scribble down every theory I could glean and test them one by one. The thought made me grin, a predatory edge curling at my lips.

Still, as another idea wormed its way into my thoughts, my grin faded into a contemplative hum. What if Lotte had left these loopholes on purpose? She was always annoyingly indirect when doling out knowledge, baiting me to claw for what I wanted. I wouldn’t put it past her to make me work for every scrap.

Shaking my head, I refocused and headed toward the Alchemy Tower, once again draping myself in the regal airs of a sect princess. Graceful, unbothered, and commanding.

At the main entrance, I exchanged formal greetings with those stationed there, ignoring the one drakkari guard whose face turned the color of a ripe beet whenever he saw me. His expression stayed stoic—impressive, really, given the flush crawling up his neck. He should probably get that checked. Couldn’t be healthy.

In just one month, I’d clawed my way to the second floor of the tower—the domain of intermediate apprentices, where fundamentals were a thing of the past and advanced alchemical projects reigned supreme. Promotion here wasn’t exactly a walk in the park. You had to outwit Vasilisa, the resident gatekeeper, whose tests were less about applying what she taught and more about dodging the traps she’d sprinkled in her theories like rat poison.

I hadn’t struggled. At all. In fact, I’d found it almost laughably simple. Yet every day, as I passed the others—eyes hollow, envy practically radiating off them like steam—it hit me: I might be an outlier.

Stolen novel; please report.

Or, on second thought… maybe they were just incompetent? No, that’s too harsh. Let’s call it a deficit in creative problem-solving. Yes, that’s better.

Whatever.

Alice had a knack for vanishing—not literally, but functionally. No one noticed her; no one even glanced in her direction. It wasn’t stealth or advanced camouflage. It was something better: erasing herself from perception entirely. The idea of such power sent a spark of determination coursing through me. The sea of collective consciousness she’d mentioned was quickly climbing my list of things to uncover.

Before I knew it, I’d reached my destination: the second floor of the alchemy tower. The walk took maybe four, five minutes tops at a brisk pace. Ahead stood the double doors, imposing and exquisite, carved from ironwood and inlaid with intricate runes. These weren’t just for show. Each rune was a piece of an advanced warding system designed to keep out the unworthy. Only authorized mana signatures could pass.

I pressed my hand against the wood and felt the familiar tingle of mana recognition. The doors shivered, then wavered, their solid form dissolving into a misty, gaseous state. People claimed this system was Vasilisa’s personal creation, and honestly, I believed it. Every time I saw it in action, I couldn’t help but feel a pang of awe.

It wasn’t just transmutation or state change—it was a seamless reaction to a precise mana signature. And the mana cost? Practically negligible. To think such power was used on something as mundane as doors was enough to leave me breathless the first time I experienced it.

Vasilisa was a monster when it came to alchemy, no doubt about it. But she was the kind of monster worth admiring. I grinned at the thought as I stepped through the misty barrier, Alice trailing silently behind me like a shadow.

The second floor welcomed me with a shift in atmosphere that was impossible to ignore. Here, the tower’s grandeur revealed itself in full. The central atrium rose high, its walls adorned with floating bookshelves that glided through the air with a faint whoosh, rearranging themselves as though alive. Above, a massive chandelier composed of shimmering mana crystals cast a dazzling, multicolored glow that danced across the polished floors in playful patterns.

At the atrium’s heart, a spiral staircase of wrought silver coiled upward, promising more mysteries on the higher floors. The entire space was a masterpiece of alchemical ingenuity. A harmonious blend of enchanting precision. Of artistic vision.

I had miles to go on the learning curve, and learn I would—starting with patching up this floundering drakkari mess of mine. Whatever it took to keep the dragon beneath veiled. The tower loomed ahead, its atrium spilling into the Senior Apprentice Wing on the second floor. With a practiced stoicism plastered across my face, I strode toward my assigned workspace.

Vasilisa was already there, naturally. A Zaryn, Hawk-kin. Her features were as sharp as her gaze—beak-like nose, piercing emerald eyes, and feathers woven into her ash-blonde braid. She had a habit of staring at people like she could pin them to the wall with her glare alone. Her hawk eyes locked onto me as I approached Station 14, unflinching and all-knowing. But she didn’t so much as twitch at the fact I was half an hour late. A rare gift from the gods, truly, since she was infamous for ripping into people for being sixty seconds behind. Maybe Thalador himself smiled on me today. Or maybe she was saving her wrath for dessert.

Station 14 was one of countless claustrophobic cubicles packed into the hall, each one a jungle of alchemical equipment and enchantments humming faintly with mana. My cubicle was a blackened sanctuary: an obsidian countertop etched with heat-dispersing runes, gleaming as though it drank in the light. Shelves above teetered under the weight of jars, vials, and pouches, each filled with ingredients of varying degrees of toxicity and allure. My stomach twisted, but not unpleasantly. The sight made my mouth water.

Oh, the possibilities. Maybe I'd whip up something extraordinarily lethal and sip it like tea. Some poisons—proper poisons—had a flavor so divine that even the finest wine couldn’t compete. I’d been craving that bite lately. But alas, work called. Apprentice life didn’t permit indulgence without output.

My quota loomed: thirty units of standardized potions per week, churned out like cogs in the tower’s grand machine. These weren’t the glittering, groundbreaking elixirs alchemists were celebrated for. Instead these were the everyday potions—the bread and butter of the trade: health restoratives, stamina draughts, mana tonics, and focus elixirs. They demanded precision, each batch scrutinized under Vasilisa’s hawk-eyed glare. One flaw, and she’d pounce. Apprentices wept under her merciless quality checks, their tears probably an unlisted ingredient.

I hitched my sleeves and began, plucking ingredients with near-devotional zeal. Alice anchored the bench beside me, still as a sundial. Her blindfolded serenity flickered when she thought I wasn’t looking—a paradox, how her void-eyed attention pierced sharper than any gaze.

The tools became an extension of my pulse. Alchemy does that—a ballet of flux and alkahest. Each herb, mineral, and tincture hummed a chord in a symphony only my bones understood. My hands wove routines into revelation, each motion a stanza in some primal, breathing verse. That’s alchemy’s core: not mere transmutation, but truth spun raw from the cosmos’ marrow.

Every flask murmured secrets beneath its utilitarian shell. In the flicker of burner flames and the glug of simmering retorts, I found tempo. Alchemy wasn’t just equations—it was kinetic poetry. Here, stagnation was heresy; motion, sacrament.

Ingredients arrived as sagas. Preparing them wasn’t chore, but liturgy. Each mince, mortar grind, or steam-distill teased forth dormant magic, ensuring their final chorus would harmonize. I swam so deep in the brew’s rhythm, I nearly missed the shadow nearing my station. Nearly.

Air Sense pricked my awareness first—a breath against stillness, pressure shifts sketching intruder’s contours. Without glancing up, I braided mana into a glowing transmutation sigil. “Greetings, Mrs. Petrov,” I said, fingertips still dancing.

“Your eerie perception still gives me shivers,” she replied in that warm, motherly tone of hers. “I swear, I didn’t make a sound.”

Technically, “Lab Assistant” was her title, but the name hardly did her justice. She was Vasilisa’s second-in-command, the only lab assistant in the entire tower, and the oil that kept this alchemical machine running smoothly. She was also a Urgoth, one of the Bear-kin. Towering and broad, her sheer presence should’ve been intimidating, but somehow, it only made her seem more nurturing.

As I finished the script, I allowed myself the smallest of bows, seated though I was. “It’s always an honor, Mrs. Petrov.” My voice slipped into a practiced, respectful cadence, the kind you use when navigating sharp-edged hierarchies. If I’d overdone the grace, she didn’t say. Mrs. Petrov was a font of warmth, after all, not the type to nitpick etiquette.

She sighed, the kind of long-suffering sigh that only someone juggling a hundred responsibilities could muster. “While I’d love to sit and chat, Vasilisa’s waiting for you. Let’s hope you haven’t stirred up any trouble.”

I frowned, feigning innocence. “Trouble? Me? Beyond my tardiness, I’ve been angelic…” Lies glided smoother than glycerin.

Petrov gave me a knowing look, her patience endless. “If it’s nothing, I’m sure she’ll let you off easy. But she’s waiting. And yes—she’s a little angry.”

Oh, Thalador preserve me.

As I stood, Alice chose her moment. “Hmm. Anticipation laced with... yearning. I’d say Mrs. Petrov’s undergarments—”

My stare could’ve frozen hellfire. The doll’s porcelain jaw snapped shut. Her talent for dissecting souls was a blade without a sheath—useful until it slithered where it shouldn’t.

Some truths belong buried. For sanity’s sake.