The Alchemys were born, not made. Their power—the flame-thread—was etched into their blood from the moment they took their first breath. They didn't learn it. They didn't borrow it. It awakened on its own, choosing only the few—those marked by fate. Each alchemy could command a different force: some could twist metal into living shapes, some could speak to fire, and others could seal a man's breath with only a symbol drawn in the air. Their strength lay in symbols, blood, silence, and control. And among them all, Luke rose like a god cloaked in flesh.
Luke was not just their leader—he was their law. Cold, commanding, and carved from the harshest corners of power, he held the Brotherhood together through fear and belief. His eyes saw weakness like a scent, and he crushed it before it could grow. And to him, no weakness was greater than a woman.
Luke believed that emotions—love, softness, mercy—were cracks through which ruin entered. And in women, he said, those flaws lived openly. He made it a doctrine: "A woman is the womb, not the weapon. The vessel, not the flame." Under his rule, no female could be counted as an alchemy. Even if one was born with power, she was denied it, hidden or destroyed. He told the Brotherhood that women make a man lean—not rise. That they were meant to serve the bloodline, not claim it.
And the alchemys believed him.
All except Lucian, Luke's right-hand man. Lucian once questioned him—once. They said he whispered that power should not fear its origin. That even a woman might hold the flame with discipline. Luke struck him for it, so hard that Lucian's power fractured for days. That scar never faded. Neither did his silence.
From then on, no one doubted Luke. And no one dared defend a woman again.
The room was cold—too cold for a place with a firelight. Elena's father lay motionless on the wooden table at the center of the hall, his face pale, his chest eerily still. Lucian stood beside him, arms folded, his voice calm but laced with cruelty.
"He's dead," Lucian said, casting a casual glance at the corpse. "Now… what do we do with the body?" He began walking slowly toward the table, fingers trailing along its edge. His boots made soft thuds on the stone floor as he approached. He was almost amused.
Luke didn't answer immediately. He stood farther back in the room, draped in his long black coat, half-shadowed by the dancing flame of the wall torches. His gaze was fixed elsewhere—thoughtful, unreadable. Then, after a beat, he asked quietly, "What about the girl?"
Silence fell like a blade. The other alchemys shifted uncomfortably. No one spoke.
Luke's eyes snapped toward them, glowing faintly gold in the firelight. "I asked a question," he said, his voice low but sharp like a cold wind through broken glass. "Where's the girl?"
Still, no response. Only the distant crackle of fire.
A flash of fury flickered across his face. "Lucian."
Lucian bowed his head slightly. "She… escaped."
Luke's expression hardened instantly, jaw tightening. "She escaped?" His voice boomed through the hall, echoing off the stone. "She escaped from you?" He pointed at all of them, his voice rising with disgust. "From powerful alchemys like you? When she's just a human girl?"
No one dared move.
The moment Lucian uttered the name Oliver, something in Luke shifted.
His expression froze. His eyes—already sharp—narrowed with sudden, calculated alertness. He turned slowly toward Lucian, his tone now low, suspicious.
"What… did you just say?"
Lucian hesitated. "I—" His voice cracked slightly. "I said Oliver."
Luke took a step forward, slowly. "What happened to Oliver?"
Lucian swallowed hard. There was a brief silence as the other alchemys shifted uncomfortably in the room, none of them daring to interrupt.
"He… escaped."
The words hit the air like a curse.
Luke froze mid-step, as if he hadn't heard correctly. "He what?"
Lucian lowered his head, suddenly feeling very cold despite the torches on the walls. "He's been released. We don't know how. There were… noises. From below. The dungeon walls—something shattered them. When we got there, he was already out. Alive. And awake."
Luke's voice erupted like a crack of thunder.
"You mean to tell me that Oliver who's been locked beneath this house for two years—has simply… escaped?!" His face twisted in disbelief, and then, fury. "Do you think I am a fool, Lucian?!"
"No, my lord!" Lucian cried, dropping to one knee. "We don't understand it either! The chains were broken, the walls cracked… We don't know who or what released him."
Luke's breath came in ragged frustration. His fists clenched at his sides. "No one can release him. Not from that place. That dungeon is sealed with blood-binding and flame runes. Nothing breaks through that unless I will it."
The hall was silent now. Even the fire dared not speak.
Then Luke turned slowly, his gaze burning with dark purpose. "Who else was in that dungeon?"
Lucian didn't answer immediately, but Luke's stare pressed down on him like a weight.
"The girl," Lucian said at last. " She was the only one there."
Luke's head tilted slightly. "The girl…"
One of the alchemys moved forward a bit, holding out the torn cloth.
"My Lord, we found this." he said showing him the torn cloth.
Luke took the cloth, glanced over it, then gave it back to him. "Hold on to it. This is not the main concern".
He turned away, voice sharp.
"She's the key. She's the only one who knows how Oliver was freed." he added.
Luke stared at the stone wall for a long moment, deep in thought. When he finally spoke, his voice was calm—but deadly.
"Then we don't just want the girl…" He looked back at the others. "We need her."
He turned to his circle of alchemys.
"Find her," he said coldly. "Hunt her to the ends of this world if you must. Bring her back. Alive. I want her eyes clear when I question her. I want her mouth to speak every secret she holds. I want to know everything."
He began to pace.
"And Oliver…" He stopped, then turned slowly toward them, voice dropping to a hiss. "Bring him to me. I don't care what condition he's in. Bleeding, broken, or dead—drag him here."
The flames around the room flared for a moment, as if the very air recognized the command.
"And if either of them slips through your fingers again…" His eyes flashed. "Then you will take their place in that dungeon."
Lucian bowed deeper. "Yes, my lord."
A heavy silence followed. Outside, the wind picked up. Somewhere, distant thunder rolled across the sky—like the world itself was listening.
Meanwhile, Sean stood by the open doorway, the fading sunlight warming one side of his face as Elena stepped slowly across the clearing. Her hair still covered, the cloak torn near the hem, and her steps hesitant—as if she were walking toward judgment. Behind her, Oliver trailed, relaxed and unimpressed, arms folded across his chest, looking around like the place wasn't worth his time.
Sean's eyes locked on her.
She couldn't bring herself to meet his gaze. The guilt in her chest sat like a stone.
He didn't say her name. Didn't move. Just waited.
When she finally reached the steps, she stopped and lifted her eyes slowly to his.
"Elena," he said, voice calm but heavy in a way Oliver didn't hear.
She swallowed hard. The words stuck for a second in her throat. Then she said softly, her voice steady:
"I'll fold it back and return it inside the box. Just the way it was. I'm… I'm sorry, Sean."
He stared at her, unmoving.
"I'm sorry for collecting it without asking," she continued. "I'm sorry for acting without thinking. For taking the law into my own hands. I didn't have the right."
She paused and added one more thing, barely above a whisper. "That's it. No excuses."
For a long time, Sean said nothing. The silence between them stretched.
Oliver, a few steps behind her, leaned on the wooden post of the fence with a faint grunt, clearly bored.
Sean's eyes flicked to him. "And him?"
Elena glanced over her shoulder. "He was one of the captives and he helped me. I asked him to come with me."
Sean looked back at her, his jaw still tight.
He exhaled slowly, then turned and walked into the house without another word, leaving the door slightly ajar.
Elena blinked. "Does that mean…?"
Oliver gave her a half-smirk. "Well, I guess that's the closest thing to a royal invitation I'll get."
"Don't push it," she muttered.
They both entered. Sean didn't say a word as Oliver stepped inside, but he didn't stop him either.
The room was quiet. The air held warmth, but the tension still hovered like smoke.
Sean walked toward the back of the room and spoke without turning. "He stays out of my way. That's the deal."
Elena nodded. "He will."
Oliver raised both hands with mock innocence. "Wouldn't dream of getting involved in your emotional drama."
Sean shot him a look over his shoulder.
Elena, flustered, nudged Oliver lightly in the ribs. "Go sit down somewhere, will you?"
Oliver smirked but obeyed, dropping lazily into a chair and stretching out his legs like he owned the place.
Sean disappeared into the back room, leaving the two of them alone.
Elena stood still for a moment, taking it all in—the old room, the familiar smell, the fire that had almost gone out.
She had made it back.
Barely.
And now she had to make things right.