The Princess and the Alchemist - Part 18

The Princess and the Alchemist - Part 18
With great anxiety, Lissandra discovered the reason for Hestira’s return: she had come to choose her successor, and that terrified Lissandra, even knowing that at the beginning of her journey as a priestess, she was far from being the best choice.
The sound of the servants’ footsteps faded beneath the weight of incense rising in slow spirals, perfuming the air of the throne hall with the resinous scent of the mountains. Blue curtains covered the tall windows, filtering daylight into a silvery, cold hue. The torches reflected off marble columns and the tense faces of the gathered nobles — some expectant, others fearful.
At the center, on a carpet of golden threads, stood the royal throne, and before it, the smaller seat of Lady Hestira. The thin hands of the female werewolf rested upon the white cloth she had draped over her head — the same veil she wore on occasions like this. To her right, the Lycan King watched in silence, chin resting on his hand. To her left, the counselors whispered among themselves, anxious to know who would be chosen as successor.
The protocol required the announcement to be made before the entire court. It was a moment of weight, for the Oracle was not merely a priestess; she was the voice of wisdom that advised Lycan Kings and decided fates — the one who embodied the Moon Goddess’s light walking the earth among mortals. And although no one said it aloud, everyone knew Hestira was nearing the end of her days.
Lissandra stood farther back, among the young priestesses, dressed in simple white, her hair tied with a ribbon. She did not expect to be noticed — she did not want to be.
Hestira’s voice echoed effortlessly, slicing through the heavy air:
“Children of Norden, the time of passing has come. The body grows old, but the gaze must remain sharp. The kingdom needs one to guide it when the mists fall upon me.”
The murmurs ceased. Some expected her to name Lady Alnara, the eldest among the apprentices, or perhaps Serina, daughter of a duke. But the Oracle rose with effort, leaning on her white staff, and her gleaming eyes sought a specific point in the hall — until they found Lissandra.
“The new guardian of wisdom already bears the gift,” she said, and the murmur that followed seemed to vibrate through the walls. “Even if she still fights it without knowing.”
The air felt thin. Lissandra froze, unable to comprehend what she’d heard. The priestesses around her stepped back, as though the ground beneath them had shifted.
Tristan, leaning against the column beside the throne, straightened, his face glowing with restrained pride. He looked toward their father and whispered something that sounded like a blessing. To him, this was his sister’s redemption — proof she would return to the “right” path, away from the plebeian alchemist.
Agon, standing at the back of the hall among servants and onlookers, felt the blood drain from his hands. For a moment, time seemed suspended. He understood what it meant: if Lissandra accepted the calling — and she had to — she would be bound solely to that life, and the bond between them would become impossible.
Lissandra stepped forward, her eyes on Hestira. Her voice came out low, but steady:
“Lady Hestira, with all due respect, I still have much to learn. There are other servants of the Cathedral far more worthy than I.”
A murmur of disapproval rippled through the hall. The Lycan King raised his gaze, surprised. No one had ever refused the Oracle’s word.
But Hestira only smiled, with the calm of one who had long expected that answer.
“My child, the gift is not a choice. It is a calling. And to ignore it is to deny the very essence of the goddess, for it is not I who says you must replace me, but She who shows that you were born with the same gift I possess.”
The silence that followed was so dense that one could hear the crackling of the torches.
Lissandra kept her gaze firm, even as her heart beat unevenly. She wanted to say something — to insist that this had to be a mistake, for she had never felt any connection to the Moon Goddess as deep as that of an Oracle. But the words died in her throat when she saw her father’s expression: a mix of pride and relief.
The Lycan King nodded slowly. “Then so it shall be.”
Tristan crossed his arms, chin high. “Norden is in good hands.”
Agon stepped back, as if the sound of the words had pushed him. The weight of the incense seemed to suffocate him. He watched Lissandra kneel before Hestira as the old Oracle lifted the white veil and placed it upon the young woman’s head.
The fabric was light, yet it carried an invisible burden. Lissandra felt the chill of it against her neck and a rush of dizziness. The hall, the faces, the whispers — everything spun in a slow, distant rhythm.
“From this day on, you shall be the sight that listens and the hearing that sees,” Hestira declared, placing her hands upon Lissandra’s shoulders. “Norden will see you as both mirror and compass. And when the light of the Moon Goddess fades in me, it shall rekindle in you.”
All present knelt. A chorus of voices chanted prayers. The sound of their words echoed beneath the high ceiling, turning the hall into a space of reverence and echo. And amid the solemnity, Lissandra felt an absence. She instinctively searched for Agon’s face among the crowd — but he was gone.
At the back of the hall, he was already walking away, heart constricted. He didn’t wait for the ceremony to end. While the words of blessing still filled the air, he passed between columns and tapestries, the muffled sound of his steps carrying him away.
When he reached the corridor, the distant noise of the hall dissolved, replaced by the cold silence of stone.
Inside, Lissandra remained kneeling, the veil still upon her head, the torchlight trembling over the folds of the fabric. Her hands were shaking.
The old Oracle watched her with a gentle, almost maternal gaze. Perhaps she knew what this choice would cost. Perhaps she had once lived something similar, long ago.
But neither of them said a word.
The veil had been given, the fate sealed, and the sound of prayers went on — like the murmur of a river that flows, indifferent, over the ruins it leaves behind.

…

The laboratory seemed smaller when Agon returned. The windows were shut, the air still, heavy with acid vapors and the scent of dried herbs. Bottles lined the tables, but none seemed to serve a purpose. It was the same place as always — the same worn floor, the same shelves filled with notes and glass flasks — and yet something essential had emptied.
He lit the lamp, and the flickering flame cast distorted shadows across the walls. The silence weighed heavily, and even the sound of his own footsteps felt intrusive. He tried to busy himself with what he knew best: measuring liquids, watching reactions, handling a set of flasks left open since the day before.
But his hands trembled.
The unsteady motion made one of the bottles slip. The glass shattered on the floor, yellow liquid spilling and releasing a pungent smell that burned his nostrils. Agon stumbled back, coughing, his chest tight with a mix of frustration and helplessness. He wiped the spill with a cloth but remained kneeling, staring at the trembling reflection of the lamp on the wet ground.
He thought, wordlessly, that destiny is just the name given to what cannot be understood — and for that reason, he hated the concept of destiny.
He repeated the phrase in his mind, as if testing its taste. It was an attempt to rationalize what was crushing him — the inevitable separation, the cold ritual, the white veil falling over her hair. He wanted to believe that none of it was loss, only transmutation, like a liquid shifting to another state. But a scientific mind was no help when what hurt was the heart.
He sat at the table, opened his notebook, and stared at the pages stained with ink and reagents. Between formulas and calculations, there were still scattered phrases — words Lissandra had said while watching him work.
“You should see how this plant reacts to moonlight.”
“Careful, that solution isn’t stable.”
He remembered her leaning over the table, hair tied carelessly, eyes sharp. Remembered how she touched the leaves with delicacy, as if each plant had a soul she could feel. And most of all, he remembered the smile that appeared whenever she saw something bloom — not out of vanity, but out of pure wonder.
Agon ran his fingers over the notebook’s margins, smudging them with ink dust. Anger and sorrow mixed in uneven proportions, an emotional experiment impossible to control.
Part of him wanted to accept her as something unreachable, he thought. But another part refused the logic of that distance.
He grabbed the quill and wrote, without thinking, on the next page:
“I can’t lose her like this.”
The quill trembled between his fingers. For a moment, he watched the ink dry. That sentence — a confession — was the closest to order he could extract from chaos.
The sound of footsteps made him lift his head. The door opened unceremoniously. It was Randal. Unlike Tristan, the prince carried no arrogance in his eyes, but something quieter, closer to understanding.
“She didn’t want you to be alone,” he said, voice calm yet firm.
Agon laughed — a hoarse, humorless sound. “Funny. Being alone is the natural state of someone hunched over a table, trying to understand what he still doesn’t.”
Randal crossed the lab, examining the flasks and papers. He stopped before the open notebook, read the words, but said nothing. Then he leaned against the table and sighed. “My father believes you can still help the kingdom. Don’t waste that.”
Agon kept his gaze on the lamp’s flame. “Help the kingdom, sure…”
Randal didn’t reply right away. He remained silent, studying the young lycan before him — the eccentric man who had won not just Lissandra’s respect but something deeper, and now seemed shattered inside. Then he simply placed a hand on Agon’s shoulder. “She isn’t lost forever, if that’s what scares you.”
When the prince left, taking with him the sound of footsteps and the last trace of warmth in the air, the laboratory returned to its stillness.
Agon stayed there, bent over the table, until the flame began to weaken. Then he stood and walked to the small greenhouse that connected to the open balcony.
The cold wind stirred the leaves. Among the pots, a few fragile sprouts bent beneath the starlight. The glass jars on the counter reflected that silvery glow, turning the place into a mirror of the sky.
Agon pressed his forehead to the glass. The stars seemed close enough to touch.
The sound of the wind mingled with the faint crack of the lamp going out. The lab sank into dimness, and Agon remained still, trying to grasp the ungraspable — as if every beat of his heart were a question with no answer.