The Princess and the Alchemist - Part 20

The Princess and the Alchemist - Part 20
The plague was spreading as if it were in a hurry. It felt as though it had suddenly awakened to the silent pleasure of devastation. In less than a week, farmers from every district of Norden began sending frantic messengers to the palace: whole leaves darkened overnight, stalk after stalk collapsed as if the plant had given up on existing, and roots once firm turned into a gray paste, impossible to use. Healers, priestesses, and apprentices walked the fields in the morning and returned before sunset with empty hands. Nothing held the disease back.

Agon watched everything from afar, through the reports carried through the halls and the samples that ended up on his table. With every new container of rotting leaves he received, a creeping sense of failure settled under his ribs. It wasn’t a common kind of guilt. It had a strange weight, as if the plague were mocking him directly, laughing at the fact that he had knowledge… just not enough.

Meanwhile, Lissandra had barely managed to breathe that week.

She woke before sunrise, was taken to the Cathedral by two priestesses, received ancient passages to memorize, studied ritual processes like someone trying to run with stones in their shoes, and was still dragged into endless observations in the tower — always following Lady Hestira, who watched her like someone judging not just talent but courage. At the end of the afternoon, she still had to assist with prayers, guide novices, and listen to strict explanations about spiritual discipline. Only then, when the bell marked the beginning of the night, could she escape, with steps light and dangerously quick, toward Agon’s laboratory.

She no longer fit in a single place. It was as if she were being pulled by two worlds, one of duty and silence; the other of courage and discovery. And every day those worlds demanded she bend a little more.

That night, the laboratory looked bigger than usual. Maybe because Agon was working, maybeaybe because it was the third night in a row he waited for her, not knowing if she would come. Or maybe because, without Lissandra in the room, everything there felt… far too quiet.

He let his gaze travel across the messy benches, the jars lined up in uneven groups, the books opened like wounds. And no matter how hard he tried to keep his rhythm, something in him faltered. It wasn’t incompetence — it was emotional exhaustion, the discomfort of working without the half that made all that chaos make sense.

He tried again: adjusted the burner flame, brought the flask closer, and added three drops of the extract he had prepared earlier. The liquid bubbled, rose too high, and splattered on the table in a small explosion of acidic smell.

Agon took a deep breath, irritated. He had mismeasured. Something in him was out of place — not just in his hand, but in his mind. The mistake wasn’t a simple mistake. It was a symptom.

He wiped the table with a cloth and sat down, defeated. Maybe, for the first time, he felt real fear. Not for himself. But for Norden. For the people. For the girl who kept arriving late, her heart split between what they wanted her to be and what she tried to be.

The door creaked slowly.

Lissandra stepped in like someone coming home after a day of war. Slumped shoulders, hair tied up any which way, clothes slightly stained with the blue ink from the Cathedral’s study desks. Her eyes, however, remained steady, even if tired.

She rested her forehead against the door for a second, breathing deeply, before facing him with a crooked smile.

“If I tell you I almost fell asleep in the tower hallway, do you promise not to laugh?”

Agon crossed his arms, exhausted on the inside but relieved on the outside.

“That depends. Did you fall before or after the stairs?”

“Almost during.”

“Then I won’t laugh out of respect for your effort.”

She threw her head back, laughed without strength, and stepped inside, closing the door behind her. When she removed the white ceremonial mantle, Agon noticed her hands were trembling. Not from fear — from overload.

“Did you eat today?” he asked, already knowing the answer.

“Does a rushed bite of an apple and three gulps of tea count?”

“No.”

“Then… maybe not.”

She moved closer to the bench, crossing her arms to warm herself.

“Since when have you been working?”

“Since sunrise.”

“Agon!”

“Don’t start with priestly sermons, Lis. I’m not one of the faithful.”

“I’m not preaching anything. I’m saying you need sleep. And food.”

“I’ll sleep after we save the kingdom. Eating can wait until tomorrow.”

She huffed, not in irritation but in that peculiar mix of worry and affection that only showed up when he looked ready to fall apart.

Lissandra looked over the bench and saw the flasks he had tested. Many were empty, others dark, some still releasing smoke.

“You tried all this by yourself?”

“I did. And messed up all of it by myself, too.”

She stepped closer, touched one of the flasks, then ran her fingers over his notes. The gesture was intimate, like someone touching not the object, but the mind behind it.

“Tell me,” she said.

“Tell you what?”

“What’s troubling you.”

Agon scratched the back of his neck, as if trying to pull out a hard truth.

“Something is wrong with the very structure of the plague.”

Lissandra furrowed her brows.

“What do you mean?”

“It doesn’t behave like anything I know… and at the same time it mimics everything.” He took a deep breath, rubbing his eyes. “It’s like it’s trying to fool nature itself.”

She fell silent, absorbing the idea.

“So what do you need?” she asked.

“I don’t know.” He gave a broken smile. “I need something we haven’t tried yet. But I don’t know what.”

And in that moment of honest helplessness, the two looked at each other as if sharing the same pain.

Lissandra placed a hand on his shoulder, then her forehead. She was almost embracing him, and this was the closest the two had ever been.

“I wish I could help you more,” she said, her voice nearly breaking. “But Hestira… the Cathedral… I spent the entire day there. When I get here, it’s already night. I feel like I live two lives… and neither of them is really mine.”

Agon, hesitant, placed a hand on her back and gave her a small, gentle touch.

“You already help more than anyone I’ve ever met.”

She smiled, sad.

“And you… have you slept even a minute in the last two days?”

“Is sleep a choice?”

“Yes.”

“Then I haven’t.”

She tapped his shoulder.

“You’re impossible.”

“And you’re about to faint.”

“I’m not going to faint.”

“Lissandra.”

“Fine, maybe I will.”

They laughed, and she sat beside him, resting her head on his arm for a few seconds. It wasn’t something they did often, but that moment called for it.

“We’re going to figure this out,” she murmured.

“I know,” he said, though he knew nothing in that instant. But he needed to believe. For her.

She stood slowly, taking a deep breath.

“I’m staying until you finish this part,” she said. “But only this part. After that, you’re going to sleep. I’ll drag you if I have to.”

“You’re too tired to drag a little table plant, let alone me.”

“I have moral strength. And the power of an almost-Oracle.”

“Oh, that’s the worst kind of power.”

“It is.”

She watched him for a moment longer than usual — maybe to memorize his expression, maybe to remember why she was there, split between duty and choice. Between destiny and will.

And then, together, they went back to work — she with a tired body, he with a worn-out mind, but both held up by a partnership that hurt and healed at the same time.

The night moved on, slow and silent. And without even noticing, that small, messy laboratory became the only place where both of them could breathe.

The plague outside kept advancing.

But inside, for a few hours, they resisted.