The Princess and the Alchemist - Part 19

The Princess and the Alchemist - Part 19
Night fell heavily over Norden. The stars barely showed themselves, hidden by the clouds that drifted slowly over the palace. The throne hall was already empty, the thick curtains still exhaling incense, and the echo of voices seemed to linger in the air. Lissandra walked silently through the corridors, guided by two priestesses carrying lanterns.

Together, they walked the entire path to the Cathedral, unhurried to reach their destination. And when they arrived, crossing the great main hall, an altar stood at the far end, where the Moon Goddess, Muris, welcomed all with open arms.

Lissandra stared at the statue for a while, not realizing she had stopped walking. She only noticed when the two priestesses beside her called for her to move on, and she lowered her gaze at once, bowing to the goddess after staring for so long, then continued her way after a long sigh.

Though she knew every passage of the Cathedral, suddenly the place felt strange, perhaps even a little frightening at first, but she chose not to dwell on it — or she might give in to the strange urge that took over her heart — the urge to run, to return to the palace, to rush through the corridors like a gust of wind, to ignore her parents, her brothers, and every servant in the place, even those she cared about most. To run, to flee, and to hide inside the laboratory, to keep helping in the search for a cure for the blight on the fields, and then stay there forever, beside the son of the royal physician’s assistant.

So many times, Lissandra had heard about former Oracles receiving messages from the goddess — messages that pointed to couples and declared they had been born as soulmates, perfect for each other, and that keeping them apart would only make them suffer for a lifetime, perhaps never finding each other on their own.

Sometimes, when she was a child, she caught herself thinking about that, wanting that, and daydreaming of a perfect pair — or anything close to it. But in her dreams, this imagined pair always looked like a gallant young man. Whether he was human, lycan, or werewolf didn’t matter much. She simply delighted in imagining herself as one of the princesses from the love stories read to her at night, before bed, and when she remembered those dreams in her teenage years — or even just a few years ago — she laughed at herself for being so foolish, for believing things could happen like in books.

Now, however, here she was, longing to return to someone who looked nothing like the perfect match imagined by the girl she once was — and yet, he enchanted her far more than that perfect, fictional image ever did.

They led her to the Oracle’s tower — the place reserved for contemplation, where every successor spent her first night after being named. The spiral staircase rose toward the top, narrow and cold, as if the path were meant to distance the body from the earth.

At the final turn of steps, Lady Hestira waited. The old Oracle stood still, wrapped in a white mantle that rippled slightly in the wind coming through the cracks. Her gaze, ever distant, seemed to see beyond the walls.

“This night is yours to look inward,” she said, her voice firm despite her age. “What awaits you is not a prison, child. It’s a metamorphosis.”

Lissandra bowed her head in respect but didn’t answer. The old woman smiled, almost wistfully, and left the tower, closing the heavy wooden door behind her.

Silence then became absolute.

The room was wide, with circular walls covered in ancient tapestries. Books were stacked on tables, scrolls lay open, and tall stained-glass windows portrayed scenes from Norden’s past: kings in battle, veiled women before temples, wolves and lycans beneath the moon. Candlelight flickered, casting colorful reflections across the walls.

Lissandra walked slowly, her bare feet touching the cold stone floor. She touched one of the books, feeling the dust under her fingers. Everything felt heavy, full of meaning — and yet, somehow, empty.

Her eyes instinctively sought the world beyond the window. Outside, the night lay like a dark mantle over the capital of Norden. But from the tower’s height, she could see the palace in the distance, and it was there her gaze remained.

The inner garden seemed covered by a faint shimmer, and among the shadows, a golden point of light caught her attention: the laboratory. A single lantern still burned inside, perhaps flickering in the dark — yet producing enough light to be seen even from that distance.

Her heart tightened. The memory came clear: his voice, ironic and tired, explaining the wonders of medicinal herbs, which were often more useful than harsher, supposedly stronger substances.

Those memories echoed inside her with a strength no prayer could silence.

Lissandra went back to the table and removed the ceremonial veil from her head. The white silk slid between her fingers — light, almost unreal. For a moment, she held it up to the candlelight — it looked pure, yet suffocating. She set it on the table, folding it carefully, and took a deep breath.

She closed her eyes and continued her thought in silence, her hand resting flat on the veil. There, she made a decision: she would not refuse the calling, but she would not live solely for it either, as if that were all destiny had to offer. After all, where was the rule that bound her to that?

The wind blowing through the cracks moved one of the candles, and the flame bent. That was enough.

She stripped off her clothes too, and right there, allowed her body to transform — she took on her wolf-shape, a female lycan with a slender, curving body that still preserved much of her human form.

The sound of bones cracking had always bothered her, simply because she disliked the noise it made — but this time, she didn’t care. She glanced at her own hands, now triple their size and covered in silvery-gray fur, like that which cloaked her whole body. They looked different from before — darker once, now paler. Perhaps it was a sign that the Moon Goddess truly was transferring Hestira’s light to her, little by little.

She didn’t think further about it.

In the stillness of the night, Lissandra opened the tower door and descended the steps in silence. Shadows danced around her, and each stride felt lighter than the last despite her larger form. She passed through sleeping corridors, crossed the inner courtyard, and left the Cathedral, her clothes tied around her arm with a cord she’d found in the tower.

Thus she retraced her path to the palace, running through the silent streets like a ghost — swift, unhesitant. And upon reaching the garden, after climbing the great wall, circling the massive structure — and demanding the guards’ silence when they noticed her return — she chose a hidden corner where she could resume her human form to dress again. And so she did, making her way toward the greenhouse, for she knew she would find the one she most wished to see if she went there.

The damp grass yielded under her feet. The smell of wet earth and fresh herbs surrounded her — familiar, comforting. And there he was, bent over the wooden table, collecting one last soil sample. The lantern lit his face — pale, marked by exhaustion.

Lissandra stopped for a moment, watching him in silence. The faint rustle of leaves gave her away.

Agon lifted his face, surprised. “I thought you’d already turned into a saint.”

She walked up to him, her voice calm. “And have you given up on me already?”

He hesitated. The lantern’s glow reflected in his eyes, making it hard to tell if it was irony or pain. “Giving up would be more rational.”

“Then do the irrational for once.”

The air between them seemed to expand, dense, charged with something that needed no name. For a moment, the whole world shrank to the sound of leaves rustling in the wind and the steady beat of two stubborn hearts.

Lissandra stepped closer to the table. The flask in Agon’s hands held an amber liquid he had been testing for weeks — the one he hoped could stop the fungus, the one that had kept him awake so many nights.

She touched it gently, like sealing a pact. “If destiny wants to use me as a symbol, then I’ll use it back,” she said, her voice low but firm. “What matters isn’t the role I’m given, Agon. It’s what I choose to do with it.”

Agon watched her in silence. Behind the fatigue, there was a flicker of hope. A brief, almost involuntary smile curved his lips.

“Look at you, already speaking in philosophical tones.”

“Look at you, always with a sharp tongue and no fear of answering royalty.”

They stayed there, side by side, before the plants Lissandra had nurtured.

The lantern flickered, casting light over the pots that held the surviving sprouts. Tiny shoots of green pushed through dark patches — life insisting on being born where everything said it shouldn’t.

Neither of them spoke again. Words had done their part. Silence was more eloquent.

Above, in the Oracle’s tower far away, the window was open. The wind crossed the empty chamber, touching the white veil left on the table. The fabric moved softly, caught by the current of air, and drifted outward.

For a brief instant, the veil floated under the moonlight, as if hesitating between falling and ascending. Then it descended slowly, vanishing into the dark — a symbol of a faith that had finally learned to stand on its own feet.

Lissandra lifted her eyes to the sky, feeling the cold touch her skin. Agon, beside her, did the same. The moon hung high, full, bathing the garden in a pale glow.

She took a deep breath, and the air filled her lungs clean and free, as if the world were beginning anew.

No title, no mantle, no dogma could define what she felt in that moment. Faith, she thought, wasn’t in prayers or rituals. It was in the hands that dared to touch the impossible and turn it into something alive.

And as the first light of dawn crept over the horizon, Norden’s garden remained — half ruined, half reborn — like their own hearts.