42

  In the high tower of Aurum, where golden light bled through stained glass and dust shimmered like stars, the air smelled of old parchment, boiled resin, and burnt sage. Hector moved swiftly around the cluttered alchemy lab, sleeves rolled up, his old hands trembling not from age but from urgency. Galen followed behind, his eyes darting from shelf to shelf, gathering what Hector muttered under his breath—herbs, powders, and vials marked in old script.

  “Quickly, the blue root—no, the darker one!” Hector’s voice snapped through the haze.

  The apprentice stumbled in with a tray—a small phial of yellow liquid, the lynx marrow still warm from preservation, and a bundle of dried moonleaf. Hector snatched them up without a word. Then, from his satchel, he retrieved the blood-stained cloth, carefully folded, the brown-red marks still visible. His expression softened for a heartbeat as he stared at it. “So much depends on you again, boy,” he murmured, almost to himself.

  Galen looked up. “You’re sure this will work?”

  “This time,” Hector replied, his eyes fixed on the bubbling pot before him, “it will heal Princess Sophia.”

  The mixture hissed as he stirred it with a silver rod engraved with ancient runes. “We missed something before,” Hector continued, “the essence of life itself—the spark that binds the living world. The druids carried it, and now we have it.”

  The pot’s liquid deepened from pale gold to a glowing amber, then began to shimmer with faint motes of light.

  Hector took a long breath, steadying his hands. “Galen, you need to convince the King. He won’t allow another attempt after the last failure.”

  Galen exhaled, rubbing the sweat from his brow. “The King will listen this time. The talk about the druid’s boy already reached the throne room. Everyone’s whispering about him.”

  “Then we must finish before the sun sets,” Hector said.

  The room filled with motion. Galen’s apprentice fetched fresh coals. Hector adjusted the pot’s flame, murmuring old incantations—half science, half prayer. The scent began to shift—first like honey, then iron, then a biting spice that stung their eyes and made tears slip down unbidden.

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  Finally, Hector reached for the last step. He took the cloth—still faintly smelling of smoke and forest soil—and wrung a few drops of dark crimson blood into the mixture. The moment it touched, the pot shuddered. A low hum filled the air, the kind that makes the bones vibrate. The liquid changed color, glowing softly pink, then pulsing like a heartbeat.

  Hector and Galen exchanged a look. Neither spoke.

  Then, Hector carefully poured the contents into a small glass vial sealed with silver wax. He held it up, the glow reflecting on his weathered face. “It’s ready.”

  They wasted no time. Down the winding stairs, through corridors of marble and gold filigree, the two men hurried toward the King’s hall. The guards at the door looked startled but did not bar their way. Hector bowed quickly; Galen stepped forward and spoke.

  “Your Majesty,” Galen said, voice urgent but respectful, “we’ve recreated the elixir. This one—this one may cure the Princess. The essence we’ve added this time… it carries the druid’s purity.”

  The King’s expression hardened. He leaned back on his throne, the weight of sleepless nights clear in his eyes. “You speak of druids again. I thought their kind lost to myth.”

  Hector stepped forward, his voice firm despite the tremor in his limbs. “Not myth, Your Majesty. Their blood still runs in this realm, and by grace or fate, it found its way to us. I swear it will not harm her.”

  The King hesitated, gaze flicking to the two men, then toward the distant doors that led to his daughter’s chambers. Outside, faintly, he could hear her weak breathing, her attendants whispering. He had already begged foreign mages, healers, even prophets—and all failed. The curse had been called “unkindled,” something that no scholar could trace.

  At last, he nodded. “Do it.”

  They entered the Princess’s chamber together. The air was heavy with incense and grief. The royal physician looked up from beside the bed, startled by their sudden arrival. Princess Sophia lay pale and motionless; her lips cracked, her skin gray, the veins beneath her flesh black and visible. Her eyelids fluttered faintly, as if caught between worlds.

  Hector handed the vial to the physician. “Slowly. Let her take it, not swallow it.”

  The physician nodded and carefully unsealed the silver wax. The scent of honey and spice filled the room again. As the pink liquid touched Sophia’s tongue, her body convulsed, arching violently. The physician nearly dropped the vial, but Hector steadied him with a hand.

  Then came the sound—a low hiss. Thin, wriggling worms began to slip from her nose and ear, curling and dying as they hit the floor. The chamber filled with gasps, but Hector did not move. He watched as Sophia’s color began to return. The gray faded, the veins receded, and finally, her chest rose with a long, trembling breath.

  Her eyes opened. They were cloudy at first, then clear—brighter than before, though weary. The King dropped to his knees beside her bed, grasping her hand, his voice cracking as he whispered her name.

  Hector stepped back, exhaustion painting deep lines on his face. Galen stood beside him, breathless, eyes wide in disbelief. “Druids really make wonders,” he murmured.

  Hector’s gaze lingered on the Princess, but his thoughts were far away—to the cloth, to the boy whose blood had turned the tide, and to the unknown cost that such a miracle might demand.