The Princess and the Alchemist - Part 26

The Princess and the Alchemist - Part 26
The echo of the footsteps became a rushing torrent flooding the corridor. Agon felt the floor vibrate beneath his knees as he kept Lissandra supported against his chest, trying to stem the bleeding with his palm. Tristan, still panting, still with his hand deformed into claws, turned quickly — far too quickly to seem merely nervous. He looked ready to attack whoever appeared.
But who appeared was not just anyone. The first to turn the corner was Randal. And behind him, two guards.
Randal’s expression entered the scene first — a look that didn’t carry immediate rage, but the kind of cold focus that came before the storm. He stopped three steps into the corridor.
The smell of blood hung heavy in the air.
Randal took everything in within milliseconds: Agon kneeling, Lissandra’s unsteady breathing pressed against him, the scent of her blood, the box of antidote fallen beside them, and — above all — Tristan, with black claws exposed, chest heaving, body tense as if caught between attack and retreat.
“Randal, I…” Tristan began, but his own voice betrayed his lack of control. The words stumbled out, tangled between pride and shock.
It was useless. Randal needed no explanation. He saw Lissandra bleeding, Agon trying to stop the blood with trembling hands, and Tristan partially transformed. That was enough.
“Tristan.” Randal’s voice came low, but there was no kindness in it. “Step back.”
Tristan swallowed hard. His shoulder twitched as if he were about to obey, but wounded pride still pulsed beneath his skin.
“It wasn’t— it wasn’t like that! He—!”
“Step back.”
The word came again. But this time, it wasn’t a command. It was an alpha’s order.
The air in the corridor bent around it. The guards straightened; even Lissandra, pale and gasping, breathed deeper at the sound. Agon felt the vibration of her response against his skin, an involuntary echo of submission.
Tristan, however, resisted for half a second, maybe two; long enough for the silence to turn dangerous. Then Randal took a single step forward. That step carried the entire lineage of Norden, the hereditary power of the royal wolf, the authority of a prince who didn’t need to raise his voice to dominate a room. It was like a moving wall.
Tristan instinctively stiffened, his body reacting even as his mind screamed not to.
“You crossed every line.” Randal stated, still advancing. “And you wounded our sister.”
“I didn’t— She—!”
“She is bleeding, Tristan.”
Randal stopped in front of him. They were similar in height, but the elder’s power filled the space entirely.
Agon felt the crack in the air when Tristan finally yielded. Not by choice, but because his own body wouldn’t allow him to resist a superior alpha. The claws began to shrink, his hand returning to human form in jerking spasms.
The guards moved in quickly, as if part of a rehearsed choreography. One seized Tristan’s arm from behind, restraining him firmly. The other stepped between him and Lissandra, preventing any further attack. Tristan snarled, but it was weak now, more frustration than fury.
“Randal—!” He still tried, his voice trembling, eyes fixed on Lissandra. “You don’t know what’s happening!”
“I know exactly what’s happening.”
Randal tilted his head to look at him directly. “You lost control in front of our sister. You hurt her. And you raised claws against someone under the palace’s protection. There is no justification.”
Tristan clenched his jaw, breathing through his nose like a cornered animal.
“He manipu—”
“If you say one more word,” Randal cut in, “I’ll have them tie you up and put a muzzle on you.”
Tristan’s eyes widened.
Randal then turned fully toward Agon and Lissandra, and the prince-alpha mask shifted. He shed enough of the hardness to kneel beside his sister, and when he saw the wound clearly, his control nearly faltered.
“Lissandra…” he murmured, his hand hovering without touching, afraid to worsen anything. “How do you feel? Can you stay conscious?”
She tried to smile, as she always did to calm her brothers — a crooked, pale smile.
“It’s just a… scratch.”
Randal looked at Agon, and there was enough emphasis there to show he recognized the unintentional irony in her choice of words.
Agon kept his hands steady, but his face was white as paper.
“I need to take her to my room.” he said, his voice low, held together with effort. “If the wound closes like this, it could get infected or… or tear open again.”
Randal nodded once, sharply.
The guards dragged Tristan a few steps back. He still glared at Agon with hatred, but he was contained now. Physically and socially.
Randal turned his eyes to his brother, and this time there was no coldness left, only disappointment.
“You do not leave this corridor until I decide.” The sentence was simple, cutting. “And pray our sister doesn’t end up with scars because of you.”
Tristan clenched his teeth but didn’t answer.
He couldn’t.
Randal took his place at the center of the scene. The chaos had been halted, but Lissandra still needed treatment.

...

The hallway was left behind like an open wound refusing to close. Agon barely registered the path back to the laboratory, carrying Lissandra in his arms. Her weight meant nothing. What weighed was the silence between her short breaths.

He laid her on the widest table, pushing aside books, vials, and instruments with hurried, almost brusque movements. The smell of alcohol and herbs filled the air instantly. The door slammed behind them when Randal entered. In the distance, heavy footsteps became faint echoes as Tristan was taken to another wing of the palace. Randal’s cold orders still hung in the air like stingers.

Agon didn’t take his eyes off Lissandra’s wound. His hands still trembled, not because of the blood, but because of what might happen if he lost control now. He tore the rest of her sleeve, exposing the gash along her side. The skin still bled unevenly, warm, too alive.

“Keep your eyes open,” he murmured, dipping a clean cloth into alcohol.

“I’m trying…” Lissandra whispered, in a tone that wanted to be playful but dissolved before it got there. “You know I’m great at… disobeying orders.”

“Not today,” he shot back, pressing the cloth to the wound. The sound she made knocked the air from his chest. “Today you’re going to listen.”

Randal stepped closer, but not close enough to be in the way. His boots stopped at the edge of the laboratory rug, and for a few seconds he simply watched.

Agon adjusted her position, propping her head on a makeshift pillow of folded towels. The “clinical mode” took over, a well-trained instinct, a mental refuge amid chaos.

“Is the pain getting worse?” he asked.

Lissandra blinked slowly. “I’m pretty sure you’re trying to yank out my liver with that cloth.”

“If I were trying to yank out your liver, you’d be complaining a lot more.”

Randal let out a short sigh. The exchange between the two was apparently some sort of emotional survival tactic.

“Is she losing a lot of blood?” he asked.

Agon examined again, touching the edges of the wound with precision: firm, gentle, quick.

“Less than before. The bleeding is slowing.” He switched the cloth for another. “I just need to keep pressure until it starts to close.”

Lissandra squeezed her eyes shut, trying to breathe deeply. Randal leaned slightly toward her.

“Stay conscious, Lis.”

“Now even you… are giving me orders?” She barely managed a smile. “Such an abuse of authority.”

“If it’s what keeps you awake, yes.”

The hard softness in his voice made Agon glance up at the prince. And in that instant, Randal saw it clearly: Agon wasn’t thinking about his own safety. Or about what Tristan had done to him. Or the political mess this meant.

He was only thinking about her.

Randal’s footsteps changed. He went to a chair, pulled it closer, and sat just a few meters away, maintaining a vigilant watch as Agon worked.

The box.

When he settled, his hand brushed the object he had picked up from the floor in the hallway. The box Agon had dropped when everything unraveled.

Randal set it on his lap for a moment, studying its surface, feeling its weight. Nothing about it looked valuable at first glance, but the blood and chaos surrounding it made any object suspicious.

“Agon,” Randal called. “What’s inside this?”

Lissandra’s eyes opened immediately—faster than before. That caught his attention.

Agon took a breath without lifting his hands from the compress. “Your Highness… that box contains something I need to show your father. Something that could change everything about the blight in the fields.”

The prince didn’t blink. “Explain.”

Lissandra tried to sit up, but both he and Agon held her down at once.

“Don’t move,” Agon ordered.

“I can talk,” she insisted, voice raw. “And he needs to hear it from both of us.”

And then the secret began to spill out—hesitant at first, then inevitable, like water breaking through a dam. Lissandra spoke about the old tree outside the palace. About the single petal Agon had found. About how she felt something there was different. Agon filled in the night at the lab, explaining the tests they ran. And Lissandra, even weak, told him about the Cathedral. About sneaking in. About the theft. Her voice shook once. Not from physical pain, but from fear of her brother’s judgment.

Randal remained seated like a living statue. Only his eyes moved, shifting between them, weighing facts, intentions, risks, consequences.

“So,” he said slowly, “you found a cure.”

Agon nodded, pressing the gauze again.

“Yes.”

Randal braced his elbows on his knees, holding the box with both hands. For a moment, his entire expression closed into deep introspection. When he looked up again, he murmured, “If this truly is the antidote, my father needs to know. Now.”

Lissandra’s eyes widened, even pale as she was.

“She’s not going,” Agon cut in. “Not until I finish the dressing.”

Randal nodded. “And you will finish it.”

Silence settled as Agon worked. His hands trembled less now. His mind moved like a focused mechanism: clean, press, assess. The motions were quick but careful, every touch deliberate. Every detail adjusted with precision.

Gradually, the bleeding stabilized. The skin began to cling around the compress. Lissandra’s breathing found a steadier rhythm. The paleness remained, but the pain had eased. Agon grabbed a clean strip of fabric and wrapped it around her torso, securing the gauze firmly. His breathing was heavy, but the work was done.

“She can be moved,” he said at last. “Carefully.”

Randal stood.

Authority returned to him like a natural armor.

He walked to the table beside them and set the antidote box down on the wooden surface—no noise, no ceremony. Like someone placing a precious secret before confronting it.

“When she’s stable,” Randal declared, “I will take you to my father.” His voice held no hesitation. It was the voice of a prince who had seen death up close that morning, and seen salvation resting inside a small dark box. “And we will present this to him. Together.”

In the laboratory, where the smell of alcohol and blood was beginning to mix with the cautious sound of Lissandra’s breathing, the fate of Norden shifted shape. And the box, motionless on the table, seemed to pulse as if urging its contents to be revealed.

Things, at last, were moving in the right direction.